While I love participating in The Justin Johnson Show, I have also been contributing to a new website: www.adventuresofthespiraledham.com
It consists of dada inspired journal entries I have written with accompanying images. Here are some excerpts:
Yesterday wasn’t today was it? If the days are the way they should be, there is only one. The one in which you decide, “today is my day.” Unlike any other, making choices to be. Gathering moss, rolling along, you look like every other stone. After all, “what has your moss done for me lately? That’s what the world has become. A pile of wanting what’s next stones.
Pitter patter, pitter patter. The General in his war outfit gets fitter fatter, fitter fatter. A cuban cigar and a long list of accomplishments don’t sway the ants from attack. No knowledge is good knowledge in this case, and there’s no nothing like show nothing, as they say. An overabundance of jubilation. A celebration of true violation. They’ve made their way, they’ve paved their path, they’ve trailed their blaze. “You will read about this in history books,” one proclaims. But the books have long been forgotten and are rarely used. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” says another. But the bulls have been placed in their pen, and the facility is no longer. “I’ll never forget my first time,” says another, breathing heavily. But time, well, time isn’t anything but a number.
The sonic cosmos of yesteryear’s forgotten shooting stars recites a poem of forgiven lore. How do you feel prompts the tomato vine? I feel with my hands and I stare with my eyes replies the moonshadow. This is an argument that has been waged before. Upon the masses without their opinion. They have forgotten. The stars, though shedding light upon these porpoises forget that without them, their light does not exist. For what is a blank surface lit, without the nightshades to witness. It is nothing. It is everything. Put away your pocket books and ponder. Ponder what. Ponder who, where, when, why. Ponder. Ponderosa.
Picture frames of possibility and despair. A moment in time that replicates the moment without time. Scented candles and the possibility of reflection. This house bores the most riveted raven.
Let us reflect upon the cataclysmic events that led to dismay. A referential doctor sits upon his stool judging, wanting, longing. His coffee spills and he exclaims “why me!” His efforts to shield any preconceived notion of what is what and want is want.
A lady walks in clad in destine. Destiny. She auto-corrects his efforts by offering to order a product that has long been shelved in the back of the shelves. It’s not her, it’s him. It’s not he, it’s HE. It’s not her it’s HE.
He hates it when she talks this way and she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. They’ll never be saved, but they’ll always do all of the saving, and that is why they’re there their. A neverending cornucopia of Google searches on cornucopia’s.
A still silence and a train track. The passengers issue faux waves of compassion as the passerby’s contemplate a previous existence that makes no sense. It’s an unwavering showing of compassion. A blitz of privy and a tarnish on all of their records. A woman screams, “I chopped a lizard’s tale off once” and weaps onto the shoulder of the fedora clad gentleman next to her. Now is the time to grieve out your air-ances. They will all be forgiven for the thoughts they did have and the actions that didn’t take place. It’s up to them to figure out the compliance level in which they will participate. Chosen or not.