Monday, February 1, 2010

January 30, 2010

          LIFE . . .

     when the sun
    sets, will cicada

   robert d. wilson

the egg
seller polishes 
the stars . . . 
what to him is
a river's laughter?

robert d. wilson

There's good and bad everywhere.  Why does the bad standout instead of the good?  Why do we oftentimes allow memories from the past shape our now?  We can't go back into time and change a thing.  We can't travel into the future because the future isn't here yet .  All we have is the now. When I was young, I was accused of taking life to seriously.  I still do.  Some people call me the question man because I hunger for knowledge.  My father once told me that the only foolish question is the question not asked. Wrote Albert Einstein: "The important thing is to not stop questioning."  And who the hell decides which question is worth answering or asking? Who is the lord of words and propriety; a shop keeper, bank manager, college professor, or street vendor?  The popular kids in high school don't make the rules anymore.  The world's too full of people deciding what others should think, do, and speak.  People in power, dictators with poor self images, successful monied people with problems they keep secret from the public, and most importantly, the media which are owned by the aforementioned. People here in the Philippines are brainwashed into thinking that there is no poverty in the U.S. and no graft. The opposite is true, of course, but the media hides it.  The media in the Philippines airs sit coms on television that portray Filipinos as living in fancy homes and eating whatever they want. All over the world we are told to do this, think that, eat what is claimed to be healthy, who to blame for a government's failures, etc.  The media conditions people the way those who own the media want them to think and act.  We live in a world of haves and have nots and many of those who have want us to be robots at their bidding; drones questioning nothing, acting PROPER, and without dreams.

Posited Albert Einstein: "Imagination is more important than knowledge.  Knowledge is limited.  Imagination circles the world."

Pablo Picasso once said, "Everything you can imagine is real."

The father of Cubism, as a courageous young man, rebelled against conformity and in doing so, changed the art world.

"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up."

Where are the imaginative? The media makes money, not art.  I was told as a teenager that Picasso and other modern artists were crackpots who lacked talent.  I never was good at the clone thing and took a liking to artists like Edvard Keinholtz, Andy Warhol, Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, and frequently drove to the museum of modern art in Los Angeles where I grew up and spent hours studying their works and the works of others.   Because I was well read and studied, I was aware of things we never learned in school.  I learned that society was being fed lies (the cause of the Sixitie's social revolution?). I learned that a lot of public school textbooks told lies, and when I took to reading non-assigned college textbooks, I began a journey to know the truth.  Those in power don't want us to know the truth.  They want us ignorant. Columbus discovered America, my foot! He never set foot on American soil. Instead he discovered Hispanola (Haiti and the Dominican Republic); and the U.S. post office and other government agencies celebrate Columbus Day.  Good old Columbus, he brought disease to an island that killed off half of its inhabitants and enslaved many, thinking of them as heathens.  THINK, IMAGINE, QUESTION, BE YOU . . . not someone else's version of you. Explore the world around you, don't compare yourselves with others, and don't be afraid to take chances.  Society isn't your master.  The media isn't your father or mother.  Art is subjective. Choices are subjective, globally and regionally. In the late sixities, Marshall McLuhan told us that"The media isn't the message, it's the massage." 

"The medium, or process, of our time - electric technology is reshaping and restructuring patterns of social interdependence and every aspect of our personal life.  It is forcing us to reconsider and re-evaluate practically every thought, every action, and every institution formerly taken for granted.
Everything is changing: you, your family, your education, your neighborhood, your job, your government, your relation to "the others. And they're changing dramatically."

The Medium is The Massage, Marshall McLuhan

An evocative poem McLuhan wrote at the time:

"the wheel
is an extension of the foot
the book
is an extension of the eye
clothing, an extension of the skin,
electric circuitry,
an extension of

The Medium is The Massage, Marshall McLuhan p 31-40

your limbs 
won't let me go . . . 
shooting stars!

as always,
your smile cracking
bamboo . . . 
a paper turtle
void of light

staring at 
still water , i see
the sun swim

he sleeps in
again like a baby
without care . . . 
worker ants empty
the grasshopper's shell

playful sun . . . 
he peeks at me through
the window

when the rain
stops, the buzz of
drills and saws . . . 
worker ants want
to please their queen

ate waits for
the bus, not the sun . . .
a child's cry

eat french fries, sit
blank eyed . . . 
descending into
the depths of hell

with the rain,
insufficient funds
. . . leafs

they leave
early to ride the bus
to manila . . . 
unruly hair, none
of them smiling

egrets. . . 
the dull gray sky
of late spring

once again,
our impulsiveness
with money
takes us through an abyss . . . 
made in china

wind, you sweep
our area swiftly . . . 

with rain
and heavy traffic,
weathered men
hawking what's left
of their spirits

white buddha . . . 
sits on his throne 
between stars

white buddha,
can she continue
her battle
against the tide . . . 
her mirror shattered?

press me
between pages . . . 
autumn moon

teach me wind,
to be thorough in
the morning . . . 
swiftly sweeping
and bouncing song

unbathed, she
sits on pew alone . . .
stained glass 

the egg
seller polishes 
the stars . . . 
what to him is
a river's laughter?

my ears . . . 
is spring building
a nest?

she's using
you to prop up
dreams . . .
a cartoon with 
wordless captions

why a baby?
the wind chasing leafs
i can't rake

even at the 
pier, your only hope 
is to walk 
into the mackerel's 
mouth, carrying christmas lights

inside the
snail's shell, one too
many dreams?

is it true,
aswan, too many people
think you're an
old woman's legend,
to hear night click?

slick rainbow . . . 
hiding a seagull's
death cry

while i wait,
will the sun turn
over . . . 
service the man
going out the door?

ashes on the desk . . . 
summer breeze

until the 
sun sends me home, 
will you sail
with me through the clouds
and touch the moon?

where have
you been, day moon?

blossoms come
to me at night
as angels . . . 
whispering psalms
i won't remember

long legs . . . 
are you weaving a
web for me?

robert d. wilson

"The artist is the person who invents the means to bridge between biological inheritance and the environments created by technological innovation."

"The poet, the artist, the sleuth, whoever sharpens our perception tends to antisocial; rarely 'well adjusted,' he cannot go along with currents and trends."
"... Their power to see environments as they really are."

The Medium is The Massage, Marshall McLuhan 

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