my writer artist's statement

 all work in progress:  UNLESS A TERMINAL TACKLE HAS FORCED ME TO RELEASE IT, PROGRAMMED THEN TO EXPAND TO FIT THE SHOES OF THE QUITE ESSENTIAL THING ITSELF (ALMOST EQUALLY FETCHINGLY (IMHO) SKETCHY), PLEASE GO AWAY AND MAKE NO ATTEMPT TO CATCH THIS GROSSLY WOBBLY FORWARD PASS, PRESENTLY A SHRUNK OR STRETCHED, LOOMING FORESHADOWING OF ITSELF.   OH WELL, I GUESS I CAN'T STOP YOU, BUT PLEASE KEEP MY DISCLAIMER IN MIND. 

MY WRITER ARTIST'S STATEMENT

the mocking bird

It's art made out of its own history, devouring itself, simulating to those who dive between the lines and scuba to the ocean bed, some kind of propaganda or self-advertising with perverse, veiled pornographic proclivities, a posturing for power,  as passive aggressive as a suicidal prophet, the author grandly dying as in a swanny ballet to the litany of the late art pope Clement's demand to repent! transcend! disarm! scour surfaces of all but primal color making furious or soothing sounds and signifying nothing, or skeletal and elemental geometry -- to shatter the idols of all known things and furiously fan away the foul smell of their sellable-ness (ironically creating a novel form of one of them, but at least in principle protesting (a Trojan horse turned inside out, like a guilty guy throwing you off track by refusing to supply an alibi? if so be careful, consider the case of Dostoyevski's Dmitri, and he at least was innocent.))  

It's Christian rock. It's the dissertation in bad taste.  It's a page of this scroll printed, crumpled up and tossed in the trash, then removed and placed on a pedestal to be sold for the price of a house in the Hamptons, no less, it's that crazy lucky beautiful.   It's a political poster, a political cartoon, a political action, an absurd action, a children's book written for adults and adult literature for children.  It's the beautiful truth of a mathematical proof, a novel paradigm of knowledge, reconciling the heliocentric universe of  Copernicus to the multi- including terro-centric universe, depending on your perspective, of Einstein, they really are just two sides of a Mobius Strip.  

It's a lens that takes everything you know in your mind, but that's impossible to fathom or visualize, and you look through the lens and out onto the world, and now you can fathom and visualize it.  And when you open your mouth to speak, you're suddenly hyper-articulate and everybody thinks you're being very pretentious and totally out of touch with the contemporary world, something like both behind and in front of it, which would probably be pretty far in front of it, if we could make it to that kind of far far better place, though we seem to be veering in quite another direction.  You never know though.  The wheel must regress to progress.  

It's things art is, but forgot or doesn't yet know it is, able to activate that part of art that's sleeping.  It capacitates art, like a singing instructor, which isn't all that surprising, as it's always playing a score by Giotto.  By rebuilding the original instrument, I become Giotto, just as Wanda, rebuilding his harpsichord, becomes Bach, but it sometimes slips into a mock, but that's Bach too, not to mention Giotto, a true clown whose smile could not be more visible under that face paint, the thick leaden white skin and blood red dour dignified frown, the eyebrows like two sticks of charcoal as he pretends to stumble on the high wire, slips, hangs on, and then swings himself back up with balletic assurance to a sorrowful strain of Satie.  

Listen! we're the wind in the willows! We're a distant mountain echoing the thunder there! We're the water babble spinning out its reasons and corollaries and corollaries of corollaries now splashing up into the sky and sprouting wings!  We reach the branching river waters of our voices deep into the land made of ears and souls who all finally cry -- listen to him! listen to him! drink his waters! He isn't mocking us!  He's being us!   

oh my!  I just remembered the strangely surrealistically enormous bird mirroring the mountaintop bowing to it in the fresco that everything is leading back forward and sideways to -- cross my heart, it was nowhere in my mind in writing all of that, inspired by the mocking bird at our window at midnight, singing his heart out with such faith and aspiration in such fervent hope to imitate the distant thunder, so that I thought of him as miming a mountain that could echo it.   This sibyl's a symphony of synchronicities, a mocking bird when the spell is lifted by words that spell truer more beautiful times, but otherwise stuck in the form of a fallen human. 

And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.”

Melville, Moby Dick

to gain access to all posts, eventually, begin, if you not already done so, at themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com.  The Previous Post list above and to the right always shows up to ten most recently posted posts previous to the opened one,  the posts in this list reversing the chronological order of their appearance, the last appearing first.  By continually clicking on the one at the bottom of the list, you gain access to more posts until you have reviewed the whole index.  (I have, though, falsified some dates in the program, but not on the page, as this order is not always the order in which I choose to present the posts.) 

kerry rose shear (veronika) krvs at me dot com

why the metaphysical matters -- in four simple questions, and how I succeed in studying it.

it's appalling the widespread lack of attention given to, and indeed the widespread disparagement of the metaphysical -- reflection on reflection.   Would you operate on a body without understanding and sterilizing your tools?  Would you plant without knowing and correcting the constituents of the soil that becomes the flower, which eats it?  Would you build a tower without foundations?  Would you give the job of constructing or verifying the foundations to a coterie developing an arcane specialized language that takes so long to learn the practitioners half the time forget and contradict the misguided reason they learned it?   

To reflect together and reach a consensus on the least false error allowing us to proceed and fail productively -- tacking back and forth, erring now this way, now that, in order to make progress as we sail toward a better world whose qualities we all generally agree on -- is of utmost critical, immediate importance.  One sails by the rules or one capsizes.  We must not shrink from this effort or fear squashing the competition and getting on with it!  I have rushed to the helm and am holding onto the steering wheel for dear life as it spins me around, my weight hardly its equal.  I need help!  I repeat the assertions of the first paragraph!   Please stop pandering to ideas that don't work but worked to release you from earlier unworkable ones, so you have pledged allegiance to them and don't have to think anymore.  Thinking is only for adolescents.  Wrong.  Not just because even adolescents don't know how to think about such supposedly impractical things anymore. Please un-bond with those on the bandwagon and put your nose to this grindstone.  

While it eats it, the rose is not the soil, just so the physical does not touch the metaphysical, and yet it does.

In a particular experience, by inspiration, today, here and now, all genres blend to point to what can only be known indirectly.  That's the good news.  Once the canoe arrives at the island, use it for firewood, lest you be tempted to regress.   There is much to say about everything, the one thing that's been overlooked. Meet everything. Everything is back!  Everything is both ancient and brand new, familiar and strange, old hat and has never looked like this before. and everything that assumed it wasn't and never would be, or would be some time in the future is obsolete. 

to gain access to all posts, eventually, begin, if you not already done so, at themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com.  The Previous Post list above and to the right always shows up to ten most recently posted posts previous to the opened one,  the posts in this list reversing the chronological order of their appearance, the last appearing first.  By continually clicking on the one at the bottom of the list, you gain access to more posts until you have reviewed the whole index.  (I have, though, falsified some dates in the program, but not on the page, as this order is not always the order in which I choose to present the posts.)  

kerry rose shear (veronika) krvs at me dot com

september 6, 2021