When dealing with the insane, the best method is to pretend to be sane. -Herman Hesse

My brain hurts. I haven’t been sleeping well. Now I have an
excuse for not writing well. Ouch. I have given in to the lure
of Science. I am not so keen on the experimental, but as for
forming a successful hypothesis I enjoy this. My current
thesis is a secret of course. Magic is very powerful. One can
never be too sure. In this sense, Science is wicked awesome!



I’m the worst kind of artist; the kind that
makes everybody an artist. What could
be worse than that? – Shri

Again, am not well; not writing to make sense:

Well, what can I say? I’m still engulfed.
I’m still typical atypical. I’m still not
considerate of some other nice people’s feelings.
But not all. So many angry a**holes out here.
Ruin my way. And think about Art.
Like how the architecture is not understood well.
Like not like phenomena are not thought well.
Like making Maria mad. Like not as mad as I
can ever be. Although I doubt she gets mad
often. I can resist.
Unfortunately, it does seem perhaps in the
future I write this, having had the experience, i.e.,
not by reason alone, a priori. However, being
inpatient I give and will say this: unfortunately,
it seems as if the creation is thought to be perfect,
must be perfect in the eye of the beholder, then it
follows a perfect work is necessary in the creator’s
mind. However deluded others may find this believe,
it seems necessary for the creator.
I haven’t thought much about installation. Not
at all really. The manner in which painting and installation
intersect is of great interest for the perfectionist. That is
all I have to say.

Then something about GAD67, axon, NMDA + AMPA,
Norepinephrine, GABA analogue, Risperdone, NRIs, 5HT-x,
catecholamines, etc.



“A philosophically informed vision helps us respond to reversals intelligently,
not Impulsively, so that we can act to mitigate the situation, not aggravate it.”
― Chaitanya Charan Das, Wisdom from The Ramayana

It’s amazing how sometimes an established artist can give hope and solace to
a struggling artist, or some analogy like that. In my case, hopeless and disparate
from myself, I look to McArthur Binion, but not really in any extraordinary story-driven
sense, just like a basic need to feel better about my shitty life. Something always
happens to deflate my combustion, maybe that’s the world telling me something.

What else? I am learning that the gods I was taught are God as a kid are probably
not real. Of course, this is not a new thought but then to seriously entertain the idea
with anglo-research is always distressing. Childhood beliefs are hard to dismiss.
Rama/Krshna not real?! WTF. I was getting sick of the art anyway, the romantic
European classical icon style, the baby-blue skins. Pissing me off. I had a good
good idea, putting their images on punching bags. Yeah! Is that concept art? I
don’t know. It seems like it could be, but not sure. Darn.

Cognitive dissonance. I can’t describe this well.

My neck and brain hurt. Sleeping style and psychotic-ness – nobody else’s fault
but my own..hahaha. Caffeine too. Maybe all that beer abuse too. Maybe a lack
of success. It’s like worse than a bobble-head. I can slit my brain on both sides
and let all the light out. fuck them.



“Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in
which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.” -Mark Twain

“Anger … it’s a paralyzing emotion … you can’t get anything done. People sort of think it’s an interesting, passionate, and igniting feeling — I don’t think it’s any of that — it’s helpless … it’s absence of control — and I need all of my skills, all of the control, all of my powers … and anger doesn’t provide any of that — I have no use for it whatsoever.”
-Toni Morrison

The following is an example of me barking at or up the wrong tree…read if you have time to waste.

The two Cooper story. Amy and Christian, showdown at dusk. Bark bark.
“Hey, Mr. Black, you can’t be here while I’m taking a break from doing asana!
Didn’t you get the memo sent back in 200x? Even though I’ve only been in
New York since 2017…Didn’t you get that memo? It says, ‘We are making
America great again…New York City …’”

I was reading that story and knowing on some level what was going on. That
was something started way before “Make America Great Again” It was post-911.
It was white America pissed off and gang-buster. It was Bloomberg and Giuliani.
It was that “collective unconscious”. It was capital greed and hi-tech. It was great
food, but only for the elite. An elite, not as described by the 99 percent. An elite
more like 65-75%. It was the roaring 20s or actually the 1950s going backwards in time.
It was be crazy. Did you ever wonder what you were all tapping into? Like not a black hole.
More like a white hole. When I think crazy, I think some valley girl who’s daddy called
her a princess growing up, then moves to the big city and works in advertising or fashion. Has
a bunch of friends who are more or less the same. They promote the agenda, something like
a clubhouse built on excessive use of the word love. Law and order. Rising middle class. Love
pink. Gentrification was real. It has many outcomes. The Cooper’s in Central Park was one.
New York City and perhaps other similar venues became quasi-apartheid. Your rights and
our rights. That’s where it stands.

If what happened to Mr. Brooks in Atlanta was somewhere else, like say New Jersey,
the cops would not be in such deep shit. That’s simple. Because Atlanta is very
black. But Georgia is not I assume. So that tells me that the local law takes shape.
Especially in a big city. New Jersey is a state, but what if that happened in Newark?
I don’t know depends I guess.

There is a power. The strong have it and privilege along with.
They use work as a force to wield power. Power is equal to Work divided by time.
Those who do work have more power. Power is good right? Work too right?
Money is good, because life is good. Good at making money. Good knowing
the law is on your side.

I just know that without an incentive wrong word, without
ability, creative ability there can be no opportunity for doing
the kind of work that seems appealing to me. And I don’t, no longer,
have a creative component in mind.

Now for more free. Like when I was fresh.
And word was just black on white. I have that goal.
It came and went. Art is ground swelling and honest.
Honest telling of the goal. Making exit. Making black
door and leaving the white house. Rubber ducky.
Why can’t alcohol be my fuel for being?
Why must it fuck the living-bejesus out of me?
Why in excess? But not sure when that is?
Why does the inner-demon haunt me?
Why not straight the path? Why misery?



A riot is people coming together who are held together by their own dispossession.
A riot is them coming together to struggle against that dispossession in public space..
- Joshua Clover, an English professor at UC Davis

The the the…
Dispossesion I know something about that…

What you mean you weren’t going to be able to write?

I am a saint better than St. Ambroise of Old Bridge, NJ

Too much to say, something about white America again
Something about how they should be ashamed for…
Something about a neighbor’s baseball hand lost in the fire and blood
Something about how to get out!
Something like the misery of living in white America, made by white man for white man
Something about nothing
Something like I’ll be stuck in this devil town forever
Something now, something later.
Something about my mother – my only parent
Something about Nazi excuses but not really
Something about money – nothing new there.
Something about anger and it’s ability to completely dismantle my being
Limited writing space, the need for communicating
I know I’ll have a beer and feel better.
I can’t see it and not to listen to the dumb spoiled white children of the suburbs.
Not to just want to kill them and their parents and that way of life.
How I feel to no one.