my dialectic

on the one hand i’m a total misanthrope. and why not? humans spread unspeakable cruelty wherever they go, each minute of every day. society attacks early, when the individual is helpless. indeed. and yet, countless tableside conversations have referred themselves to my poems; i love nothing more than to stand on a full street corner with my camera clicking away while i observe all the miniature dramas unfolding there. i become very attached to them and find that i miss them all as they drift apart. though i’ll never see any of them ever again, i can’t think i’ll ever forget them.

odd isn’t it?


In the world of the digitized panopticon, everything can be revealed, so everything gets concealed. We are obsessed with appearance. Before, when film was innocent (when, like today, it was used by very few) pure figuration could grow of a natural science of being. But what that is today is as little understood as ever, and for this beings are everywhere “shot dead wholesale.” By the camera-phone as much by the gun. Thus, it is as appropriate that a urinal be signed and presented supine, as that we seek an art of the insufficient. Of the occasion when façades break down—call that the… indecisive moment. The skin heavy point where we forget oppression and just are. If only.

therapists often teach their clients to express emotions
in one word alone / i write poetry to find emotions
that require an entire world

Too often we hear that people were raped, or are depressed, or are suffering from being a certain religion, color, gender, or orientation as a matter of choice. To say that suffering of any kind is a matter of choice is one of the most absurdly invalidating notions I believe I have ever heard. No one chooses suffering. Suffering, for the most part, is a result of history. Heritable and learned factors that we encounter as children, long before any developmental hint of “choice.” The good news is that what can be learned can be unlearned. Even if we never encounter true “freedom” we can learn what is healthy (to do more of this) and what is unhealthy (to do less of that). That’s science. That’s escape from culturally learned absurdity and invalidation. That’s what I call freedom.

Cliff hanger

Until photography, all art was inscription, and showed the artist herself, honestly. Photography trades on the illusion of anonymity. An invisible gate to the noumenal. Bring back the inscribed surface by a mark and you can re-dis-cover the arrogance of its technology. Is this what we need?

In probably the most famous speech by a fictional character in the English language, Shakespeare presented the problem of decision under uncertainty. “To be or not to be.” That is, to continue or to change? Hamlet is suicidal at the time, stuck in emotion mind. As are millions, still. Yet the question persists whether to step off any more metonymous cliff? The artist faces it. The teacher. The business person. The therapist. The student. I myself consider it every day and can’t find the courage. Self-hate lives there: “The itch for death is like a turn in a wire.” The death of what for what? To overpaint a prior joy? Wherefore? By the time I hear the knock on the door, I’m already under the bed.

Where on earth did we learn to entertain this notion that an operation performed on a finite set will yield the same result when applied to an infinite set? I am personally convinced that a world is a collection of facts, which are finite, not of things, which are infinite.