"Return to Reality"

Return to Reality

Nothing had prepared me for this.
I had all but forgotten about it. First their was Clinton claiming that it all depends on how you define “is” then came the long slog of the Bush years where words became like Jokers and everything became redefined to change the course of history.
The political tight rope was restrung in every ones minds and rules relaxed like the belts around overstuffed bellies.
A renewed rush for rags and riches found fertile play ground at the stock market.
Days were judged by being bearish or bullish. Real estate was flipped for profit like trading cards as if values really had risen. Hype replaced caution and money flowed along murky channels feeding the greedy by depleting the needy.
Life was good and morals and ethics were old-fashioned fossils visited in the museum of stale histories.
CEO was the name of the game C for crave E for enrich O for obsess and everyone pretended to be one.
We managed our own imagined wealth like brokers for a capitalistic evil empire. Lies became so outrages that nobody believed they were lies. The Republicans and its gang of Neo-cons gutted government like it was the last days of life on Earth. Democrats had fallen asleep in disbelief that the populous could be really that dumb and not see through the sham and religious fog.
I lived the good life trusting my broker like he was my personal God. I was going to get richer by the minute by investing with firms that shuffled my money into rising stocks to dump them when they had peeked.
My sex life also had an up turn and I had a fling with this kid an intern in the company I worked for. He was blond, vibrant very out and openly gay and hot for me.
It felt good to be desired.
I knew that it was against company policy and against any logic but I was horny and he was willing. We waited until he had turned eighteen to consummate the forbidden fruit and all seemed like the never-ending story.
But of course the age difference, my busy schedule and his demands changed the dynamics and made it impossible to continue the affair. That’s all it was a seemingly harmless affair. Maybe in bad taste because of the power structure but nobody was taken advantage off, demeaned or abused neither corrupted neither black mailed nor a crime committed.
So nothing had prepared me for this.
I watched Obamas Inauguration from my room with ocean view at a Waikiki hotel. I danced with him and Michelle at all the balls and cried with Oprah and Jesse Jackson not because I felt like a black person but I felt like a gay person who understands the pain that was released and the hope that had found a conduit to rise at this moment in history and also the hope that I will not be forgotten.

It took Obama only a few days to revoke the bankrupt policies of the previous administration. He tackled the lobbyist and limited their influence declared that Gitmo would be closed and torture will be defined according to the Geneva Convention that the wages of women will be equal to their male counter parts.
Oh yeah I almost forgot, pushed a stimulus package through the house and worked on fixing the economy on the side while I was surfing 6 foot high waves on my custom made board and tanned my trim body to catch the eye of another hot guy who watched everyone of my moves.
Nothing prepared me for the scandal that was brewing at home in Stump town where the first openly gay mayor had lost a huge junk of his credibility because of the mistakes he made in his past.
He had failed to live up to the truth by lying and it landed back in his lap.
Yes the lap that caused that embarrassment in the first place because he didn’t keep it zipped up and had let his libido get the better part of him.

The local Indy paper had found some half naked boy in his closet and brought him back into the limelight as the latest sex scandal in an attempt to sell papers.

No not really it’s a free paper so maybe to force him to resign.
No not really because lots of its staff members still back the major.
So maybe just to have exposed another slimy story about someone’s private life as it is so popular lately.

But why should or would I second-guess the print medias motives in the light that the scandal caused myself a lot of confusion about my own opinion.
I had to ask myself how qualified was I to judge, to throw the first or tenth or hundreds stone. How big is the beam in my own eye and how many shortcomings do I have to account for.
But of course I am nobody and didn’t have to cover my tracks to win an election like it is so fashionable in modern day politics.

Nothing had prepared me for this.
I dreaded to come back home to a place in moral conflict instead of a celebratory atmosphere. Maybe that was also what upset me the most that he ruined the party for me. That I had already bought the tickets for his huge, hot, fancy in-party at The Nines and that I faced the ethical dilemma now to have to consider still going and to face him and not knowing how I would do that.

Should pretend that it was really none of my business with whom he has intercourse, as it is none of his business with whom I do the Ramazotty.
Every one of us has a take on everything in life but it can only concern our own life and witch hunts are so out dated even if they happen for political reasons.

Should I pretend that nothing had happened and nothing has changed which would be lying?
I was kind of proud reading that some gay publications had the courage to call for his resignation because it shows that we don’t approve of misleading actions and the misuse of public trust even if it is done by one of our hopeful future role models.
We are not sheep and we have a mind of our own.

I ended up agreeing that resigning would serve nobody and throw the city into turmoil besides it would please only the gay haters and political opportunists.

So I move on with my life with another disappointment on my belt but still with my hope intact that Obama is the real deal and that as time goes by we all start living up to our potential instead of sabotaging ourselves over and over by missing the mark.

In memory of better days

In memory of better days

America beatniked in stone
out of whiskey icy mouth
carved tongue printed
in concrete words
the last big city animal
eaten by the poetry of aging cells
eroded organs lay blank
like the forests of clear cut ravines

Voices from the inner ear
hear the beat of broken walls
summing up the life
of the over sized drama
trust and betrayal
of past and future generations
cascade down the stony face
drown in the piece’s of shattered mirrors

Self-images dance on stiletto heels
against the stage's back drop
feathered by thoughts
of convulsing excrement’s
Graffiti is smeared over
the tomb of the lonely at heart
reflecting the sound of the silent
like a bell without the phallus

The vibration never even ripples
the surface of the hunters soul
if you followed the buzz
you would find the beat
the howl of the past
fills my brain with painful echos
bouncing off my own deep rift
to the never-land of poetry

The mind creates a seismic fault
in memory of better days
where the brave speak out
other peoples vomit
to join together into one
the sum of all broken angels
because we hope that the old howl
will live on in many new disguises

PDX Art: Nancy Lorenz at PDX Contemporary Art

www.PDXContemporaryArt.com

PDX Art: "Obama-mania"

Confessions of an Obamaholic

Right after his speech four years ago at the Democratic convention for Kerry's nomination, I fell into this deep hole of admiration.
The first time in a long time a political speech gave me goose bumps as big as Hershey’s kisses.
The sincerity of his demeanor oozed out of my television like chunky peanut butter on my souls sesame toast. In better days it was called charisma.

Now 4 years later my Obama has become the next elected president of the United States of America.
Obama and hyperbole have mingled with fanatism and messiahism to chummy up with hero worship.
Cocktails are named after him to commemorate the historical moment like the “Hopetini”
or “Ray of hope” and “Hope Fizz”.
The restaurants in DC already put out Obama menus like “Fried no chicken left behind”, “ Born in Hawaii Mahi Mahi” or “Left over Bush meat”.
A “Belt way revival” burger is expected to be a hit with the “Economy slam dunk pulled pork sloppy Joe” and the Capital Hill special “Veal liver with candied apples and fagot beans”.
Change means kill your piggy bank and get dressed for the party with the latest T-shirt and start celebrating with flags of hope.

Hope is not with out a price tag and excitement is spreading its wealth.

You got to have the Obama Yo Yo to show that you are a true believer and to keep focused on the ups and downs of the stock market during the transition.

While we are stimulated to buy into the stimulus package it is lingering stuck in congress.
An army of retailers has lined their Obama super stores with limited editions of china made in China so you too can eat your ribs off Obama’s face.

That he is like a rock star is an understatement with a hot sauce named after him and even toilet paper sporting his image just incase if he is not able to live up to our expectations.

You can wash your privates with “Hope on rope” scented soap smelling just like a Kenyan summer and there is already talk of an Obama theme park.

The home shopping channel is going to broad cast the inauguration while Joan Rivers is selling fake gilded trinkets with the portraits of the Obama children so you too can feel like you are part of the as of yet undefined change.

The celebration has turned into a whole sell consumer bonanza with capitalism again taking it out of the pockets of the easy impressed and mislead.

Inaugurations parties are popping up like drag queens during Mardi Gras and are used as fundraisers for various social causes even movie theaters are going to screen the event.
I wonder if that is what Nostredamus saw in his visions not reality but Hollywood produced political theater.

After all Obama is also our virtual president being all over the news channels of the media Diaspora.
The undecided did decide on a truer version of reality. The slogan of one nation granted instant success.
On flickering You Tube he played on our hope and the familiar, as the strong older brother who is the only one with the skills and the guts to step up to the stage.

Bush was nowhere to be seen mostly on vacation, absent minded or kept away on purpose but Obama was everywhere like a black Mr. Clean that refreshes the news and cleans up out our national and international disasters.

Welcome to the cult of the intellectual instead of action from the gut.

A ball player can play from the gut and take risky shots because all that is lost is a game.
But on all other occasions you want somebody that engages all his faculties before a decision is made.
Virtually all of Bush’s gut decisions have caused tremendous harm to society but what did we expect from this elitist daddies boy who had even sank a ball club into bankruptcy.
He thought he could lead the country with 5-minute stage appearances and than go on playing golf in some fancy resort far away from ordinary life namely ours.

Life is not series of speeches as remedy and not a banner overhead that claims the impossible.

When you plunder the nations piggy bank, break the Kyoto protocols for personal gain and spit into the face of the Geneva Convention to indulge in torture you are going to be held accountable a some point in time.
You can hide but not seek, you can whine but not win, you can beg but you will be punished when you least expect it.
You can call on history but history is made when the carcasses of your legacy has rotted to make room for fresh ground. If you didn’t built bridges there wont be a passing to return home. “Going, going, gone” is like the saying goes.

"Iconic" means more than words spoken into microphones, more than words written by speechwriters and more than beating the drum of economic stimulus.

New infrastructure means also new ways of thinking and acting. It means a change of behavior for every one of us.

Life is allegorical, life is a constant war between the lower self and the higher “It”.
The goal is ultimately to strive for meaning.

To be rich is nice but at the end when we die it will be meaningless.
The only thing meaningful is meaning itself.

Meaning will leave you satisfied with your life no matter what.

Leaders have power only on lease, on lease from the people who voted to lend it for a cycle of time.
Unreality is the norm on the top of the social ladder all we can do is remind them that it is us, our backs that carried them to the top.

And than just go on and buy the trinkets, the memorabilia, the stickers and t-shirts to align our un-importance with their importance.

All these attempts have futility built in like microwaves in a 21st century kitchen.

We try to hide how dead we are already and that a new president is not a new savior and that he can’t reawaken us to life even if John Williams composed a new piece of music in his honor and Yo Yo Ma is going to play at one of the balls.

Every new speech is consumed like the word of God on Earth because we ourselves are to frail to claim our rightful place in the firmament of materiality.

We have lost the ability to decipher content from form and drift on paraphernalia like the tons of discarded plastic bottles that skim deep down on our ocean floors.

Once in awhile we land on a beach of hope only to be swept away again by the next storm of lies.

Inside we are distorted by energies that pull us apart.
Appearance becomes fake like in one of those crazy mirrors in an old-fashioned fair ground booth.
Big thoughts become pipe dreams, contemplation fizzles out into fringe elements.
Stinking thinking leads into depression and childish affirmations expose our neediness.

The world has lost its footing and is spiraling down head first the consumer shoot onto the landfill of unworthy societies discarded just like previous invalid culture.

What’s next, why now? The situation is labeled “welcome to the worst of all times”
as Obamas face graces every magazine inviting us to join hands in Obama Land.

We are all victims and victimizers at once and no pill can cover the pain of “the great Reckoning.”
It’s not just about Wall street versus Main street it is about what’s going on in “the Streets of the World” and if we care enough to eliminate all injustice not just the one we feel in our wallets.

Just like with Obama we are virtually connected.
Now we need to proof that it really means something more than a self-promotional tool or a cheap way to exchange gossip between the people of all nations.








.

PDX ART: Froelick Gallery, winter group show

PDX Art: Quality Pictures, January 2009

Liz Haley and many great others
at Quality Pictures Gallery
contact at
www.qpca.com

PDX Art: "Two for the price of one"

Why I don’t need a BMW to proof that I am worth it

In the beginning there was doubt but the heaven and earth separated and esteem rose
from the valley of the minds floor like mountain scrapers reaching proud into the light.
And worth competed for attention with stigma for a fan base to establish value for an exercise in frivolity.

And they made room in the Inn for the artist and the wise men brought ornate gifts because they understood that pleasure has to be shared to be appreciated as a treasure.
And color spread around the planet taking on shapes of orchids and lilies enticing ever-new varieties.
Different became the norm, eccentric the mark of creators.
Nakedness lost its charge and dress codes blossomed like fields of daisies.
The fig leaf became a symbol of status and hair was used like a coat of armor.
Snakeskin was hyped as accessory and teeth showed status to the visitors.
Mud prints decorated cave walls and altars and fireplaces gave it a feeling of permanency and belonging.
Carved bones served as utensils or adornment for ears and necks.
Shift happened continents moved, weather patterns trans-morphed and new societies bore witness to human evolution.
Weekends were invented and Sunday clothing became a necessity.
Priests and healers elevated their status with feathers and pearls.
Icons incorporated superpowers revealed only to the initiated.

Intoxication replaced ordinary perception and rhythms and dance elevated states of mind into fantasmorgasmic ecstasy.
Beauty standards became social standards as veneration mutated into temple worship.
Raw became refined and thought expanded beyond the practical.
Makeup was pasted over flaws and masks replaced reality. Sub-consciousness rose above instinct, consciousness looked for new venues slash outlets for expression.

The birth of Art was a process that leaned heavily on nature’s model to supercede its original meaning and to become a tool of expression.

A language in pictures was born out of vowels and guttural communication. Interpretation was invented to reformulate impressions into digestible bits understood by the mass of human populous.
The source of all was redefined as a living ever changing creation and captured in mathematics, perspective, architecture and abstraction.
Evolution replaced pre-destiny, victim hood was eliminated by the self-empowerment of the Enlightenment movement.

A computer replaced God and digitized chips expanded the human endeavor beyond the five senses.
Death lost its grip on the physical realm and the soul became reanimated into a “cyber space after life” with variables stored on a Micca hard drives.
Fall and winter were replaced by blue periods and yellow octaves in bio-atmospheric environments, temperature and mind controlled for every ones benefit.

The future was postponed until the next upgrade was available. Vista changed to Quasar and speed became obsolete in an instant of recognition.
All organisms were labeled “bio enhanced” and consummation happened on an exclusive mental frequency level.
Hierarchies existed but were appreciated as everyone labored to the benefit of the DIY hive.
Envy and laziness got erased like invalid or outmoded programs and sexual preference
deemed counter productive to an integrated society with love at its core system.

War became a virtual game without need for winners and losers.
Sex could be indulged in but was not based on pro-creation or co-dependency but orchestrated by bio intelligence and super delegates.
Sleep was induced by REM states and wake time coordinated to subliminal rites.
Nobody had to leave or go somewhere because everybody had already arrived at his or her purpose driven life.
Nobody needed a BMW to proof his or her worth because life was worth it giving.




The interview

What is the interview but a secular confession booth. It’s not about the biography who cares where you where born or what your fathers profession was.
The question is can there be any dirt found, a crack in the façade revealed, an emotion exposed or a secret unlocked, a phrase elicited or a hidden pain reopened.
Revelation is the name of the game and nakedness the goal.

We start with a lie to capture the truth. We ask in a non-threatening way to throw out the net of entrapment over self-indulgence.
We let them ramble to catch them in their tracks. We layout complements as baits and hope they get hooked on the sweet poison.

Everybody wants to know if Damien is really a bad boy or just a clown with an attitude; has Gus van Sant spine or is he all crumbled inside; is Cate Blanchet an ice queen or does she melt having sex; can Cruise be bribed or is this against his religion. Was Andy Warhol a genius or just a pent up drag queen; had Keith Haring real talent or was he a child that never grew up. No matter the star old or new, dead or a live we love to hear some dirt on them.

The first question is the key to some ones “Bank of Trust”.
If the interview is with a legend it’s most important to start with a compliment on one of their more recent projects don’t go back to far that makes them feel old.
A fresh face needs a different tactic maybe a reverence on their looks to build their confidence to give a sign that one isn’t out to skin them.

A man likes to talk about his awards if he got some, a woman about her family life if she has kids.
An artist gets going about his social impact of his work, a play write is all words and meaning and an actor likes to be ask what he’s wearing while a model likes to talk rock roll.
Always ask about what they love first the negative will worm itself out in the process.
Mix it up with questions about fashion and spirituality keep them guessing what you will ask next maybe dip into meta physics or what they think about preserving the environment.
Go for the kill when they least expect it and confront them with gossip about them and confess your empathy with them about the plight of stardom, the bad press or crazy groupies.
Play the shadow game to appear as the confidant, the only friend during their 15 minutes of fame.
Don’t be impatient with the platitude and self-reverential anecdotes. Nod a lot and say that you agree don’t fall into the trap by offering your own life as example. They don’t care about your story at all.
Stay ahead your story in your thought process while pretending to be attentive.
Than switch gears to politics and the latest war from the right or left to their childhood and all of a sudden you got them where you want them.
The Barbara Walters moment is I only going to be two more well aimed questions away.
Start with probing for the autobiographical aspects in their work and ask if they feel a cathartic release during their creative process. All of a sudden the yarn unravels and the truth unzips their metal package.
The abusive mother or father competes with overbearing exes or loss of any kind will jump onto the minds screen like the devil in disguise of a shrink and tears are the reward for your patience and tactics.
Now you can offer condolence about the experience of loss in their past and the loss of dignity on their rise to fame. Out of nowhere they seem to realize that they paid a huge price and self-pity will pave the way for more confessions.
Make clear that from now on everything they say will be confidential but keep on making notes.
The box is open and all the deceitful goodies will fall into your lab to sell your story to the highest bidder and still makes for compelling reading.
Finally we can identify and burry our envy we harbor when we see their faces on super market tabloids and finally we can see ourselves wearing their designer shoes even if the size doesn’t fit.
All of a sudden Angelina seems vulnerable, Britney more desperate even with all her millions, Jen’s body less hot, Eva’s face less glowing and Jeff Koons less successful.
Underneath the fame is human pain proving that we are all the same below the money belt.
We are all “Wanna-bes”; we want to be adored and protected all at once.

PDX Art: Drake Deknatel at Elizabeth Leach Gallery

Drake Deknatel (1943 - 2005)
Berlin Portraits
Paintings

PDX Art: Claire LaMont at BFA Gallery, PNCA

contact at www.pnca.edu

PDX Art: "Winter Light" at Beppu Wiarda Gallery

Light Box Show
curated by Leo Michelson
contact at
www.beppugallery.com

PDX Art: "The Lion King" at Portland Historical Museum

One lion is eating an artist and asks the other "does this taste funny to you"?

Art meets on many intersections, is used as a signpost in fairy tales and plays on human nature or the things that can't be described.

Art is the net, is "religio", binds us together into one experience.