Ars art gratia

The fall arts season was on hiatus last year.

Not this year however.

Over the next couple of weeks we will be sharing what we find as we think they are in degrees and in different ways potentially a means to understand more than just their sublime unspeakable beauty. We think that art is  possibly the root means of access to an increased capacity of empathy for ourselves and for the gentlethems and the thaydies in whose company we rarely find ourselves mixing.


Diana Pulchrid, says

Folk devils…moral panic…critical race theory…panic drives the structure of laws…laws become the framework of society…that framework¬† is the scaffolding for the judicial prison industrial complex…
this has created a seemingly American carceral necro political state…justice does not live with us because it is not welcome. And yet we lustfully forage for it in the forest and plead for it in the hearts darkness of those so afraid. In over 400 years in the desert we keep coming around in hope to see a mirage. Hope is an animal carcass when closely examined and whatever you don’t have but need when gleaned through the vapors in the offing. Its not found. And the ardor, the craving for justice that heats the heart and the bones is like fire shut up in my loins. I will surely burn alive before The Chimera, Justice, is greeted, wrestled down, shot and stuffed, or embraced with tears that rush to hush. Because as soon as I see it it will be gone. So I pretend the fable of a dream has rotten as quickly as God can be forgotten. “


Yellow: running like the sun’s heat drips from on high.

If not compelled by something that won’t or can’t come to be I rarely enter the day and the ubiquity of low hang sun light. To compensate for my lack of diversity I must then rely upon multiple in home dressing changes to promote inclusivity from the clothing cohort. I must be sure the day adventure drags are what I feel best wearing for the context of the day. Sartorial prat falls peradveture come what may I loathe when I undarken my doorstep and leave home. They leave me with a sense of regret after trashing my mind. And I feel like everyone can see that I am not comfortable in the fabrics bundled my skin.

She is outside and he carries. The heat ain’t no joke. We don’t know them up in here, up in here. It be waiting though. And she be leaning heavy against my apartment door smelling like hot that’s been hangin on the street all night, and beaming like a flower bed of riotous daisy blooms.

ars artis gratia


There seems to be human problem: not being able to fully inhabit another person’s perspective without somehow disputing that the events that build the experience are invalid. That they are one offs or unique anomalies. I think that what happens to me in the field of spacetime becomes a mental position common and ubiquitous in society that emotionally isolates me in these personal experience that I then conflate as other people’s experience also. Because really if I don’t work on my emotional IQ people remain prop extension of myself in the inartful narrative of my narcissistic dramedy: life. Empathy, my capacity to intentionally enter into another’s suffering, is the a cure for the “optical delusion of consciousness” Einstein¬† opined the aforesaid in Berlin as they appeared to him to be the fenced limitations produced by self awarenesss. I think he posits that’s what religion is for. I would say that’s what the arts are for Al baby.

Catapult with what you find essential, useful and sturdy.

Entering the third act in the first part of my years goal. And tofu, chiaseeds, Ramen, in fishsauce base will help me sock it to the humidity. That densely packed intersection where I live vulnerable to its holding of space hedgeing my periphery in rows will without delay slay all nested ideas about pedestrian penertration with out perspiration. Sweat in the same quantity and flow as the justice River more than one person as dreamt of. Falling rivers not the artful paucity of thin rivulets flowing like the Hooch. I will be covered head body and face with a slick brine made up of parts me, parts the of world the Earth couldn’t use and parts waste that is sythesized thereby derived from the alchemical processes of gustation, mastication and digestion, voila! sweaty water for the heating venting and air conditioning of my system and my Ginny accomplice in caloric activation kinetic fuel detonation. The side walk adventure ends in my body simulacrum a pillar of salted sea. And burst like a hurled saalck of baby tears I dis – integrate as I replace my wearied salt a – parts home. The egress from the fish grease hot air, that buffeted me in quantum of folded thermodynamic insolence incurring the bundling in fry battering from crackling cornmeal the hue of rooibos red meant normally for the dress coat of Tom Tim tomatoes that get dressed to fry.

I walked through the transparent Southern fried chicken stoup soup/stew sans fried green nightshade adornment before the noon sky under poplar bow in dew. SfChSt: better known as the unbroken coverage and consistency of summer in the East coast elbow bend along America’s thigh.

*We don’t have to live in the climate of nor are we beholden to the atmosphere in to which we were born because nothing is immutable in this alchemical romance called living.
The Wee Lass Moll McLean.

Gaslighting and the tensions from ignition to conclusion attenuates emotional stamina leaving lassitude like a retrovirus; a gift no one ever intended to buy that gives so much less back.

When I became informed of the outcome in what could potentially be the gas that lights expectation because we know it was injustice. And we have known so much about injustice and the furtherance of its burdensome working efficiency. They function and design will always look like brokeness to people looking up from underneath its actual boot heel on their head. Is justice aligning ones vehicle (individual societal or global) with a new natural horizon in the direction of fuctional play in and a sustainable expansion of the higher ideals as capitulated in this country’s founding documents. Remember those ideals at the time were only for those or their type during the construction and signing of aforesaid foundational documents. Black people and our accomplices have been down the indictment road manifold times. They sometimes ends in Simi Valley or the outcome is a spring of Kingian water as sprung wetting a weed; underwhelming.

There is an earthen whine in people.

Before India Arie Simpson was India.Arie and before Donny was Donnie there was a cauldron of creatives they emerged from still buoyantly floating on the promise in MLK’s dream and the possibility engendered by choosing hope over knowledge when reframing innovation, sound, identity and community in the city just started to move into acceptance out of the harem skaram that made it too busy to hate so we loved and lost in the alchemy of change at Yin Yang in The New New Nuit Groovin South.

And like all great moments of social collision that result in a anew alloy of social cohesion it can never be sufficiently found il simalcro in nature as an organic process or as wills ideation creation as a dance flashy mod like coincidence very much emboldened to act familiar as the impossible is its tender but the sight of the likes of an end to this precocious beggared of an idea that gathers more of itself a morpheme at time in sentence and they wont even get you Barbara Tucker lifted but will propel if not run but drift on to sentences end.

So if you were even tangential to the era you gleaned the phantasm sprezzatura of preparations perspiration entheogens and human beings getting their lives sub lunar in strobe light no carless hand but a flying heart bound to body to the beat and the rhythms flight. SHAZAM! its Gods love and asunder by music’s might we were planted in love as i bloom still this night.

…hooked on that hate feeling…

I feel sorry for this person. I really do.

Their reality is a nightmare concoction equal parts reaching and equal parts failing to grasp the answer to the inaudible question in the quiescent still voice loud as white water rapids in the place were rest an attenuated spirit in soul. The crescendo of which is but the emptying out a full brown bag of cats, claws spinning in terror full of scratching fire and fear. We are but left the dead heart of a cold revenant. All love undulating sub solar against the moon has been gone unfound as part of what is lost when nothing hanging really is gained in the inevitable bargain in balance insaned. No more than a diaphonous lie rinsed away leaving us in degrees of naked as we churn trauma into gold sharp and bold having such matricidal hate that upon the heel smote it’s undoing is the serpent of fate.

It’s not death that the snakehead death cult adherents fear. It’s the imperceptible end the close of night over fly or fight back an abyss in the inevitable bargain thinned wool like by gnawing moth and rouge rust on brass bust the besmurched treasure with entropy aiming time and woe. And as the lie slips from The Fauntleroy knee high knickers is the beginning to deshabille the end. In manifold richly deep the ignorance of lightlessness are so many emperors imbecile themselves the entitled idiot whose nakedness is the intermittent power of light against chaos darkening wing horizon. So with the rational mind of blade pulled for parting we will die not even knowing that they knew they were telling a lie.

To lead having full knowledge of a death of no returning worse than dying is to act evil in carelessness of the obsidian expanse and consuming malignancy .