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Anaxionus
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Name: Rick
Country: United States
State: Tennessee
Metro: Nashville
Birthday: 8/2/1984
Gender: Male
Interests: Religion, music (composing, playing, listening to), art (drawing and water-colour especially), writing (anything and everything), skateboarding, reading, hanging with friends (chilling and 'philosophising'), and walking around downtown at night.
Expertise: Inhaling and Exhaling.
Occupation: Education/training
Industry: Nonprofit
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  Logueus44
MSN: Logueus44
Yahoo:  Logueus44
Member Since:
10/24/2003
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| This Didn't have a scanner readily available for this 'project,' or else I would have simply begun my quirky notion instead of writing about it (yuck!). The Sacrament and who He is, is slowly spilling His consequences into all areas of my life, as the literal notion of 'sacrament' would seem to suggest - a symbol/embodiment that bridges and embodies realities beyond its immediate self.
. . .But enough of that for now. BASICALLY, without long explanation here, I've decided to hand-write the novel (I have yet to get beyond outlines and revisions) and, in the throes of this passion, decided to hand-write anymore entries that may come along in this weird and ethereal 'blog' thing. O God of Progress: you may try so hard to be something horrific and shoddy and sterile, but there are ways to subvert you into something oddly and particularly beautiful.
. . .A meaty recipe along these lines, a juicy personal pipe-dream for some distant future: Pull together a group of people as though for a drama and make a nuanced, solid world/situation/'stage' as well as character sketches for deep, authentic characters. Each actor-of-sorts takes home a written hand-out describing the world/situation/stage as well as the respective character sketch. Simmer and stir, dialogue is encouraged. Reconvene in a month and hire a stenographer for the occasion. Create the story in a session or sessions, and with each person speaking in character. At the end of the process, pay the stenographer, thank her/him, and receive the manuscript. Copy as necessary, staple, do whatever EXCEPT any content editing, give to whomever.
-r | | |
| Icarus and His Winged CondomThe greatest tragedy is not
That of the human sins
Screamed from the pulpits
But that of happily left alone doggy-doors for rot
-Rot, redefined,
Assigned a place between the temples,
Clean forehead, palms, fingertips,
Soapy mouths, and hair parts
Of a corpse;
Suds sundered, brow parted,
Open hands to the south
All stripped
Of any remorse.
Behold, the Soap
That will wipe away the Sin of the world
Before Lamb can;
Behold the Rope, the caking Blood
That we refuse to call a bleeding
Out [gurgggle. . .];
So we eat the cotton
And we pray for God's blessing
To the nourishment of our bodies
So we can wear the cake
And reheat it, too,
To the sundering of our souls.
Icarus with his winged condom
Weeps over a melt-down dying home;
Jezebel and her question-mark hair dyes
Gnashes at God for the baldness gene.
-r
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| Recent Playing I'm currently writing
an article concerning the nature of art, the exploration of objectively
'good art,' and so forth - which I'll most likely post in some form here when finished. For the time being, here are some relatively recent works of a similar subject .
. .
1996 Camry, 4-cylinder Automatic
Hurrah. Palette and materials speak for themselves.
Carya monolithis, Monument to Modernity
This
was my second and (to date) last attempt at an experimental medium
inspired by industrial sanding. I painted layer after layer of varying
colours on a piece of plywood - in this case: white, then blue, then
yellow, then red - and then used a power-sander to 'shave' it to what
can be seen here. This is sacramentally intentionally ugly beyond all attempt - a picture of a 'tree,' based on poem
concerning the same subject. While the central subject is blue-separated-from-yellow
with a 'balloon string' trunk, there is the subtle outline of a 'real'
tree along the outside of the test-tube tree. The inscription
translates: ' Ginsberg, Ginsberg - you were the blind, mute bastard of Komos; you are the one who spoke of the end of the world.'
 Untitled
Acryllic on cardboard. Using a small piece of cardboard for this work
was an attempt to afford 'sacramental' movement - to bring a physical
correlation to the image portrayed.
  
Untitled
Acryllic on ceiling tile; grid formed from air-conditioning unit packaging. More industrial-inspired art.
       Untitled . . . 'That Shirt'
Materials: red acryllic, pages from a Church of the Nazarene Manual,
a letter box, an empty toilet paper tube, a broken mirror, a black
marker, a red marker, two image clippings, a dress shirt, a tie, a
Church of the Nazarene return address label, nails, and a bandage.
I made this just prior to my Confirmation, as a sort of reflection of
the journey to reach that point of deliverance. At first, as in the
first picture, I had the tie untied and open, but the 'tie noose' idea
clicked and, in my opinion, really completed the piece.
In
the first place (and this is the level I was operating on), this is
loaded with all kinds of personal expressions and realities. In my
struggle over/with the Nazarene denomination and with my coming to
deeply understand the steep cost of becoming Catholic, I seriously
considered suicide. The pages and illustrations and notes on and
inside the shirt have to do with my trying to help 'fix' the Nazarene
denomination's catechesis and doctrinal crisis, as well as the utter
despair that followed.
However, this project seems
incomplete without the picture of a viewer looking at it; it seems to
have struck something beyond whatever it was I was trying to strike
at. I've noticed that the piece itself makes the viewer the 'piece of
art,' on display in a profound way. This seems to be a conduit/window
that 'stirs up' the human struggle with ugly realities, in oneself and
in others. The piece seems to bridge the person and the piece and the
realities between. In some instances, the viewer averts her/his eyes
quickly. In some instances, the viewer stares quizzically. Sometimes
- and usually only after a few encounters - the viewer timidly and
curiously moves closer to peer into the 'heart' of the shirt. Any
given person can have (and has had) any or all reactions to the piece.
 
Untitled
Acryllic
on canvas. An experiment with a colour-contrast method. This piece is
based on the coronation ceremony for a new pope, in which
(traditionally) a barefoot monk interrupts on three occasions, lighting
a flax rag on an iron pole and pronouncing, 'Holy Father, thus passes
the glory of the world.'
-r | | |
| Se LeverSouvent elle habite en le jour par la mare,
Eclaboussant ses jambes dans la mousse du midi
Et les permettent de refroidit
Dans l'endormi
Ondule de crépuscule;
Le sel dans son pleurer, le souffle du rire,
Dans tout, un mystère.
Je pleure, pour
La Vérité est trouvé
Dans le moment
Dans la mousse,
Dans la saumure, dans le rire coulant, coulant, coulant,
Dans le calme.
M. Hegel, s'il vous plaît: lisez un livre;
Arrêtez avec les chansons de tuba gais à nos funérailles.
Vous réduisez le Processus et la Fin,
N'importe quelles bougies, la saumure, la bouffée,
Dans les boyaux cireux
Et la violence hypothétique pathétique.
Le sens n'arrive pas en soulevant
La phrase de chaque livre sur la phrase
Mais dans permettre
Les phrases et les livres pour embrasser
Quand ils se traversent dans l'allée.
('. . .Mr. Hegel, please: read a book;
Stop with the jolly tuba songs at our funerals.
You reduce the Process and End,
Any candles, the brine, the puff,
Into waxy guts and pathetic hypothetical violence.
The meaning doesn't come in lifting phrase from each book upon phrase
But in allowing the phrases and books to kiss
When they cross each other in the aisle.')
-r
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| Four Months A Catholic. . . I've recounted here, in various ways and times and instances, the utter blood loss - how I basically came to understand that Protestant faith was quickly killing me. After years of playing the occasional, detached lawyer for the Catholic Church against the occasional and unfair Catholic-bashings of my college peers, finally, one day in the counsel chambres, the historic Church finally began getting through to me: 'Thanks for your help and everything, but I'll be okay. In case you didn't know, I've been around the block a few times. However - and I've been trying to tell you this for some time now - you're missing some vital organs, and you're bleeding all over your nice suit and leather briefcase.' And I was. Long before finally deciding to participate in Confirmation, I knew something had to give. If Someone didn't heal me soon, it would be curtains.
Life before being Catholic, life now as a Catholic- there is no way to even begin describing the two different lives, the surprisingly utter transformation. It is indescribably different and utterly natural to be a Catholic Christian. I'm finally home, finally at peace, feasting with our Lord and brothers and sisters at the Table where (in one sense) I'd always grown up but never actually lived. This always seems to cause confusion in conversation with my Protestant friends - this idea of 'coming home,' like it's some sort of a death/end to the 'Christian journey.' No: it's not that the journey ends, but now it's that you suddenly know (in all your journeying) where Father and Mom literally are. All the truths I had clung to as a Protestant were suddenly made complete and allowed to find harmony in such a way that my 'personal experience' is now actually fulfilling and not timidly skeptical, now wrapped up in something much more expansive than my own little definitions. It's like having lived your entire life in a car on an endless vacation and then, late one night when you're despairing and drifting somewhere near another restless dream, pulling up to a strangely familiar house, crashing on a bed that is as you might have remembered it. There will be tomorrow morning to explore the yard, but for now, as it is, it is sensory overload to discover the mystery of a pillow that holds strangely familiar smells.
The incense pours forth at the Vigil; the chant reminds you of a Christianity you never knew but always knew; terms like 'offertory' finally begin presenting themselves to you as the embodied, meaningful realities that they are. The Catholic doesn't need to bring a Bible to the Mass because the Mass is the embodiment of the Holy Word and His Scriptures, a living-out of the Holy Scriptures. After all, Catholicism embodies the reality of the Incarnation, and heaven and earth come together again. When the Psalmist writes 'I will enter His gates with thanksgiving in my heart,' as a Catholic, I am now literally caught up in this reality on at least a weekly basis (daily when possible); the doors of the church open, the Mass begins, the Gate of Heaven offers Himself to us, and we literally kneel before Him praying, 'Lord, I am not worthy to receive Thee, but only say the word and I shall be healed.'
-a-
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