The Art of War

Wait and see because the cat and mouse suddenly decided to observe the proprieties. So who outlasts whom squeezes the breath out in a gasp. The first one to flinch loses usually but the deck is stacked with many aces up the proverbial sleeves. March off ten paces on his mark, turn and shoot. So much for that theory as strategy. But somehow the ball bounces away freely on the other side of the basket, an electron buzzing about willy nilly and the crowd reacts, screaming backcourt violation. Sacrifice the body and launch shoulder first out-of-bounds to save the possession or start backpedalling fast, getting into a strong defensive position depends on instinct. Stop and go, stop or go before the referee blows the whistle for travelling.

The race is on, the game is afoot.

Notes on sash

Black then red then blue then green then yellow then orange then white represents but one order of many viable systems of belief whereas an antiNeoplasticist world by contrast or bias opts for a palette of white to yellow to orange to green to purple to blue to brown to black instead. But Maurice Chevral advocates the optical rather than sociopolitical effects of hue that becomes basic color theory. Yet the abstract quality of such groupings of color suggests otherwise. It also speaks of other associations related to the mental as phenomenological in direct response to visual stimuli. Thus the reference to the martial arts. Color transcends the spiritual as artistic record of process.

But the subtractive process relies on the interpretation of an appropriate architectural role model which functions to convey the coded information. That is precisely why the VanderRohian concept of less is more shakes off its Bauhausian roots to perfectly fit within the constructs of the larger project.

Scottsdale calling...

Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats free because the sound of gratis is akin to "cha-ching!" So to be connected in such a place only compels random thoughts about the place in general. A somewhat tough proposition given the red-eye timing of arrival, complimentary shuttle and mad dash to the bar for a rather disappointing interpretation of something foolproof like a rib-eye steak sandwich.

Still, passing by the silhouetted mesas even in the pitch black darkness recalls Monument Valley and the specific cinematic vision one learns by constantly watching classic old John Ford westerns. Aside from the nouveau riche, where do the cowboys reside? And such is the dichotomy between manufactured memory and great expectations as the reality of the old frontier being yuppiefied by retirees versus the fantasy of Ponderosa and Adam, Hoss and Little Joe. Be quick on the draw, Marshall because God only knows when every which way is loose.

And this romanticism with family but maybe a few long hours drive northeast away. Indeed, to set foot on his land so many years removed from the gray concrete of cramped inner city claustrophobia in contrast to the plethora of low horizontal architecture which rules the desert landscape, mimicking a stark and arid rendition of suburban mall sprawl. To see such juxtapositions of cultures once indigenous, proud and independent now just figments interspersed and coopted by Manifest Destiny causes one to pause about how absolute is the whitewash that expunges and dominates any will.

Yet, he managed to raise his children here who as it were choose either to fly the coop eastward forsaking the mythos or to embrace its Hispanic roots staying close to the roost. Was it the promise of winterless weather that drew him or the call of the wild, uncharted territory unbuilt by Chinese railroad workers? That per se might be reason enough to justify his pioneering spirit, seeing how his black sheep status broke traditions, ignored rules and blazed new trails that ironically some of us followed. Sure enough, he absorbed the blows and accepted the blame to some degree but his definition of self, though inherently selfish, never strayed.

So within family history will he be the scapegoat or the visionary? Only his legacy can tell.

Notes on achieving masterhood, part one

Originally the plan called for flimsy rice paper to lead a path to Enlightment. But treading softly enough so as to not rip its surface betrayed heavy feet borne of a carnivorous diet and an unsteady step. So the alternative is to find a shortcut instead. Rather than suffer the pain of arduous and lengthy apprenticeship (who can really invest the time anymore?) to master said feat, newer configuration circumvents lower body balance and center of gravity for pure upper body strength. Build monkeybars over the test strip in question. Climb over as opposed to stepping through. If Kirk can rely on guile to overcome the Kobayashi Maru simulator then changing the rules or context in this case is justifiable by reason of exhibiting initiative. A simple matter of brain over brawn maybe. Or of overintellectualizing the intended purpose as something else. Such is the zeitgeist the work hopes to portray. That the easy route is, well, easier.

But often the deceptively simple disguises the overtly complex. The linear, or that which heads inexorcably in a singular albeit straight direction, can also involve tangents which shift, rotate and figure-eight between points thus mathematically speaking, the distance from point A to point B is the endless road much travelled and rarely completed. So to punctuate this point requires either purchasing old-fashioned wooden ladders perhaps twelve to fifteen feet in height be suspended from the ceiling underneath which runs the Japanese paper runner or handcrafting a variation to reference and indeed lampoons the particular functionality or lack thereof of the object. The latter offers additional breadth and depth though.

A knotted looping open conduit if you will whose purpose confounds the philosophical and physical as it resembles a snaking stepladder gone awry; each step, a potential leap of faith. Such a Minimalist structure overall emulates an intricate latticed Chinese screen except for its chaotic dysfunctionality. Perhaps cover the gapped spaces with the rice paper itself to enclose its form but doing so may evoke the Isamu Noguchi lamp too readily which goes against the grain in terms of aesthetics. Fragile versus sturdy, fragile in spite of sturdy, fragile in unison with sturdy strikes an appropriate yin and yang.

Now revise the official paperwork.

Deliverance, again

Squeal like a pig (Insert telltale banjo twang) prolonged and loud so as to last a whole week enough to really damage the vocal chords.

Finally the kinfolk arrived atop their pickup truck after chancing upon some black gold albeit disparately and immediately fell prey to the Drysdale curse. The dollar only stretches so far above the Mason-Dixon Line. So imagine the sticker shock of being in rush hour traffic watching the taxi meter literally roll. Someone please tell Miss Hathaway to be careful around the cement pond because Jethro forgot his spit cup.

After much ado about nothing what seems to ail the Bodines is cultural laryngitis and very unseasonable monsoons downpours. Traipsing around the magnificent mile in search of bargains amidst the elan certainly stokes enough sitcom material but truthfully I saw that episode before rerun just last week. God's Acre is no Green Acres and Mister Haney disguised himself, illegally impersonating an officer, namely Deputy Barney Fife outside the Petticoat Junction speed trap.

Who knew?

Row, row, row your boat

It was an overcast sky that chilly Saturday morning in Ping Tom Park named for the man who made a fortune selling the ubiquitously white and rhomboid take-out carton as folkloric as chop suey and moo goo gai pan. Crowds wandered in early and often, expectant to see the dotting of the eye but as usual became subjected to cretin officials waxing unpoetically about sponsors and other unrelated agendas instead. A scan of the place revealed a few pitched tents hawking their weird affiliations scattered atop the terraced bank overlooking the murky sludge of the historic Chicago river, a former industrial causeway once the main artery as the hub of a fledging nation. Two fiercely whiskered heads stuck above the rivershore floating precariously just to the left of the facsimile pavilion made of steel and concrete painted in traditional red and green. Yet conviviality spread throughout as young senoritas garbed in flowing hooped skirts danced a hybrid mariachi amidst befuddled Chinese grandmothers hauling their preschool scions on by as easily as flipping the dial past the jibbering Univision and Telemundo channels. And hip hop preteens queued around the inflatable basketball court, the only carnival game, waiting their turn to hoist free throws for a lovely sticker as consolation prize. If not for the different groups of similarly tee shirted men and women exhorting different degrees of encouragement and invective, one could easily mistake the entire event as yet another but very politically correct version of that very famous George Seurat painting.

Back up the hill, eighteen very green-around-the-gills strangers minus two two hundred and fifty plus ringers huddled together for some hasty lessons about the ancient practice of rowing a boat in unison. Distributing equal weight so as not to capsize seemed to be the top priority in determining our seating arrangements as everyone mimicked the proper motion of paddling while seated on grass. Our team as it were could be categorized as a puny bunch of ragtag artists.

And of course our foe who blatantly flaunted their machismo in hopes of ultimately intimidating us were appropriately the cops from District Twenty Five. It would be not be wrong to assume from just size and brawn alone that a mismatch existed. But their strategy of literally flexing their muscles and talking trash backfired. Off the street and in gym clothes, their potbellies and doughy physiques elicited complete disrespect as David set forth to best Goliath. Our wit and creativity proved more than ample to immediately disarm the louts accustomed to bulldozing their will on unsuspecting dolts. Verbally it was a slaughter as chants of "Doughnut! Doughnut! Doughnut!" permeated the air. Besides who could resist ribbing an emasculated officer of law completely naked without their gun. Biting sarcasm, our weapon of choice, proved more effective as all they could muster was a resigned shake of their heads under our unrelenting torrent of "No guns allowed on board" or "Don't mistake your flak jacket for the life vest" and "Hard to paddle fast just using your batons."

The race against them was three hundred meters long from the Twenty First Street Bridge to the Eighteenth Street Bridge, a good distance considering our ignorance of the metric system. The day before during practice, the oarsman steering the boat taught the motley crew the necessary basics of the how to board, how to sit and how to stroke. We learned vitally important instruction like what it meant when he shouted, "Go!" or "Let it ride!" or "Stop!" which in hindsight proved to be the deciding factor as the cops characteristically understood the meaning of these words in water better.

In a tight race that saw the underdog lead three quarters of the way, the physically larger cops came back and just narrowly grabbed the flag a mere half second ahead of the artists much to the derision of the crowd who implicitly understood the irony of the situation and immediately chose sides. Authoritarianism tends to provoke an ugly response, you know.

But since the overall competition was based on best cumulative times rather than head-to-head elimination, by the end of the day our team who got better and faster actually made the playoff round as the vaunted cops shot their wad early losing later races with horribly slower times.

Beauty before the beast, always.

The Mothership landed

And barely kissed the remaining nine-ball along the outside rail. Slowly it rolled into the far pocket but not before the blue-light special ended a mere stroke after midnight. The coliseum, full of hoarse and bedraggled spectators, erupted at the sound of its plop. And suddenly the warrior appeared in full regalia amidst the dense smoke, his shiny mane wrapped around his neck longer than even Samson. A true hero stood among us, ready to battle the discordant.

In slow motion, the stick traced a ghostly path.

Moving on up...

That deluxe apartment in the sky now does smell of burnt beans because she who gave birth to yet another popular cultural icon Lenny Kravitz gives new meaning to the phrase, "What you talkin' bout, (Tom) Willis?" And Flo who left for 227, quite the far cry from Karen Valentine being bossed around by that Zorba of lesser Greeks, Michael Constantine back in Room 222, comforts George. So make room up there Lizabeth. No more let Good Times Esther Rolle. Though John Amos comfortingly does resurrects himself militarily in the West Wing. But that might only explain why the Dyn-o-mite Kid looks Barry Bonds bloated.

So what next? Chachie loves Joanie hates Isaac does Arnold. Mister Miyagi would be proud except that Korea is no longer spelled with a C. And sadly Weazie is dead.

Ides of July

Last summer it poured around this time and appropriately as if preordained, an off-remark said in total jest completely backfired. In a soaked crowd, the words first wafted overheard before sinking below flesh. The emperor surrounded by his senators fell. Unfortunately, the knife shone red in my hand.

And just as quickly the connection severed quite unexpectedly. Who knew the repercussions would be so totalitarian? But the proverbial handwriting on the wall started to drip even more blood. No need to fight the inevitable winds of change as it were because his final message required no translation at all.

Et tu, Brute, Hurtus Maximus begone.

So strange then it is, not having to shepherd the flock as the carnival outside sort of reflects the controlled mayhem inside. Yet the clock ticks slightly off still, probably the residue of habit. Six years straight tends to do that.

Free at last, free at last

The world disconnects and the said revolution permits an ambulatory freedom heretofore unheard of. The joy felt upon hearing the doorbell ring and seeing the man in brown (wearing shorts no less) bearing the instrument of my liberty.

Twirl the hands clockwise like a tornado and behold the future, Pompie. Lee Marvin, bless his soul, passed by like Mariko Mori surfing a stream of radio waves. And the world as Isaac Asimov envisioned draws ever increasingly closer. To be tethered by gravity or otherwise speaking of mere ohms and amps is outdated. Life that exists as scattered molecules transported by narrow beams instantaneously in a blink of an eye, as dreamed of, pulsates from a box hooked up and plugged into the wall.

And I dance an extraterrestrial dance of hyperelectricity.

Notes on semi-gloss

Societal detritus amassed as collectible nostalgia, too sentimental to relinquish and therefore more precious than common junk. That is the premise from which to converge. Two separate paths, two distinct styles representing a palpable sense of aesthetic that must be dovetailed in order to co-exist. Larger metaphysical mores dictate such redesign, inflict a moral obligation beyond the connective and conjugal to regulate that thing called beauty. Postmodern man sees this adventure as a subconscious pilgrimage, an evolution of the modernist edict toward a better world. Even popular culture in its infinite wisdom demands it, brainwashing acolytes with daily dosages of Merge, Trading Spaces, Clean Sweep and Designing for the Sexes to coerce a new look, a new life, a new order.

Because disorder from disorganization equals buried conflict, anathema to crucial infrastructure of healthy relationships. Yin must merge with Yang to achieve balance. That is the not-so-sublimnal message promulgated by mass media. The individual must acquiese and become a singular identity from its disparate parts whether by predestiny or by design.

So who are we as purveyors of such fashion to resist?

Semi-gloss then refers to this urge to combine and merge, to create from the preexisting, to preserve so as to reinvent. Apply a new coat with sheen and its slick surface is pure eye candy. It mimics these methodologies to transform and reform the whole process of process as process. Call it mixed media deconstructed and out of control, reacting to the architecture of spatial realities and definitive objects as the politics of the room versus the formalism of decoration and pattern. Literally the room itself is the defacto and proverbial blank canvas except that instead of one artistic vision, see what transpires via a collaborative effort of differing ideas governing what defines art, craft and simple interior decorating.

Perhaps employ an exquisite corpse technique to affect a hybrid installation, transforming the gallery into a hodge podge chop suey of divergent tastes and influences.

From two minds comes one work. Or so one says.

Not to win or place, but show

Tuesday afternoon before the Pepsi half-price night rendezvous to see Schoenweiss versus the Gambler, two veteran lollipop lefthanded curveballers, threatens to be washed out. But then the missing sun reappears and just like old times in a snap of a finger, the scenery changes almost instantaneously from drab gray to lush green. So why not squeeze in nine holes to properly acknowledge the forthwith male bonding?

No elaborate planning, no forethought, just consensus and be done. The course is surprisingly empty upon our arrival which means no crucial warmup prior to initial tee-off. Grab your bag, dust off Big Bertha and pray for distance. The anticipation that springs from those wizened old pros, ad hoc judge and jury eyeballing your manic practice swings, an idiosyncratic ritual superstitiously followed ostensibly to loosen up but really a convulated and complex checklist of do's and don'ts, only increases your adrenalin and no doubt, testosterone.

The trick is now part of muscle memory. Address the ball, right hand overlapping left thumb rather than the prototypical interlocking pinkies, and backswing, making sure the torque of the motion forces the left shoulder to contact chin before releasing. Naturally and of course, the head remains absolutely still, eyes locked on the tee. Over and over in your head, one word repeats to quell the performance anxiety in the face of the madding crowd: smooth.

And whack! Long, straight and most importantly aloft, the ball flies.

That is what was said in defense of driving for show yet failing to putt for dough. Something wicked goes awry trying to get up and down as if all that came before simply becomes amnesia.

Way below the Mendoza Line

It returns. The greatest slump of all time continues. But not from a lack of trying.

What beguiles is that things started off very swimmingly. First a ghost from distant past revealed themself to be a guardian angel in disguise pointing the way, shining the proverbial light. A name I heretofore only read about shook my hand. Then before you can say "abracadabra", the secret door opened. Suddenly these gatekeepers knew who I was and weirdly beckoned me in. That never happened before. This time, though, being in the company of she who is annointed, cast me in a different light. No more queuing among the throngs just to glimpse the booths. An usher escorted us to where the ministers convened, a curtained backroom that few knew about. Inside, other heads of state gladly said hello, exchanged pleasantries, even sought counsel. But then it was too late. I fascinated only because of being garbed in the emperor's clothing, just another oddity.

Of course, the bottom fell out as is the case recently. Looking over the game film pointed out specific foibles in overall strategy. The eye in the sky rarely lies as everyone knows. To place all my eggs in one basket trying to backdoor numerous applications proved disasterous. Rather than follow up hot targets individually the carpetbomb approach failed to yield the anticipated collateral effect. The chain reaction ready to set off never detonated. Now the many commando strikes ineffectually bounce off steel-plated armor.

Forever with one knee on the on-deck circle, waiting. It is much better to be lucky than good.

"But she sure can cook..."

And just like that, it ends. Only a cascading and snaking trail of fallen dominoes remains, her evidence of being here three weeks after arriving eight hours late. The time itself competed with other coinciding events preplanned well in advance so what eventually happened involved more hopscotching than is usually normal. But as is the case when cultures clash and egos fray, basic communication broke down and a minor hell broke loose.

First the medicinal broth so pungent that it reeks of immigrant roots followed by an unfortunate aversion to catfish. Then a high fever blamed from not dressing warmly enough that results in the emergency room. Next an unfortunate relapse misdiagnosed initially as an uterus but subsequently changed to kidney infection. All bad luck compounded by strong independent wills unaccustomed to maternal instincts counseling (nagging) post partum caution and preaching tradition.

Naturally the whole thing exploded. From the safe distance afforded the mute and preoccupied, such needles in the haystack only bug the extraordinarily thinnest of skins and of course no amount of bandaging could stop the bleeding. Hopefully her flight back will heal the open wounds as she is happy to be home.

It is fortuitous to be on the periphery looking in, able to jump in and apply a torniquet.

The Wonderful Life of Henry Wong

Yesterday was as good a day as any to be born. Just ask an officially seventy-four year old paper son. He managed to wingding double celebrations by way of flippancy for nary six score. But the crisis so to speak passed for the expectant parents-to-be. Both deemed the cursed day marked by its lack of gravity inappropriate for the grand entry of their scion. And this from those who would curse an offspring with a nickname rhyming with "spank", "stank", and no doubt "wank". A boy named Sue suffers less cruelly.

So what used to be a matter of luck, pacing back and forth, wearing out a rut of a miniature racetrack now is a predetermined shot-in-the-ass away. Where except in reruns of sitcomed fiction can you find the slapstick of childbirth anymore? Then puritan antiseptic hospital linens whitewashed the blood and gore. No wonder reality television rules nowadays.

Demon Redux

And so it goes, the madness continues...at least one more chance to bleed blue. Is the monkey in this year of the monkey ironically and finally off their back? Can it be laid to rest peacefully? Will the pain after so many years subside? Bring on the leeches before I faint.

My Linda Blairesque head swivels aghast dreaming the redemption, that day when the pit churning deep in my stomach acids ripped another ulcer. No nails left, it was supposed to be a forgone conclusion. But such is the expectation of promise, of rank, of nobless oblige hurtled against tenacity with a lousy six seconds left. A mighty blue demon toppled then and now a frail shell of its former self peeps forth. How many poems need to be written to exorcise the purgatory infecting his mind?

This Ides of March so far bode well to erase past failings because those boys back then died for their sins. Someone please ask the Father to lead us in prayer.

A fortune cookied story

Her name is like a weeping willow, a black sumi-e brush drawing of a lovely tree with flowing branches. Not so long ago, she cried every night for her mother to return. But no one came.

The two strangers plunked her down between a stuffed rag doll, three bronze taels strung together by red yarn and the year you were born to choose a future. In the oak-paneled room, incense burned as the congregation clapped softly at first and then loudly. A little boy wearing a fireman's helmet scribbled his wishes in green felt-tip marker on a small pink cotton shirt. She pointed toward her fortune, oblivious to family lurking beyond the altar.

Her fate, like the twenty helium-filled balloons touching the ceiling, is sealed.

The Return of the (other) Devil Monkey Child

The last time she slept over, all hell broke loose.

Then teeth gnashed, egoes rankled and a pretty nasty pillow fight ensued. Not quite the maelstrom of white zigzagging feathers abruptly slashed through midair by the centrifrugal force of whirring eight-point cotton on reddened flesh but enough pounds per square inch applied rapid fire to barrage any target to smithereens. Natural enemies, the two battled as if in a Texas cage match because no blood, no foul. Finally the sugar rush from their respective thirsty two ouncers of raw Coke, pure intravenous caffiene, subsided. The hard shell ground beef tacos smothered with two packets each of medium hot sauce from Taco Bell induced a food coma sometime past two in the morning and she passed out, a Shetland pony neighing aloud while he crashed and burned at the edge of the futon.

So lesson learned. This time, divide and conquer. One at a time reduces the migraine factor by half, hopefully.

Notes on technochinoiserie

Twenty four ninety-degree angles gridlock to obscure gelid eyes intent on gentler curves. But who cares if no one remembers Hector Guimard. Yesterday a drip of red ink on watery paper shot down his femural artery, undulating past many white blood corpuscles as he looked into shards of mirrored mosaic.

Across the boulevard, east meets west. Raw silk made from celadon worms mask the worn-out squares Hans Hoffman pushed and pulled back and forth by himself. Yet flat is flat no matter how far from the Black Mountain. So does anyone besides the forgotten craftsmen really know how to reconstruct a reasonable facsimile? The old wooden model is rotted from too much sun and too many tears and will not last the winter.

Head back to the savannah and ask him to teach you a newer way. It is our only recourse.

Give Peace A Chance, Part Two, or because someone asked about Yoko again

Back in the last century during one of the graduations for the School at the Medinah Temple when staff then was "volunteered" to assist with the proceedings, my role/job/task was to police the backstage area and direct traffic as new graduates who received their diplomas walked offstage. Of course, one of the speakers receiving an honorary degree that day was her YOKOness and believe me, she put on a show worthy of her best Fluxus performances. First, in the middle of her acceptance speech, she excuses herself to potty, I mean, interrupts the flow of the entire ceremony to take a whizz. How great. Later she horns in on Bill Viola, the keynote speaker, to interject a nonsequitor or two enough to frazzle his speech. And finally she involves the whole audience in participating in a time-based conceptual piece she announces midway through the festivities. Now that is a bona fide graduation.

But of course, I digress. The real gist of the story is when a fastidious middle-aged fellow immaculately dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons, from the looks of it, an Ivy League type, approaches me to request, "Listen, young fellow, can I ask a specific favor of you?"

No doubt, I snap to with, "Yes, sir."
"I need for you to go onstage and tell Yoko that her party will be waiting for her in the backroom backstage."
"Yes, sir."
"But, and this is very important, you must escort her to the backroom personally, understood?"
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir"
"Please do that as soon as possible."
"Of course, sir."

So when a lull occurs, I strut out onstage and nonchalantly whisper like a Secret Service agent into Yoko's ear the instructions that I've been commanded to pass along especially the part of my job to be her personal escort. Well, the ceremonies finally end and I again strut onstage and offer my arm to a weirdly discombobulated yet frail Yoko who dithers along, weaving and bobbing as we walk back to her "party". The woman is blabbering away as if stricken senile the three or so minutes it takes to go backstage and I'm literally hauling her along. Well, we arrive and first thing I hear from the guy who asked me this favor is, "How are we feeling, Yoko?"

"I'm fine," she answers in a sort of singsong but faraway tone.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"It's going to be a long ride. Do you need to use the bathroom?"
"No."
"You absolutely sure?"
"Yes."
"Yoko, please use the washroom NOW."
"Okay."

Wow, I am flabbergasted. Then I realize that this guy is her manservant and she must be drugged up for whatever reason to be treated like a three year old.

The gleam shines less brightly.