Hi. How Can You Help Me?

September 3, 2013

Schizophrenics are useless to Western Civilization.  I don’t write that in haste either.  I can’t hold a job.  I sit around by myself all day, play piano, make art, play video games, cook, read, eat, sleep, cry.  The Capitalistic thrust of the human human spirit is born from our epistemological tools to manufacture technology (that which makes something more efficient).  Whether it be as profound as the development of language, or as complex as the UPS’s implementation of GPS within a logic pipeline to push a piece of merchandise into someone’s home quicker, people seem to have an obsession with utility.  This obsession is crafting a lens for humanity that refracts only the social / cultural / economic utility of what’s ‘out there’ into the mind (If you disagree with me on this, try to find something meaningful that does not serve some socially relevant function).  With the small percentage of wealth (both financially and socially) that is ‘up for grabs’ in today’s global ecosystem,  people seem to look more into the utility of each individual.  In the case of the Schizophrenic, there is no utility there, hence no respect.  People will look right through you, ignore you and neglect you until you feel like you can walk through walls like a ghost.

Working under the aesthetic premise that it is the context of some physical thing that charges it with meaning, I would like to say a few words about music.  It’s actually quite simple and not that profound at all, but frequently looked over by musicians and other artists.  Music is simply a way for cultures to communicate with one another.  Any other discussion about music is merely talking about taste in some ungrounded theoretical way.  The context of a song at a particular venue is what charges the tune with cultural power, similarly to the way the context of a symbol can charge it with meaning, like in natural languages.  It is the language of inter-cultural discourse.  In a phrase, tone or rhythm, musical histories that extend into socio-political histories are summoned to the venue.  It doesn’t matter if you’re playing Metal or Punk-Classical.  You are inevitably continuing the historical inter-cultural dialectic, either through an embrace or rejection of musical sensibilities throughout history.  If you accept the premise and follow it through, as a musician, you are the voice of a people in a vast history of cultural dialectics.  Musical traditionalists that adhere to strict tonal, rhythmic and emotional limitations are as mute to cultural discourse as a Cubist painting hanging on a white wall in a museum. Image

Some new music

June 27, 2011

These tunes were professionally recorded by a good friend of mine…


My music

June 20, 2011

Here’s a link to some music I make with a trio in my apartment.  I’m on piano.


My Paintings

October 21, 2010


“The limits of my language are the limits of my world.” – Wittgenstein

Actuality has little to do with making sense and more to do with accepting nonsense.  Making sense is an activity that operates with 4-dimensional syntax and grammar (usage).  Logic (syntax and grammar) is a sequential (time) contextual (space) analysis – it is the rules “behind” making sense.  The limits of these rules – their boundaries – confine a sign and separate it from its context of signs, charging the symbol with meaning through its usage.  Logic gives form in an otherwise “undifferentiated mass of organic sensation”.  Without the form of a sign, it would have no meaningful content, but would rather be a powerless shape in a context of sameness.  There is a logical limit on the expressive power of languages.  What is beyond these limits is nonsense.  That is not to say that it is insignificant, but rather inexpressible.  The nonsense is something logic cannot limit.  It is either an infinity or a paradox that dissolves logic and all hopes of making sense.  The causal (sequential) way of interpreting the world is an active way of interpreting the world.  The passage of time is continuous, flowing and progressive.  Growth and decay are continuous, fluid movements.  This way of thinking of time, as Smithson pointed out, is a practical, active way of thinking about time, but has little to do with the impractical actuality of time – the present.  The present is unobtainable by any logical means.  This does not necessarily entail that it is unlimited, infinite and void.  (which Smithson might ascribe to the present)  But if time were a place where events happened, the active (logical) event would cease to happen as soon as it happened.  The present – the actual – is a space without limits… it is a space apart from logical (limited) expressive meaningful space.  It is an incomprehensible infinity of possibilities where there is no correct or incorrect.  It is a meaningless context of sameness… unobtainable.  The present is inactive.  There is no movement in an instant of time.  It is a pause between the future and the past.

The future criss-crosses the past in an unobtainable present.”  – Smithson “Quasi-infinities of a Waning Space”  Logic cannot obtain the present.  Feeling cannot seize the present.

The inactive present avoids logic and experience because it has no limits.  What we experience is the future criss-crossing the past.  This is an active, expressive time with limits that change.  It can be mapped.  Progression and evolutionary notions of time turn into logical (epistemic) tools to map action.  This time makes sense.  Using this time, the world makes sense.  Without this active time, there is no sense to be made.  It is, as Smithson suggested, an infinite void of sameness – no limits – no form – nothing to make sense out of.  Logic requires active, continuous time.  It is fundamental to thinking.  This is not to say that all of our provisional theories are wrong.  They are correct.  But they are only correct because they are within the limits of logic.  There is no correct or incorrect outside the limits of language and logic.

The interpretations of actuality have infinite possibilities, none of which are correct or incorrect.  There are historically contingent provisional theories built on logical, fallible foundations that cannot be proven correct or incorrect because the foundation (axiom) floats without context.  There is no map of the map.  The world described is limited by the epistemic tools at hand.  The world felt is limited by the glass (sensing) body.  The nonsites eliminate the body from setting up limits, to let the world set the limits.

We can know “why”.  Knowing “why”, though, suggests Believing in “why”.  I’m not talking about believing in the reasons for an expressive act, but rather believing in “why” itself.  Asking why is calling upon a greater power to explain expressive actions.  Call it whatever you want, but when I spill a cup of coffee on the floor, I certaintly don’t ask the cup, the coffee, or the floor why that happened.  I ask Why.  The “cup”, “coffee” and “floor”, as I understand them through deductive and reductive essentialist concepts revised throughout history, might be used to answer why.  But I would be answering only that which can be answered.  The actual is a mystery.  The actual seems to penetrate the body with physical power and little else.  Culture has destroyed reality.   It’s a necessary adaptation, so I’m not too angry about it.  All is words.  The world is interpreted the way a novel is.  The actual world is lost in a “life or death” interpretation.  Categories become created from criteria.  New parameters are created and the interpreted world opens up into more complexity as each parameter is employed.  People ontologize when they decide to wake up in the morning.

I don’t understand the world.  I understand understanding OF the world.  My body feels.

Maybe, if you listen to this collision of genre’s in this song I made and ask “why”, you’ll understand that you’re asking a god to answer your question.  You’re praying to “why” if you take up that task.  The music becomes disintegrated into a prayer of reasons, rather than a celebration of life.  (not that it’s a good song.  I’m just using this time to point something very simple out to anyone who reads this.)


Good Habits

Apples or Oranges?

January 24, 2009


more of it       (music I made with a drum loop, and a midi keyboard)




Instead of the Freudian Triad being a muted, unholy, supernatural apparition… to the schizophrenic it is all too real and holy. The power of the Gods are felt in the body, and mapped by the mind. Devotion to one’s self is the schizophrenic’s project.

The triadic myth is the new God (And by “god”, I mean beyond the power we can feel or imagine). There are three. This is what I believe ( this is actually immanant knowledge of the Freudian Apparatus’) . The “internalised father figure” is one of the Gods. It’s a principle based transcendent “entity”, as well as libidinal energy. There are two. The third is another scale of psychology. It is the apex of the triad. In this case, is the self. We have yet to learn to examine the self in a thorough manner. The psychological debri from the explosion of consciousness and existential crisis from the shock of feeling your self. This feeling is impacting, pulling and tugging at our triadic Gods. The paradigm shift, and psyche shift is occuring. It is an aesthetic shift – meaning the picture of our psyche is changing, namely the apex (the self). I think it’s becoming more accurate. When we move to the third scale of the psyche (akin to physics scales, “qua-nta” from Latin, I think,) We will learn our own selves. Scales, oddly move with time. – The shift of the Gods is measured in psychological times. As the dogmas lift, the ammendment-rationality will eventually ammend the role of the Super-Ego, and seek to find its self. It might not be what we expect. As quanta (by this I mean, strictly power) discovers itself, we will kno the self. And as self, we are being-in-a-communal-world. A mechanism that we all must come to terms with… a machine. When this is fully felt, I don’t know what will happen.

IN THE spring, Tipasa is inhabited by gods and the gods speak in the sun and the scent of absinthe leaves, in the silver armor of the sea, in the raw blue sky, the flowercovered ruins, and the great bubbles of light among the heaps of stone. At certain hours of the day the countryside is black with sunlight. The eyes try in vain to perceive anything but drops of light and colors trembling on the lashes. The thick scent of aromatic plants tears at the throat and suffocates in the vast heat. Far away, I can just make out the black bulk of the Chenoua, rooted in the hills around the village, moving with a slow and heavy rhythm until finally it crouches in the sea.” – Albert Camus, Lyrical and Critical Essays 

The Gods are speaking to camus, but it’s not in a logically distinguishible category. It is through experience – through his beetle. It is something magical – inexplicable, yet it is described. What is being described is not attributive of semantic agreement of articles of speach. This excerpt is not something we can logically sift through. Camus’ experience is not interpretive, or interpreted, but aesthetically percieved. Aesthetics are at work here, as in a painting, and not interpretation. One gets a sense – a felling of Camus’ experience. A qualia to qualia relationship – or an aesthetic relationship. The whole is percieved instead of its parts being interpreted. The magic of the Gods are experienced.


This River Carried Me and a Flag I Never Thought I Had.

The white sun flared through,
wrapped its melting-gold fingers
around window trim and clutched walls.
It was reluctantly dipping
into the horizon of wood, like
a drowning man flailing
his grip through the water’s tip.

A sweet-oak smoke billowed from the grill
and wove a grey veil around
quiet slopes of light.

The river of my drink plunged me
into the stool in front of the bar-tender.

“The only thing I think I believe
is that I don’t believe in solipsism.”,
I flung between chimes of glasses
and muted murmurs from a ball-game.

I slumped over to the side and
glanced at myself in the mirror
between bottles of alcohol glinting
with wisps of white hair.
The curve of my cheek-bone
hung the flesh-flag of my I.
I liked it this time.
And it rippled in the breeze from my smile.

The sun was losing it’s golden grip.
The smoke-veil unraveled
and furled into the descending glare.

There was absolutely
nothing I could do about it.


Money, Value, and a Response

“Four dollars a shot,”
marched from the bartender’s mouth –
each syllable carried the clanks
of Herbie’s Rhodes – jutting like
glacier crags in swells of desert-base.
They carried the smoke curling like
a silver chain draped around a neck,
and the bulges of slurred blurbs.

The words seeped from the regular collection of
the blood-sweet odor of smoke –
not the bartender.

I understood the bar, but I didn’t know what he meant.

The four dollars rustled out of my wallet
and crinkled on the table like
brittle leaves popping back into form.

The sap-colored whiskey
plunked on the bar,
and hummed a sharp
alcoholic song.

Masked, the bartender noticed
an obtuse heap of slurs that
rumpled his skin into a smile.
His shoulders flipped,
and he was swept into
the patterned shrub of sensation.

He was now an indeterminable piece in a clouded order.

I swilled the amber,
and stumbled through links of smoke
until I spilled out
into the violent protrusions of the quiet evening –
like sails glaring on a sun-crushed sea.

I still can’t figure out what that four dollars was worth,
or what the bartender said to me.


Perpetual self-construction

A stool-propped demolition crane draped in a bulk of plaid,
swung a hefty hand clutching the amber lead.
His head, precariously balanced atop
with a two inch crown of gold hair,
(no strand left out in their upwards thrust)
found itself heavier when his eye’s gazed inward.
With amber slugged, adobe lips cracked as they
pushed shores of skin into wax-coated dunes.
His eyebrows collapsed into a frown only allowing
a small wound to peer through.

“Do you…not want to give me a cigarette?,”
he said to me, forgetting I was there.
“Here,” rested underneath my tongue,
as I handed him a smoke.

His fingers grasped it like they would
a piece of charcoal. Tossing the roasting ember to and fro,
he was conducting a visual symphony with the
lipstick tiled bar-room floor.
He drew it to his mouth,
with lips clasping gently around it, and his arm fell
to his lap.

For an instant, he found me through the
accumulating cloud of his smoke.
With the cigarette stuck to his lips, he asked
“Do you think I look like someone
who has never smoked cigarettes before?”
“I don’t know.” I answered to myself.

He walked home that night,
thinking he would see himself in the mirror.