Gonzo Marketing:Winning Through Worst Practices The Bombast Transcripts: Rants and Screeds of RageBoy
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Thursday, September 04, 2003
mystic eyes
This clip from a recently arrived spam reminded me of my very first original online artwork. I know that's hard to believe, given the mastery of the medium its execution bespeaks, but yes, this was but an early stumbling attempt. The reason the spam reminds me of what I like to think of as my Microsoft Paintbrush Period is that I later used the eyes from a similar spam to bring the image to life. The mouse pointer was added later still and has an esoteric meaning, to describe which would require an in-depth explication of Kabbalistic iconography that is beyond the scope of what was originally intended as a relatively simple and straightforward blog post. But then, ah, you know what happens by now. They never are. Simple and straightforward, that is. No, they're not. Ever. Because one thing leads to another, as one thing will. And before you know it, such is the sheer complexity of the human mind, that nearly anything can follow from the merest observation, tickle of memory, latest reading, whether it be the untold evil wrought upon the world by an Abraham Maslow too naively dim (and/or supremely venal) to perceive the ramifications of his own wool-gathering "psychological" theories; or Karen Horney's 1937 reminder (preminder?) that psychology describes not universal truths but cultural mores anchored ever and always to time and place; or bell hooks, the black feminist culture critic, saying remarkably sane things about love. Which is not to suggest that said remarkability lies in the conjunction of blackness, feminism and sanity, but rather that what she has to say (at least in the little flip-through I did at Borders this evening) is so much saner fare than what's being served up in the purportedly normal cafeteria of the soul operated by white heterosexual women who are little more than aging cheerleaders for a dying patriarchy. I'd say "You know who you are" but I very much doubt you do.

So, you know, things rise and fall, things come and go. Little things like that. And I am haunted by these eyes and the phantoms they conjure, neurochemical traces, ghosts, rogue proteins, lost notes, last rites, written in molecular desire. And the sound of the words themselves, their rhythm and cadence, their balance, their valence, suggestion of meanings not consciously meant. But something speaks through them, through these media, you could say. Some voice that is not ours to command, only to invite. Would you like to use the keyboard now? No, sure that's OK. I wasn't really doing anything anyway. Just sitting here thinking. So yeah, go ahead. Do you mind if I watch as the words flow out across the screen? I find it soothing, comforting, assuring. How you do go on.

Something in the way she moves. You could say. If you wanted to. If you were so inclined. But what, the title slug? Oh that. Van Morrison before he was an asshole. Band called Them. One Sunday mornin, we went walkin. Down by the old graveyard. Mystic eyes... Mystic eyes... I used to get wrecked as I could, which was very, and play the 45 at 33-and-a-third.

Somewhere in here, it's playing still.

Mys..... tic..... eyyyyyes.....

Mys..... tic..... eyyyyyes.....

Mys..... tic..... eyyyyyes.....

Mys..... tic..... eyyyyyes.....

Mys..... tic..... eyyyyyes.....


1:46 AM | link |



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"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
~D. Weinberger
28 October 2004

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Chris Locke's photos More of Chris Locke's photos

Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of. I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos." It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.


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