Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Toot Toot...oldies goldies...


Poetry comes alive only when recited; plays when put on stage —without voice both seem dead on paper. That's why, sometimes, a mediocre poet, but who can deliver his lines will sound brilliant.  Is there anything more boring and pointless —reading a play?

For the best readers were jazz musicians, Jack of course, first among the equals...

Joseph Beuys:  'I call everything drawing'. True.

The hideous painted dreck of Baselitz, Penck, Anselm Kiefer and other post-culture buffaloes. Not for me, thank you very much.

 Indeed, the emperor of the 20th century art, since ca. 1950, hath neither shame nor royally resplendent robes.


Ein Ruf haben. To have a purpose.   Heidegger

Talent is common; original talent is hare.   Hoffman

There seems to be something that you can do so much with paint; after that you murder it.  Franz Kline


One of the loveliest little canvases—in the collection of the Univ. of Iowa Art Museum.  Obscure painter named Erbsloch; an oil sketch of tennis players ca. 1910 —the Innocence before Darkness.


"We get more precious as the years pass"  Johnny Hallyday (from 'Man on the Train').  True, we become more interesting once we pass fifty. Women become more beautiful; men start coming into their own.  Youth is greatly overrated, violent and stupid.  Glad you can't remain stuck in that cloud of Ego stupidity. But, yet terror of it being incessantly rammed down our throats through the Orwellian Hollywood sewer lines...

The Ontario bathroom insight:

Function supersedes frills (decoration).

Zen of the Quick (The Quick and the Dead):

"Congo" by Bill Baziotes

It came From Zen Actually not from "Phil Jackson" (roll eyes)...

Just do it!

All rights withheld,

Boris Gregoric 2011

Monday, December 5, 2011

Nobody at the Pool

Something needs to be said in favor of writers' passions, the passions outside of twriting, outside of their ‘fame’.  In fact, we don’t even want to discuss the objectively —clunker like, big fat dense-headed like —famous (like Norman Mailer say).  The big guns. For famous authors are rich, and rich authors are —almost with no exceptions —finished. (Not necessarily en corpora...) It is a course of human events that one naturally quite naturally bites the hand that feeds it, prickly... Let us just say that those others, daily authors, the working members as if of this oft despised and ill-paid class —that they have to have passion to the side, so to speak. Just not to go nuts...

Say Henry: he played ping-pong and painted watercolors. Another Miller, my friend Charles. A poet,  not famous at all —but loves swimming. First thing in the day, he's up at the pool up on the East Side High.  Nothing beats that morning dip when there are no assorted water buffaloes, no toddler swimming classes, no  'meets', no championship chasers, no track hogs —only a few unhurried geezers, wondrously wrinkled, shriveled —yet what bliss! Kaboom splash splash.

© 2011 —Boris Gregoric: Ian T.Brill  (nome de plume) All Rights Reserved