Art is Chaos
Something alluring about chaos after all it is one-half of the
universal battle order versus chaos enthalpy versus entropy & what
I think, if I do indeed think at all, is that art for most of us is
organized chaos because we can’t do it any other way. However,
true art (no time for definitions now gotta run) is chaos simply chaos
pure and simply chaos but as I say most of us are too human for that
and the other thing about it is that true art is formed by people who
would never be having a silly conversation such as this they haven’t
the time nor the inclination to fidget over order versus chaos (perhaps
only us scientists have the mental energies for such unfructifying
speculations). Artists do what they do because it is what they
do, it is what they are, it is them. Period. Or something
like that. I guess you can tell I have no idea whatever of what
I’m talking about. Let me try it from another angle - Picasso or
Dante or Shakespeare or Michelangelo or Mozart or Brahms or Beethoven
or Gauguin - even though their art is intensely organized, the best of
art that’s ever been produced (subjective view perhaps but not
entirely), it is not organized because these guys sat down and said -
hey I need to be organizing this thing that’s rattling around so
uncomfortably inside of me, no. No. I don’t think so.
It is organized to us because it is organized for us by the true
artists who are after all translators or perhaps interpreters of
something inside them and outside them too which no one else, no
ordinary person that is, can see or hear or feel. It is organized
because it needs to be in order for it to be comprehensible to the
“common man.” Mozart’s genius spilled out of him truly like they
make it do in the movies he did not struggle to find his voice it is
his voice simply because it is his voice and it spilled out of him but
the form it took is not the form it was inside of him it was something
else like the primordial soup at the beginning of biological history
(chaos at that point by the way made life, without chaos then &
constantly thereafter we would not be here today); like God (if one
should believe in such a pedestrian concept) appearing in human form so
we can recognize him (or Her). I like to think that he is really
a She, certainly much more enjoyable (for me at least) worshipping the
Female whatever the Female is I suppose. (I do know it, however,
when I see it and hear it and smell it.) Well, guess I’m done for
now. You know I have an uncle, Uncle John, (guess I’m not done
for now) who was a drunk, a true alcoholic an unfunny thing to be,
rumor has it he was this way because he couldn’t have kids but anyway,
he was a drunk. But his profession was as a welder, if welder is
a profession I don’t know, and when he got older like 60 he got Lou
Gehrig’s disease you know where your muscles get weaker and weaker and
you can’t work anymore or play racquetball either and when that
happened to Uncle John and he stopped working he turned his aging and
fading and gin-sodden brain, what was left of it that is, to art (&
Lord knows I’m really using that word loosely). He began making
these little welded figurines of people doing this and that one playing
the piano, another fishing or swinging a golf club, and I was really
insulted (& disgusted). I mean now that he’s done with his
life’s work of welding and he’s bored well it’s time to make some art
it’s simple enough I have time on my hands anybody can do it well fuck
him fuck him fuck him hard up the ass with his fucking welding rods.
coffee and some other funny
post-operative observations and occurrences
I confess that my first surprise upon waking up after a long (9 hours)
dorsal lumbar spinal fusion operation was waking up at all. I mean, you
can’t help but think about it.
Funniest thing said to me about this whole affair so far was after I
had awoken in the recovery room and the doc was called in and stood
over me to ask how I was doing and asked: “You haven’t really been
walking these past few months have you?”
Another funny event was when the head nurse came in to present herself
to me and say, “Hi, Mr. Estabrook, I’m Blah Blah, the head nurse and
would like to know how you are doing.” Before I had the time to inhale
and gather some breath with which to provide a reply she had turned and
left the room.
“Your fusion isn’t like clay, it isn’t going to fall apart,” said Mandy
my physical therapist when my worrisome little questions began getting
to her. But she was smiling.
One of the visiting nurses referred to me as a bulldozer, because of me
thinking I can bulldoze my way through this recovery like it was any
other project in my life requiring persistence, stamina, strength,
endurance, and will-power. “Sometimes a bulldozer does not get you
where you need to go, sometimes a tricycle is better,” she said.
“It’s the meds talking” covers a lot of territory, so I have found out.
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