27 February 2013
25 February 2013
no se permite
We are fortunate that the author Jack Kerouac lived when he did; if he were alive today, he would be in jail for vagrancy. His was a subtle and unique culture, one we lost when the era of the tramp came to a close, when we Americans came to see people who are perpetually on the move as threatening and dangerous, when we passed laws to outlaw their existence, effectively destroying a unique culture, language, and way of life. Kerouac wrote his book On The Road in the heyday of the vagabond, in that glorious period when hitch-hiking was not illegal, when strangers and transients were looked upon as humans rather than scum, when it was still possible for the auto-less to make their way across our fine continent on conveyances other than corporate-run buses, trains, or airliners. If the author would have attempted to live such a life in our current era, he'd have been marginalized, spat upon, and despised by uncaring people who gladly pay five dollars for an cup of coffee.
The life of the tramp had its inconveniences (bad weather, hunger) and its perils (dogs, floods, robbers), but it was also a deeply American condition, a restless embodiment of the notion that a new life awaits on the other side of this ridge, on the far bank of that river, on the shores of some distant ocean. The tramp trusted in the chalk marks left by of his fellow vagrants, ciphers that alerted him to a hostile town or to one with generous inhabitants, that told him where labor was available for the eager but wanderlustig. It is unlikely that we will ever have another author such as Kerouac, another person able to perambulate across the land in the manner of Herodotus and Pliny before him, absorbing and retelling the stories he heard, a person who has made the way his goal. In this country, we see greed and egocentricity as virtues, when, in my opinion, they are the beginning of folly, cul-de-sacs that nearly always end in mid-life-crises during which the individual lays down his lust for money to pursue something he knew would make himself and the people around him intrinsically Happy.
Today, we are a nation of clones, a people resigned to rigid conformity. We were founded, however, as a nation of Many who shared a common binding purpose: to make of ourselves One, to pursue a common Happiness in a thousand different ways. I fear, however, that we have over-legislated, that we have made so many things illegal in an effort to protect ourselves from potential harm that we may never again know the destructive but necessary process of upheaval. We have made it difficult to wander the land in search of an undefined yet important goal, a goal found neither in the cubicle farms of the corporation nor in the halls of our supermarkets, a goal that eschews materialism for spiritual tranquility. There is no going back – the child-like wonder and inherent purity exhibited by the characters in On The Road have been drowned out by the white noise of the television, supplanted by the ferocity of religious extremism, and paved over by the hatred that hides in an Us Versus Them mentality. Woe be unto us, for we have strayed from the Path and calcified in our ways, blinded to subtlety and humor, convinced that turban-wearing bogeymen lurk in every shadow, and wary of things we do not understand. If more of us cared less, if some of us could but wander for a spell in search of nothing in particular, we might all be better off.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
The life of the tramp had its inconveniences (bad weather, hunger) and its perils (dogs, floods, robbers), but it was also a deeply American condition, a restless embodiment of the notion that a new life awaits on the other side of this ridge, on the far bank of that river, on the shores of some distant ocean. The tramp trusted in the chalk marks left by of his fellow vagrants, ciphers that alerted him to a hostile town or to one with generous inhabitants, that told him where labor was available for the eager but wanderlustig. It is unlikely that we will ever have another author such as Kerouac, another person able to perambulate across the land in the manner of Herodotus and Pliny before him, absorbing and retelling the stories he heard, a person who has made the way his goal. In this country, we see greed and egocentricity as virtues, when, in my opinion, they are the beginning of folly, cul-de-sacs that nearly always end in mid-life-crises during which the individual lays down his lust for money to pursue something he knew would make himself and the people around him intrinsically Happy.
Today, we are a nation of clones, a people resigned to rigid conformity. We were founded, however, as a nation of Many who shared a common binding purpose: to make of ourselves One, to pursue a common Happiness in a thousand different ways. I fear, however, that we have over-legislated, that we have made so many things illegal in an effort to protect ourselves from potential harm that we may never again know the destructive but necessary process of upheaval. We have made it difficult to wander the land in search of an undefined yet important goal, a goal found neither in the cubicle farms of the corporation nor in the halls of our supermarkets, a goal that eschews materialism for spiritual tranquility. There is no going back – the child-like wonder and inherent purity exhibited by the characters in On The Road have been drowned out by the white noise of the television, supplanted by the ferocity of religious extremism, and paved over by the hatred that hides in an Us Versus Them mentality. Woe be unto us, for we have strayed from the Path and calcified in our ways, blinded to subtlety and humor, convinced that turban-wearing bogeymen lurk in every shadow, and wary of things we do not understand. If more of us cared less, if some of us could but wander for a spell in search of nothing in particular, we might all be better off.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
23 February 2013
22 February 2013
on discussing religion
In the 1950s, America was gearing up for a war that never turned hot. One potent weapon lurking in the federal arsenal was propaganda, a tool with which the Nazis before them had enslave an entire people to murderous ends. That it had been employed to ill effect in Europe was of little concern to the policy-makers in Washington, D.C. – they required every measure at their disposal to hoodwink the American people into allowing them to spend tens of trillions of dollars on a 40 year-long struggle of the wills. The Red Scare is over, and the Iron Curtain is down, but one aspect of the Cold War continues to harm millions of Americans, even unto this day: the frequent invocation of the Christian god Yahweh.
From the pledge of allegiance to the words spoken by new presidents, one phrase has contaminated the speech of officialdom such as few others before it: “under God”. This foul credo even stains our currency, every dollar we print saying IN GOD WE TRUST. Why did the fear mongers and panic sellers of sixty years ago tether our once fine and secular nation to the tenets of one religion in particular? Did they tarnish the sacrifice made by our Founding Persons and the bygone Sons of Liberty merely to justify their hatred for godless, heathen communists? Did they shit on this republic's chest out of a wan sense of patriotism or were they simply oblivious to the lessons of history? For whatever reason, our money now promotes one religion to the exclusion of all others, and our children are now tricked into worshiping bloodthirsty, genocidal Yahweh before class, each day. When millions of Americans believe that a bearded old White man sits in the sky judging their every action and that a red-skinned pervert with hoofed feet is filling their brains with evil thoughts, we see just how badly those Cold War policy makers fucked up; when candidates running for public office have to curry the favor of wild-eyed, bible-thumping, chest-pounding fanatics or risk losing the election, we see just how dangerous it is to link religion to government.
It is important to discuss the topic of racism with other people, regardless of their skin tone, mindset, belief system, needs, wants, or fears. Americans of color lament that too few of their Caucasian countrymen speak about racism regularly, openly, and without compunction. As people who have been marginalized and despised for centuries, minorities recognize that ignorance leads to fear, fear leads to hatred, and hatred leads to death; they have learned firsthand the dangers that silence brings. Similar to racism, religion must be discussed regularly, openly, and without compunction in order to keep the individual from backsliding into a mindset calcified by relentless exposure to his shaman's fire-branded, unchallenged vituperation. In the words of our first president, George Washington, and his successor, John Adams (from the Treaty of Tripoli): “America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion.” It is as vital to the survival of our basic Constitutional rights to discuss the risks of our own state-sanctioned religious fanaticism as it is to combat the foreign-born fanatics who seek to do us harm. So, next time you manage to tear yourself from in front of the television, strike up a conversation with someone about religion. Please don't forget, though, that the faithful rarely enjoy talking about their beliefs unless they are being praised for them. Sic semper tyrannis.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
From the pledge of allegiance to the words spoken by new presidents, one phrase has contaminated the speech of officialdom such as few others before it: “under God”. This foul credo even stains our currency, every dollar we print saying IN GOD WE TRUST. Why did the fear mongers and panic sellers of sixty years ago tether our once fine and secular nation to the tenets of one religion in particular? Did they tarnish the sacrifice made by our Founding Persons and the bygone Sons of Liberty merely to justify their hatred for godless, heathen communists? Did they shit on this republic's chest out of a wan sense of patriotism or were they simply oblivious to the lessons of history? For whatever reason, our money now promotes one religion to the exclusion of all others, and our children are now tricked into worshiping bloodthirsty, genocidal Yahweh before class, each day. When millions of Americans believe that a bearded old White man sits in the sky judging their every action and that a red-skinned pervert with hoofed feet is filling their brains with evil thoughts, we see just how badly those Cold War policy makers fucked up; when candidates running for public office have to curry the favor of wild-eyed, bible-thumping, chest-pounding fanatics or risk losing the election, we see just how dangerous it is to link religion to government.
It is important to discuss the topic of racism with other people, regardless of their skin tone, mindset, belief system, needs, wants, or fears. Americans of color lament that too few of their Caucasian countrymen speak about racism regularly, openly, and without compunction. As people who have been marginalized and despised for centuries, minorities recognize that ignorance leads to fear, fear leads to hatred, and hatred leads to death; they have learned firsthand the dangers that silence brings. Similar to racism, religion must be discussed regularly, openly, and without compunction in order to keep the individual from backsliding into a mindset calcified by relentless exposure to his shaman's fire-branded, unchallenged vituperation. In the words of our first president, George Washington, and his successor, John Adams (from the Treaty of Tripoli): “America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion.” It is as vital to the survival of our basic Constitutional rights to discuss the risks of our own state-sanctioned religious fanaticism as it is to combat the foreign-born fanatics who seek to do us harm. So, next time you manage to tear yourself from in front of the television, strike up a conversation with someone about religion. Please don't forget, though, that the faithful rarely enjoy talking about their beliefs unless they are being praised for them. Sic semper tyrannis.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
20 February 2013
on keeping quiet
In the years leading up to America's Revolutionary War, a group of persons calling themselves the Sons of Liberty cried foul of the corruption and abuse they suffered under British rule. Among the patriots was Samuel Adams, whose pamphlets, along with Paine's book Common Sense, helped convince the colonials that sharp rebellion against tyranny was preferable to dull suffering at the hands of tax-hungry bureaucrats. Time heals all wounds; it also obscures the lessons of the past. Such is the uniformity in America today, such is the average citizen's conformity to rigid social norms, that we resemble bad clones of worse stereotypes more than we do unique individuals. The lies repeated in person and in commercials by corporations, newscasters, politicians, and pastors have convinced large numbers of formerly stout-hearted Ynki that buying foods in bulk and abandoning humble personal development for brash football fandom leads to Happiness, that it's OK to hate brown people who hopped a fence in order to pick lettuce in Arizona for fourteen hours a day, and that everything in life will be easy so long as one worships a bearded White god while in the presence of one's nit-picking, judgmental neighbors.
A quote from 1984 by George Orwell came through on the tumblrbot recently, one as chilling as it was accurate. “Heavy physical work,” Orwell wrote, “the care of home and children, petty quarrels with neighbors, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling filled up the horizons of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult. All that was required of them was a primitive patriotism which could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working hours or shorter rations. And when they did become discontented, as they sometimes did, their discontentment led nowhere, because being without general ideas, they could only focus it on petty grievances.” Few authors have with greater accuracy predicted that Americans by the hundreds of thousands would sacrifice personal independence and self respect for consumption-oriented wage slavery.
While reviewing the pieces I wrote that are critical of contemporary American society, I realized that many of the dangers I spoke about were methods implemented purposefully in order to keep the American people docile, content, and in the dark. (“They who sacrifice Liberty for safety deserve neither.” Source unknown.) If I keep going along my current alarmist path, I may well be singled out for reeducation and forcibly lobotomized. Far better were it for me to fall into my pigeon hole along with everyone else, rack up personal debt, watch hours of television every day, eat fast food, and drive my car regularly; far better were it for me to dance the zombie dance of the blissfully aloof rather than bicycling, recycling, learning how to grow my own crops, running my household on solar power, and dialing back my consumerism to the point where I am clothed and fed but little else. I refuse, moreover, to buy chocolates on Valentine's day, to say that I support the troops without actually doing anything to support the troops, to let cars take my right-of-way while I am bicycling, to glue an American flag to an article of my clothing, or to participate in the racism that is carefully calculated to keep us little guys fighting each other rather than the conglomerated and incorporated juggernauts that have all but brought this country to its knees. Therefore, in the spirit of our Founding Persons, with thoughts turned to old man Adams and his ilk, I shall keep up this fight until goodness and Happiness have vanquished the forces of hatred and greed, risking Life, Liberty, and sacred Honor to defend this country's founding ideals. Morituri te salutamus, and huzzah.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
A quote from 1984 by George Orwell came through on the tumblrbot recently, one as chilling as it was accurate. “Heavy physical work,” Orwell wrote, “the care of home and children, petty quarrels with neighbors, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling filled up the horizons of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult. All that was required of them was a primitive patriotism which could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working hours or shorter rations. And when they did become discontented, as they sometimes did, their discontentment led nowhere, because being without general ideas, they could only focus it on petty grievances.” Few authors have with greater accuracy predicted that Americans by the hundreds of thousands would sacrifice personal independence and self respect for consumption-oriented wage slavery.
While reviewing the pieces I wrote that are critical of contemporary American society, I realized that many of the dangers I spoke about were methods implemented purposefully in order to keep the American people docile, content, and in the dark. (“They who sacrifice Liberty for safety deserve neither.” Source unknown.) If I keep going along my current alarmist path, I may well be singled out for reeducation and forcibly lobotomized. Far better were it for me to fall into my pigeon hole along with everyone else, rack up personal debt, watch hours of television every day, eat fast food, and drive my car regularly; far better were it for me to dance the zombie dance of the blissfully aloof rather than bicycling, recycling, learning how to grow my own crops, running my household on solar power, and dialing back my consumerism to the point where I am clothed and fed but little else. I refuse, moreover, to buy chocolates on Valentine's day, to say that I support the troops without actually doing anything to support the troops, to let cars take my right-of-way while I am bicycling, to glue an American flag to an article of my clothing, or to participate in the racism that is carefully calculated to keep us little guys fighting each other rather than the conglomerated and incorporated juggernauts that have all but brought this country to its knees. Therefore, in the spirit of our Founding Persons, with thoughts turned to old man Adams and his ilk, I shall keep up this fight until goodness and Happiness have vanquished the forces of hatred and greed, risking Life, Liberty, and sacred Honor to defend this country's founding ideals. Morituri te salutamus, and huzzah.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
18 February 2013
graffiti, a meritocracy
Design an image, crafting it lovingly from the aether. Make it appealing to look at, and fill it will subtle meaning. Then, after much gentle and loving effort, venture out into the night and glue it to a pole, abandoning it there. This is the life of the street artist. Once his picture is up and his work is done, he vanishes into the darkness to wait and see how the Universe will respond. As a seasoned veteran of the streets, he operates cunningly and without ado; occasionally, however, he struggles with memories of earlier agony. Oh how he would sweat when first starting out, and quiver, his knees shaking on the way to check and see if his image were still up or if it had been scraped down or covered over in the few hours since it was born. Oh how he would wallow in sadness at finding his tender little piece plastered over with another person's art, or, worse, hacked off and discarded by a member of one of those Artwork Desecration Teams. The budding street artist suffers trepidation because his graffiti – once it is stuck up or otherwise applied – stops belonging to just one person and becomes the common property of anyone who might look at it; it merges with the harsh and tumultuous meritocracy that is graffiti.
If the graffiti artist wants to keep his sanity, he will realize quickly (by delving deeply into his soul-space and maintaining a proper equilibrium there) that his street art, along with the graffiti applied by the next vandal, is just one segment in a giant, shifting mosaic applied by hundreds of selfless SDUBS (Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists) whose goal is to enliven the otherwise colorless and visually barren asphalt landscape (phaltscape). With enough experience he will understand that by covering only a portion of his piece instead of defacing it entirely, the other street artists deem his art edgy, unique, or beautiful enough to merit a continuing existence on wall, pole, and street-sign. (Exceptions to this rule include if his work is so terribly lame as to be worth neither time nor effort to cover over or if he is particularly good at putting his pieces in places few others might reach, which in itself would prove his mettle.) As long as he stays in the graffiti game, he shall, in time, develop a vandal's eye of his own, which will allow him to judge which pieces to cover over, which to incorporate into his newest work of art, and which to not touch at all.
His is a dangerous game of applying and fleeing, watching and forgetting, shrugging and re-applying. His is a world in which his city destroys his art nearly as quickly as he can apply it, a world in which his work must stand not only the test of time but also appeal to the sensibilities of any subsequent vandal whose primarily purpose is to destroy the phaltscape. He must keep one eye out for meddlesome and ever-watchful cops while contending with some of the finest artists operating today for display space, artists who plaster over poor and inferior works of art mercilessly and without hesitation. Such is life in the harsh meritocracy of the graffiti-writer.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
If the graffiti artist wants to keep his sanity, he will realize quickly (by delving deeply into his soul-space and maintaining a proper equilibrium there) that his street art, along with the graffiti applied by the next vandal, is just one segment in a giant, shifting mosaic applied by hundreds of selfless SDUBS (Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists) whose goal is to enliven the otherwise colorless and visually barren asphalt landscape (phaltscape). With enough experience he will understand that by covering only a portion of his piece instead of defacing it entirely, the other street artists deem his art edgy, unique, or beautiful enough to merit a continuing existence on wall, pole, and street-sign. (Exceptions to this rule include if his work is so terribly lame as to be worth neither time nor effort to cover over or if he is particularly good at putting his pieces in places few others might reach, which in itself would prove his mettle.) As long as he stays in the graffiti game, he shall, in time, develop a vandal's eye of his own, which will allow him to judge which pieces to cover over, which to incorporate into his newest work of art, and which to not touch at all.
His is a dangerous game of applying and fleeing, watching and forgetting, shrugging and re-applying. His is a world in which his city destroys his art nearly as quickly as he can apply it, a world in which his work must stand not only the test of time but also appeal to the sensibilities of any subsequent vandal whose primarily purpose is to destroy the phaltscape. He must keep one eye out for meddlesome and ever-watchful cops while contending with some of the finest artists operating today for display space, artists who plaster over poor and inferior works of art mercilessly and without hesitation. Such is life in the harsh meritocracy of the graffiti-writer.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
15 February 2013
as dogs do
I am walking down a street behind a woman and her dog. The beast stops in the middle of the sidewalk to urinate. I step accidentally in the stream of piss spreading toward the gutter, but instead of reacting angrily, I think: The poor brute had to piss somewhere – why not right here in front of me? If the bitch had been curbed, I would not have stepped in its bowel movement, but since it was not, I must shake its piss from my shoe.
Animals eat and drink; they digest and must relieve themselves; they piss and shit when their bowels get full. As a member of the species homo sapiens as well as a bowel-moving, food-digesting animal, I shall, if necessary, make water into any nearby gutter or storm drain. (My trick is to stand behind a vehicle that is tall enough to hide my junk, pull out a cellphone, fake a call, and pee into the gutter while pretending to be engrossed in conversation.) In Amsterdam, the city provides public toilets; in Berlin, peeing into the gutter is a common practice; but he will be rudely awakened who tries to empty his bowels into the street in New York, Chicago, or San Francisco.
City-dwellers of America, let us end species-based discrimination by curbing ourselves and pissing in the street. This nation's draconian and Puritanical societal norms put us at risk of injury and death – they hinder our very pursuit of Happiness. Celebrate your animal nature by watering the asphalt landscape (phaltscape) with a golden shower. Empty the bladder to free the soul.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
Animals eat and drink; they digest and must relieve themselves; they piss and shit when their bowels get full. As a member of the species homo sapiens as well as a bowel-moving, food-digesting animal, I shall, if necessary, make water into any nearby gutter or storm drain. (My trick is to stand behind a vehicle that is tall enough to hide my junk, pull out a cellphone, fake a call, and pee into the gutter while pretending to be engrossed in conversation.) In Amsterdam, the city provides public toilets; in Berlin, peeing into the gutter is a common practice; but he will be rudely awakened who tries to empty his bowels into the street in New York, Chicago, or San Francisco.
City-dwellers of America, let us end species-based discrimination by curbing ourselves and pissing in the street. This nation's draconian and Puritanical societal norms put us at risk of injury and death – they hinder our very pursuit of Happiness. Celebrate your animal nature by watering the asphalt landscape (phaltscape) with a golden shower. Empty the bladder to free the soul.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
a bamboo still life; an adaptive weaver
(A day after I hung this basket, a spider adapted to its shape.)
(still life of frozen bamboo)
13 February 2013
on taking advice
A piece of advice came through recently on the tumblrbot: Write joyfully about topics you love, not angrily about those you despise. For weeks now, the author has been trying to abide by this simple maxim, with varying success. Looking back on what he has written during the past ten months, he is embarrassed to find that most of his writing features attacks against things he does not like, would like to see changed, or thinks should go away. Few pieces contain uplifting or happy thoughts; most of them are of the author complaining daily about the opinions of other people and about how foolish they all have been for not immediately heeding his and praising him for being gloomy.
While still dealing with the emotional and psychological fallout from the aforementioned realization, this unworthy whorphan is restructuring his writing and drawing processes as well as intensifying his search for inner peace in the ancient texts and yoga. Traffic to his writing sites has been on the decline; something must be done. There is no central message to his writing, no red string of Mycenae, and he has yet to put up advertising, a factor he has used to justify slacking off these past couple of weeks and posting recycled content. He has tried to convince himself that acting in the manner of a know-it-all curmudgeon makes him happy, but it brings little joy to his readers and messes up his internal monologue; therefore, he shall scatter his problems while they are still small and become the change he wishes to see in the world.
Thank you for reading along on this lowly author's journey. Someday, he'll find his stride.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
While still dealing with the emotional and psychological fallout from the aforementioned realization, this unworthy whorphan is restructuring his writing and drawing processes as well as intensifying his search for inner peace in the ancient texts and yoga. Traffic to his writing sites has been on the decline; something must be done. There is no central message to his writing, no red string of Mycenae, and he has yet to put up advertising, a factor he has used to justify slacking off these past couple of weeks and posting recycled content. He has tried to convince himself that acting in the manner of a know-it-all curmudgeon makes him happy, but it brings little joy to his readers and messes up his internal monologue; therefore, he shall scatter his problems while they are still small and become the change he wishes to see in the world.
Thank you for reading along on this lowly author's journey. Someday, he'll find his stride.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
11 February 2013
eyes in graffiti
Walk through Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Berlin, Amsterdam, or Bangkok, and look in the forgotten, in the grimy, and in the underused places. With a keen glance and a bit of luck, you will witness the riotous beauty known as graffiti. Oh, what a profusion it is of style and color, of shape and size, of message and image, all blending into a whole that, if viewed from afar, resembles little more than clutter. Step closer, however, and trust your peripheral vision, and your most tender of sphincters will drink gladly of the intoxicating power of street art. Why, though, do we look? Why are we powerless against the urge to sweep our gazes down into worn and sticky curbs and up onto soot-stained poles? Eyes, my friends, we look at graffiti because it is full of eyes (and not just any eyes, but human eyes). They may have stumbled upon the technique accidentally, they may have copied it from advertisers, but, for whatever reason, graffitos exploit one of mankind's primal and deep-seated fears, using a time-proven method for getting people to look at something – giving it eyes.
Since our time as forest-creeping, prairie-running, skull-bashing troglodytes, the species homo sapiens has developed the uncanny ability to recognize the shape of the eye even if it should be obscured by layers of random patterns. Experts argue whether this ability is restricted merely to recognizing human eyes or if it applies to those of our former predators (i.e. bear, cougar, coyote), but I hazard that our subconscious brains are constantly trying to figuring out if someone, or something, is looking at us. Advertisers exploit this evolutionary adaptation to our status as Top Predator Of One Another by blanketing the asphalt landscape – the phaltscape – with pictures of pretty people who nearly all happened to have been staring directly at the camera's shutter when it opened. (Now, however, instead of our powers giving us the upper hand in a fight-or-flight situation, they allow us to be convinced that we need that new and re-formulated cucumber body scrub. Woe be unto mankind.)
All quasi-scientific, pseudo-evolutionary nonsense aside, why do graffiti-writers use eyes in their designs? Why does they want people to look at their works of art? Few graffitos apply their craft for financial gain; as with other labors of love, people cipher-write regardless of the risks it poses to life, limb, liberty, and liability. SDUBS (Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists) are wily and suspicious by nature; they maintain a level of honor, decorum, and discipline so profound as to make inquiry into their personal matters a life-threatening endeavor; therefore, these questions shall likely go unanswered for generations to come. For now, however, please enjoy the street-side galleries of free-to-the-consumer art wherever you may be, and rest easily in the knowledge that, by looking back at eyes that look at you, you are merely executing a deeply-ingrained survival reflex that is as natural to humans as is laughter. Never forget, however, to keep an eye out for mankind's oldest enemy – itself.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
Since our time as forest-creeping, prairie-running, skull-bashing troglodytes, the species homo sapiens has developed the uncanny ability to recognize the shape of the eye even if it should be obscured by layers of random patterns. Experts argue whether this ability is restricted merely to recognizing human eyes or if it applies to those of our former predators (i.e. bear, cougar, coyote), but I hazard that our subconscious brains are constantly trying to figuring out if someone, or something, is looking at us. Advertisers exploit this evolutionary adaptation to our status as Top Predator Of One Another by blanketing the asphalt landscape – the phaltscape – with pictures of pretty people who nearly all happened to have been staring directly at the camera's shutter when it opened. (Now, however, instead of our powers giving us the upper hand in a fight-or-flight situation, they allow us to be convinced that we need that new and re-formulated cucumber body scrub. Woe be unto mankind.)
All quasi-scientific, pseudo-evolutionary nonsense aside, why do graffiti-writers use eyes in their designs? Why does they want people to look at their works of art? Few graffitos apply their craft for financial gain; as with other labors of love, people cipher-write regardless of the risks it poses to life, limb, liberty, and liability. SDUBS (Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists) are wily and suspicious by nature; they maintain a level of honor, decorum, and discipline so profound as to make inquiry into their personal matters a life-threatening endeavor; therefore, these questions shall likely go unanswered for generations to come. For now, however, please enjoy the street-side galleries of free-to-the-consumer art wherever you may be, and rest easily in the knowledge that, by looking back at eyes that look at you, you are merely executing a deeply-ingrained survival reflex that is as natural to humans as is laughter. Never forget, however, to keep an eye out for mankind's oldest enemy – itself.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
08 February 2013
on idling enemies
From oil – as in crude oil, sweet crude, oil wells, and the British Petroleum / Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill of 2011 – we make gasoline. From oil we also get plastics, which are used to make water bottles, baby toys, toothbrushes, car seats, laptop cases, lampshades, bottle-caps, pens, linoleum flooring, clothing, and shoes, to name a few examples. Oil is a precious, strategic national resource of the United States of America, one every citizen is duty-bound to protect and conserve. Therefore, the patriotic citizen rarely allows his gasoline-powered automobile to idle for longer than 30 seconds, since idling past 30 seconds compared to turning off and later restarting the vehicle wastes gasoline (according to new information), and gasoline, as it is a derivative of oil, is a strategic national resource that must be protected and conserved. (Idling while stuck in traffic may seem unavoidable until one remembers the existence of gasoline-electric hybrid engines and sees bicyclists riding by freely and exuberantly.)
The patriotic citizen educates himself about his use of this precious national resource – he does not waste oil, because wasting it would require us to send America's brave men and women to fight more wars of aggression against more oil-rich nations (such as Iran). If a person wanted to harm the United States of America and to make her less able to provide for the common defense and the general Welfare, that person would drive an unnecessarily large, gas-guzzling vehicle. The person who drives a vehicle disproportionate to his supposed need to get around (such as an unaccompanied person driving a king-sized pickup truck) is effectively an enemy of the state: he burns more gas moving himself around than he might if he were to make a minor personal sacrifice and drive a smaller car with a smaller engine. (Today's Ynki accepts readily the lie that he might drive his car to work, drive his car to the store, drive his car to the gym, and drive his car to school, all without consequence; we Americans, however, can no longer afford to be lazy, worthless people who fucking drive everywhere.) In order to protect his nation's future (and to make sure the troopers fighting this nation's wars have enough gasoline for their military vehicles), the true American patriot bicycles whenever possible.
Life requires water; without water, there is no life; without water, humans die. Because it is a component essential to maintaining the general Welfare, and since it is needed to effect the Safety and Happiness of the American citizen (which, according to the Declaration of Independence, is the primary purpose of government), water is one of this nation's precious national resources. Businesses that waste water are enemies of the state, companies that deliberately poison aquifers are enemies of the state, and persons who throw water away are enemies of the state. Persons who allow the faucet to run while they brush their teeth; who run the tap while shaving; who let a shower fun for twenty minutes for it to warm up; who hose down a driveway instead of sweeping it with a fucking broom; who maintain lawns in the desert (instead of planting drought-resistant, native species); who toss cigarette butts into lakes; these persons are all enemies of the state. Please, dear reader, if you consider yourself a patriot, please examine your use of Earth's precious resources, and adjust your habits so as to reduce the risk of future suffering. He who sacrifices for the common good can rightly call himself a patriot, unlike the person who desecrates the American flag by gluing it to his clothing or pasting it to the door of his car. Liberty frowns upon they who idle wastefully.
場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit
The patriotic citizen educates himself about his use of this precious national resource – he does not waste oil, because wasting it would require us to send America's brave men and women to fight more wars of aggression against more oil-rich nations (such as Iran). If a person wanted to harm the United States of America and to make her less able to provide for the common defense and the general Welfare, that person would drive an unnecessarily large, gas-guzzling vehicle. The person who drives a vehicle disproportionate to his supposed need to get around (such as an unaccompanied person driving a king-sized pickup truck) is effectively an enemy of the state: he burns more gas moving himself around than he might if he were to make a minor personal sacrifice and drive a smaller car with a smaller engine. (Today's Ynki accepts readily the lie that he might drive his car to work, drive his car to the store, drive his car to the gym, and drive his car to school, all without consequence; we Americans, however, can no longer afford to be lazy, worthless people who fucking drive everywhere.) In order to protect his nation's future (and to make sure the troopers fighting this nation's wars have enough gasoline for their military vehicles), the true American patriot bicycles whenever possible.
Life requires water; without water, there is no life; without water, humans die. Because it is a component essential to maintaining the general Welfare, and since it is needed to effect the Safety and Happiness of the American citizen (which, according to the Declaration of Independence, is the primary purpose of government), water is one of this nation's precious national resources. Businesses that waste water are enemies of the state, companies that deliberately poison aquifers are enemies of the state, and persons who throw water away are enemies of the state. Persons who allow the faucet to run while they brush their teeth; who run the tap while shaving; who let a shower fun for twenty minutes for it to warm up; who hose down a driveway instead of sweeping it with a fucking broom; who maintain lawns in the desert (instead of planting drought-resistant, native species); who toss cigarette butts into lakes; these persons are all enemies of the state. Please, dear reader, if you consider yourself a patriot, please examine your use of Earth's precious resources, and adjust your habits so as to reduce the risk of future suffering. He who sacrifices for the common good can rightly call himself a patriot, unlike the person who desecrates the American flag by gluing it to his clothing or pasting it to the door of his car. Liberty frowns upon they who idle wastefully.
場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit
07 February 2013
06 February 2013
a parting delight
The author has been experimenting with how he dresses his hair. Whereas he used to comb it over without part, he now parts it on the left-hand side. His favorite hairstyle – which he calls the fade of the recession, or the recession's fade – consists of a malleable tuft at the top and front of the head that fades quickly down the sides and back, where it is closely cropped. (For examples, see here for two men from the 1930s and here for Tom Hardy in the movie Lawless.) Since he has been cutting his own hair this way for nearly fifteen years, the author has decided to name his hairstyle the recession's fade, mostly because it resembles hairstyles sported by individuals who lived through the Great Depression. As a person living through the Great Recession, he can only hope to chase away our enduring economic blues by affecting a bold and brash hairstyle, just as his predecessors conquered their troubles by heaving into the shifting winds of Fortune with wide smiles, strong backs, and daring coiffures.
The looks he gets from people fuel his mirth and keep a smile in his mouth. His meek and unadventurous fellow Americans cannot get enough of his audacity – they stare and point, laugh and mock, looking at him and his slicked-down locks as if he were a sulfur-breathing alien from distant Blaxon-7. Add to this an Abraham Lincoln style chin-beard and neatly cropped mouth-whiskers, and people all but lose their minds. They can't figure out if he is a hipster, a lunatic, a Civil War reenactor, or merely a tragically-lost Amish bloke. On some level, he does not mind being the brunt of their jokes, or the focus of their attentions, but he wonders sometimes why they spend time thinking and talking about him instead of opening their own minds, strengthening their own bodies, and cultivating their own unique sense of style and dress. Another of his unusual habits is to ride bicycle properly, with his shoulders pulled away from the ears, his head erect and scanning, his back straight, and his buttocks planted firmly on the seat. He rides this way so as to isolate the workout to the lower extremities, to keep his head on a swivel, and because riding in any other way is plain foolishness.
An avid cyclist and amateur barber since his early teens, the author's knowledge of the power of hairstyling grew during a recent airing of Radio Lab. The hosts of the show discussed with compelling brilliance the symmetry in our cells, in our thoughts, and in the rest of the universe, but the author nearly fell off his chain when they began speaking about the effect that parting one's hair can have on how one is viewed by other people. Things suddenly made sense – the looks and gazes, the random smiles from passing women, kindness and warmth being thrust upon him because of a simple change in how he combed his hair. If parting is the sweetest sorrow, he shall stick with his current hairstyle until the Recession fades, bearing the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for as long as circumstance demands.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
The looks he gets from people fuel his mirth and keep a smile in his mouth. His meek and unadventurous fellow Americans cannot get enough of his audacity – they stare and point, laugh and mock, looking at him and his slicked-down locks as if he were a sulfur-breathing alien from distant Blaxon-7. Add to this an Abraham Lincoln style chin-beard and neatly cropped mouth-whiskers, and people all but lose their minds. They can't figure out if he is a hipster, a lunatic, a Civil War reenactor, or merely a tragically-lost Amish bloke. On some level, he does not mind being the brunt of their jokes, or the focus of their attentions, but he wonders sometimes why they spend time thinking and talking about him instead of opening their own minds, strengthening their own bodies, and cultivating their own unique sense of style and dress. Another of his unusual habits is to ride bicycle properly, with his shoulders pulled away from the ears, his head erect and scanning, his back straight, and his buttocks planted firmly on the seat. He rides this way so as to isolate the workout to the lower extremities, to keep his head on a swivel, and because riding in any other way is plain foolishness.
An avid cyclist and amateur barber since his early teens, the author's knowledge of the power of hairstyling grew during a recent airing of Radio Lab. The hosts of the show discussed with compelling brilliance the symmetry in our cells, in our thoughts, and in the rest of the universe, but the author nearly fell off his chain when they began speaking about the effect that parting one's hair can have on how one is viewed by other people. Things suddenly made sense – the looks and gazes, the random smiles from passing women, kindness and warmth being thrust upon him because of a simple change in how he combed his hair. If parting is the sweetest sorrow, he shall stick with his current hairstyle until the Recession fades, bearing the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for as long as circumstance demands.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
04 February 2013
few options remain
A man encourages his friends to purge their lives of sadness and hatred, but despite his best efforts, little positive change occurs. For his troubles, he is badmouthed and tattled on, ridiculed and mocked. He realizes his mistake and tries to keep his mouth shut, but it is too late – he stops voicing his opinion but gets yelled at for raising his eyebrows in what is seen as a rude and derogatory fashion. Keeping the area around his eyes as neutral as possible, he tries to free his mind of the hatred boiling around him by breathing out the stress, anger, and malcontentedness he hears spewing from his quasi-adoptive family. Its mother yells at him only occasionally, but, in her anger, she reveals that she has been keeping track of his every transgression, repeating them to herself over and over until they erupt as violent and uncontrollable rage.
It has reached the point where his breathing insults the matriarch – she just recently accused him of belittling her by exhaling disdainfully while she was listing her mother's past failures and speaking poorly about her supposedly best friend. If he tries to ignore the woman's negativity and not listen to the sadnesses she repeats, she yells at him for not listening to her and scolds him for ignoring everything she says. He has been backed into a corner; few options remain. If he keeps spending time with them, he shall have to be very careful of the way he speaks, looks, and breathes, lest someone take affront to his actions. If he continues coming around, he shall have to choose between sitting stone-faced and mute with neutral body-language and a mind free of both attachment and aversion or grinning with abject glee at everything that is said and shouting approvingly at even the slightest move, nod, glance, smile, and blink.
He prefers neither option: he shall simply stay away and stop hanging with the family in question; he would rather spend his life in quiet and honest solitude than in loud company that simmers with anguished self-deception. If one lives life enslaved to the demands of the ego, if one cannot evaluate oneself honestly at regular intervals, if one prefers the stupor of ignorance to the clarity that humility affords, then one will have a hard time adapting to the changing realities of life, preferring holding on to letting go, closing off to throwing open, shedding tears of rage to those of joy. At some point, one must weigh the benefits of human interaction against those of solitude, and if the stress and sadness that comes from hanging out with certain people is greater than the joy and contentedness their presence affords, one stays away. The main lesson the author has learned is that no matter what he says or how hard he tries, he cannot save other people from their own egos, change the way they interpret life events, or influence them in a positive manner. He heard a saying recently, one that has stuck with him: If you're the smartest person in the room, you're in the wrong room. It is time to find a new room.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
It has reached the point where his breathing insults the matriarch – she just recently accused him of belittling her by exhaling disdainfully while she was listing her mother's past failures and speaking poorly about her supposedly best friend. If he tries to ignore the woman's negativity and not listen to the sadnesses she repeats, she yells at him for not listening to her and scolds him for ignoring everything she says. He has been backed into a corner; few options remain. If he keeps spending time with them, he shall have to be very careful of the way he speaks, looks, and breathes, lest someone take affront to his actions. If he continues coming around, he shall have to choose between sitting stone-faced and mute with neutral body-language and a mind free of both attachment and aversion or grinning with abject glee at everything that is said and shouting approvingly at even the slightest move, nod, glance, smile, and blink.
He prefers neither option: he shall simply stay away and stop hanging with the family in question; he would rather spend his life in quiet and honest solitude than in loud company that simmers with anguished self-deception. If one lives life enslaved to the demands of the ego, if one cannot evaluate oneself honestly at regular intervals, if one prefers the stupor of ignorance to the clarity that humility affords, then one will have a hard time adapting to the changing realities of life, preferring holding on to letting go, closing off to throwing open, shedding tears of rage to those of joy. At some point, one must weigh the benefits of human interaction against those of solitude, and if the stress and sadness that comes from hanging out with certain people is greater than the joy and contentedness their presence affords, one stays away. The main lesson the author has learned is that no matter what he says or how hard he tries, he cannot save other people from their own egos, change the way they interpret life events, or influence them in a positive manner. He heard a saying recently, one that has stuck with him: If you're the smartest person in the room, you're in the wrong room. It is time to find a new room.
mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥
01 February 2013
on harrowed rats
While paging through a dictionary one day last year, I came across something called a ruptured duck. (Now, I cannot locate this entry in my New Oxford American dictionary, and, without access to Lord Googlebot, I cannot do an Internet search. Help!?!) If memory serves correctly, the ruptured duck is an Old World heraldic symbol consisting of a detached human arm – bent at the elbow – embossed upon a shield with square top corners and a rounded bottom. I remember reading the description of the ruptured duck and finding therein few answers to pressing questions.
A few of my questions were as follow. 'Who chose the name for this emblem?' 'Is there an emblem of a whole duck, before its rupture?' 'Is the ruptured duck a secret image designed to enrage the simple-minded or is it merely a bit of medieval nonsense that somehow survived the ravages of time?' These questions well never be answered, but my initial puzzlement inspired me to start designing a coat armor, or coat of arms, for the modern street artist, graffito, and vandal. So far, there are two (similar) designs, found here and here. The goal is to develop a coat armor simple enough to recreate in less than sixty seconds that depicts both the tools of the graffiti trade and the graffito himself.
The rat represents street artists because they frequents hidden and scary places, bringing life to the ignored, the dirty, and the underutilized portions of their respective cities. And even though they tend to be interesting and productive people, graffitos are reviled by nearly everyone else, by cops and property owners, magistrates and fence builders, security guards and taxi drivers. Besides other graffiti writers and buxom female teenagers, the only persons who tend to applaud a vandal's work are ones who sell paint. The anarchy symbol seen in both pictures represents a common attitude held by Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists, or SDUBS: no one person owns the world, it belongs to us all; therefore, we will make the drab spaces beautiful by risking life, limb, and liberty in order to paste, spray, draw, and bomb our art into and onto the boldest possible spots. My design skills are paltry, and my ideas want for much, but perhaps if I keep bashing my head against the wall for long enough, something useful might come out of it.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
A few of my questions were as follow. 'Who chose the name for this emblem?' 'Is there an emblem of a whole duck, before its rupture?' 'Is the ruptured duck a secret image designed to enrage the simple-minded or is it merely a bit of medieval nonsense that somehow survived the ravages of time?' These questions well never be answered, but my initial puzzlement inspired me to start designing a coat armor, or coat of arms, for the modern street artist, graffito, and vandal. So far, there are two (similar) designs, found here and here. The goal is to develop a coat armor simple enough to recreate in less than sixty seconds that depicts both the tools of the graffiti trade and the graffito himself.
The rat represents street artists because they frequents hidden and scary places, bringing life to the ignored, the dirty, and the underutilized portions of their respective cities. And even though they tend to be interesting and productive people, graffitos are reviled by nearly everyone else, by cops and property owners, magistrates and fence builders, security guards and taxi drivers. Besides other graffiti writers and buxom female teenagers, the only persons who tend to applaud a vandal's work are ones who sell paint. The anarchy symbol seen in both pictures represents a common attitude held by Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists, or SDUBS: no one person owns the world, it belongs to us all; therefore, we will make the drab spaces beautiful by risking life, limb, and liberty in order to paste, spray, draw, and bomb our art into and onto the boldest possible spots. My design skills are paltry, and my ideas want for much, but perhaps if I keep bashing my head against the wall for long enough, something useful might come out of it.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
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