Remove the internal horror of this banality before me!Īnd lay bare the soul as the student of anonymity!Īnd while self used ideas, my reason, in suddenly toyed with angles, once done, once undone, derived an awe. Not much but a few underground artists, Praise the Lord! What was there to appreciate on this corner? ![]() ![]() Through the door I see what seems to me to be pipes and skulls in a dismal headshop. Its clouds illuminated the picked-over places where the total eye abolished sunset in its foil-around-the-vase aesthetic. Look to the impossibly profound shoddiness wrapping the unwanted, the Me, of possibilities - the Me of closing the mask of the video arcade in an ugliness made in madness made in the sparse dream and in bliss holy terror.Īll that hounded me and all that later became one, in the haze of that store window in the twighlight, is down. The art of grace on the street, of the one ragged dollar that caused self awareness and carved nerves into the stone of being. The dread that became the layman, I watched as it flew about before a barren place outside, with kids, striving to find that which is immediate in cliches. Hence, the application, nor the mind are the success that allows everything inĪrt - that which needen't be like insinuation, or found malingering among producers of the limitations in documents that, despite Art, are for beautiful materials and the way of befriending the eye towords illness, or perhaps toward oneself with new fresh eyes amidst seeing art in those images of the heholder. There may be the intention to become our habits and then its, "Thanks, to be oneself" or among some eccentrics its even,".to be one more," Through art the street's robe is on and revealed through our subtle conscious for allowing Art, a successful expression in fact. But, the raw unregulated wearing of its projection, unfettered in all but a mental YOU of unique phenomena, to be, etc., becomes the Thanks-lined streets of Who You Art God only needs the me in itself, above all to be good, or, as always, going about its seeking. It is about where depression upon objects juxtaposed to myself, in held-onto concern for material, are that by which, within the always-greying dusk of private, wooden kicks, became undisciplined.Ī process is sometimes more than a life lived onto living surfaces. I had done nothing in poor taste! Expenisive trash, how humbling from the willful process of reading into a high of materials so often realized as freedom. I had always come, for some reminder, to a few images of the 1970's where my idealistic attempts, as if waking to coffee, became known. Where am I, with they for whom poverty's way will redeem them in years to come,Īround where things have broken: how could they be only a medium! ![]() That has always seen the student through because destroyed art is the very cost that may be the key.Īs far as can be, when around an Art that gathers dust unused, on these beaches where the whims, as such, animated myįaliure, which only a plastic few knew, I realize, I am that which I find as materials. Had bitterness, like anger, taken me off to where the worn-in risk made an old circus blockage in those many pieces ago, where years washed away bad habits and the ultimate kicked in, I wouldn't be laying out what we've created at the foot of the gutter, producing a clown's library, while the cost is paid in impulsive recycling.
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