perfectionists and controllers
I have been at various times in this life one or the other, occasionally both. Perfection is an endless opacity. Control is dense, like a block of lead, impermeable. The perfectionist is not the idealist, similar pathology, different infirmity. These abstractions are not masters but slaves. The difficult proposition is to allow things to be what they are, an unlimited compass, without censoring or admiring the achievement of conception.
If I thought I were free of either it would be a reflection of both in collaboration, at work to nullify that which is while seeding the future with visions of the perfected possible.
I like to think that I perceive things differently now, but freely admit that the present illusions may trump all other maladies, and in moments of extreme stillness, I begin to see how my dreaming will always prevail.
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the whole told in fragments
My downfall is not that I practiced hypnotherapy immoderately, or that I lit a cigarette on the eternal flame. Obviously if you look at my pictures you can discern that this migraine has become analogous, a puddle filled with reflections, a beggar with an empty cup, a stolen painting by an unknown artist.
I murdered candlelight, was chased by holy men, told any eccentric to loosen up, won a fistfight with a six shooter, convinced a mental ward to worship flaming bowls of flan. My eyes are made of oil, my limbs are fractured, useless.. creases have formed in every crevice until it took five assassins three years to obliterate two finger nails. cleansed yet unknown, the lovely impalpable baptized by self-imposed oblivion.
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sky incision and insertion of the symbol
J.D. Walz - 2010
grace is a node within an infinite network
unique, as each messenger is independent
each instance, a reflection of an uncommon image
a constant ensemble of rehearsals and
that is why we fail to recognize grace
no other concession falters in such beauty and
wicked strangeness
standing tall before the man
J.D. Walz - 2009
Detroit. Police Headquarters and Courthouse.
Abandoned.
Tannera
J.D. Walz - 2007
She spoke in fractured sentences
It took time to decipher the cadence
of words,
shattered phrases,
starting one sentence and finishing that same thought
embedded within another,
the totality of her grammar
was fused into
a pattern of echoes that coordinate in memory.
Like W.C. Williams “Elsie”, she spoke
with broken brain, saturated with crystal
no fear of the truth, about herself
and about me.
Reminding me at this point of Edward Albee
Yes, I am afraid of the truth
it is an indictment of this life of daydreams
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the piano teacher
You think me brutal?
Cold and obtuse…. yes?
I don’t think of you at all.
You cannot be allowed to exist.
Don’t look for pathologies and symptoms, these are cataracts,
distortions, a prison for small minds.
Having never experienced love, its mystery is everything.
Obsessed by a concept, by the product itself, beginning at the base but never rising.
As if searching for a color outside the spectrum, it led me
to adult bookstores, to watch acts of love, even if it is deliberately false.
Awake, realizing that you cannot buy the essence in a bottle.
Frozen, years without touch, a famine of the sensual, this lifetime creates loathing.
Pain is real. this world inflicts nothing else.
You think me insane… no?
The balance of madness tempered by discipline?
No, that is weak-minded, soft, idiotic.
I want to be beaten, abused and without pity – you seem shocked?
and how is this different from every other waking moment?
Cut off from that persuasion that creates saviors and suicides.
To fill a room with beauty, the sound of which is tones made by keys.
Excite all others with interpretations, attention rapt, focused, invigoration
and then becomes vast and shallow – you too have experienced this but not to this extent.
Some say, “from her music she feels deeply,” and that is an illusion which I encourage.
I could live for music, it has been the totality of this life thus far,
the paperclips in the long chain of my asylum.
It would seem that love is pain, I will take mine pure.
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On the Waterfront
When a film is appreciated, to whatever degree, it leaves an imprint.
I’ve taken to watching movies that I have seen before but with the sound muted
I only see images.
And I am struck by the beauty of the photography.
The shoreline in plumes of steam, smoke and steel as seen from the asphalt tenement rooftop looking down over a dominion of decay.
On the Waterfront - Directed by Elia Kazan
