Ulitmate frisbee and creativi-- tee and theories

So, I see there have been some viewers and I’m going to go on a limb and assume they are off somewhere in the vast universe just waiting to hear the rest of my ultimate frisbee story.. Since the comments left have thus far been only complimentary I think my assumption is valid even if entirely wrong. So, sweet Mike drives the three of us to some grubby field in north Hollywood, and there is some unusually huge turnout. I’d guess about 30 souls waiting patiently to play ultimate Frisbee. And, they all are wearing their adidas special sport shorts and some shirt that is properly athletic and they look so … shabby. Like the comedians in L.A. But, there not comedians but from my very limited information—they are editors and other things. And, no one knows anyone though they’ve been playing this ultimate Frisbee for longer than 6 months. I just didn’t get it and was grateful to at least look cool with my cords and flip flops while I didn’t get it. Anyone over 30 wearing that adidas long nylony short and the athletic gear shirt just looks wrong unless they are gorgeous. I just was overwhelmed by the absurdity of strangers running around throwing a Frisbee at each other. The manager of my building deserves his own book, much less a blog but suffice it to say he is now a hot shot agent and had a pet tiger as pet while a boy in Puert Rico. He also spoke openly about how sweaty his balls were and I wanted elsewhere so very very badly.

Anyhow, I’m over it. This is my theory on artists and angst. I truly never hear about it before so if it is unoriginal I apologize in advance.

The artist, unlike the non artist, lives to create. God, like the artist, is a creator. So, when an artist stares at a painting in a gallery he feels that his critique of the artist is more “educated,” than the run of the mill gallery goer.

So, he can look at the canvas and approve or he could be filled with alienation (if the work is Popular) or he can be filled with admiration or he could be filled with angst that such a gross piece of shit is in a gallery at all.

Enter God. The creative artist aloft in the universe must stare or gaze or just notice God’s Canvas and so often he will find it not only lacking but vile and grotesque. The artist mourns the lost chances for beauty. There seems even a crime against symmetry in the figure of most humans. How can it be so that the master of all would create a hairlip or piano legs and flappy tits. The list of offenses is endless and painful to re-visualize.

Well, dear reader, that is the gist of this theory. I only can know that since I was a baby I remember marveling and mourning the ubiquity of hideousness of so many humans in a symmetrical and spiritual sense. So if, lets say, I am on the admissions board of an art school and god presented with a portfolio of his prose and poetry(spiritual) and his fine art( symmetry, composition, purpose) I’d be intrigued but ultimately horrified that he had the power and talent and came up with the shit I see.

Clever, no?

Also, the artist unlike the scientist or other exalted character has no real lab or university to find shelter in. The studio doesn't count as a real place of "business." The possibilities are too endless and therefore ripe for neurosis. Whateva. Give someone like the smaller bones spinster 3 exceptional talents and you have a recipe for angst.

If talent reveals itself from a young age, any artistic goal won’t feel realized in any organized institution. And, beginning at 3 in nursery, institutions are organized to lead us … somewhere. The real artist, meanwhile, is marching to a drummer that’s beat is leading him only away. Away where? Endless places. Don’t give them any recognition, or mentorship and they will suffer. The poet, today, is only recognized in corners of academia and I’d bet there are lot of suicides that we’ll never hear of.

I recently read a book about bipolar/mania, and according to this book, "touched by fire" by Kay Redfield; mania has been found to be the most prevalent in poets, poetic writers, and composers. Suicides are by far the highest in poets, or as someone said in the book, “in the rhyming tribe.” Novelists suffer mostly from depression. Visual artists seem spared of the worst of it and though sometimes very depressive or psychotic (van Gogh) they are not as suicidal or that mentally distressed.

I’ve always known that many poets, “lost their mind,” and that writers of any quality are sufferers. But, the idea that composers too suffer very similarly made me have to figure out why.

Why? My opinion. The poet and the composer are obsessed with putting form to chaos. Trying to see patterns in randomness is too heavy a burden on a human brain and like some computer it overheats or plain crashes. The novelist and painter also want to put form to chaos but the novelist's format it less restrictive and the painter doesn't have to use his mental faculties with the same intenity

My brain is now overheating so I’ll leave you with my theory on Atheism.

I believe atheism is an impossibility. Why? Because we all had mothers and fathers and so the idea of our creations is hardwired. We all can’t help but believe, in our own ways, that we were invented and that someone other than a human invented us. Some insist that they are atheists. I think many of those who insist this are convinced that it shows them to be less simpleminded. But, in reality, some of the great minds of our time and other times couldn’t resist believing in a god. I think we all carry some idealized vision of how the world should really be and maybe that is a god.

Okay, now it's time for me to take two excedrins and get to work.

hungarians, delmont klien, and feeling fine.

I'm back as promised. Today has been particularly fine. It finally seems that all the dues paid and effort exerted are forming some kind of logical conclusion.

Much good news seems on it's way but I'm too superstitious to discuss it with the blogosphere. Can't hurt not to jinx the fair weather that seems to finally have shown up.

Well, good tidings rarely make for great blog posts but I'll persist in the hopes that something interesting or enlightening will transpire as I type.

... nope. Nothing yet.

I think i have to change the name of this blog soon. I've been seemingly coy even reticent about my vast and extremely impressive career as a serial killer. I haven't given any real details of the victims or of the weapons used. Inexcusable.

I understand that dissapointment has resulted. I sympathize. Still, I must explain that thus far the year 2008 has been different from all the rest and so surely my blog would reflect such anamalous circumstances.

If I had known about blogger only a year ago I'd most likely have indulged my readers with tales of my savagery. But, it is not a year ago, now is it?

And so, I must focus on delmont klein and the splendid spinster sister and their transcendent creator. And that i will do from now on. I'm quite sure that many out there will want to know a play by play of the muffin bussiness and my status as a budding entrepeneur. I will try my best, but the time has come for me to fulfill a different destiny and so I shall. That destiny? Nearly messianic, actually.

and so with that epicness of duty on my shoulders, I bid a toodle do to my readers till later taters.

distractions, change, desire, and technology

Oh dear. Oh dear. Too much going on and all in that all sound and fury way. 1,000 hits and now I am forced to really blog my ass off. I still haven't learned how to link and only my higher power can help me now.

I have been very chatty with my higher party this month. I'm not one of those lucky ones who becomes religious and finds a new religious life. That isn't happening. But,I feel as of late, that I need some outside help and I'm too proud to ask anyone but that perfect perfect entity that is up there and has omnipotence on his resume.

Last night, I was talking to the entity a lot and I can't but feel that the entity is listening. I won't tell you our conversation but it was filled with requests. It is so not a two things with me and my entity because I assume that the entity has no needs as he is completely complete.

Anyhow, I have notebooks of illegible handwriting and some jokes and silliness I'd like to share soon. I'm still unable to get sound on my webcam and I am convinced that all these advances in technology, and my somewhat illogical desire to keep up with them, is making me ... bananas. I still don't know how to put muscic in the mp3 I bought only a week ago and my cell phone frightens me.

Now, I hear of flash drives and feel compelled to know what they do and I am going ... bananas.

For those coming here for stories of my serial killing ways and means, I apologize. I've been sort of incapacitated and I am putting a kibosh on slaying for July.

I've even changed the name of my blog so as not to be misleading. I'm a nice lady for a serial killer.

The muffin business is on hiatus fyi-- libby is jet setting for the summer and maggie is in the hamptons living the high life with all sorts of glossy personalities. I've done all that in the past, and this year I told hubby that I am staying put and just blogging and making sure the help doesn't mutiny etc. The kids are off in camp and they write me retarded letters about the weather and activities and I write them letters than try to hint that I'm not interested. Those kids ruined my stomach's perfecttion and have not offered me any good conversation. Still, if I didn't have them I'd be considered barren and lonesome and so it goes.

Still, though much distractions have gone, new distractions pop up constantly and I am kept from you, bloggy poo.

I'm creepy sometimes.

I plan to return to you this evening and to write something of some concern to maybe someone. I can't know as the viewership has been quite silent. It usually annoys me when anyone other then the british put a "quite" or "rather" before another word. But, i think it fits here somehow.

I must now removed my restless fingers from the keyboard and do things less enjoyable. I have pics and poems and novel excerpts, and art and rap and short stories at the ready. I've learned how to upload long ago and for that I pat my own back.

....

bad poetry, dead poets, and me. focus groups and muffins too. art and shit

My suspicions have been confirmed. People are just not buying into the fact that I am one of the most prolific serial killers still at large and plying my trade etc. I think there is an assumption that someone who slays en masse wouldn't have a blog where they make no secret of their lethal little hobby. Assumptions truly can make an ass of you. That is no lie.

Anyhow, I hate it when I get so behind in my blogging that I have too many topics to cover and I just don't know where to start. I had a lovely anonymous commenter ask me about focus groups and this makes me want to go off on a tear about my experiences and opinions about focus groups. Then, I want to keep promoting Delmont Klien and the spinster family. And, then I want to discuss my legal woes and how I am dealing with them. Then, I want to dish some celeb gossip or make jokes about Obama. Too much.

I'll need a whole 10 minutes of undisturbed time to get it all out and I fear that won't happen today, dear taters.

Okay, the taters thing isn't working so well and I'm hereby dropping it from my blog repertoire. I love the fancy words and they .... they don't love me. No more taters, taters.

That alone is a blog entry: Language and its discontents. As you see, I am full of stuff and need to stuff it somewhere.

At this point the non legions of viewers are scratching thier heads or straining their eyes or shaking thier restless legs or doing it is whatever one does when a blog is confounding or nonsensical or absurd or tedious or whatever adjective one chooses, really.

The muffin venture is going along semi smoothly. Tea and muffins seem a sure bet according to the focus group and the zogby poll. I've hired Frank Luntz of Luntz polling fame to start a round of focus groups and soon we'lll feel really secure that we are on the right track.

Frank Luntz: I will discuss him soon. I think I need to start a vblog. I finally get around to blogging and now the pressure to vblog is upon me. So hard to keep up. I got a webcam yesterday and my goodness the possibilities are so very endless. Frank Luntz will google his name today( I've met the man) and see this. I'm sure of it.

I think I'm going to do a vblog with mommy henya because she is just a very amusing woman and says funny things all the day long.

I think I need to go back on the adderall. I decided that it was making me too intense and that I was presenting as a bit loony to my more sedate brothers and sisters. But, I still am presenting as intense and loony and now I can't focus in the slightest either.

Muffins, yes muffins. Polling. Yes, Polling. Obama. Yes, obama. Floods. So many floods. Man and non man made disasters everywhere.

Punctuation. Never learned it. Can't grasp it. Don't think I ever will. I think I get away with it, but since most people are too polite and/or frightened of my tendency towards homicide, I never feel secure that I'm getting the criticism that lurks within the hearts of each and every human being. What a mess this entry is turning into.

I think I am just going to post some Delmont Klien and some art by the smaller boned spinster sister. Delmont wrote this maudlin shit when he was 27 years old and little did he know it would get worse. But, he did live till 58 and died from natural causes so that's a victory of sorts.

Passport

I'll get there yet
to that common threat
of
reaching out
to a bottomless pit
every fiber defies me
to say
okay!
I want to
travel light
fight the sky
touch the sun
and then say

bye bye

I’ve traveled light
i’ve traveled deep
I ‘ve traveled so far
just in my sleep

different lights
meant different
sights
I traveled mostly in my chair

I went back
and I went forth

I went down
and I went
North

In the west
as in the south
I found the east
coasting about

It too was lacking
So again i started packing
I ran or strolled
to a future
untold

When I unbold, I

slunk and I whispered
in the best of times
I shouted in rythm and

ryhmes

Been to Madagasscar, Crete
Tibet , Rome
and still I need to head on home
and make my way
and pass the day
It rains in all those places a
and it takes so long
to get there
the waterworks stay the same
here.
I have the tears
and stamped passport
I have the fear of
the fearsome sort
I must stay still
and find it here--
the elusive
intrusive
last resort
the all inclusive plan
the combustible sponteinety
of moving at whim and
ignoring the imploring sages-
my diary is full
of empty or

scribbled pages

I am stuck at a station
and he of creation
has not pointed his finger
at me
I choose my transport
carefully
and lie low
till it hits
my bus, train , plain
knows where to go

I am caught in the trap
of ignoring the
map
and that is why things are so
the left turn
turned on
me
the right turn
was not free
the middle ground was muddy
mud
muddy
had to go back
once more
and get what was lacked


and had to go so many miles

unraveled

on roads

well and not well

travelled.

Made my way and made my bed,
like robert frost before me.
I'll end up dead
If I die violently

my blood will pour out

red

the honey will finally be free

of it's hive

What's that?

I know I know

I'm still alive.