Pop was about the funnest person i’ve ever known - and to be unable to get his take on events we all face constitutes the greatest misery for me of his passing nine long years ago · Yet he made me swear, knowing the “burro” in me that i would never stop writing. Lo and behold in these, some of the darkest days in my life of more than enough sorrow, i grinned just now facing the “tabula rasa” of today’s work; go figure. Ma’s gonna die soon; i’ve been grieving her loss nearly all my life at which time the reality she apparently attempted to beat into my “Peter Pan” take on existence, will simply transition from stabbing pain, to dull ache. She is a fine dame, and i’ve yet to meet another who could goad so much of whatever it is i have to leave in this world. I hope that she will pass in peace, not for what she has accomplished with my sullied soul, but from understanding better what pain she must feel to behave the way she has toward me.
Whether that translates into any, as Pema Chodron describes, “unwinding of karma,” the voice you are reading cannot say, but the heart you might feel from the words you read will tell. I’m an asshole, and from that i see all the jerks who trumpet such behavior in a different light than the simple “fuck you” repulsion, i feel toward them similarly to the compassion i excavate from my being for the hatred toward me of my own family - a family who would keep me in the dark about our mother’s covid condition - almost as though my awareness of her discomfort could constitute proof of my responsibility for her suffering · how fucking stupid is that ¿? Yet without that doubt, i’d have never begun to understand Madam Paradox and her two offsprings: “T’is & T’ain’t.” What saddems to me, is for all her efforts as i understand them to be, to help me accept my “weirdness” in an un-weird world - it is her disappointment that i seem to be most responsive.
Today i practiced “random acts of kindness as best i could. I don’t feel strong, nor in the midst of any happy band of renegades, rather more like Obi Wan in some fucking canyon hiding my presence from mean-spirited creatures who remain distant from fear, rather than respect. I don’t think my old age will in anyway resemble the nimble repose of my much better prepared mother, but this is the same person who on road trips would make great proclamations of sharing expenses and then neglect to make good those obligations. It is this and other vacant assurances which break faith with my natural inclination - g_d knows where it came from · to do right by the world, regardless of the facts. I don’t want to die, feeling betrayed and now realize i am the only one who could possibly be my own “best friend,” but this does not obviate my personal responsibility to do as much good for as many as i can for as long as i can - even if that pablum was uttered by Henry Ford · Nazi and agent provocateur originator of that sappy however efficient ad copy.
My friend’s son just walked me through the cavalcade of egregious defects in the boutique mini-but-not-too-ostentatious villa i tried to live in unobtrusively. To my credit i was still laboring under the delusion of a useful graphic output for a world that is no longer starving for “fine art,” it is just starving. This neat correlation nestles sweetly with the my soon to be lingering disease of the poverty where only aged, undiscovered - however diligent artist egos perish · lucky me. It is not just my bitterness and repulsion for every value propagated by the art industiralists, but a real and virulent resistance to your disrespect in favor of profit at the expense of every beautiful work achieved outside of your narrow - pecuniary speculation at the negligible cost of one more crushed creative soul for the dreck hung on the walls of casa versailles du bezos · fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
I am about to flee from a property into which an entirely decent family has sunk their wherewithal, yet by hoping to realize a few points of gain, sacrificing necessary maintenance they are only harvesting mold rendering their investment uninhabitable · i spit on profit speculation having worked cheek to jowl with the poser nobility of that real estate scam. There is no place where you can negate the foul disrespect you have shown a “marketplace” you proclaim as “holy ground," but treat as a charnel floor. I will crawl to my grave for no better reason than to see the purulence of your greed ooze into the foul repository of your mortal being after it has been sapped of all earthly energy the same as you have attempted to suck lifeblood at gunpoint from a worldwide population wanting no more than to raise loving children to loving parents in loving homes - atone and die ·
jts 19/10/2020
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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