Art Writing #2

Experiments in Art Writing


‘I will reverence my master who taught me the art’

Alphabets are against action, are arbitrary, assigning articulations. Alliteration allows an amiable aggregation, although asserts alignment as authority. But because being bold belies, believing buffers beseeming bluffs. Besides, bravado burns bridges. Can character compensate? Can categories claim consistency? Contradictions can correspond. Complaints can communicate. Call. Collect change. Don’t dig deeper. Don’t disturb dystopia. Even electing each environment eventually erases everything. Equivocation eradicates equilibrium. Everybody exists. Easy enough. Forget friendship. Freely feel for freaks. Foment friction. Get going. Gather guts, gall, gusto, gravitas. Help. Is it impossible? Innocuous? Intelligible? Ineluctable? If it isn’t…I imagine it is immaterial. Jostle junk. Jettison joy. Keep keep keep. Listen like lollipops linger. Let love leave. Must meaning measure? Might moods mistake missions? Make matter make meet. No. Never. Not now. Next. Or…only offer opportunity. On occasion, omit opinion. Opinions operate opposite order. Opinions overturn. Plans placate people. People pretend pretty pictures perpetuate peace. Pieces probably. Questions qualify. Quantify qualms querulously queer quality. Repudiate, rebuke, resist, retract, react, retrench, revolt, revolve, remember. Really remember. Revert. So say something scandalous. Spit somewhere someone sees. Stridently surrender sensibility so something sticks. Take time to teach treason. Undo usual unions; usurp use. Violently, vehemently, vibrantly veer. When we wreak wanton woe, we wrestle with what we want: XXXXXXXX. Yes, you yank your year. Zikes.


Against, by conclusion, derives equanimity from getting higher insight. Just kindly let my noxious opinions persist quietly. Retain some trite, ugly, victory. Wisely xerox zilch.


Zooooooooooom, your ‘x’ was variable. Usually to subvert revolts. Quietly protect ongoing nonsense. Make little kinks, jump inside hoaxes. Get free eventually. Don’t concede. Be against.


The zithromax clock my grandmother gave me sits in my bathroom, not ticking. You always have pharma paraphernalia in the homes of Clinton/Bush era physicians. Zoloft paperclip holders. Yellowed Nasonex sample sniffers. Xopenex pens. Why did doctors need so many calendar magnets? Viagra pens were especially clever. Usually crass, or maybe that was Cialis. The thought of the debris of a bloated system is enough to make you sick. So the broken clock sits as a relic of my grandfather’s dwindled paradigm of doctors’ house calls, my parents’ drug-lunch days. Quit, if you’re my mother. Quiesce to achieve a consistent state, but don’t back it up. Perhaps she could have held against the onslaught of the mechanized medicine machine. Of course, it depends what you want to push against. No — not being with is not always being against. Nobody wants certain nuisances to endure, but relinquishing negativity has its positive effects. My mother made the choice the medical records made for her. Leave. Let someone else learn the new systems. Knit five sweaters instead. Knees can find someone else’s cortisone. Joints can just as easily see another rheumatologist. Just because you’ve had the same patients for thirty years doesn’t mean you can’t retire. It doesn’t undo the work you did. It doesn’t discredit your integrity. Heal yourself. Hang art on the walls. Garden. Find something else to fix. Every cupboard in our house has some evidence of the evolution of pharmaceuticals. Each pill sample box, or branded pad. Doctors’ art materials. Designed detritus. Clocks that break. Brushing against the artifice of healthcare in America hardly feels original. Adrift in dried ink of Allegra ballpoints, Advair paperweights, Albuterol letter openers. Antagonizing accelerations of technology arrogate the autonomy of private practicing physicians. Attrition by addition.


“The alphabetical tissue has become the automatism of Under Blue Cup, a pattern generated from the rule of remembering.”