Monday, January 17, 2011


There can be no failing, no fatality according to their whim, when one simply only need see once, the cluster of photographs Mel Bochner called MISUNDERSTANDINGS, a group of likeness of a set of index cards recording quotations somehow adjacent to the activity of photography, to A THEORY OF PHOTOGRAPHY, as Mr. Bochner styled it, but aren't we already ascending chaos. I would like to see blogging make people despise writing until something else will make blogging unbearable. It is already unbearable, but necessary perhaps to keep one from revealing the large portraits one is painting of Marcel Duchamp in the style of Masami Teraoka holding an enormous condom the size of a Florida anaconda. "I want to reproduce the objections as they are, or as they would be even if they did not exist." Writing cannot record abstract ideas, unless they do not become your objections. Mead. Mead is the trademarked name of the MWV corporation. We could call that letter combination the 'sawtooth set' of letters, and could place them together in the manner of an ancient Talmudic cryptogram to mean WAV(EAM. Wavulina decodes ambient mudra; the six-fingered hand of any motif might sound sunken city, but when one writes from Gondwana, even Mu becomes a white hot canon ball lodged in the throadia of graphemica. How supersilly do they think they are? I can do more 'damage' standing on my head and gargling in place than any of them have done in centuries, thinking their egos or experience matter? Blogging cannot record abstract ideas. Sentences which are malformed, or created by 'naturalgorhythmy' do not illustrate abstraction? Is it that abstraction in art, which is meant to be mimetic non-mimesis cannot be non-mimetic mimesis? There is no obvious question to that? It is surely the surly vanity of the vein which conduits the eye through the drawing of the sense to sensorium's other sans; ie; absent, a fairly green liquid. Emile Zola does no care for writing much. He sides on photography, with photography. He thinks a camera 'thoroughly sees', and Geordi La Forge on Star Trek has real-time molecular analysis, or spectroscopy. But look carefully at the name; aujourd'hui la forge, "on the day of today, conception" or something close to that. Let us remember too, that we don't have to translate such pictures into realistic ones in order to 'understand' them, anymore than we need translate photographs into colored pictures, although black and white men (words) or plants (ideas) in reality would strike us as unspeakably strange and frightful (weird). Suppose we were to say at this point: something is a picture only in a picture language. Suppose we were to say at this point: Saying something is a picture only in a picture language is like saying Photography is the Writing of Anthropology which has forgotten it name. What is we were to say something. Something like. Anything and everything is a picture, but different pictures make different pictures. Witt Gen Mead For Stein. The true function of revolutionary art is the crystallization of phenomenon into organized forms. What form isn't organized? Isn't any form if it is a form somehow 'organized'. Why Kant we say that? It seems even Revolution is a processual dance with opacity and its conceptual cousins. Mao Tse-Tung evens sounds like Mouth Say Tongue leading us to realize finally that all semiosis is self-reflexive, or perhaps reflexive, a sort of hologram. I remember I was wearing a cowboy hat and cut-offs and was shirtless riding my skateboard when I was 18 when I met Ed at the protest rally outside the Republican convention. The punks had made giant crosses out of faux paper missiles and had crucified scorched black baby dolls on them and were having their own parodic parade beside that of the Christians. Ed had illustrated human beings as if they were explosions of radiation, and had given a sort of mystical life to their organs. He had painted without ever saying it, "The Autonomy of the Organs". I guess that's a drug thing. One hears the odd mention from hopheads to the effect of, 'yeah, really strong shit, my foot was having this conversation with my leg, and my stomach was getting all paranoid,' etc. I feel like Marcel Proust today. Like: Blogging is the product of complete alienation. Roswell my Beau. Writing is Conceptual Photography, or Phanerograghy. Would you like to see my silly little notes on a description of the VILLA JIBA'EL LIBENE'? Abstract Ideas cannot record the actual effect of Human writing.