BLDM Images

Better Luck Dead Man

So,  Haven't posted on here for a little bit.  I thought I would share the music I have been making.

In recommended order.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RHz8UOFYLY&feature

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDZKrsL7X-w&feature

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNAahTHv2Mk&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbE44I3rgkc&feature=related

Photos of the Book in Progress

As I have mentioned in previous posts I am working on a "poetry" series that involves erasing words from existing writings. This method of writing has always intrigued me, it is similar to the (schizophrenic) act of searching for prophesy in biblical codes.  You really do get what you are looking for, but are limited by the material available and the parameters you create.  Mine where aesthetic and based on the preexisting book structures, (a chapter must be self contained) and on a lose poetic grammar.


Here is the image of the cover.  It says He On   THE WILL  no on.  I may remove the "no on" This is fake gold leaf on a rough canvas type book cover, and was done by scraping off the extra words with a knife.

This is the first full page of text. In a kind of forward prior to Chapter One proper.  The full text and process action can be viewed in Erasure #1

The Will Chapter 1

It had rained during the night, one of those warm tropical showers that leaves the air heavy and sweet. A steady breeze born far out at sea kissed the shore at sunrise, rustling the coconut palms. The clouds, like the folks around these parts in no hurry to move on, scattered slowly as the sun rose out of the ocean and washed the sky with bold streaks of light. A few ares of rainbow loitered above, offering promise for the new day.
Hawaii's locals make a clear distinction between themselves and haoles, the sunburned tourists from the mainland. It is less a term of contempt than a bemused pity. On the scenically spectacular island of Maui, most of these visitors pick up their rental cars at Kahului Airport and drive directly to Kaanapali Beach on the western coast, where they stay in glitzy resort hotels, down premixed Mai Tais served by waitresses in synthetic grass skirts, and tap their toes to the canned melodies of Don Ho. Haoles just don't know any better.
The real soul of Maui is manifest on the south shore, with its endless stretches of blinding white beaches. The sun bleached dunes roll up to wide verdant fields of pineapple and sugar cane. Herds of cattle graze contentedly on the grassy slopes of the West Maui mountains. Majestic Haleakala, the highest point on the island, is a two mile high peak topped with a massive volcanic crater, a dramatic reminder that this is a land of sudden, violent change.
At Maalaea Bay boat harbor, Charlie, the winch operator, was working a squeaky crank that unwound a cable still wet from the rain. "Never thought I'd live to see the day this old gal went back in the water," he offered to anyone within earshot as he controlled the speed with which a trailer bearing a thirty foot wooden sailboat rolled down a launching ramp.
Boat launchings were hardly uncommon hereabouts, but a small crowd of locals had gathered to watch this particular one. These folks and a few hundred other kindred souls lived aboard boats in the bay. Most were dreamers who collected sea charts, atlases, and books about faraway places, yearning to pull up anchor and sail away, just like the excited young couple whose boat was now the center of attention. But few would do so.

17

Chapter 1

the night, leaves rustling the clouds, hurry on the ocean of light. loitered above, a clear distinction between sunburned contempt On the most western waitresses and the canned soul of endless blinding white cattle of Majestic violent change.

Charlie, the operator, was a squeaky crank that unwound still wet from this old gal he offered speed with uncommon crowd this particular one. These kindred souls in the Most collected places, yearning to pull young attention. But few would do so.

Memory

And yes, there really was a
dear friend, and

envy


I killed him
He
didn't complain


So long, old pal, you are sorely missed.

Erasure #1

I am currently working on a book.  The original is called And the Sea will Tell.  I am removing words first with visible remnants, but once a greater confidence is reached I will black them out forever.  In the passages of some novel of romance and adventure, I hope to find another narrative, one that speaks from my mind in the voice of another.   Below is the first passage; As it is so worked. I have included the full words, with the edit only below.


AND THE SEA WILL TELL


At once beautiful and forbidding, this uninhabited tropical atoll is off the well-traveled path of the trade winds. Situated dead center in the Pacific Ocean, Palmyra was discovered by accident only in the last century. If one were to search the high seas for a setting that would lend itself to impenetrable mystery, this lonely outpost would not disappoint.
     From afar, Palmyra is seductive: tall coconut trees and stretches of beach are enveloped by a coral reef and the brilliant shallows of the tropical ocean.
     Once ashore, however, one finds that the vegetation that looks so lush and inviting from a distance is impassable except with a machete. Hordes of land crabs claim squatter's rights to much of the island. The beaches are not sandy, but rocky, and surrounded by coral as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, capable of shredding the ribs of the sturdiest vessel. Only a narrow passage in the reef on the southwestern side allows access to a lagoon populated by schools of colorful fish, temptingly meaty but poisonous to eat. And it doesn't take long to notice in the...

AND THE SEA WILL TELL

At once beautiful and forbidding, this uninhabited tropical atoll is off the well-traveled path of the trade winds. Situated dead center in the Pacific Ocean, Palmyra was discovered by accident only in the last century. If one were to search the high seas for a setting that would lend itself to impenetrable mystery, this lonely outpost would not disappoint.

     From afar, Palmyra is seductive: tall coconut trees and stretches of beach are enveloped by a coral reef and the brilliant shallows of the tropical ocean.

     Once ashore, however, one finds that the vegetation that looks so lush and inviting from a distance is impassable except with a machete. Hordes of land crabs claim squatter's rights to much of the island. The beaches are not sandy, but rocky, and surrounded by coral as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, capable of shredding the ribs of the sturdiest vessel. Only a narrow passage in the reef on the southwestern side allows access to a lagoon populated by schools of colorful fish, temptingly meaty but poisonous to eat. And it doesn't take long to notice in the... 

THE WILL

At once this uninhabited
 dead accident.
 From afar, seductive:
 And brilliant
However,
that so lush
distance is to much
 A surgeon's scalpel
Shredding the narrow passage.

Classical Music is Dead

In reading an article today on the utility of music; I followed a link on one of the comments. The person shared a first name with me.  On the page it said, "Phil is a composer of serious classical music".  Aside from the moment of disentangling my identity from my name in the first moments, my main issue with that statement is the terms used to describe the music.    The Classical era in music is over.  When most people say classical music they are referring to a broad range of "art music" from the last 400 years, but there isn't really a cohesive enough element to these in the same way as other genre.    Now from what I could see through the infuriating web design, this other Phil is stuffy, but nor is he old enough to have lived in the time of Hayden.   If he is writing in that style, he should say so. And while the shorthand might be enough for most, if you want to pigeon hole yourself but then place that into one of many, why not address the issue more broadly.   I would have loved to spend this time actually engaging in the dialogue of Art as political action and not referencing something as a choice, and therefore a reference of it; The limits of expression and all that.  But I felt that first I had to distinguish myself from this other Phil, a composer.    My assertion of identity satiated, on to other things I move.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen 1917-18

Never have I gone to war. Though in my youth I had considered it, this bit of writing brings with it such vivid thoughts and feelings that I am compelled to share it here.   

Old Photocopier stuff

In going through some stuff in storage I came across some images I made in Japan. They are highly varied, but I am just posting two right now, since all of the others that I captured came out blurry. my plan is to make high-res scans of them so that I can play with them more easily. The smallest of the images are 8x10 but most of them are 10x14 ish.

Museum #1

3 views of my first museum installation.

New photo series.

Part One.

Part two.

 This series is already further along that shown here.  The purpose of putting this there is to hold myself publicly accountable to doing more work on this series.    

Mission statement.

This is my art blog; in which I will post my art and my ideas about art.  I am currently working on several projects, in music, writing, imagining, and interactive installation.   This will be an online repository for works that I wish to share.  An open and public notebook if you will.This is mainly a works in progress and commentary site. Things I feel don't fit into the context of my other blog.       I hope you will enjoy this, but I feel no pressure here to cater to your desires. Any criticisms, however,  will be taken seriously and I will do my best to address the ideas and interests presented by others in the spirit of open creativity.