TOM CLARK: Falling (She Came Back)

Falling, Pran Buri [Thailand]: photo by Piti Dui, 30 June 2018

Bizkor: photo by urtaur, 11 November 2017

Yellow Trousers Ginza Landscape | by Naterally Wicious

Untitled [Chumphon, Thailand]: photo by noppadol maitreechit, 26 June 2018

Untitled: photo by Claire Brinberg, 22 June 2018

Untitled: photo by Claire Brinberg, 22 June 2018

See a lot of this flesh in the window thang anymore even if you don't wanna there it is bulging right up in your face

Cause we live in an age of flesh oh and dumbness flesh and dumbness and not being able to say anything

But being able to jump into the Moose Suit and be the Moose at the kids party with the balloons and the Mooses

Yay flesh yay mooses You are So precious and So cute but must you rip your own clothing like this is it a disorder

Do you have something against your clothing What did your clothing ever do to you apart from get next to you

Ok that's bad enough to count as a bad thing it did to you and Now it's time to get even and then

Get even some more! And then - flessssh - ballloooons! Sooooo precious and cute!

Solano. Fat pink arms. Fat white arms. Fat supremacists.

Fire in the hills over toward Concord. Sun going down into the ocean through smoke-saturated unnaturally lavender-pink-tinted marine layer, orange fuzzed ball of portent. 'Pocalyptic. Chase Investment Partners. Girl w black lipstick absorbed in her cellphone. "Did you see that?" "Uh, what?"

Home sweet home. Waylaid by congenial plot unfolder neighbour. Attempting to be polite while being told plot of netflix original. Then plot of new season of Mad Men. What is Mad Men and why should I want to know. Then I get to hear. There's the episode where the cool guy reads Meditations in an Emergency. It's so emotional. Except that by some amazing trick of TV, wrong poem, wrong book.

Oxyana, W Va. Oxymurica. Fat White arms. Goth tats for Jesus. Nose rings. Black death t shirts. This great nation. I came home and they were all dead on the floor. Meth. Strapped and packin'. Ne'er read no book not ever. Not even oncet!

Outside Safeway and up the next block from 24 hour fitness w the window display of suffering whitey flesh on machines banging away terribly 24 hours like the sign says - there in the metal basket chairs facing out across the Ave toward the Judaica shop ("closed, back in 2 hours") and the classic Art Deco Oaks Theatre facade and the giant rusty dumpster now parked there for the gutting and demolition of the actual classic theatre, one of only 26 or is it 17 of its kind left in Murica, now destined to become a rock climbing venue, yet - when the developer's architect kid w the yarmulka was doing the advance sketches from across the street and I buttinski'd w a point and purpose, after a couple of cautious (him) exchanges he sussed me out, rebutted my class-based critique w a brusque "it's market forces, the way things are" by way of dismissive explanation of the patently destructive improvements, translated as "fuck off old man", no big deal I get a that a lot but hey to my deep regret I was living around here before yarmulka boy was yet born - IMHO the sidewalk spaces must be defended by the dying pedestrian breed, of which at the moment whereof I now speak the only representatives on scene were me and my curious light-and-shade derelict street doppelgänger the incredible grumbly rumpled elmer-fudd-hatted side-eyed-survival-watchful standoffish ashen black airplane manufacturer guy, w his massed wagons, boxes, bags, food and drink containers, fidget spinners, mysterious attitude and handmade for sale plastic fidget-spinner fleet of airplanes, held together by coat hangers, under his sheltering city-provided awning - but back in the hegemonically dominant here and now, the present, two superfat punk youth, topknot, efflorescing tats, noserings, multi ring plus, were, when it came to pass that I was hobbling very slowly by, chowing down on slimy yellow custardy-looking supersized "deepdish" "Chicago Style" (!!) mucus-cheese pizza from Zachry's (I'd seen the she-punk waddling across the Ave w the huge box, a kind of fateful preview, or warning of what was to come), venue highly favoured by tourists from burbs far 'n wide yet actual product disgusting, not fit for actual hogs, yet evidently suitable and then some to these two hungry and perhaps charming to somebody (each other, would be the instant inescapable conclusion), multiply self-pierced 'n-punctured widebody earthling goth-youth-ghouls - this Massive Zachbox so super-large that when it's opened out for the finger swilling and dipping and dripping dribbling and sucking, slice splitting and full-on spit-slobbering gob-smacking gangnamurican-style virtual street barnyard self-pleasuring chowdown, cranky old cripple me can't get past w/o awkwardly steering around, says, possibly a trifle impatiently but hey, it's the last chance saloon, this is the only life I'm ever gonna have, it may end in one second, has done, could and doubtless will do so again, sooner as vs later, "Hey, would you mind closing the top of that box for one second PLEASE, so I can get past?"

"What?" Outrage. "What did you say?" "I said Hey, would you mind pretty please closing that fucking box, for one second, PLEASE?"

Sullen punk earring boy sulky snottyface says nowt, but folds top over box, not before extracting two more fat slices, shoving them into his fat face. Truculent. To spite me? Old fool bumbling along with harnesses and cane?

Noticing young couple paused at Alameda light, she's hugely preggers, he looks like having not much fun on night out, catches my eye, I point to wife's swollen tummy, say "Take care of that, it could be our best hope for the Supreme Court." Coaxed a giggle out of 'em both at least. It's like that now, moment to moment, one continuous mood swing, all is lost, all is not lost, all is lost.

Slogans, rallies, badges, marches, memes, placards, what-he-saids, what-she-saids, public show-off look-at-me boojie pussy-halo-polishings galore, Susan Sarandon clamoring to get arrested and absolutely no language anywhere in which to express the depths of the discontent which stunts, paralyzes, numbs, the reactive anger that does nothing to alter dissipate or efface the fundamental murican assholery, the sky's the limit 'cause we're us and we always aim higher value scale, the unrelenting compulsive desire/need to always have the best stuff, the biggest cars, the greatest jobs, the coolest benefits, the hippest wardrobes, the broadest range of kitchen appliances, the newest most speedy and convenient devices, the smartest most talented kids, the winningest teams, the neatest second homes, the most interesting autobiographies, the most boring self-mythologies dressed up as memories, the most exotic island retreats with the cleanest sandiest beaches, the tightest security, the cutest pets, the paidest paid leaves, the most fantastic carefree get-away-from-it-all vacations, the safest spaces, the wildest office parties, the most marginally realistic generational wealth fantasies, the most diversified with an eye to the future investment portfolios, the most numerous and various and best hidden pieces of the action, the coziest sweetheart deals nobody's ever going to know about but us, the weirdest skeletons in the closet, the least philosophical awareness of what happened to Snow White when the woodsman took her out behind the barn to tell her a fun little story about baby animals getting married at Disneyland, the scattiest garage trash bags stuft with tufted vintage nuggets of the strangest and oldest dried animal excrement, the spookiest and longest and darkest shadows, the deepest fingerprint-proof rubber-glove-filled glove boxes, the hottest plutonium production line ingots waiting to be fired up again at a moment's notice, the most twisted and bizarre exaggerations of our own historical importance and place in the larger scheme of things if you take away the money and bombs and guns, the shortest half-lives, the quickest triggers, the most perfect games bowled in Bemidji while watching Formula One on a Thursday night in February, the fewest grains of slightly radioactive sand ever sunk in a fish bowl by the kids to most economically and effectively kill off all the fish just for the hell of it, the most bought buy-ins, the yugest lack of knowledge of the etymology of the word Kek combined with the least most ubiquitous absolutely top-of-the-line best hands-on carings-for and 24/7 incessant jealous defensive tendings of the already bought, monitored, gated, close-circuit surveilled, x-ray protected, childproof safety-lockt and ultra-closely-clutched for our eyes only perks and privileges, the most roseate illusions sold to us by the biggest pimps, the unwillingness to concede even on the day Toys R Us closed forever (yesterday) that we are lost children of slack-brained Komodo space dragons who after detaching from the module have shed all our scales and are left with no manners and too much power, the most elastic rubbery weak-kneed latitudinarian forgivings and permittings of ourselves on all fronts todas las días y siempre, the best planned ways of masking societal neurosis as entertainment, and of poorly concealing intense rivalry and ever churning engines of green eyed competitive envy under a permanent veneer of skindeep fake have a nice day chumminess covering up the total inarticulate strangled cool hand luke type communication breakdown and borderlands ressentiment forever and nobody notices 'cause it was always that way, the beatings, whippings, hangings, chaingangs, chainlink fences, guard dogs, the sheriffs, the excuses, the nostalgia, the holes in one, the shooters, the men down, the rationales, the blue angels, the private screenings in the plush after-the-blast lounge with the 12-to-24 purple velvet seats, the beatings around the bush that contains the bird that can't say a word because it's a murican dodo and has a very expensive lawyer, a private plane, a secret pedicure friend, knows Rudy personally, in short quite happily steps outside that sequence of developments, two step forwards, one step backs, ten steps backs, formerly known as evolution in order to most fully enjoy the total bs smorgasbord that's permitted meaning-deprived muricans 'cause uh, we forget, and which makes all talk or thought of change or "revolution" (!! talk B cheap!!) seem silly or worse, fatuous, indulged, dishonest, and business as usual.

And in this setup, where everybody wants the same stuff, and grubs away after it from dawn til dusk, wanting the big everything, having it, wanting more, where is the high ground, the sanctified elevated island of above-Trumpness?

Rudy Giuliani speaks at the National Council of Resistance of Iran event in Paris.: photo by Zakaria Abdelkafi/AFP/Getty Images, 30 June 2018

Activists shout during a rally to protest the Trump administration’s immigration policies in New York.: photo by Kevin Hagen/AP, 30 June 2018

‏Verified account @realDonaldTrump

When people come into our Country illegally, we must IMMEDIATELY escort them back out without going through years of legal maneuvering. Our laws are the dumbest anywhere in the world. Republicans want Strong Borders and no Crime. Dems want Open Borders and are weak on Crime!

‘The 2020 presidential elections are still more than two years away. That is a long time in politics and an eternity in the Trump era.’: photo by Jonathan Ernst/Reuters, 30 June 2018

Slogans, rallies, badges, memes, parades and pussy halos galore and absolutely no language in which to express the suppressed discontent which stunts, paralyzes, numbs but does nothing to alter or dissipate or efface the assholery, the sky's the limit value scale, the constant overwhelming desire/need to have the big cars, the good jobs, the cool benefits, the paid leave, the wink wink work-at-home-while-faking-it special understandings, the second homes, the perks and privileges, in short, the total bs smorgasbord of entitled because-we're-us rewardings of ourselves that's permitted muricans 'cause uh, we forget.

And in this setup, where everybody wants the same stuff, and grubs away after it from dawn til dusk, wanting the big everything, having it, wanting more, where is the high ground, the sanctified elevated island of outside-the-bubble above-Trumpness?

Untitled: photo by Oksana Novoselskaya, 14 June 2018

Val Doro's - Luigi | by stuedwards_filmmaker

Untitled | by massimilianolandi.tumblr.com

Untitled: photo by Massimiliano Landi, 28 June 2018

It's ok, no worries, not exactly a total pig, jes throwin' up in the canal a bit, she's only sick because she's so damn woke, give a girl a break, here.

Confession [L'viv, Ukraine]: photo by Tetyana Bunyak, 13 June 2018

Mumbai (2017) [Chhat Pura Festival]: photo by Suresh Naganathan, 27 October 2017

DSCF3282crope: photo by ilan Ben yehuda, 18 June 2018

5 comments:

TC1 July 2018 at 08:36
Stan Ridgway: Harry Truman

Stan the Man saw all this coming from the high desert perspective. Distance lends enchantment to the view.

I bodyguarded Harry Truman once. He was a KC hat salesman picked by the Democratic Party machine to replace FDR. One-inch-tall killer haberdasher asshole pure and simple and straight up and show me the money, one's #1 least fave Prez til now. That good night's sleep as the Bomb dropt, pure uncut guilt free Murican, the Good Right Stuff or whatever the Grossinger lifestyle fascists used to call it... and Buzz Aldrin has lost his mind and what are we to do. John Wayne died w 80 lbs undigested animal matter in his gut, true fact, kilt by radiation from A bomb, what goes around comes around, Death speaks through our evangelical Mouths.

John Wayne was always bald
And he had a woman's name
Valentino was a momma's boy
He cried in his tent all night long
And Harry Truman finally dropped the bomb
So they could go to sleep at night
So they could go to sleep at night

I got a plaque up on the wall
And an office in the sky
I give birth to major deals
Lookin' down on the passersby
I pass the torch, I follow the code
I'm steerin' straight ahead, I don't stray from the road
To be a warrior with a king
To put your hand in the flame without burning
And go to sleep at night
And go to sleep at night
And go to sleep at night

John Wayne was always bald
And he had a woman's name
Valentino was a momma's boy
I cried in my tent all night long
And Harry Truman finally dropped the bomb
So I could go to sleep at night
So I could go to sleep at night
Now, go to sleep...
kent2 July 2018 at 00:38
TC,

You are one fearless motherfucker.
So I could have the strength
to get out of bed, even when
it's still night.
Plain, Salt or Everything?

k
TC2 July 2018 at 05:43
More like screw loose I fear.

You are my rock.

Whole wheat, no salt.
Mose232 July 2018 at 12:53
Ukraine is one country lousy with priests.

I'm with you every line, Tom.
TC3 July 2018 at 09:00
But that concept of the outdoor confessional is novel enough. It's meant to be a dark closed secret place. In this scene there is at least the hint of entertainment value. Though that might be only me.

I love Tetyana B's close eye for the joke.

The atmosphere here where we are though is no joke at all at present and nobody's laughing x-cept the Trumplets. And this apocalypse effect, with the sun gone from the fires, and all things ashen... talking of entertainment.

TOM CLARK

Sunday, 1 July 2018

Falling (She Came Back) | flessshapods

5 comments: