Friday, 21 November 2014

The Geometry of qhu upü

I was writing a missive to our tyrannical overlords when Imblique jumped up into my lap and scooched over onto my keyboard, resulting in qhu upü...

Her appearance was a ghostly anachronism, her words rhetorical: Who tamed whom – the humans the pets or the furries the shavers? The -ists of history tend almost exclusively toward the first conclusion, and it's of particular note that, still today, this unites -ists of opposition who make up the majority of the planet: theists & atheists, evolutionists & creationists, physicists & Christian apologists wind up all bound up in anthropocentrism.

I wonder about the human, its talk of humanity, and the inhumane behavior of so much of it – ascribable, I can only suppose, to a relative few – but a historically pervasive and pernicious fraction that time & again has the humane beyond a threshold into the circle of inhumanity, if not the innermost concentric. I'm not convinced that humankind as such is worthy of the axiomatic virtue of its self-affixed attribution.

Whether in Egypt or Cyprus, respectively, circa four or ten thousand years ago, or in Lakeview, USA, this or last generation, homo sapiens, anatomically modern or otherwise, would seem to be adequately inclined to Stockholming small creatures into this tenuous balance of carnivorous ingratiation, yet the latter don't leave behind whence they once sprung. In some regard, they have a greater understanding of themselves than do self-conscious, consciousness espousing hominids.

The human's conception of itself may be more fossilized than the evidence of its origin. In its own defense, maybe the human would have "humanity" signify what the human hopes for itself. Maybe that, too, is more hot-winded exhalation than meaningful aspiration.

If the ancients held the feline of the house worthy of godlike depictions - having tamed them all the same - I wonder how the human being got demi-tamed and if it has anything to do with their imagined dominion over the earth. Whether enforced behavioral conditioning or elementary autodidactic natural selection, what it means to be a human today comes from a ritualized self-classification, the self-confidence about which is fueled through a meritocratic dispensing of degrees in both the sciences and humanities, which in no small measure includes the most "inhumane" practice of all,  the art and science of ritualized homicide.

A current pop-cultural obsession with sexualized violence and fictionalized cannibalism may or may not stem from self-doubt, but the very existence of the art of jurisprudence reassures the anthropocentrists that they are better than those who live by the law of the jungle, being able to differentiate judiciously between good and evil as it pertains to the inhumane.

There are a lot of excuses for this contradiction, some of them reasons real, some them just excuses, but this behavior comes naturally to a species, who, before it should be nominated for any humanitarian awards, is in need of renewed interpretation of what it means to stage a humanitarian intervention.


To define humanity, one might first recognize that the human is - or is not - what it would like to ascribe to itself: a monumental recipient of human exceptionalism. In so doing, it might call out that which makes the human exceptional: a long history and incessant adherence to the subjugation and torture of its own. That and the appreciation of a pretty picture.

The science of the power of the pyramid is about architectural stability. That does not mean that there is no burden on the base of the structure. The art, from an anthropo-metaphorical perspective, represents how powerful the few can become at the expense of the many.  Fully aware of the peak, the base can only truly know the schlep of the adjacent block, though, if recipient of the right kind of support, funnelled through multiple layers of human-resourced masonry, even the meekest cornerstone can carry that burden with a vengeance to all corners of the globe. Almost exclusively when it hits home does one decry the inhumanity of it all.

We know the stories of genocide. It's something humans have streamlined in terms of carrying it out, as well as in telling tales of the triumph over its horrors. The Greatest Generation would have one believe that the millennials are the latest evidence of the downfall of a once great civilization that came together to defeat tyranny and establish the most equitable social net in known history. Whether or not there is any truth to that, the worship of cats continues unabated. And, it's relatively rare that the family pet bites the hand that feeds it.

I wonder, had earlier masters of this house ever tried to tame the human if they might have become the victims of genus-cide, or simply have eventually fallen victim to their own hands, leaving the human next in line, with only sketchy records, calcified and dubious.

David & Hedy - photo by Fred Burkhart

Sunday, 12 October 2014

Der Parkbank Pinkler
Kapitel VII: Projektionen & Projektile

"It's a sweet little flyover"
Jayne Mansfield

Eine Kinderschaukel, zwei Geschwister. Auf jeweiligen Bretter schießen sie in die Höhe hin und her. Ein Ball, ein Junge. Dieser schießt jener an der Mutti vorbei. Ein Hund, kein Halter. Das Erstere scheißt auf den Spätsommer getrockneten Rasen. Ein Beobachter, zwei Augen. In den Letzteren sind alle glücklich bis auf den nicht spürbaren Hundebesitzer. Um die überfüllten Mülleimer häufen sich die Abfälle von denen, die auch sonst nicht zu sehen sind.

Friday, 3 October 2014

Tag der Einheitlichkeit

Hover your cursor over the image for my English translation.

Seuch' ein Vogel/Such a Dirty Bird :: Breite Straße 32, Berlin-Mitte - 2014

Sunday, 21 September 2014


A collection for your Sundae Edition, but first, credit where it's due: BLCKDGRD inspires the portmantitle above, and several of the phrases that occur herein (or at least an "also too" or two).

I ain' gonna lie. I wouldn't be writing this if it weren't for triggers in me sub-thoughtfully deeming it more valuable than a simple purge of verbilirubin, or were it never or sometimes or always more or less the introspectatorily abeit yon- Blegsylvaniatic.

Friday, 19 September 2014

Depend Ants

To daze online media surrounds the Scots in the pen dance, with imagery, images, post-analytical slogans and the like. We begin with...

Sunday, 14 September 2014

What is What

One side's alleged lament goes that Cheney and his comrades fucked up Iraq, therefore America has a moral obligation to help fix it. The problem with this thinking is that one must assume that, whoever "America" is, they have any intention of fixing whatever "it" is.

Sunday, 7 September 2014

D'you know what? I love you better now.

It takes effort to explain the adolescent passion effused by the enchanted Kate Bush enthusiast at the mere promise of being in the presence of her expected bewitching majesty, let alone communicate a review of what it was like to have been there, to get to see her feet planted firmly doing what I'd theretofore only imagined she'd do best if she did, along with the rest of her bests. Then she goes on and does it.

Therein lies my appraisal's paradox: A pure description of this extraordinary happening can only be done in the fashion with which she and her collective achieved it.

Sunday, 31 August 2014

RIP Fred Burkhart

Poet & performer, photographer & friend, a true artist and inspiration, Fred Burkhart has gone. This time for good. He gave me much, and his last words to me were graciously understanding and lovingly kind, when he responded to my email with:
"A beautiful letter. I will write more at another opportunity. Love is real, no matter the thousands of miles we are separated."

Sadly, he never got that other opportunity. Bless you, Fred, wherever you may be.  I know your essence remains with each of us who hold you thus blessed, but it's fully realized only as it could be known collectively just how much you'll be missed.

As you concluded so many times, on patterning the nerve speech:
The Eternal as the Origin of Words - the Logos
Somehow tragically lassoed and waylaid
and reduced to the flesh of obscure places

Lost in a world of name-calling and retribution
Reduced forever more to a Date With Noah Webster

Words forever lost on eulogizing one another.