Spinozablue: An Eclectic Journal of the Arts

Posted on: April 23, 2012

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Composition VII, by Kandinsky. 1913

New addi­tions to Spinozablue include poems from Kyle Hemmings and Howie Good. Both bring the uncanny and the mar­velous to the fore in unique ways. Two things sorely lack­ing in Art, to our great sadness.

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A few days ago I mused about The Other and dif­fer­ence. The for­eign­ness of things, of cer­tain sub­jects for Art, of their mag­net­ism. In a sense, that could be a sign of my back­slid­ing from the Zennish path, because Zen teaches the over­com­ing, the tran­scen­dence of dif­fer­ence. It teaches mas­tery over the process of dis­crim­i­na­tion and seg­re­ga­tion, two of our biggest delusions:

That we are essen­tially dif­fer­ent from one another
That we are not one with the All

Aside from the mag­netic draw of the Other, there is an equally strong temp­ta­tion to dwell inside that zone as if it is not an illusion.…

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Posted on: April 21, 2012

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PROSTHETIC DREAMS

A bird I can’t iden­tify by its red mark­ings vis­its me, hold­ing a play­ing card in its beak. I feel elated to finally be remem­bered. But when I grab for the card, the bird darts away.

Come back, I yell, and the bird does. I real­ize then that its mark­ings are actu­ally splashes of paint or maybe even blood. The shock wakes me up.

I once took thir­teen years to write a poem, if you count the mass of scar tis­sue that throbs in our dreams.

ENNUI

Sometimes we talk like char­ac­ters in the kind of indie film nobody goes to see. To live, I say, dooms us to a life that’s never really ours. You think you know what I mean.…

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Posted on: April 20, 2012

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Manga Girls Need Love: Rebel Little Rebel

 
Little Rebel in denim shorts, a Tee-​​​​shirt that reads Potter Got Punk’d. Her room. I’m stranded on some out­post of love, hop­ing it doesn’t get nuked by mutant minds. Her face is all about inno­cent sex pot vengeance, her eyes of some dark arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence. On the radio, a techno beat, then gothic metal w/​​ screech & growl. Little Rebel flip­ping through the pages of Egg mag­a­zine. I’m not exactly a fan of Ganguro. “The world is end­ing,” she says, chew­ing gum, her eyes, flashes of inten­sity, as if scan­ning secret codes from page to page. “People never talk to each other. They just want & destroy. The only ones remain­ing will be a few punk skull autis­tics like me.” She throws down the magazine.…

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