The Language Cathedral: Slice A Dead Horse Up As An Example

The biography, the life, the being, of a Quixote, a Hamlet, a Kane, is contained within the work, the artifact, the art. It is a sphere that we can stand outside of and look into, a crystal ball upon the teller's table. It is contained, limited (in the strictest sense: described), within the context of our being (although there is valid argument here - see Bloom). Thus, the biographer's task of representation is always beyond, at most, concurrent with his own being. Meditation upon a person reflected in a multitude of mirrors - biographical representations - can perhaps provide a more "holographic" portrait, but the innermost thoughts, the soliloquies of self meaning, remain occluded, shadows under the surface.

I Stand in the Ruins of the Memory Cathedral

It helps to keep my mind busy. To not let the imagination get up on the trampoline and start its tricks. The opium den dreams of all the wasted days. Desire lights it all in sepia shadowed nostalgia. It was all a movie. Even the worst days in the Houses at 24 frames per second start to seem like Truth. Got to keep slapping the idiot driving around inside of me to stop zoning out, pay attention to the road.

Mute Inglorious Miltons... And so on.

Ruminations upon the nature of fame and accomplishment. Starts with a visit to an eudaemonist and the Stein quote. Haunting. Haven't read much Stein. The authority in the use of the third person singular knocks me out: "one is certain that anybody who really has it in them."

A Pile of Bones at the Base of Art

I recall wandering through a typical gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico where my gaze drifted over one unremarkable drawing after another.

Murder on Calaveras Lake (excerpt)

It was ten minutes past five that Friday afternoon in April when Holly Foole sauntered across the cockpit of the charter boat Faustina and vanished down the three steps which led to the cabin.

Detournement

Postcards: God is... Series

The Ox-Herding Series

From a Deserted Camera