Sunday, August 27, 2006

This morning: a late sleep. Groggy, unwilling to get up but unwilling to stay in bed longer. Made a few phone calls before I realized I have my final Level 1 ASL class at 12:30. I decide to blow it off. Simply because I hate being at the hands of another in a classroom setting. I always have. What can I say? I love to learn but I hate the classroom. The final class was handed off to another teacher anyway, so what do I care?

An hour spent grocery shopping this late late morning: got all of my big name items at Key Foods on 33rd St and 30th Ave: generic tofu, two boxes of cereal, small stacks of pita, some second rate yet functional cheese, a box of garbage bags, and a prim bottle of soda, etc. Nothing, really. Off to some smaller, local places for dry hot salami, some firm broc, a pound of raw almonds and a quartet lush tomatoes. Long walk back. Groceries cleaned, washed, sorted and stored as appropriate. Spent an hour or so reading the "Gord of Greyhawk" books but Gary Gygax, the inventor of Dungeons and Dragons. It's nerdy, I know, but this stuff brings me a kind of psychic and creative comfort that little else does. Music, yes, but that's a haughty and elusive mistress that I must constantly pursue. This "literature" is always at hand and demands to be read once a decade. So I let it keep me happy.

After the scattered nap, a bike ride down to the studio. Not a new way, but not one I normally take: due south past the MoMA QNS building, over on Hunter's Point. I have to admit that I love these desolate, industrial neighborhoods on the weekend. Staid but full of potential. I don't care to romanticize them, of course. Up the six flights to the studio (which I have informally christened "Manque Studios") and Teddy was there. I placed the earplugs and got to work. Interrupted by a few texts from PattyO but I managed to place a score of blackbirds and at least three malevolent Root Babies. Teddy made a run for beer--after the shitty wine was drained--and came back with not only beer but crackers, cheese (Havarti) and a kind of tough, fatty commercial salami. The Brooklyn Lager made it all quite delicious. We talked about stuff. It was good.

Bike ride home. Passed the remains of PS 1's Warm Up thing and felt wholly inadequate for not being 24 and able to enjoy the shitty, short-lived bands that play there. I climbed the stairs to the apartment find a lanky, comatose roommate on the couch. Poured myself a stiff gin and soda and watched a solid hour of old Tom and Jerry cartoons, stuff from the 40s and 50s, Loew's Classics, with beautifully executed backgrounds. I love those kind of cartoons because they're so lovingly created in a kind of hyper-realistic style: lamps are uber-lamps, carpets are uber-carpets, mice and cats and dogs are uber-mice and -cats and -dogs. It's the perfection of a kind of visual language that transcends any kind of art movement made in the 20th century and ties itself to the caveman paintings, Renaissance painting, Impressionist painting. Yes yes, I know, I keep alluding to paintings. But, really, this stuff--and the best of painting--possesses the kind of vital longevity that will remain valid while all of the "art about art" and "art about the artworld" will quickly choke to death on it's own glib, silvered tongue. I can't wait, motherfuckers.

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