I heard something on a podcast the other day that gave me pause. The idea was that the concept of fake and maybe the word itself was one of the paramount features of our contemporary world. Further the point being made that artificial intelligence is a facade for the continuation of the colonial mission. This wasn't the first time I had heard this, it's one I often revisit in criticisms. Since I have been going into my poetry I did a word search and in my last two big publications the word fake appears once, a time/space/place reference.
"Watch hands
The jagged motion of a fake
All of your mistakes in body
A God moving ungodly things
Sitting pretty
Still missing the city
Still missing the beauty when you've become ugly
Longing to touch the scarred face
Black under the sun
The thing that you’ve become
The thing that you’ve become
The thing that you’ve become"
I haven't done any deeper cross referencing, maybe I will for a little more research or try and start a new conversation with one of the artists that spoke of such things, just to be able to talk about it with someone that has more interest. Homework in a similar way has come up. I'm wondering how we came to call what we do disciplines. I've been pursuing the materiality of my work for some time now and now I'm back on my thought shit. Obviously they work in tandem.
I want to record more storms for my catalog. I remember going to a retrospective at _____ for the late _________ and ____ annual trips to record storms. Maybe the sentiment comes from a similar place, maybe not. I want it for sleep and sound while I work. The sound of wind and rain and thunder encapsulate me when I'm trying to find peace. It's one of the settings I've found myself working with good results. There are some truly beautiful and terrifying events inside of a storm. My friend mentioned off handedly that storms bring spirits much like the tempest. Something happens and I don't know if it is just me looking on the brighter side, I am rarely completely caught in the moment of a storm. Like a lot of things the rain or cold just misses me.
The other joke of the month is that my luck is that I get to keep playing, I chuckle to myself. I stand in the midst of enough phenomenon. An actor asked me a number of questions about survival and whether I put myself in danger for the right amount of money. No amount is the right amount in that regard and I'm taking the risks regardless of the setting. This weeks written piece from The Second has a regular form. Each stanza has 8 lines. Its called, The 8 Sided Die (Regular movements and a Complete Life) I’m referencing a recurring motif of the 8 point star and a complete life. The game always comes to an end. I want to say peace to my mother who passed away January 7th. I love you very much. Travel light.
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