Archive for ‘Emptyscapes’

October 24, 2018

Emptyscapes: Art Show

Lora Schlesinger Gallery
Bergamot Station, B5b: 2525 S.Michigan Ave, Santa Monica CA 90404

November 3 – December 15  2018
Opening reception: Nov 3rd 4-6pm

 

 

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September 1, 2018

Say You Love Me

“I love you,” she says,
and my heart sinks.
Knowing what is required of me,
I attempt to reciprocate.
But it’s a struggle,
the words won’t take shape.
No other phrase is so hard to articulate;
no other sentiment is voiced so apprehensively.
I could be honest and say: I love you
but almost everything about you annoys me…
But somehow
those three precious, perilous syllables
are squeezed out, squeamishly:
“Isle… of you.”
It never sounds right when I say it,
but I say it
to put her at ease,
because what you get out of it,
temporarily,
is peace.

 

March 10, 2018

Educated Outsider

https://artillerymag.com/educated-outsider-john-tottenham/

February 11, 2018

Emptyscapes in Beverly Hills

Please do not feel under any obligation to attend this event…

December 23, 2017

The One

I am the one
waiting for the One.

I have never entered a room
without hoping that the One
I am waiting for
might be found there.

Despite decades of disappointment,
I still look for her in every face,
looking for somebody to become that place
where everything that falls apart
falls into place.

But if I found her, I wouldn’t want her,
for as long as the possibility
of somebody else wanting me exists,
I will always want somebody else.

And I realize now that if she ever does arrive
it will not be in the prime of either of our lives,
at a cocktail party with a drink in her hand,
but that she is more likely to arrive holding a bedpan
as I am breathing my last in a hospital bed.

Only then, with restlessness and hope extinguished,
and all other options exhausted,
will I finally be ready
for the One.

November 10, 2017

Regen Projects group show

July 22, 2017

The lowest form of literary endeavor

Yet I honor this stale ceremony.
As if anything of value might be extracted from the refinement of futility.
Recoiling from the sight of these words dying on the page.
The results induce uneasiness and distaste, but I must press on and complete something for once in my life, even if it should have been expunged from my system twenty years ago and has grown irredeemably stale; even if it falls miserably short of my aim, not that I ever had an aim.
It would be nice if all this was building up to something. But it isn’t.
Nevertheless, I proceed.
Towards what futile end I know not.
I thought there was still time to get started but it’s almost all over.
Maybe I’ve done everything I was ever capable of doing.
Just because it went unnoticed doesn’t mean it’s not over.
At this rate, maybe, in ten years time, if I’m lucky, I might have completed something, if I live that long.
I certainly can’t blame anybody for their indifference. I already find my own interest waning.
There’s no point carrying on about it.
This is surely the lowest form of literary endeavor: driveling on about oneself.
What’s the point of actualizing oneself if nobody can relate to what you’re actualizing or derive derive any solace from it?
But it can be pleasant sitting here, stroking the keys in anticipation.
There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. That’s the sad part… one of the saddest parts.

At least write one line this morning:

April 6, 2017

Fresh Failure

I could have been
ahead of my time;
I could have been
me.
Nevertheless, I proceed,
directionlessly,
hoping to profit
from useless hard-won knowledge,
and brooding about mortality –
about how depressing it is
that nobody knows my name,
and how inconvenient
that one has to die
in order to receive posthumous acclaim.
And worse still, that one
has to have accomplished something.
I must put that on my to-do list.
But what are you going to do
when the life you passively awaited
has slowly passed you by?
You can’t hate something
because you made it unattainable,
and you can’t resent other people
because you let yourself down.
But you can try.

March 22, 2017

An Occasion of Near Spiritual Significance

Shouldn’t art be the residue of life and not the main thing?

This novel thought struck me while I was brushing my remaining teeth. I held on to it and as soon as I got out of the shower I wrote it down.

Unless writing is the means by which one earns one’s livelihood, isn’t it more important to live? If one enjoys writing, then write, but if one has to bribe oneself to do it, if it isn’t financially rewarding – or rewarding on any level beyond this dubious notion of actualizing oneself – and if nobody is reading it, then why bother? Why sacrifice potentially enriching experience in order to engage in an act that nobody else, oneself included, benefits from? Surely art shouldn’t be prioritized over life? And even if one is compelled to do it professionally or out of some misguided sense of purpose, even then isn’t it more important to experience life than to examine and transcribe it?

Maybe there are a few cases of supremely gifted individuals whose works are sufficiently edifying and entertaining that the prioritization of art over life – or the more exalted status of art as life – is justifiable.

It is doubtful, however, for the vast majority of people that call themselves or think of themselves as artists, that on their deathbeds they will look back and value their creative or professional achievements over love and the living of life.

But perhaps what one values most on one’s deathbed isn’t the most reliable index of worth.

Anyway, I’m not on my deathbed, I’m just sitting at this desk.

February 18, 2017

An Unoriginal Observation

wing

By the time one has learned how to live,
there isn’t much time left to profit
from what one has learned.

And it’s too late to still be learning,
too late to still be burning,
to come to terms with the past
by learning the easiest things last.