Abstract Ideography (Volume One)

8/2/2019 Abstract Ideography (Volume One)

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Music moved into the center, mute singing immovable within a core. The

small diminishment of timid passions, large betrayal to hide what should be allowed

out. And captive of our own causes as much as creatures in sustained pauses. Kept

from flight and in a way, kept away even from sight. And out of fear, out of a fright,

that others might pass mean judgment, not understand, encourage or appreciate what

they hear of it. To close a tight jaw against this notion of risk. Keep a quiet voice in

the threat of it. Clipped wings ironically at no knife-edge of another, and no force tall

enough anyway to unravel an inherent, inborn calling. The low at first and then rising

voice imploring one to crawl towards it. Meaning. The truth in all authentic

movement. Desire. The teeth in all trembling moments. The illusive, transparent,

concrete and unmistakable death of stifling one's natural, eccentric motions.

Unspeakable, wrong speech towards improper cues. The misdirected choices of

misinterpreted clues. Such as the sound or sight of un-missable, barely-there,

concealed-from-view and somehow everywhere signs, signals. One might even say,

the notes. A navigation and a way to read what somewhere, someone wrote. And what

always as well is always only written for one. (Although also and fortunately,everyone.) And whatever in addition is more than merely forgotten when gone. The

hints of what gifts had been shown, to get through living and avoid some forced

substitution. (The chance missed in the end, the charge to chime in and along, and the

skeleton even making its own difficult and easy to decipher push towards total

comprehension, journey to a vision's fruition. A complete out-with-it and right there

to see, if not for the coffin.)

Birth and the nest or a protected struggle. Life and the rest of a prolonged

trouble. And aftermath ongoing of what tricky angles and steep drops exist. A maze of

deep darkness. Massacre of dead-stops and easy exits. And it's amazing that any at all

have the means and wherewithal, the guts and moxy when traversing even this, find a

way to know, and to notice what's the true flow. Then use that power for the torturous

scheme and terrible dream of such awful things as building a life even more inspired

than it seems.

(Too bad for us all though, the warm light of that welcoming radiance, calm

peace of an end to a well-lived existence, and with one's particular ideal (or idle idol)

of whatever fashion adorning the face and dead-center of that sun that you still end

up, chewed up, and ground into the gears of anyway. Despite the last, content tears.

Regardless the danced-through, celebrated and depleted years.)


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Gold and the representation of it. Exact facsimile and an imperfect copy.

That could be worth no less, if told or sold or created of a mind, culled from a unique

mold, contained in only the half-presented head and hands and heart, who try in

merely their poverty-weak and wealthy way, to say, these endless things they need to.

Framed in squares complete and incomplete, perfect and imperfect walls all

around them, and within which are set the opposites or similar things. Or either not

any of that. Maybe not near to all this. But related regardless by manner ofsymmetrical placement. And in choice of meaning, what's meant by their presence.

That on the one hand (for instance the left), whatever remains is a joined set of

potentials. Keys out of or into. Power to take on or take up arms against (or attempt to

get oneself out from under. For instance the earth and maybe a symbolic six feet of it.

Or what stands for a death-in-life, any suffocating thing stepping on you. Boot heel

down on a throat. And the decay that can be formed, rust that can accumulate. Dying-

while-living and for form this might take anger or distrust, debilitating sadness or a

dense and deep depression, and a look out to the world covered in what garbage such

a standard over the decades can form and be. To look at it, irreparable. "You arebroken." "I am breaking." "There isn't a single thing anyone can do to fix me. I'm

done with it. I'm done with this whole set-up and all relentlessly talking-at-me not-

understanding-me people.") And anyway the truth in such where there might be. And

cyclical, circular, around-the-corner, connected and not-yet-met, loved already but

never set eyes on or said the single first word to. A separate soul, who feels the same.

And that even in this darkness, hole of a life, habits/hardships/horrors inherent in the

human condition, right next to you if you dare to be open to it is maybe already,

linked to you inextricably, stuck with you-you stuck with them before you've even

begun to realize and revel in it.

And that, in another view, in another corner (as if we're describing a ringdesignated for battle (which we are)), a maybe top-side version, still-decayed but

golden, surely-flawed but always holding, still-life in an embrace made deathless by

commitment. Bashed-in skull, mangled to reflection by allowing another to stand

beside them. Cold and the preparation for it. Warmth and another's body to create and

hold it.


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As a group, if not entirely in one. Together as a whole, if not wholly ever

aware of it. Conscious of one another or concerned with a symbolism they inhabit and

form and in all ways are, when arranged thus and captured by a simple and common

technological method.

All over and yet never quite. To cover entire and of course ever to be

abbreviated and that this anyway is most, this besides that is the best, more than could

be done with more. Better than could be said by their number being bigger, their fieldof not-flight were it larger. And to lay their alive and unliving bodies in a higher

number on what space they've carved out and have carved-into as well to try and then

crawl out of, would only leave less or if any space for what else is there, to try and

speak silently and sing just as well. The harmony of a central section, disarray and

disaster of order down left to right, in a corner-to-corner direction. And the two other

exact angles opposite this, left bare to take on their own ideas, the complimenting

components. Here along with all else and as in all others of this type, kept in their

quadrants to speak from, corralled in their cages to call out along with who else is in

the larger frame. And in a combined effort and coalescing energy to explain, as wellas they can, by use of no words and by way of static gesture, what it is they need to.

Or above all anyway what they've been sent there to deliver. Beneath all the

posturing, the message they're trusted with to bring up, bring out, and bring over. And

to hope that it's received in any small way by whoever ends up seeing it. Or even

better still, with only their own personal, wholly different interpretation of it and

inspiration from or relation-to or resonating. What they would call their brightness

instead of what another would. How they would describe their sharpness and to

contrast their own, intentional corrosion. Meaning-inside-meaning and the connective

tissue of collision. Feelings and emotions and the descriptive friction of destruction.

Loosed wildness to keep linked or is it to keep apart, what again might be a differentthing altogether than what a viewer finds true of clean, smooth silver. Slim enough to

sever any disagreement. Or else what their opinion is concerning crusted, constricted

crumbling and a cute metaphor for the decay you might find in the cracking-up of any

discussion between adults. (Or the childlike (but generally pitiable) cave-in and often

with drastic effects, crushing blows (even the fatal) that can be dealt by the hand and

in the sight of no one else but the only man in the lonely room.) And this last which

all the pretty colors in the spectrum shown here couldn't start to ever really repair.


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Fit into the small spaces of each other. Making room for another as we know

or feel we want to. The pain to accommodate, or strain to rightly illustrate. The

physical, mental, actual. And the past, acutely remembered. Drug up to drag through.Put one in a place and think to a particular time. Dream back to a certain point and as

dangerous as it is to the health of wherever one's at in the present, you also simply

have no choice. The cut of a figure, slice of a face. The strangest things they said, and

all the odd things you can't help but recollect. The way they may have stood, the

feeling of them standing near to you as close as any could have been, and the

unrecognized seconds where slowly and suddenly after that anonymous,

unceremonious moment, they never again would. And what smallest things of a life

can bring it back. Some streets walked on now, whichever city how far away it might

be. Just the sun on another part of the planet and you there to be a part of it. And even

with dark, even with light, raining down on all or extinguished by the night, the mostcommonplace of seconds and you can't figure the reason. Stuck standing alone on a

street corner and not knowing why you'd have to struggle to get moving again. But a

memory sprung up and released, for some reason; this intersection, these avenues.

This moment and without a soul around, a body not seen in so long is watched and as

if real. And how could you not be wrong. How could the back of their head and the

soft curve of their neck, the slow pace of their legs and the subtle sounds their feet

made, and make. Any person not seen but only ever felt, thought back to and

wondered about more than anyone else. And now on this day or night, as to be honest

on so many others of its kind, in so many corners of any city which holds the potentialto begin it, held solely in who dredges the body on anyway to the next. And so that in

a way it should be no surprise. This should be no shock that you would think of her

here. It's no cause for confusion that you're looking straight at him. And of all things

in the world and as ever, as all previous nights like this and all as well that will come

to pass, one thought only although never to drown out the reverie, one other desire

looming large but never to replace nostalgic entropy, that if somehow there was a

way, to reach, to reach out, to say and yet not say, to express and yet respect them by

not saying a word. Because who knows how they'd take it. And who knows how it'd

sound. And besides who knows where they are, anyway. (Unless you know that very

well, for example, and they're right across town, living quite appropriately with aperson who isn't named You.) But how to move this on. How to move ahead after

this. Days and years and even a decade or more past. Between. Since. This sad corner

that may have even been the actual one. This stage of being stuck in a place that might

not even be worth mentioning. (To her.) (To him.) (And you just want whatever of all

this is right. You just want the thing that will help you through this night. You can't

take a step forward. You cannot take a step forward even with the change of the light.)

And at the root of all this, a slight reminder you might have walked right

past, if you hadn't been looking down. A beat-up, shaped piece of old brass, talking at

you as loud as all that loss, speaking up to you as lurid as all that longing. And inwhat cut from your history that still hurts, what confusion of your current life that

snugly constricts, at least one clear way (and medium) to constructively (if a little

crazily) deal with it, waiting right there for you. (And maybe you'll even communicate

a thing or two.)


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Jungle of flowers that this living and this life is often not. Beauty upon

beauty and rot inside of rot. (Or, you know, not.) Folded upon itself the crumbling

decadence of natural things, elegant and simple and in a way primitive, in a waytamed, (certainly after being plucked from their stem or branch), and becoming at

someone's hand arranged. Succumbing to taste as they become assembled for a time,

say for an artist, to paint their inanimate portrait.

And then reproduction by choice. Or random stack to be found not in

museum or otherwise art book, but pile at a junk shop and discarded hundreds of

prints. Dust upon the top of them three of its layers thick, and taken notice of as they

lay there, out of the piled around them thousands of other things, recycled already in a

sense, and one step away from a landfill. Anonymous and ungilded now, discarded

and unusable at present. Until an enterprising eye spies them out of the jumble. Two

creative hands reach out to specifically grasp them. Two green eyes set sight on theirsurface and which had never before. Not knowing the name, unconcerned with what

was the original painting. And only realizing that what had just been found was

nothing save supposed to be. Only knowing that this simple happening was of course

luck's courtesy. And that in a way they'd been put there for her or him. Unlikely

resurrection in a sense and to a degree never dreamed of by that painter, however

many centuries removed. Who'd never think that what they were laboring so tirelessly

at would ever become so unremarkable and unappreciated as to be shown in such a

poor light, hung in such a dismal gallery, forgotten and all but erased to becoming

mere flotsam in a crafts section of an indoor year-round used goods sale, last stopbefore the final stop. And regardless of where that initial work of art now resides. If it

even still exists or has been preserved.

Hidden gems, power. Immortal in art, that day's flowers. Tireless grace

finding a way to thrive within this precedent, all out negligence and to not only

survive but flourish, and to even choke out or wrestle back what else might step in its

place and create a demand for another, less beautiful, less attractive idea altogether.

Still the resilience even in the interim. Unstilled, rebellious, against all modern

imitation.

And the means to wage this revolt. Unpretentious tools of not terror (or

commerce) but personal truths and trials. (Which can be terrifying.) (Or completelyliberating.) At hand and inexpensive, simple to master, easy to conceal. Methods to

manipulate to move and take over. And the metaphor of machinery of only a

somewhat apt use. Automatic as they're not, but primitive and real in a way no

mechanized weaponry against whomever could ever, have courage to create, have

depth to do real "damage", hold conviction and control to cause change completely.

And right here and now, at close range. A yearning or wonder in someone's heart, shot

right onto the page. And more often than not, the enemy they'd been taught to deal

even that difficult lesson of death to, never being some stranger far-off, picked-up

through the sight of a broken-even-when-fixed scope, but the real evolution and whichis always within and never not being waged (and as ever, the key to much more than

merely this), as close as taking a look at what alternatives to such conflicts exist. The

growing, generous cracks in the face of the ugly world. Pushing out gorgeous things

like what matures amidst all this garbage we wade through. And then to dip the quill

in the ink and get to the celebrating, the history-making. The sanctioned viciousness

of charging forward, trusting not foolishly, and channeling forever the revision.


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Long lines of lead that begin even longer ones. Never-ending, once pressed

down (though not exactly endless, that ability to push it around.) Scratching out a

cylinders, columns of slim circles. Drawn along in silence, shaped to be drawn-upon.Dragged on paper for others to read or disregard, while they're here doing the work of

it, or else after they're gone.

The dark dye of dreaming scraped, clean scars that thinking can make. Grisly

flow of feeling to conformed to language and kept in certain boundaries as it goes. As

what theory or something-near-truth grows, to stay in constraints of a limited,

limitless range. Effort and effects to play within an antiquated and ageless frame. A

piece of anything blank picked up from out of anywhere, torn off a wood lamppost

through its staples, taken from a neat stack or pad on a table, or opened-to in a

notebook in a pocket, and going ahead with only the most minimal of necessary

medium between mind, and method. The simplest, most singular, or closest-to-purestmanner of connecting meaning, with its manifestation.

And so cheap you might often find them on the ground. Pick a lost one up,

fallen out of a kid's book bag, and sharpen to put to use. Or discarded, and even better

when dirty and done away with. To prove the notion of resilience by being this half-

destroyed, left out on the street for however long and still capable of being taken,

turned, twisting the small end against certain either coiled blades arranged in precision

or just a piece of plastic with a single sharp edge shoved inside of it. To emerge again

with a shaped point, then go ahead with it for whatever reason. A strength that maybe

needs another of the same to recognize. A counterpart and stranger perhaps cut fromthat similar cloth, locked eyes with when all others step past and over. And a

perpetual return to the tools of a child, to do the toil of an adult.

Or even like that adult, smashed-up and stepped-on and bent out of shape,

broken into another posture, burnt or spent or used-up in however many millions of

variations that can happen with them, with us, still able to at least try and stand for a

purpose. Even laying there charred, decimated and (subjectively) useless. To remind

one of the same thing, the proof at least in metaphor, of what they once were. Or at

least see the once-potential for an effect, a youth's fear of small explosions, and that to

create and continue to call upon that creativity, is to receive a consistent message and

momentum. Past and through and even to spite all other affects or distractions of whatthe environment around the grown-up call out, scream in their face even and to try to

keep from revealing that all of it's unnecessary, that none of it's a real potency, and

that for some of them, the one true thing ever to make a difference has been in small

symbols such as an old pencil box might provide. (Where maybe once was kept also a

collection of quasi-legal, used-up firecrackers.) And often the street below blossoming

those signals as well. Small road worn reminders the same as explosions of continual

insight. Small, almost alarming but expected and hoped for all the same pops of slim,

strung-together fingers of paper and hardly-gunpowder. Interesting, poetic items

littering certain suburban streets on a walk on some quiet morning, July 5th.Recollection and realization without warning, and what from the back pocket can be

taken out to transcribe it with.


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Scarcity of light in scared, spineless living, allowing as much creating and

being afraid of what's given as circumstances, forced-on as if it's the only option. And

the substances of light and substantial amounts of real, relentless darkness. Death and

pretty disease passed off as requisite. Bits of glamour placed within reach and it fits

that the pleasure of the acquisition is so crassly packaged (and promoted) as much as

the afterward act of ownership. Wearing whatever's been suggested. Wanting

whatever's been implied. Consuming whatever and more of what's made readilyavailable.

Scales in the shape of roses, and on the skin of whose reasons hold down

these roots. Whose results are these rewards, the reordering of wants. And what's

cared about becoming less rational. Which things fought for end up having been

fabricated, often fictional. And despite the shine in the magic of, say, celebrity (a scar

with a deceptive shade), still just manufactured and mass-made and may as well be in

some far-removed marketers factory.

And what vertical, vertebrae. Stacked in a single line and smaller than can be

recognized, not unlike when folded-in behind smooth flesh. Is anything real that'slooked at in the world? Is anything speaking to you and selling at you, shouting silent

slogans down on you really something actual? (Or even actually factual.) The guts

and mechanics of the billboard or product endorsement, right there in the flesh

handing you a copy of it, some thing you never even knew until then that you needed.

And what seeming futility to test this theory in a seemingly unconcerned populace, or

at least the rest of us, (and which is the best of us.) The little people and the big

people and everybody between who make up what you see on the street really

anywhere, forming the faction of in fact millions. And who like you like I like the

next face seen when "walking out the front door," allowing all of this, all the time, to

hollow us.


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Connect together, the two. Collect, arrange, attach-to. A subtle impact, of-a-

sudden intact. Where moments before it'd seemed as unlikely they'd even touch, or

find or have reason and circumstance to meet at all. And maybe still in a way they

haven't. Two sides of one possible source, both examples of a single, of course. Two

alike and though often as imaginably different as might be. Both dissimilar and which

is sometimes somehow best, to turn I, into We. The evidence of living, difficult to

disguise when another is up so close. Though this intimacy and the rest, to take andreceive so cloyingly near, for a vision of what might be behind the layers of color, the

long limbs and skin's contours, the lengths of flowing hair as delicate as flowers. The

way of seeing in, on a surface impenetrable for being so thin. Something so resilient

and yet in its given form and body, unavoidably more fragile, for all the places it's

been. The mastery of expression of motion, or what tone a voice is delivered in, what

situation concerns it, what nervous scene. The depth and desire to have that deepness,

by only the particular longed-after other, seen.

Imperfection of nature, ill-fabricated edges conforming only to what's

pictured. And within this misdirection, more perfect an image than if it were aimed atby invention. And the way to maybe see this on another. The clarity of sight when

such as this is witnessed, without even the belief that it or anything like it might ever

happen. Or happen to them and not some lucky other. Two. A beautiful thing but only

it seems for a chosen other few. Maybe even eventually, it can seem, literally all of

them. The hopeful and lonely thought to no one they could name, "Everyone but me

and you."

Hope and sentiment and all use of clearly stated emotion. Or the ambiguity

of the use of images to speak. To say a thing without a word of speech come out. And

anyway sent, pushed ahead by way of overland route. And so (back then), when

received (if it got there), the very real chance of weeks having passed since it hadbeen taken out of a mind and crowded and penned onto the other side of the card. And

so this in addition to a lack of any voice but the receivers own to recite it, a

composite of yours. But also the not different yet not identical hope, that who had

penned it that many days prior, still felt the same about and for them, this many miles

later.


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And if any doubt still existed, the love for one distant, dearest in a land of

any distance, again to the face of the gift their eyes could move. The imagery anew

and a quaint proof of a time's limits of reproducing art. A placement in an era, and

when no other was in use besides such methods for this haphazard communication.

Adoration over the rough, untamed land, towards the object of one's affection.

The ideas and feeling having been entrusted to this one chance. This initial

and most striking of the two sides, to bring home what words on the other flat edgecould never quite seem to get across. What imagination of in turn the often

anonymous artist who had made such an image, or who'd simply created a photograph

they thought would be pleasing, with or without a by-hand and later amount of

coloring. And in what time it took, the memory of this imagery travelled along as

well, or the thought of it as it moved through the mail, in tandem. The recollection of

what had recently been dropped off into the pouch of a courier. The anticipation of its

arrival, the dreaming and conjuring a vision of their reaction, and as its colors and

exact pictured items couldn't help but take on a fade, such a short time had it been in

their hands before it left, to have made a real permanent impression on their mind.And in exact opposite to another, stronger thought and mind's eye dream of a

different, beautiful face. And one that strangely, despite the time and despite the

events of life without seeing him or her while apart, never seemed to lose a single

pulse of the power and sway it'd held over them, and maybe had immediately the first

and the rest of the times they'd been lucky enough to look upon it.


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Visions, and what's kept. Incisions set to intercept. All vile and common,

violent environment, created without cause like an impossible argument. The impulse

at root of all imagining to suit. An innocence needed tempered to degrees, but also

power ever subdued, when this imagining has stacked against it a world one can bet

will attempt to infect.

An eye and not an eye. That could be seeing but doesn't. Or for whateverreason can't, and so won't and even mustn't. Human aspect for certain need as well as

more than is ever seen. Specks of open spaces on all created faces. Spots to let in

light, slow or quickly allowed to enter these places. The mixtures of dark and what's

between those extremes, a subtle blend of bad and good, in what life made up of joy

or living become a fight, all those crafted bodies end up anyway in. Blurred into, as

they maybe should.

The urges to act and the reasons why. Or what's told to be seen, and who

does the naming of each's supposed real thing. Decisions already made before they

even realize it. Or all that's given in confusing mirages of choice, and the entity (or ina way everybody) behind that game of teaching this suspect reality.


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A clarity that isn't clear. Or a calling that's kept behind clever, idiotic

distractions. All that isn't necessary and that's more than accessible, almost pawned

off as a rarity. Watched, or watching. Sight, or a lack of it and so something else. A

strife, and for what should either way be what's given at the first, kept clear enough

and on since birth, and can become another thing all together if exposed to this

world's worst.Ribbon of darkness, turning and changing to light. Or river of shed skin,

taught and flat and once wrong, now forever right. A manner of sorts to sort out,

method in a way as futile as it is poor, full of doubt. An acceptance and a sly

maneuvering that could be called a smart name like ruse. Or else and more to the

point, a bullet in one side of all this, and everything that in a split second is convinced

to leave quick as it can out the other. The metaphor to describe an acknowledgement

but never a bowed spirit to its principles. To work within the set-up to in secret take

back what's been torn up. Awful, you try to look away but can't. Horror, you'll lie and

act the part, complaisant. Convinced as you are that maybe the only way to kill it, is tolet it think it's already done its killing upon you.


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Abstract Ideography

(A Visual Ideology)

all intact -for the most part(All visceral -forgive the mushy parts)

Absent tact -ideally rough

(All cynical -despite the sappy stuff)

4/4/12 ISBN 9780982786642

All contents d.All contained herein composed andconceived of casually, in between currentsand waves of caustic, uncontrollable andbreath-taking circumstances (mostlycerebral.)

Cureless, in case you were wondering. (Andhardly caused by others.)Clueless, in point of fact. (Unceasinglyheartfelt, criminally sentimental.)

Vasculiterra.com

Vasculiterra@gmail585 56th St. Oakland CA 94609

twitter @VasculiterraFacebook/EmotionalProperty

Thank You


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Documents

Abstract Ideography (Volume One)