haiku 20 Oct 2017

Oh lazy rivers
Willoughby, Waring, and Kling
Your asphalt I miss

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

on smaller states

When the U.S. American states were created, their populations were far smaller than they are today. In the centuries since this nation's inception, it has acquired areas legally, annexed territories by force, bought a region or two, and stolen vast tracks of landscape from numerous First People tribes. Most often, these regions were first broken down into manageable sizes before being given names and assigned stars on the flag. If they had been incorporated at their original sizes, we would now have one state reaching from Baton Rouge to Bismark and another from San Diego to Seattle. Instead of one state legislature and one governor answering to a hundred million people, today's much smaller states allow more people to have a greater role in determining for themselves the course of their lives. In this instances, as in a number of others (think babes, booze, and brats), more is better, and more states would lead to better lives for everyone alive today as well as for the many generations yet unborn. (Immediately, the author objects to his own argument on the grounds that, in the long run, more babes or booze or brats rarely make a person's life better.)

If, for example, we were to split California into three different states (northern coastal, southern coastal, and inland), the populations living in these areas could more effectively band together for the protection and propagation of their own interests instead of being tethered to societal groups with whom they have little in common. Furthermore, a smaller state would allow for greater and more fruitful citizen participation in society: in his lifetime, a man could get to know most everyone in a smaller community and create bonds with the few hundred thousand people living therein, whereas the idea of casually meeting and mingling with everyone in a state of 30 million (plus) souls is unfeasible to the point of being absurd. Today's Californian who desires to become acquainted with all of the people whose driver's licenses resemble his faces a daunting and nearly insurmountable challenge; dispirited and perplexed, he retreats behind the all-too-penetrable defenses of his meager abode and purees his mind watching seven hours of television a day.

As to the preferred size for new states, we humans already self-segregate by moving to cities with greater frequency and in larger numbers. City-sized states would allow for more efficient use of a political representative's time: if his constituents numbered in the two hundred thousand, he might feasibly speak to each one of them at least once a year (by addressing large gatherings of them at public events), whereas, today, governors and legislators struggle constantly with the challenge of trying to speak to even a small fraction of the people whose lives they are supposed to be governing let alone for whom they are expected to draft legislation impartial and beneficial to all. In addition to allowing for a better allocation of resources, reducing the population sizes of states by splintering them into more and smaller entities would provide greater political power to people not living in cities; it would negate situations we currently face in which the voices of far-flung rural residents are drowned out by the opinions of massed and motivated urbanites. The author fears, however, that we U.S. Americans must crawl to the end of the rabbit hole we have already entered and continue to suffer in brazen exacerbation the current trend of Homogenization To Enhance Corporate Profits that piggybacks on the disenfranchisement of great masses of citizens until such time as we come to recognize it for its dangerous and inherent inhumanity, and rid ourselves of it peacefully, and for good. Mahalo.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

on graffiti-writing – a meritocracy

Design an image, crafting it lovingly from the ether; make it pretty to look at, and fill it will subtle meaning; then, after so 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 her picture is up and her work is done, she vanishes into the darkness to wait and see how the Universe will respond. As a seasoned veteran of the streets, she operates cunningly and without ado, but, occasionally, she will struggle with memories of earlier agony.

Oh how she would sweat when just starting out, and quiver, her knees shaking on the way to check and see if her image were still up or if it had been scraped down or covered over in the few hours since it was born. Oh how she would wallow in sadness at finding her own tender little piece plastered over with another person's art, or, worse, hacked off and carelessly discarded by one of the roving Artwork Desecration and Destruction Teams. The cause for our street artist's early trepidation is this: once it is stuck up or otherwise applied, graffiti stops belonging to just one person and turns into the common property of all who might look at it; it enters into and becomes one with a harsh and tumultuous meritocracy.

If the graffiti artist is interested in keeping her sanity, she will realize quickly (by delving deeply into her soul-space and maintaining there a proper equilibrium) that her street art, along with that applied by the next vandal, is just one segment in a giant, shifting mosaic applied by selfless citizens (i.e. SDUBS, or self directed urban beautification specialists) intent on enlivening the otherwise colorless and visually barren phaltscape. She will realize quickly that by covering only a portion of her piece instead of defacing it entirely, the other street artists will have deemed her art edgy, unique, or beautiful enough to merit its continuing existence on the wall or sidewalk. (Unless, of course, her work is so terribly lame as to be worth not time nor effort to cover over, or if she is particularly good at putting her pieces in places few others might reach, which in itself would prove her merit.) As long as she keeps herself in the graffiti game, she shall, in time, develop a vandal's eye of her own, which will allow her to judge which pieces to cover over, which to incorporate into her newest work of art, and which to not touch at all.

Hers is a dangerous game of applying and fleeing, watching and forgetting, weeping and re-applying. Hers is a world in which her city destroys her art nearly as quickly as she can apply it, a world in which her work must stand not only the test of time but also the test of subsequent sticker-applying hellions bent primarily on destroying the phaltscape. She contends not only with meddlesome and ever-watchful cops; she contends for the most prominent and choicest display spaces with some of the finest and the brightest artists operating today, artists who plaster over poor and inferior works of art mercilessly and without hesitation. Such is life in the pure meritocracy.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

on phaltscape etiquette and standards

The urban bicyclist may differ from her fellow mashers in appearance, dress, and hairstyle, but she will share with them standards of smog-riding etiquette as extensive as those of any other professional affiliation. Since it would be inconvenient to list every standard common to the smog-rider, let us examine a few of the more practical matters. To avoid making the drivers trapped in their smoking metal boxes jealous, she keeps all evidence of her bursting exuberance hidden from sight. In order to inform the people around her of her whereabouts, she will sound a series of war-whoops and signaling-whistles piercing and attention-getting enough to prevent unnecessary collisions. She rides with proper stance – shoulders pulled back and chest thrust out – so as to isolate the workout to her lower body while allowing her eyes to scan the environment calmly and with keen interest. In order to stay upright and aboard her smog-sled, she is able day or night to repair and maintain it anywhere and in any weather, and although her conveyance will look dusty and well-used, it will be in good working condition, as she has always on hand tools and spare parts.

Beyond the practical matters just listed, there are spiritual standards common to the urban cyclist. Within his brains is an extensive collection of those routes that are the smoothest, that have the least motor-vehicle traffic, and that allow him to avoid running into pesky and annoying police officers. So as to keep his body in good working condition and to avoid the irritability and dangers associated with dehydration, he drinks regularly of green coconut water, or of other beverages rich in electrolytes. An honorable and virtuous being, he will carry his smog-sled when it can carry him no longer, and since he knows that bicycling is a dangerous activity, he lives peacefully knowing that death is rushing by inches from his tender flesh-bag of a body.

Here are presented but a few of the standards of smogriding – may you discover more, and establish a few of your own.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

on plantago lanceolata and street art

  The ribwort plantain, or plantago lanceolata, is a healing plant. When consumed as a tea, it opens the airways and clears up congestion while cleansing the kidneys in a soothing manner. When applied to an external wound, its antiseptic qualities will speed up the healing process and reduce the chance of scarring. For these reasons and for many more, plantago lanceolata has been used as a healing plant since before the dawn of civilization. In caves inhabited by early homo sapiens, we find remnants of ribwort right next to remnants of ocher, and of iron oxide, and of other materials used to make pigments.

  We might deduce what ancient homo sapiens did with the plantain, but did he do with pigments? He used them to beautify his environment. He drew with them upon his favorite rocks and trees, and he covered the walls of difficult to reach underground caverns with detailed pictures of his daily life in a process that would today be called graffiti, or street art.

  We have established that in graffiti lie the roots of humankind's artistic passion, and that street art is the wellspring of its genius. But, you ask, how else does this ancient practice resemble the healing plantain? Both appear as if overnight in underused and neglected places such as empty lots and abandoned buildings, where they thrive and spread. Great bunches of healing plantago are mowed down and landfilled weekly, their healing powers ignored, whereas great patches of street art are torn down and painted over daily, their chaotic beauty lost forever. Both benefit all who take of them, for they give of themselves freely and without ado, yet neither requires attention or maintenance, since each can damn well take care of itself. Both can cure the ills that plague humankind, with ribwort attending to the body's needs, and graffiti exciting the soul. So enmeshed are these two with one another, so vital are they to the vitality of our species, that they will be with us always, or at least until the last woman breathes the last breath.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

rimwort in Venice

plantago lanceolata grows abundantly at Santa Clara & Abbot Kinney

on the magical nature of street art | encyclopediamericanifesto

  There is mysterious work afoot in major cities across America – the work of street artists! Search modern urban architecture's unadorned spaces, and you will find gallery upon gallery of cunningly executed and deftly placed works of art. Look in the forgotten and the underutilized areas so common to today's city, and you will discover a riot of forever changing and seemingly self-rejuvenating works all crammed and pasted and plastered over each other. And if you watch over a few weeks time the canvas of urban art shift and change you will begin to wonder who are the persons who put up these strange and colorful pictures, and how ponderous are their cojones.

  It shall remain a mystery what exactly drives the individual to risk his life simply to showcase his artistic abilities; the street artist keeps from sight – only twice in the last two months have I seen street artists at work, and both times were at night. We may never explain why a person starts suddenly to affix his artwork to previously unadorned public surfaces, just as we may never explain why state and local governments hate street art as much as they do, or why they work so hard to cover it up and remove it. (I suspect that governments make street art illegal so that they can incarcerate gang members for spray painting, although these official bodies have in effect criminalized all public artwork other than that found on billboards or on other tax-revenue-generating places, which makes little sense from an artistic standpoint but complete sense from a capitalistic standpoint.)

  The self-directed urban beautification specialist, or SDUBS, works for neither fame nor money – she operates because she knows it is more important for her to pursue her Happiness freely and without restriction than for all the buildings to look the same. She executes her craft with the sole intention of making the urban environment more beautiful, and she can hardly stand to see a blank space go unfilled. Her city and state will punish her for her efforts, not rewared her. They look upon her as if she were vile and incorrigible scum, yet she has already forgiven them both, because her heart is pure, and devoid of malice.

  場黑麥ioanni elymucampus fecit

p.s. go to urbanartuploads.blogspot.com or to urbanartuploads.tumblr.com to see pictures of street art

as dogs do, so shall I do

  A woman is out walking her dog and the beast urinates on the sidewalk ahead of me. I step accidentally in the stream of piss spreading toward the gutter, but instead of reacting angrily I tell myself: The poor beast has to piss somewhere – why not right here in front of me? If the woman had curbed her dog, I would not have stepped in its bowel movement, but since she did not, I must scrape its shit off of the bottom of my shoe.

 I have no problem with the animal doing any of this so long as I might also piss freely into the gutter whenever I want to. As a member of the species homo sapiens and a bowel-moving, food-digesting animal, I shall make water into any nearby gutter if the urge to pee should hit me unexpectedly. Just now, I made water in the street near LAPD headquarters, at two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, and no persons complained or looked at me funny. (I suspect that people do not confront me because I am tall, and because I look like I could be a mentally insane homeless person.)

  City-dwellers of the world, fight species-based discrimination by curbing yourself and pissing in the street. Do not risk injuring or killing yourself because there was no socially acceptable toilet nearby – celebrate your animal nature by watering the phaltscape with your golden showers, today.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

American heritage desecrated in Los Angeles

  Westwood, which sits in a shallow ravine beside the 405 freeway, resembled not long ago any other college town in America. But today, those of her denizens early at their business – the bums looting in trash cans, the kids heading to class, and the professionals out for coffee – these otherwise unrelated individuals gaped commonly in horror to find their little slice of phaltscape stripped nearly bare of street art.

  What draconian tactics the foes of undirected urban beautification are, and with what speed they move! Not five days ago, Westwood was where people came to marvel and to rejoice at the riot of stickers and posters and graffiti that adorned the empty and the forgotten spaces, where they flocked to gather images to upload to their weblogs, where they rested to gaze at the pictures of free art captured inside their pocket-sized computers. But now, with their town whitewashed nearly beyond recognition, native Westwoodians wander around as if betrayed, while outsiders hurry along shooting about themselves with strange and mournful glances.

  Layers of priceless street art were simply scraped off and discarded. Cunningly executed and deftly applied pieces of unique artwork done by world renowned artists were sprayed over and defaced. From the burning of the library at Baghdad to the fire that raged in L.A.'s Central Library, seldom has the artistic effluence of mankind been so brazenly and so effectively destroyed as in this current action. Imagine if a wing of your favorite museum burnt to the ground, and the pain you would feel; such is the pain that lovers of street art now feel. Picture someone stabbing at your favorite painting and prying it from place with a long metal scraper, and the anguish that would fill you; similarly filled are admirers of this all too fleeting form of artistic expression.

  Not only is the product of thousands of man hours of artistic effort gone from all but memory, but the cruel effort of the courageous and selfless street artist is at this time being dumped into a pit somewhere outside the town of Calabasas. The self-motivated urban beautification specialist never rests, however – she will be at it again, making her rounds and pursuing her Happiness with vigor and daring. As her pen forever flicks so her art forever sticks.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

(pictures of some of the lost street art are at urbanartuploads.tumblr.com or at urbanartuploads.blogspot.com)

p.s. street art found painted over and and similarly desecrated at the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue – this may be a larger effort than I had imagined

on phaltscape-withdrawal and dating | encyclopediamericanifesto

  Modern sociologists look with pity upon the smogrider who attempts after years of absence to re-enter the dating scene while she is suffering from withdrawal from the phaltscape, but you and I shall examine her more favorably. For reasons mechanical, spiritual, or otherwise mysterious, she is not riding smog regularly; thus, she is distressed. With her smog-sled sitting dormant, her hands are less calloused, her cheeks have lost their rosy hue, and cheer has fled her moods. This is not an isolated phenomenon: from the urban cyclist orphaned within the last few years to the gear masher with layers of parents, any person who is kept away from something she loves (such as smogriding the phaltscape) will approach potentially romantic meetings gingerly, and with hesitation.

  The physiological reasons for the smogrider's hesitation are clear – since they no longer bathe regularly in endorphin blasts triggered by rigorous exercise, his brains are cloudy and sluggish; lacking their hard and churning labor, his muscles atrophy, and his limbs twitch and jump about at random. Additionally, his speaking is as difficult to understand as his morals are to justify (which we speculate is caused by changes to the physical make-up of the cerebral cortex triggered by conscious epigenetic manipulation). Compared to the physiological reasons, however, the psychological reasons for the smogrider's romantic inability are less well known. Rumors tell that in the hours leading up to his rendezvous he descends into a period of existential crisis that lessens only long enough for him to scream self-loathing obscenities. Other unconfirmed data show that upon meeting his date, the smogrider panics and bears his soul without compunction (from which point onward no modern girl will give him the sex), and that by the end of the date he is on the brink of total personal despair, his failure all but assured, his time and his money surely wasted.

  Denying someone what they love is a crime both cruel and heartless, but keeping whorphan from him phaltscape reek downright of madness.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

a g o t

  For a city to destroy and deface all graffiti other than pieces done by Banksy is similar to it removing from its museums all paintings other than those done by Michelangelo, and burning them.


Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

encylopediamericanifesto: phaltweariness - dehydration

  Among the many serious dangers the smog rider faces daily is the risk of dehydration. A condition easy to overlook but deadly if ignored, the body's dehydration distress call resembles closely the distress call it makes to signal hunger; additional telltale signs of dehydration are crankiness and fatigue. A few reports say that within smog rider packs it is common for the incessantly whining and inexplicably binge-eating member to be forced to hydrate by the IPM (the Instant & Perpetual Militia, i.e. the smog-packs' ubiquitous, fully meritocratic agents of enforcement), however our trust in the source for these reports is shaken.

  Multiple trustworthy sources report that when cycling in desert climates the smog rider adjusts his body to the local variances for temperature and humidity, a somewhat risky process in which he trains his body to need less water than it needs in more northern-lying areas. The first step he takes in this process is to eat of the local soil, and to pledge his fealty to the spirits of the land, and to praise the things growing in it, and to celebrate the things scampering across its face (a curious custom akin to the practices of First People tribes). Once he has ingested of the local earth, he cuts back on water gradually until he needs only a liter of it a day, and perhaps a few ounces more if he should exercise vigorously.

  An active person and avid reader alike, the smog rider learned some of the eternal lessons of the desert by reading tales about Rommel and Lawrence of Arabia, tales of Westerners surviving in the desert on minimal amounts of water using methods they learned from the Bedouin people. (In fact, he considers himself deep down an adjunct member of the hard-scrabble group of desert dwelling bad-asses know as the Fremen, from in Frank Herbert's book Dune.)

  But he is not Fremen, and he is not Bedouin – he is a smog-riding street-art vagabond, a man free of scorn and haste whose heart is pure, and in whom there is no room for death.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

encyclopediamericanifesto entry - phaltweariness

  Phaltweariness is a state of fatigue caused by bicycling for many kilometers on sun-baked city streets. The phaltweary person is known to go to bed easily, to sleep well through the night, and to exhibit a healthy and flexible physique. People suffering from PW (the peedubs, the phaltweariness) will experience aching muscles, 1000 yard stares, and prolonged periods of wild-eyed, fundamental indifference.

  While any avid bicyclist will occasionally encounter PW, phaltweariness affects the street art vagabond in particular, that isolated individual who prowls the Earth's cities on foot or on bicycle taking pictures of street art and uploading those pictures to the available data networks. Although the forces of homogeneity and societal control look upon him with blatant mistrust, the street art vagabond labors to perpetuate and to preserve for posterity as digital photographs the beautiful diversity of posters, stickers, paintings, and other graffiti that constitute the global Street Art movement.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est – 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp