Regarding the Inevitability of Reflexion (a fragment)

What is it that I believe?

I believe that I exist in as much as I think about myself and I think about things outside of my self. That I remember from one moment to the next, from one day to the next and back again that I have thought about myself and things outside of my self is as much an indicator that I exist as anything. There is no proof other than my own perception that anything inside or outside of myself “is,” so there is no accepting nor denying of it except through my acknowledgement of it. I do. I choose to believe that I exist. That is all that I can do and it is all that is necessary.

I believe in limits. There are boundaries to everything that I perceive. Even when I turn my attention to the infinite, it becomes finite in my perception because I am incapable of understanding or knowing intrinsically anything that has no limits. It is by virtue of limits that I am able to define things. By limiting any thing, idea, notion, concept, corporal substance or ephemeral miasmic nebula, I am able to say to myself, “this thing is this, but not that.” It becomes a part of a magnificently complex venn diagram, labeled circles and polygons inscribed on paper illustrating inclusion and exclusion, shared and non-shared qualities, boundaries and bleeds. Even the bleed, in its analog existence, has an area that includes and excludes it.

I believe in the coexistence of analog and digital measurements. I believe that there are measurements other than these and that I am not able to perceive them. This leads me to:

I believe there are things other than myself that exist independently from me. On some undefined level of existence or perception all things may, in fact, be connected and constitute a very different foundation for being perceived (not an “exists or does not exist” paradigm,) but that is outside of my current purview.

from Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I believe in the existence of a higher power. To call this thing a god, or God, would be easy but would be incorrect. By giving it a name or category diminishes the work I have done in trying to understand this phenomenon and all too easily allows an element that I’ve addressed earlier to crush my current understanding of it; this higher power exists in a state where limits as I perceive them, do not exist. This thing cannot be a part of my venn diagram since it cannot be contained within a circle or polygon, anything outside of the mark creating that circle or polygon would not be included in my understanding of the higher power and thus disqualified – inclusion and exclusion are not qualities inherent to it. The problem, of course, is that inclusion and exclusion are things, and the higher power contains all things, either real or as potential, then they must be a part of it, or It. I can make a further case for this paradox if I speak to a notion that the higher power is somehow “self aware.” This would be for some a required quality of a god or God, but I wonder if this, for me (or us) lofty state of being is, to this god or God or higher power or Higher Power something so trivial that its presence or absence is irrelevant. Perhaps, and hopefully, the awareness of the meta-intelligence is so much more than can be imagined that to it or It, such awareness is petty and unheeded, much like any force of will required to maintain ones own presence. For some reason I just thought of Alice in the garden near the beginning of Through the Looking-Glass when she becomes aware that to stand still on the chess board she must move, and to move, she must stand still. Such is the dynamic of my imagined mind.

I believe that everything that I have thought or written up until this point could be, might be, should be, probably is, but might not be, completely or in some major or minor part, wrong.

I believe that swimming in the earth trumps walking on water.

I believe both that the only thing within my current perception is now, and that all things, all moments in time exist simultaneously.

This and the last three assertions of what I believe are like imperfections in the glass that constitutes the support for a mirror that I gaze into from the side, oblique, with no understanding of directionality or concept of tangential-ness.

Based on the construct I have created, or has been created for me, or simply that I find myself in, this episode of thinking about what I believe and do not believe, and the subsequent attempts to elucidate and validate them, is part of the inevitability mentioned in the title of this essay…

[At this point I stopped writing. I am certain that I had more to say, more to explore and write about, but for some reason I didn’t finish. Perhaps it was time to go to work, or the pot was over boiling, or there was a knock at the door. That last option, I can say with canny certainty, did not happen. This is not a bad bit of exploration, though not fully formed, and I question its ability to survive on its own, though I am moved to let it go into the wilds and see how it fares.]

©2016 Stuart Dummit

Did you hear the one about…

Did you hear the one about the homeless person who was carrying a sign saying “Will work for Food,” and Donald Trump walked by and asked what he could do to help, and the homeless person said, “If I could just work for a few hours for minimum wage, I’d have enough to buy my daughter something to eat.” And Trump said, “Here – go get your daughter and the rest of your family and we’ll get you cleaned up, get you a good meal, a place to live, and we’ll help you find a full time job that pays a living wage.” And the homeless person said, “Thank you, but why are you doing this?” And Trump said, “Because we’re all human, and life doesn’t always offer everyone the same opportunities, so as someone who has been lucky in life, I know that it is my responsibility to help my brothers and sisters in any way that I can.” Did you hear that story? No? Well, that makes sense, because it would never happen.

©2016 Stuart Dummit Fair usage permitted.

there is nothing in the title worth spending any time with

—a particularly troubling element of my evolution

I have gotten this far in my life by luck and the aegis of others. There is no way for me to plumb the truths and realities that conspired to bring this salvation about, but it is not for me to do in this place nor at this time. I will acknowledge it and let it sit, alone, unexplained and wanting of a cover to keep it moist and warm.

Reading Homer lately, and Joyce, and Aristotle and a bit of Calvino, some Grimm and McCarthy, I have amassed in my brain a host of voices that aren’t at war with each other, but neither do they always mix well, like cocoa and sugar, peanuts and salt, gin and Retsina. These voices and their peculiar frames of reference have taught me things that continue to gestate in my head. They have led me down paths that peter out into thin and meandering bare spots on the ground that fool me into thinking they lead somewhere, when in fact, they may not. It occurs to me that those ways have never been trod and I am exploring new ground, but then doubt makes my sphincter itch and I turn back in search of civilization and something to wipe my butt with. And then, still, I am tempted to try that way again.

Some elements of my reading continue to cycle through my brain, the temptation to explore those faux paths again (and again,) and so I discuss them with myself from time to time. I would talk with others about them to get their reactions, but I’ve not found anyone with a clean enough mirror to reflect a lucid and cogent argument or rejoinder. I wonder about punctuation. Too much or too little? Why quotation marks when the text indicates so clearly who is speaking? And if not, then is there value in the idea that the idea represented by the words has been cast out into the world and exists independent of a speaker? The question mark is good, as is the period. Omission is key. I use exclamation marks too much and I’ve been criticized for my use of the ellipsis, but they help me map the ebb and flow of words as I hear them in my head. Would I be a better orator than writer? Are the two so very different? Perhaps I should consume more Aristotle. Nevertheless, my study of Joyce brings those things into focus, and my study of Joyce harkens me back to Homer. And from Homer, or rather, with him, I’ve explored the frame stories of the Arabian Nights and the folk tales of the Brothers Grimm. And then, and you see it there, my want of beginning a sentence with a conjunction; what reason would I have to do that? and what does the conjunction join? but I digress…and then I turn my attention to McCarthy who is more an artist than a story teller, and the role of story teller is often linked to the role of writer, not artist. But no, an artist tells a story, but in a different way. Thus, McCarthy’s oft used second person present tense voice; the reader does not follow the speaker, but accompanies them, experiencing as they experience, only a time delay measured in letters and spaces within the sentence. Brilliant.

Frame stories, layers of fiction, told and seen from the side of one who experiences it, remove the other and all that is (left) there is the reader. Allow the words to move (right) across the page at their own pace, let them wander, even down paths that thin into bald patches on the ground and disappear into sparse underbrush — no path now, only terrain either alluring or menacing. Either of those might entice a reader or writer or artist to follow.

What is the purpose, though? Why write? Why read? Why art? Why establish any fiction? If it is for escape then each person must evaluate their position in life. Why are you escaping from something so limited? What happens if you die while you are not there? Do you know what you’ve wasted? Stupid shit. Bad wager you hairy cunt.

From the Community Band Concert

Sure, the band was interesting, and they were pretty darn good, too, but it was the people who made it truly a sight to remember. Humanity at rest on display.

Photos from Whitegate Villas Neighborhood Concert featuring the After Hours Community Band on June 28, 2016 in O’Fallon, Missouri.

photographs ©2016 Stuart Dummit

ichor

[Author’s Note: I’ve made a few slight changes to the text, most notably, the last name of the protagonist. I think it sounds better. Other modifications are minor but help the reading flow a bit better.]

with words and ideas swimming between ears that haven’t heard anything new in forever, the brain encaged mind of Sobriquet Jones tried its best to arrange things in a usable sequence.

My hand hurts, my stomach protrudes, my dick is only half hard and I have no food in the fridge, he said aloud to no one in particular. No one was there to hear it. I know there isn’t anyone here, and we are all on the same page anyway, so it might as well be an empty room. The walls here have no ears.

He turned around, his blue plaid bathrobe, beltless and flannel in its warmth and flow, followed absently in a swirl and then hung lifeless from his shoulders once the turn was completed. No food on the counter, either. But there was coffee.

Coffee! The nectar of the Gods! Nay, not the sweet syrup that kisses the lips and licks the tongue and coats the throat, but more. Again, talking to the earless walls and the feckless fridge, ’Tis not nectar of the Gods, not Ambrosia, but Ichor. Miraculous lifeblood of the immortals. Hot and black and bitter and searing and all the things a man could need to clear out the gunk from throat and thought.

Rinsing the plastic bound glass tube of yesterday’s scum and grinding the beans, roasted to an imperfect pitch, like a well sung song by a slightly deaf amateur, Sobriquet prepared the press to brew a pot. It isn’t food that will nourish, but it will be food that can motivate. Motivation is an important thing, but only when there is a goal. With eyes half closed he said aloud making signs in the air of various geometric shapes and potential forms, Yesss. The goal for which I require motivation is the acquisition of a worthy goal. I bless you in the name of Plato and Aristotle, Zeus, Odin, Krishna, and Jehovah and Heisenberg. And Schoenberg.

There is no knock at the door, no person with whom to share the silliness or the snobbery. Sobriquet is alone. He has been for quite some time. No one enters in from another room, there is no stairway that leads up to a parapet nor is there a portal from some unseen fold in the metaverse, a brane as it has been called by some theoretical physicist who wrote a book once that was devoured by artists and laypersons and other brain encaged minds looking for answers to questions they hadn’t the synapses to articulate.

Sobrie, he said to himself, pour the fucking water into the pot and let it brew. Four minutes to make it strong. Strong like you. Yes, yessssssss you. I am happy I am healthy I am wealthy I am wise.

The water, boiling in the white plastic hotpot, gurgled and spat its desire to be fused to infuse, and the old sagging man in the blue robe used his powers to make it so. He stirred the grounds with the end of a chopstick that was laying across the top of a dirty water glass, then replaced it after a rinse in the sink. Drawing the robe close around him, his semi hard dick was now flaccid and hidden by the dark blue fabric. He padded lightly into the adjoining room to gather dirty coffee cups and possibly to take a piss. Four minutes it would take for a strong pot of ichor. Four minutes.

No urination necessary, and only two empty cups abandoned on the same table were retrieved, and the four minutes were not quite up. He rinsed out the cleaner of the two cups and wiped the inner tubular side with his index finger, then wiped his finger on his robe, and then took the chopstick and stirred the slurry again. He rinsed the stick again and again laid it across the top of the used water glass and then fitted the screened plunger to the top of the glass tube and slowly began to press presss pressssss like a Frenchman until the black blood of the bean was separated from the chaff, and with a solemn incantation the pre-transubstantiated communion was decanted into the cup, decorated with a faded design, ignored since forever.

Bless this cup of coffee which is the blood of the gods who are immortal and who bitch and moan and fight and frolic and urge and purge and don’t give a fuck until after the fact. Let it quench my thirst for purpose, let it strap soft and supple sandals with the wings of Hermes to my aging cracked feet, and propel me to prosperity and lack of want, that will signal the end of all things. Amen.

©2016 Stuart Dummit

I Survive

     May 17 is the anniversary of me officially receiving the diagnosis from a medical doctor that I had tested positive for HIV. That was in 1995, shortly before the first medication cocktails were made available. 21 years.

     I have in the past, on this date, written a short missive regarding my situation, outlining my current feelings and attitudes toward the virus that has taken up residence in my fluids and tissues, and caused the course of my life to veer in a direction I hadn’t anticipated. This morning I got up, made coffee, and opened my journal, and began to write. It wasn’t long before it became clear to me that I was saying things on the paper that I might have thought before, but had never put down in any concrete form. It was surprising, revelatory, and maybe a bit disturbing to witness myself realizing these things. I think that what came out during that journaling session is important, for me at least, and I will most likely tidy it up and publish it online soon enough, but for now, I’ll keep this morning’s work to myself.

     That being said, I’m alive. I survived a trying time. I did an awful lot of it by myself. Should I be proud? I’m also not the only person to have survived an ordeal or a life threatening event, and many people have stories that make mine seem like a slightly troubling anecdote. For me, though, it was and still is a big deal. I write things like this, and I make pictures, and make music (noise, okay, it’s noise,) in an attempt to express the undefinable essentials of my psyche. I don’t know whether it works. I don’t know if anyone reads this stuff and “gets it.” Maybe I’ll never know. What I do know, however, is that I survive. Still. Maybe not well, maybe not with elegance or class, but I survive.

the continuing question of (f)art

Again, is it “art” if one of the tools used to create it has a mind (algorithm) of its own? Is it “art” if it is just well crafted? Is it “art” if it has no purpose other than to break up space on the wall behind your couch? I think it makes no sense to be so divisive. That is, until divisiveness is in my own best interest, and then I’m all for it. One must fight art disease at every turn. [The term art disease was coined in the 1970s by conceptual artist Richard Olson who defined it in terms of “the hardening of the categories.”]

With that bit of stupidity out of the way, I present to you a recent example of my electronic drawing, painting, and/or print making. The question is really, “does it make you feel anything? Is there an emotional response?” (and, again, not a rhetorical question.)

“I Am” Electronic Print. ©2016 Stuart Dummit

 

preposition proposition

March 14, 2016

a.k.a. Pi Day, or even better, Rounded Pi Day     3.14 16. 𝛑

Here I am, sitting in my chair near the kitchen window. If I were to write instead, “Here I am, sitting in my chair at the kitchen window,” how would that make you feel? What would that communicate to you? Is it a matter of fact, or a matter of style? Is there some information here that is essential for you? These are not rhetorical questions. This is an inquiry.

I want to be able to communicate in both broad, lustrous strokes as well as fine, elegant painted-in edges. I seek a way of writing that moves effortlessly from macro to microscopic and then back again. There is a dream in me, not fully realized, that shifts frames of reference with silky ease and with brutal crashes. There is a hope, a desire, and as stated earlier, a dream, to coddle and coax and bash and fuck language, the language I am most familiar with, American English, like clay or steel, oil paint or waßerfarben, and reveal layer after layer of emotion, meaning, intent and wonder. And to that end, I ask a question: can the mere substitution of a preposition either subtly or outrageously influence the flavor, not just the meaning, but the olfactory memory of a scene?

Concern

This is another drawing that has been manipulated by one of those generative apps used by thousands to make their pictures more “unique” and “individual,” like all the others. I’ve been using them as a midpoint in the process to drive the image in a different direction and then to use the choices I’ve made and the choices made by the app algorithm as creative nourishment. It is all so absurd when I think about it, but the point is to, a) express something within me, and then, b) elicit an emotional response within you, the viewer. If it is working, then I’ll continue until I’m bored or have nothing left to say along these lines. If it isn’t working, well, then somebody better tell me. Thank you.

Per usual, this image is ©2016 Stuart Dummit. All rites reserved. ▽△

a reconfiguration of a watercolor from 2014

as always, ©2014-2016 Stuart Dummit