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Exchange of Values

Exchange of Values
acrylic on board 48'X96'

"Structure of Color Perception"

"Structure of Color Perception"
48'X96' acrylic on board

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Copies of copies:  Every year there is a "Forgery Art Show" here on the Island.  This is a forgery of a Basquiat that I am considering entering (and it's priced at only a fraction of the 11.5 million that the original Basquiat recently resold for!).


By Basquiat

My Version


I am tired so let me just offer this one poem:

Theoria

(a prose poem sort of poem, critical reflection, short story, and alibi by Daniel Imburgia)

“No ideas but in things...
to make a start,
out of particulars
and make them general, rolling
up the sum, by defective means”
(From “Patterson,” by William Carlos Williams)

“A book has neither object nor subject; it is made of variously formed matters, and very different dates and speeds....The rhizome is a map and not a tracing....What distinguishes the map from the tracing is that it is entirely oriented toward an experimentation in contact with the real.” (A Thousand Plateaus, Deleuze and Guattari, pgs 3, 12.).

(*note the following is a true story regardless that my accounting of events is an artist’s representation of what beg to be called actual events (even though we are limited by present instrumentation and have no way of confirming that there actually are such things as events).

I.  Quiddity

Like a bungling assassin the delivery man came
My beloved wife tosses the package into my lap 
“Another book?” she says with a critical tone
“I thought we talked about this?”
“It could be our prescription pills form Canada” I reply
“Or a Christmas present for you!?”
Not to be put off she waits for me to open the package
“Yep, another book” she says shaking her head
“What you spend on books could feed Seattle’s homeless”
This cuts deep into one of my weak-spots
Exposing yet another facet of my hypocrisy
One of the tall piles next to me is mostly books about social justice
Radical dis-possession, Marxism, redistributionism, post-colonialism
Next to that pile is a small forest of books on ecology,
Climate change, exploitation of natural resources, indigenous rights
Bridging the two piles is Deleuze and Guattari’s “A Thousand Plateaus”

“Another book of theories I suppose, like you need more theories?”
“No, look, it’s a book of poetry...Love poems even, by Bell Hooks”
“Bell Hooks?”
“She’s a post-modern philosopher, feminist, professor, poet, and...”
“Theories” she says, “theories about love aren’t the same thing as love.
Maybe you should order a book on curing your ‘Book Addiction,’ and yes I see
The Irony in that,” she snaps before I can even think of mentioning it
(I could have pointed out that she may have technically misused the word ‘irony’
which has its roots in the Greek comic character Eiron a
clever underdog who by his wit repeatedly triumphs
over the boastful character Alazon
I just happen to have Wayne Booth’s excellent book, “A Rhetoric of Irony,” 
right here at my fingertips and.....)

II.  Roscellinus

“Who’s that poet your’e quoting all the time” she asks, 
“The one who said, ‘Not Ideas but things?’”
“Williams” I say “He wrote that poem you liked about the peaches”
“Yeah, like he said, you need less ideas and more actual doing”
(*Note to reader* That isn’t exactly what Williams wrote.  He wrote:
“No ideas but in things,” which, ironically enough is itself an idea...
But he said it in a poem so he could have meant almost anything
Or nothing, who really knows for sure?)
But I take her chastisement seriously, this is a woman who once
Rode on the roof of a bus through rebel territory in Guatemala
Her big beautiful black hair blown straight back, looking much
Like the jungle warrior goddess Maria Lionza  
She was terrified--but she stuck
She didn’t flinch when teenage government soldiers
Pointed U.S. made M-16’s at us
Or later when Marxist Guerillas stopped the bus 20 kilometers on
She just smiled and blessed them
Shared her water and chocolate with them
No ideas but in things
But not all the borders between doing and thinking are so decisive
As the walls we imagine between communists and capitalists
Rhizomes spread beneath our monuments into no-man’s land
We make our lives under the canopy of the Arboreal forest
So our metaphors are too much of trees, trunks, branches, leaves,
Platonism

But here now, let me share one of Bell Hooks love poems
I dedicate it to my wife and let’s see if she will forgive me the cost--

50.  by Bell Hooks

a heady heavy love
speaks my yearning
calls me
to give my all
and seek the place
of no return
to lay bare my heart
for you
to whom i surrender
to you
for whom i wait

III.  Hypokeimenon

Hook’s poem speaks of
Yearning, seeking, baring, surrendering, giving
Are these things love?
Or are these things ideas of love?
Imagine that poem being read ceremoniously 
At a funeral, or better yet at a wedding
Suppose a minister having power invested
Pronouncing men+women/women+women/men+men
Making them all spousal of some sort or another
One flesh, one body, one desire,
Made to be one fluid of multiples
A kind of miracle if you think about it
Yet it’s as easy as the ABC’s
One minute you’re a fetus and the next you’re a baby
One minute you’re a child and the next you’re an adult
One minute you’re single and the next you’re married
One minute you’re innocent and the next you’re guilty
One minute you’re alive and the next you’re dead
One minute you’re body and blood, the next you’re bread and wine
And it’s all concocted out of everyday speech
Just by breathing in and out and
Moving tongues and lips around in different ways
Or making jots and tittles on dried animal skins or light emitting diodes 
Ordinary old signs, phrases, phonemes, sentences,
Familiar and customary, publicly shared and traded
Established, orthodox, mundane, even tawdry or hokey
(true, these signs are regulated, established, and disseminated
Within the matrix of a 3 trillion dollar military industrial complex)
Nevertheless, they are laying about for anyone to use

IV. The Magnetic field and ‘The Death of Ferdinand de Saussure.’ 
But of course there are always a few untamed and unbranded
Signifiers that escape enclosure and administration
Clones and bastards, fabricant traces of rhemic sinsigns   
Fleshed-out and mis-begotten runes
Forced through cleavatures like running wounds
Where the hensible is incomprehensibly re-born 
Sympodial things that can’t be bought/sold, lost/found, loved/hated,
forgotten/remembered, spoken/written, hidden/revealed   
Binaries that can diverge without any change in appearances
What we used to call the Sacraments, holy bridges  
Crossing the borders between provinces or even whole worlds
Before empires dominated the spectacle and discourse 
Back when we huddled together around open fires telling stories
When the fire itself was a telling
When we could still make things up for ourselves
And each heart bore witness to whatever words were spoken
We all kept our secrets together
Backs hunched against the same cold darkness
Because we knew how to face each other then
Reflect heat and light from the power of our gaze
Our souls singing within the circle of each others eyes
Before truth was a thing with angles
Before every book was a book of mourning
Accounting for all that has been taken from us
For all that we have lost and surrendered
Being and seeming to be
Without thinking about it
Imagine that
Thing


Obliged.


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