dear sissa/ re: fuss/ rumor and t.v.
i was fussing at mouse - people can have surprisigly bad reactions to fussiness i have learned... i used to have this really crazy table of three on saturday nights. dr. lxxxx, who took the check always was a woman of advanced years. i fear she is surely mostly passed by now. she was (this is a supposition i should not necessarily stand hard by, i guessed it from the names, no one told me this) a psychoanalyst of some specie her daddy or uncle having been a big player in viennese freudian circles. her guests were two men, i presume analysts, i presume coupled in some vaguely sexual way. their dining experience was twin peaks does frazer. they were difficult in their requests, loud and aggressive in their opinions to each other, predictable in their pomposities like they had been studying their characters in books. other customers would complain.
"would you stop them being so mean to that old woman?" i can remember one attractive girl who had mistakenly wandered in on us looking for an atmosphere of conventional romance asking me. she was really quite disturbed by them.
"this is what they do every saturday night." i said. in my head i said: but don't you recognize the very lineaments of functionality here represented in these aging flesh containers? these here, this very flesh is the definition of sanity in the world we live in. you didn't glimmer that in your psych 101? me, i can complain, for i tend them every week, get her cookies, call her car. i put coats on her weird boyfriends so their silly pretentions won't get cold. i might complain, but you pretty little girl should recognize a poem when it gets thrown at you, see the theater when it is vividly real.
people get mad at you when you make art that's fucked up. they don't like realism...
anyway i was fussing at mouse.... the thing about punk was for me always the comfort derived from a soundtrack of complaint, however the electricity might get on my nerves (now to the extent i can't listen to much of anything.. but then it was always more about rumor and t.v....) {like to like} (there is always for me so very little music in music. you have to wade through so much of it to get the little bits that are useful, usable. my body cannot commuicate the fatness of it into nourishment. i am sonically toxxed.) (rumor and t.v. zappa on steve allen playing bicycle, whichever fluxxus children it was broke up that piano on german t.v., kicking off the east coast/ west coast gamelan feud.) -- punk was a populist articulation of a dada ethos i was already sniffing when i ran into the pistols because i had already reason to know that an ambience of happy joyousness meant sucky for me who had apparently got born with dark frankenstein head. the principle dada proposition is that happy, joyous people seem bent always to slaughter. they don't like us all clad in black with our monster faces. they don't like each other neither.
the principle dada proposition is that we have to therapize happy, joyous people with our filthy dreams that they might turn from murderousness. it doesn't seem to have worked very good, but on the other hand you don't see nothing much else working. everything is very unhappy and unsatisfactory.
anyway i was fussing at mouse because i am always fussing and desolate if i am communicating anything true of me. (and because i can see some illustations of me fussing at mouse with which i might decorate these words.) and in this particular instance the subject of fuss was the way europeans homogenise americans in their minds so that he should impute to me sexual views oh so out of line with reality (using mostly the evidences of his experiences in college station). the occasion which i fussily remembered was the discovery one afternoon in glasgow of a page of some black and white sex manual and as i inspected it as i do the discarded evidences of the street - its photographs presented a not very attractive couple in their underwear assuming coital positions - mouse said: "i guess in america that would be considered pornographic."
in my america? the america of quin?
RUMOR AND T.V. one of the great curiousities i have learned is that the paintings in photographs are more vivid, more beautiful than the paintings hanging on the wall. i go to lauder's expressionist porn palace up on 86th and i walk up and down the stairs comparing the klimts upon the wall with the klimts available for purchase and the 'real' is never as striking as the calendar or the tea set.
"Da Da" is apparently french babytalk for a hobbyhorse. a stickhorse. sort of like 'binky' is american babytalk for a 'pacifier'. a pretend nipple. a little emergency titty.
i would be a conceptual artist, but outsiders can't be conceptual artists, because outsiders are supposed to be too stupid for that. but outsiders are allowed to create their own religions.... i have beth take pictures of me as a religious icon. i sing repetitiously at these two John Donne poems i'm trying to set. if i can ever make them work i shall send mouse a copy and maybe it'll be some compenstion for having kin that will be terrible fusspots.
i figure it was the nature of the buffalo who were responsible for watching out to be fussy.
what conceptual artists and the creators of religions do is generate RUMORS that suggest there is some sort of life possible beyond the parameters laid down by T.V. (?)
"i am a myth maker of myth material"
i was fussing
6:26:54 PM 
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