See, morey is not, as is, some who are. Not at all. morey is what is as morey, and not at all restrained by what is, or protruded by what is, or confined by what is, human. The morey bothers humans because he shows no respect to them, and no respect to the things they respect, and all humans have that one thing they respect which, if one should disrespect, a little button is depressed in that person's head and they go into anger mode, like when you're a kid at school and somebody disses your mom and you have to fight them for it. You don't know why and you're getting mad, but you're building that anger, it isn't exactly there but you have to put it there because somebody just insulted the woman you love and you know not how to react... Like when morey disrespected Hemingway. That could have bothered me because Hemingway understands what it means to have light shine through leaves outside quiet cafes, he understands the drink and the insanity and the smoke, the gun and the fist and the horn; Hemingway knows the silent moments in which man is imperfection incarnate and is dipped in a selfish solitude that makes God grasp at him with a curiousity akin to the God in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who just had to know what his human once in a world of robots would say when he came sliding down the mountain to wade below in the river spring. But the disrespect is not grounded! He doesn't know Hemingway, but morey knows know and is of not knowing that which is unknowable, so that he can paint and ride bikes and smile queerly to the derelicts of worldly 'burbs. Anywhere, anyone, any time, morey can drink in a character and like it without ground. See, he respects nothing. No value or tradition or religion or constitution, but if morey likes you it is for something as simple as a chemical cocktail and a series of events, an acid flashback and a circadian mistep, sugar you didn't want in a coffee you can't return because you're already at work, but it turns out being the best coffee you've ever had. And on that groundless ground in the wake of uncertainty, morey, that flittering thing likes and dislikes without reason, just passion, dividing heaven and hell on a cunt hair decision and riding insanity to divine inspiration that is the lohan. Be so enlightened as to see without seeing, to take texture from afar the way you take colour, the way your eye extracts it from a distance that could only be spoken of in a paranormal tongue by the born blind that hasn't the concept to take colour from distance. Live and let live. Do not understand morey, but hear him, the way you walk out of a hairdresser with the same haggard trot after she guessed your sign and that of your friends, told you how you fuck up and why and when, things nobody could have known, and nod to astronomy but pass it by, take and absorb and move on, like what you must do to the teachers and cops and faculty if you know who you are, and accept the morey as a commodity. Cause I've thought it over and that mother fucker ain't human. Nightrious Sat, 09/06/2008 - 09
Dec 07
“I think it draws from the universal subconscious,” Proclaims an annoying female voice, “Our shared horror as it were.” I look around and see some folks have slipped into the gallery without my awareness. “No smoking,” I inform them although I see no sign of it, or any intent, “And don’t touch anything please.” I look to Frank so he can see my smirk but he’s already slipped into the back room, the music venue. Thing is, people do touch and it’s a bone of contention with the artists, cause the public’s hands are filthy, (with the evidence of their dumb lives), and they can actually alter the composition of the paint or whatever. Plus they don’t know where the paintings have been, or who else has been touching them. I caught some old man fingering a painting once. It was Asian anime, a face, and he kept touching the eyeball and then sniffing his finger. After I got tired of watching this freakshow I grabbed his elbow and 86’d him out the front door.
“I think she has birth issues,” I’m telling this girl. She’s asked me to answer some questions about the wax-dipped babies that are, unfortunately, perched all over the place. This girl is still on about the common thread of horror us mankinds share and its clear she’s trying to impress one or some or all of her companions, but its not working. They are comprised of two, slightly older than the girl aged, couples. These couples are feigning interest but are not talking. I give them the low down on Budnik, the maker of the babies.
Budnik’s a woman in her sixties who dips doll babies in beeswax and sets them up in petit tableau with junk glued to them. Some of the babies are stuck on spikes; others are encased in old candy tins. People find them disturbing and then don’t buy them. The thing is, Budnik has no conscious agenda that I’m aware of. She’s also not dimwitted as far as I know but she does seem to think that her babies are nice rather than creepy. They all have sunny names, like the one with the coiled skeleton thing coming out of it and the mini sharks and squid stuck to it, is called ‘A Day at the Beach’. She’s also sort of a bitch, although I don’t tell these people that. She’s a bitch in that she thinks she’s an artiste. She’s also bossy. She called me up once to report that she’d been told that someone had stuck a fork in one of her babies, and would I remove it. She waited on the phone for me to report back to her, and then instructed me to smooth the wax over where the fork had been. I do respect her dedication in pursuing her odd vision. She makes shitloads of the things and isn’t deterred by lack of sales. The fork had been poking out of the doll’s groin like a four-pronged dick. I tell the girl that everyone pretty finds them disturbing and she starts philosophizing about how we must be hard wired as humans to react to certain imagery. No one likes to see a baby stuck on a spike I tell her.
