Poery Friday: Art

Jeezus, Mona, could you select a more complex topic to dissect for inspiration than the meaning of art? Frankly, I find it easier to discuss evolution versus intelligent design creationism, or wearing white after labor day. The meaning is too complicated, too divisive, and dammit just too difficult to explain.

For starters, it’s damn subjective. By nature, everyone’s opposing ideas invalidates everyone else’s opposing idea. If all these views are meritless by the nature of opposition, where does that leave us? Clearly, we are left to converge in a cluster-fuck crises on existentialism. Sounds pleasant, doesn’t it?

The catalyst of this debate can be found here. The argument is exceedingly compact. The secret to a good divisive topic is keeping your points compact. The longer you spend engaged in superfluous validation the greater your chances of invalidating your own diatribe.

I lack the server space required to adequately analyze the platitudes set forth by others in this field with extra consonants accompanying their last names preceded by a comma, I will preface this as op-ed. The opinions herein are not assigned to any other entities. The passionate words which follow reflects only the opinion of this cat. If said statements resemble your opinions, congratulations, you too have joined the ranks of self-assurance rivaled only by politicians doing the ineffective wide stance squat in airport bathroom stalls.

Art is not a velvet Elvis painting. Art is a stray mark on a slab of driveway left by a three year-old.

Art is not pornography. Art is the erotic portrayal of human beings at their most emotionally vulnerable even if they are disrobed.

Art is not a cardboard cut-out of an eight-year-old peeing in a flower bed. Art is the name of a brave man who talked to outspoken kids in the presence of an audience.

Art is the successful merger of creativity and happenstance. All creative attempts do not yield art. I have boxes of failures, but they are have failed only in their execution as art. They are an integral part of the process. The journey teaches more than the destination.

Art can be rigid, and uniform, but I disagree with the notion the highest forms are film and pure mathematics. Film requires little participation from the audience. Where is the connection? Film is comparable to person standing up in a crowded room and pronouncing himself, art. Mathematics can be a logical starting place or art, but I don’t consider it a recipe for results, with the possible exception of pi, in all its endless non-repetitive glory.

Art is tangible, yet untouchable, passionate yet reserve, breaking some rules yet conforming to others, offers coping value beyond measure yet the first activity to lose funding.

Moment of Clarity

Corned beef and cabbage, while exceedingly tasty, and terribly smelly during the cooking process, are not aphrodisiacs.

Blame the dog, my ass. There is no dog, and I will not take one for the team.

Poetry Friday: Deja Vu

It’s the end of the week and Mona has raised her bar of expectations. It seems that she’s decided not to allow us to relax in the warm glow of summer. She has single handedly decided we need to be disrupted from our leisure, removed from our pitcher of margaritas, and separated from our favorite trashy novels. That’s right, loyal readers, Mona has challenged us to do the inconceivable. She has demanded we THINK. This weeks inspiration is deja vu.

It started four years ago. it was a rather humble beginning. It happened at the old house, though at the time it was the new house. There was a phone call to a tree removal service, and five days off work for the Mister. There was a bucket truck, a stump grinder, seven guys with gloves, and the Mister armed with a can of white spray paint.

There was also the Missus, who did not approve. Someone liked the shade of the back yard and did not want to see nineteen trees harvested from the property. To the Mister’s credit he was willing to compromise, and had the workers remove eighteen instead. When Misus Chica arrived home from work, she uttered a single word to describe her feelings about landscape, “wasteland”.

In the weeks to come, the Mister tried to make things right. First, he created the foundation for a retaining wall, which he and Missus Chica installed. Later he purchased three pallets of pavers, with, get this, no idea what he would do with them. A few weeks later the Missus designed plans for a paver path and patio sheltered by a Japanese inspired pergola. Next, all the azalea bushes were relocated, not once, but twice. The final project was to be completing the design of the flower bed. The Mister was left in charge of said design work, but when the Missus arrived home from work, she found the Mister digging a big-ass hole in the flower bed. “S’cuse me?” she said. The Mister’s answer, “This is where you wanted the fish pond, right?”.

Fast forward four years and one fish pond later to the new place. The place we call home today. Do you see these?

These used to be here. On the path to the front door.

Some of them are also here, around the raccoon sushi bar.

And then there is this. It used to form the slab beneath the stepping stones.

It looks like we’re starting over again.

Poetry Friday: Change

Poetry Friday is Back! School is out, scantily clad teenagers are on the make, and our beloved Mona has been blessed with enough sleep to make an humble offering for our inspiration. This week’s word is change.

I could write volumes about this but as my skills are needed. The Missus is painting the master bedroom, and I need to observe and bark orders. I’m afraid she won’t feel self-conscious enough since the Mister is away at work. In his absence I feel it is my duty to serve as a substitute supervisor. Happy Friday!