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Modern philosophy 

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I heard the snake was baffled by his sin.

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Yoon Young Bae by Hong Jang Hyun for The Wow Magazine , March 2021  

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Legitimately more intellectuals need to have transcendental experiences. There's a certain humility that comes with teleporting your soul into the astral serpent temple and peeing your pants. Makes it harder to get mad at people online.

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bride sleep by Marta Orlowska

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“Maybe the desire to make something beautiful/is the piece of God that is inside each of us.”

From ‘Franz Marc’s blue horses’ by Mary Oliver

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But what is memory if not the language of feeling Julio Cortázar

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It’s sure great how a (reasonable on its own) dislike of snobbery & putting on airs has led to people, apparently entirely seriously, claiming things like “lowest-common-denominator popcorn cinema is better than Scorsese or Coppola”, or “Thomas Kinkade was a good painter.”

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Enough Is Enough

For Thomas Kinkade discourse click Keep reading!

 Imagine, if you will, that you have an innocent child, precious in every way. The Poor thing is still learning, growing, trying to find his way in the world. No knowledge of right or wrong. His discernment for what is true and what is false is filtered into him through others. He is not yet independent. Well, let’s say the little babe goes to school one day. The child lives and learns and makes friends. teachers teach and he's ready to be taught. After a long day of learning and discovering he comes back home to you. The Child meets you in your studio. You, an amazing and masterful artist. You followed your teachers dutifully, but at some point you realized you must leave behind all masters. You search for your own truth now. As part of the daily ritual the squirt lets you in on the details of his day. He is a vessel filled with the waters of knowledge. Eager to share with you. He tells you what he had for lunch, what games he played at recess, everything he learned that day. The Child tells you his teacher showed the class photos of art from this generation's most amazing and prolific artist. Junior tells you

 “You're nowhere as Good as He is!” you think, a child's honesty (or is it?)

 “Oh my precious angel, tell me, who is it?”

 “Mama I can't believe you’ve never heard of him!” you pinch the little imps cheek, so soft and warm. What else could bring such a smile to your face?

 “His name is Thomas Kinkade.”

 A rock drops to the pit of your stomach. Your face is flush with horror, you begin to feel queasy. What the fuck???

 “WHat the fuck Did you just say?” Maybe you misheard. It happens from time to time. you're burnt out, you have deadlines. Sometimes you're not all the way there like you should be. Sometimes you're making grocery lists in your head, or noticing something across the room. In this case you were enamored with the cherubs face, seemingly so sweet. Just yesterday you noticed how he no longer carried the distinct smell of a little pink baby. That was, in itself, a devastating revelation. You ignored it, but this, this cannot be ignored. You realize now the loss of innocence is severe. 

surely this can't really be happening. Thomas Kinkade? The worst. It's true. you puke up all over the floor, the kid is covered in it. You feel bad but you know deep down he deserves it, and you wish you could do it to his teacher, to the goddamn education system. this is what school does to a mother fucker it just pukes up all over you, all over Art. Is this what Hitler had in mind when he made the kindergarten, so we could puke our way into the Hitler youth? Hitler was a shit artist. A symptom of his coprophilia. I’m sure Thomas Kinkade would make him cream his pants. Oh fuck! 

oh God, if you ever were merciful you would kill me right now please do not let this be. My Son, My child says Thomas Kinkade is greater than I? I who studied so dutifully? I who stood in the sun for hours just to see the way its Light carved out the contours of our landscape? I, with blistered fingers, and cramping hands from years of work. I, who not only am a well learned craftsman, but who raised this child. Who carved the contours of his body like the sun. reared him forth from this body and nursed him with the same body? Am now being insulted and degraded like this? No surely this cannot be happening. This is all too much. No I can't, I have to lie down.

 you shake with nausea, the boy is crying. putrid puke chunks cover his face. In between those tears, and the rejected lunch you can see the image of Minnie, and Mickey, and Pluto fucking by the fireplace in a warm cottage. In hell the light comes from nowhere. There is no sun. Light falls onto us like dust so we may see our own decadent degradation. An ambient torture. There’s no snow, but all the woodland creatures watch titillated from a frosted window. 

“Uh ho,” Mickey cries, “Like that!” The audience cheers, drooling, foaming at the mouth. 

“Do er’!” the cuckoo bird chimes. The squirrels scream

 “Up the ass!” Shouting, cheering, and moaning erupt from the crowd.

 “Fuck her goofy!”

 “Where's Goofy?”

 “oh,”

 “mmm,” Treats, decadent cakes, and Hot cocoa await for them after. It takes the place of a cold shower. You realize now The face of hell is a tear soaked vomit ridden boy.

 Oh God not now. He's crying there's nothing you can do. Suddenly you feel faint. His face wet with tears and vomit begins to fade away. The pain slowly leaves with it, and you begin to feel a buzz. It's a tipsy feeling. You're tired, so tired, and you can’t fight against it. You fall to your knees, and lay yourself down on the floor. It's cold, but it's nice, and it's foreign, but it feels like home. The boy has no home now. He’s lost somewhere between those frosted windows, and the kitsch landscape. The child's screaming picks up one last time as the rapturous climax of a one thousand puzzle piece hell is consummated. Minnie and Mickey are finished and so are you. you close your eyes, and go peacefully into that good night. The Child's future is in the hands of Thomas Kinkade(Satan).This is the path he chose. This is how Art dies.

 This story begins with a soft thumping sound and ends with the constant ringing of a church bell.

You stupid Fucks. You piece of shit little weasels. You’re all animals jerking off from the window. When will you understand you can hate kitschy dog fucking shit, and Conceptual post modern CIA anal art at the same time. There is a middle ground what the hell is wrong with you people. <Rhetorical. I know you are all idiots. I want to rip you to shreds with my teeth.

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Hands holding flowers by @subwayhands on Instagram

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to seek you out

is to be hidden in plain sight.

adorned with pearls

and you swim blind.

scent reminiscent of a warm summers eve

and you insist on a different season.

glinting to catch your eye

and i am attended to by all but you.

it is my effort to be seen

that makes me a swirl of smoke

in a clouded room.

it is only when i fade into the background

that you single me out.

the faintness of my allure

reveals my true color for you.

pretending to be someone i am not

does not win your approval.

the harder i push to be seen

the more my attempts fall short of success.

lesson learned.

i silently wait

in hopes that you return the affections

that i have desperately tried to impress upon you.

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Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) dir. Francis Ford Coppola.

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i wish i had a window seat with lots of pillows that i could sit in and drink tea and read books in and watch the rain in

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"Rough sea" by Giovanni Allievi

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