#646 Gates of Unknowing

68.5 x 56 cm. Watercolor, ink, burned Buddhist paper.
Artists learn early that art won’t save us. Not that it ‘can’t,’ but that it won’t. A refusal. No different for the few who find ways to manipulate the capitalist machine to grant them false compensation in money, though that may make it easier to hide from the truth.
I’ve been thinking about this as I’ve worked on my last few pieces. No more than our children can save us, I thought. I feel, even as I work, the increasing distance, this alien thing, this work of my hand and eye–how it absorbs something of the power of the sacred, a power that is not, and never was, my own. And never will be. Like our children–we want them to live, to shine with that life that will never be ours,  even as they abandon us to death.

#646 Gates of Unknowing.JPG

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#643

27.5 x 15 cm. Ink wash, pen & ink, watercolor.
#643.jpg

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I feel like I should come up with a name for these. I find a lot in them–and enjoy looking at them. There’s a dynamic tension, things pulling apart, and a lot of detail. Abstract drawing. Decay of the capitalist state? I’m not sure what it is I’m after in making them. Letting accidents guide my my pen.

First They Shot the Anarchists

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It’s Going Down is a revolutionary media platform from anarchist, anti-fascist and anti-capitalist movements. We are a network of friends and comrades across so-called North America, who seek to provide news and analysis of when it goes down: riots, strikes, sabotage, occupations, expropriations, rebellion, revolt, insurrection, whether together or alone – we support liberatory revolt. We are a news website and not an organization who seek to uplift and build capacity for a wide range of social struggles, movements, and revolutionary groups.
https://itsgoingdown.org/first-shot-anarchists-trump-new-normal/

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Winter: Goby’s Journal

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Managed to do food shopping yesterday afternoon. Coughed all the way there and back. Once in the store, warm air, I was fine. Wore me plum out. I started off to an Icarus meeting later… got about a block, turned around and came home.

Looong nap today after sleeping late. If I were one of those 19c English poets, I’d be one of em who spent winters in Italy for my lungs.

Any wonder that Winter appears in my poems as Death? If she sometimes appears as a temptress, it’s only because I do find beauty in winter.

I wish I could find a publisher for Chronic, Chronos, Kairos

January 20, 2011
I smiled when winter came to call…
…thinking she’d spared the worst. Ho HO, he said. Her teeth (where I’d thought, Ice) were coals. Two starving sparrows for his eyes. Dream on! she said, & blew into my mouth & touched
her fingers to my lips, caressed my lungs
& took my breath away and tossed it to the wind!

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