So many fucking options in how we can make the font a different color, hue, contrast, texture, brush settings. It forces us to think more on the technical aspects of the aethetics of our personal thoughts than expressing those views. Will my extension of my inner self be able to capture the thoughts as readily, as pristine, as intellectually stimulating than the garamond text font for which I will speak these grandiose thoughts I have. Or perhaps I really want the reader to get a feeling of envy, jealousy, nay simply the feelings of how could these corresponding words come to such a beautiful degree. Or perhaps the angst of the words need to be reflected in the font facade. Why not just speak your mind with whatever that your inner self speaks with. Is the aesthetics of the font need to be corresponding to the emotion felt when the words formed and seeped from that dark corner of selfish inner expression of light, of self. Confess! Express yourself! Yell from the doorstep your creed! Maybe there are more of us than there need to be, or already are. Maybe everyone should shut the hell up, meditate, chill out, go with the flow, don't fear everything's gonna be alright. Everything will be alright. It will all work out. There's a plan. Fuck the plan. There is no plan. There is a cosmic chaos that palpably fills/ penetrates/ infects the stench we call the plan. If you have a plan then you're not going with the flow. You need an agenda. Call it a task. A chaotic conclusion you have 'created'. Biologically, your a set of neurons and other bells and whistles that are highly predictable. That your emotions aren't your own but simply the synergy of the synapses. Like a floral arrangement that is just pleasing to let waft in your evolutionary perfected nostrils. Are emotions really a separate glitch in the logicality of your hormone induced, previously recalled experiences of forgotten memories, latent sexuality of your late mother's second cousins father-in-law's neighbors dog. Can we ever say that those collections are the only makeup of an individual. As if the past is an immediate determinent of future events. Is not the individual always in contact with those past events and has the outside view of themselves, and those events. The third person to a new set of experiences. we can force feed these syncrinized swimming synapses but we can not ever have the inner look of 'quailia' with a self reflective look. We can't experience things without utilizing empathy to predict someone's state of mind. To be in their shoes, their frame of reference, their self diagnosed riason d'être. I only know "of which coke cola is the best", what satisfies my thirst, wets my whistle. Which builds 'happiness', whether from a bottle, aluminum can, or choreographed ensemble. It sets off a whole new line of questioning. We have physically enjoyed this endeavour, we state ourselves in language as having experienced that, of having taken part of, had the physical touch and expendature of energy lost in the exchange. But who cares what form of font you use to express your ridiculous dated self enthusiasm for the kerning style. Breathe it in. Take a breathe. take a chill pill man. Realize your synapses have a plan man. Breathe in the busy lifestyle you lead, the goals you have constructed. Combusted. Placed into motion, like a ball down a hill, a pebble in a pond, a mixed bag of 'What the fuck am I doing?" and "How the hell did I get here". Throw in a a good "Fuck it, lets go for the ride!" See where the wind blows me, let the sails fly. Maybe thats why it's fun to color the font white on a white background and in papyrus. Perhaps the thing I need is a photo with a caption. Maybe tag a friend here, like a girl I've kinda had a thing for, unfriend Becky "That bitch who stole my guy that one time". Assert this, backhand those around. Call to the masses with your photos from the Philippines and your missionary position in the congo republic. Keep poking us with your incessant opinion, make sure we swallow it whole. "Like a good whiskey, its never drank alone". Share with the masses, tweet it to the rural swampland of feed lots in Facebook. Get your wall big enough so all will delight, nay bask and marvel in its brilliant illuminating shade. Until at least your wall falls. Those similar to ones standing in the way of progress, the walls of '88. Or maybe perhaps those within the empathy of brother man. "Oh man, brother". Hide your profile from the state, the other kind a brother. Share with everyone your details- your favorite tv shows, colors, cancer diagnosis, and ways to debate/ debase/ and be despotic. Surveillance isn't needed for those who have nothing to hide. Bullshit I'm innocent. What a pebble in the pond I-You-We've become. We the people. The royal We. The all inclusive exclusionary We. In opposition to the state but within the states apparatus. A permit to peddle and protest! Fearing what already has come to pass. You already are thinking like the state. The state of mind engendered upon you by those pesky synapses. You know, I think the veridian hue suits my 'PC' verbal appendages. Words have weight, paint a damn picture, one with bright-eyed acrylics dabbed in foolish, childish intention. Oil up, lay some seeds. Sprout those seedlings and build your little crop. Cut the lawn to a "bellisimo" 1in height. Make sure you edge those pines and set your roads to success. Build your castles among the nimbus and set your foundations in blind faith. Let the breeze carry you softly, and a harsh wind butt-fuck Becky. Bitch. I'm being to dramatic again, it must be the chilly cheese fries I ate. So dark, yet vertical, almost Gothic. "Presently I think the future looks bright, there's a light ahead and if I just follow it I can find the path again". Reorient myself. Get acclimated. Reflect on how I strayed from the path. I need to relocated my bread crumbs. retrace my steps. Refollow. Retweet. Apologize and retreat. No more expression of soul, no correspondence with accosting others with the Phat photos- your exchange student from Paraguay. He doesn't speak "English well", or is it "good English"?But he makes up for 'it' in spunk. What a guy! What a kid! He's talented at this one particular task, the two handed variety, this one specific passion, he'll make leaps. He'll go far in the company. Bounds. He's of a special stock, growth intended, speculated, and bought at a drop in the market. A windfall really. Swept Becky off her feet. An unexpected engagement, a bit of blue in the boom of blooming platinum. A gold membership to a news magazine, a scientific journal, one which features the wedding of two molecules, the matching of neurons. A merger of two mindsets. Never in opposition. Mother and child. Father and Country. A poll of mass attitude and platitude. Come to the Call. Defer not, and do not trespass against others. So stick your updates. Remove your Pins. Flow with the current. There are plenty of fish and you are one of them, feed from the fish food. Enjoy the bottom of the tank. Your sans-serifs are bad, and you should feel bad too. Hook, line, and snapchat. Your "quailia" doesn't meet the manufacturers criteria, quality management will see you out now. Get off the kentucky-bluegrass, sod green background.
Small piece for Heartstrings Gallery Valentines show.