THE RIDDLE OF STEEL

I went to an art exhibit/show of sorts this morning. The work on display was from local artists, and the objects ranged from what I would call arts and crafts type items to paintings to sketches to objects created from other objects. As I strolled the aisles looking for something, I was waiting for a visceral reaction where I would murmur, "That's unusual," or "I quite might like to have that." However, the first thing I actually picked up was from an artist who looked like they stepped directly from the Woodstock album cover, sans a fine veneer of mud. It was a curved piece of wood, the shape of a rainbow on which was painted the colors of the rainbow. It was clearly a wall hanging, of a rainbow. The part that made this particular piece unique was the evenly spaced lettering that was painted over the entire arc with the letters "F U C K Y O U". As I studied the piece, the artist peered at me closely, seeing the shoulders, the buzzed head, the cold hazel eyes and the bulge of my concealed pistol and instantly decided that I was the Man, as in the cops, the fuzz, the P - I - G. Which is entirely untrue, I have never served in any law enforcement capacity outside of bouncer of an Irish pub for a year or so during college. However, he squirmed uncomfortably and I gave him a tight smile and moved along.

I found myself in front of a blonde caucasian woman who painted what appeared to be Japanese-style watercolors. There were the reeds, the birds, and the minimalist landscapes present, and while I was actually tempted to purchase a small painting, the $195 price tag for an 9x11 watercolor seemed too steep. I moved along. As I stopped and got a mug of spiced cider, I ruminated on the question, what makes this piece of art something lasting, and this piece a festering turd?

Is it technique? A consistent brushstroke style? Is it the manner in which the object was rendered? Was it the vision, the way of looking at a vase and painting it in a surreal fashion? What makes the "fuck you" rainbow a worthless piece of shit and the watercolor birds valuable? Value of an object shouldn't necessarily be based on the time it took to make, the Haight-Ashbury rainbow man may have spent hours creating his masterpiece, and the watercolor lady might have painted hers in twenty minutes. Also, the rainbow may have provoked a deep reaction in the artist, with the symbolism of the rainbow as one of luck, or even God's covenant not to destroy the world with water again - juxtaposed against the crassness of telling the viewer to go fuck himself, sort of a thesis/antithesis expression. More likely, the artist simply was stoned when he painted it and thought it was deep, or funny, or both.

I left without any answers, and without any objets d'art for Caer Crom.

It begins as a echo, a tinny sound like an old Fender Twin Reverb amp being powered up, that crackle of the speaker and the tinny coils that produce the sustain. A far off sound, like the slapback from a concrete wall a half a block away. There is a feeling of confusion that follows, a momentary spike of hypersensitivity and the threat of the roaring of the world that begins but does not follow through. Calm again, although the feeling grows in the back of the throat, a darkening swallow of potential energy. Then the hum begins, drawing on the ambient sounds as it's energy as it begins to focus. There is a touch of pinkish mist in the air for a second, and the edges of objects present with painful exaggerated outlines. The roar is gaining now, past the lower thresholds that vibrate in the sinus cavity, and the bones of the ear moan with unwanted anticipation.

The strike is like lightning across the forehead, a jagged rip in the fabric below the scalp and all balance is lost. On hands and knees, the deep waves of nausea are almost drowned out by the screaming in the ears, the crispness of the detail of the ceramic tile, the imperfections in the grout, the mote of dust disturbed by the displacement of the air around the body as it falls. The clarity! The clarity of the back of the hand, straining and yet off-balance as the white knuckles support the frame, and the hollow pop of the cheekbone as it strikes the cold surface with a flash diminished only by the omnipresent howling in the ears.

Darkness? No. Shivering, sitting up and trying to regain composure. The effects have not lessened, but are familiar enough to regain motor functions. Daring not to stand, a shuffle towards the medicine cabinet to find the big white pills that dangle relief but like a pretty stranger's smile, never deliver on the hinted promise. A stagger to the bedroom, and despite the cacaphony, the candle burning in the window is still too loud to be borne. The hot smell of skin and bruises, the headache has now arrived.

I am not a literary snob. I will read practically anything that I can get my hands on, and I have read everything from George Orwell to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn to Neal Stephenson to Michael Crichton to Tom Clancy to Jack London. I spend twenty times more time reading than watching television. Were it not for news and the brothers Klitschko I would not even have cable. Cable modem, hell yes - cable television, not so much. I am always open to suggestions on what to read next, and I anticipate reading thousands more books, both good and bad. I have known a few poseurs who only read the "literary" books and flit about, martini in hand and name-dropping authors that everyone in that room merely pretended to have read. I prefer to spend time with readers who will hunker down and discuss any book seriously, no matter how much disdain is poured out by the square-spectacles crowd. I am an equal-opportunity reader, I will give most anything a chance. However, if your writing sucks do not be surprised when I trade in your bestseller/doorstop for a stack of paperbacks from writers I have never heard of.

Remember authors, just because the intellectuals like your book does not mean that it, and you - are not full of shit.

I started re-reading my brand new copy of "The Gunslinger" tonight. When I read it the first time a few years back I burned through it and the next six books. Now that there is a seventh I will take more time and re-read through the end.

I have spent a fair amount of time reflecting on the link between madness and creativity. I know this topic has been discussed ad nauseum but I want to revisit the idea however briefly.

My friend Erin, she was an artist. She was also bulimirexic and had a schizotypal personality disorder. She also believed that she could read your mind. She told me more than once that she feared me since she never could successfully read my mind, and when I jokingly made some offhand comment about the reason she could not was that I was an alien/human hybrid she literally leaped out of my car at the light and I did not see her for weeks.

She produced some astonishing work however. I do not say this from my point of view solely since I am not skilled at critiquing art. Her work was met with enthusiasm and interest by others who I believe were more "in the know" than I. I enjoyed her writing greatly, she had a turn of phrase and a unique way of looking at things that in a manner almost completely foreign to my experience, and I gained insight and appreciation for her topics in a new light. Her visual work certainly ran towards the darker hues, and with my worldview I found themes to identify with and recognize. However, she was plagued by her demons and while they made for some interesting material she suffered greatly under their sadism.

She got over my alien hybrid crack, and told me that I was reincarnated from an angel and that she could see my aura and that I was powerful and stoic being who radiated safety. I think that actually had more to do with the fact that while I fell reluctantly in love with her, I never ever consumated our relationship despite her many attempts at seduction. I knew that to sleep with her would harm her in ways that I could not fathom and so I ground my molars into dust with frustration while keeping my hands firmly wedged in my pockets.

The part that still brings sadness are my recollections of her finally crumbling under the weight of her insanity, and watching her literally starve herself to death. We lost contact after I moved far away, and I would get the occasional envelope stuffed full of her poems and pictures that grew more skeletal with time. Years later she later married and invited me to her wedding but I could not attend due to a conflict with my work schedule. I wish now that I had gone - she took her life with a razor not long after her first child was born.

Did her talent stem from her madness, or was it stifled by it? She never would have been one to paint sunlight and warmth, but I have wondered what she would have accomplished if she had managed to even reach a level of détente with her illness.

http://www.kulichki.com/vv/audio/ram/vdol-obryva-po-nad.ram

Elsewhere today I referenced the Russian bard Vladimir Vysotsky. If you have Real Player you can listen to one of the more famous songs he wrote, "Fastidious Horses." It is rough, recorded back in 1972 in a basement somewhere. Also, Vysotsky was famous for not tuning his guitar particularly well, which he did on purpose to lend the song a rawer sound. Included are the lyrics so you can sing along.

Включены лирика, таким образом Вы можете петь.

КОНИ ПРИВЕРЕДЛИВЫЕ

Вдоль обрыва, по-над пропастью, по самому краю
Я коней своих нагайкою стегаю, - погоняю, -
Что-то воздуху мне мало, ветер пью, туман глотаю,
Чую, с гибельным восторгом - пропадаю, пропадаю!

Чуть помедленнее, кони, чуть помедленнее!
Вы тугую не слушайте плеть!
Но что-то кони мне попались привередливые,
И дожить не успел, мне допеть не успеть!

Я коней напою,
Я куплет допою,-
Хоть немного еще постою на краю!...

Сгину я, меня пушинкой ураган сметет с ладони,
И в санях меня галопом повлекут по снегу утром.
Вы на шаг неторопливый перейдите, мои кони!
Хоть немного, но продлите путь к последнему приюту!

Чуть помедленнее, кони, чуть помедленнее!
Не указчики вам кнут и плеть.
Но что-то кони мне попались привередливые,
И дожить я не смог, мне допеть не успеть.

Я коней напою,
Я куплет допою,-
Хоть немного еще постою на краю!...

Мы успели - в гости к богу не бывает опозданий.
Так что ж там ангелы поют такими злыми голосами?
Или это колокольчик весь зашелся от рыданий,
Или я кричу коням, чтоб не несли так быстро сани?

Чуть помедленнее кони, чуть помедленнее!
Умоляю вас вскачь не лететь!
Но что-то кони мне достались привередливые,
Коль дожить не успел, так хотя бы допеть!

Я коней напою,
Я куплет допою,-
Хоть мгновенье еще постою на краю!...

I have added an eclectic mix for your background browsing enjoyment. You will not find any theme, as my musical tastes defy categorization.

I think you'll dig something that you hear.

I am the original hypocritical cynic. While I expect the world to perish in flames at any moment I constantly exhort those around me to not give up hope.

Odd, that.

I must admit, this surprised me some.


Ok, no it didn't. I am nothing if not methodical.

Heh.