jerkbrand

work of mind vs. work of hands

jessica Ku — Thu, 29 May 2008 06:43:42 +0000

the reason why painting is worth more than sculpture.

my romantic theory carries the same argument. it is quite dialectic as a work of mind.

thesis, the love struggles from consciousness. trying to find the reason and justification. the dichotomy between the logic and emotion.

anti-thesis, the emotion struggles from the notion of beauty. almost like narcissism, the beauty to be loved and the beauty to love. the six senses, the primitive and pure desire to make love.

synthesis, the desire to conceive the beauty eternally. the curiosity that what exists beyond the beauty, consciousness, logic and emotion.

i strive to feel how my love evolves. it must create much greater being. i ran as fast as possible to cross the both, thesis and the anti-thesis of the romance. i answered to the unknown rather than the logic. i answered to the beauty to eliminate the beauty, in order to become capable of seeing myself more clearly.

the last day of may, Walt Whitman was born.

I am curious to know where my feet stand—and
what this is flooding me, childhood or man-
hood—and the hunger that crosses the bridge
between.

poem of you. whoever you are.

WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking
the walks of dreams,

I fear those realities are to melt from under your
feet and hands;

Even now, your features, joys, speech, house,
trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume,
crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true soul and body appear before me,

They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce,
shops, law, science, work, farms, clothes, the
house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating,
drinking, suffering, begetting, dying,

They receive these in their places, they find these
or the like of these, eternal, for reasons,

They find themselves eternal, they do not find that
the water and soil tend to endure forever —
and they not endure.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you,
that you be my poem,

I whisper with my lips close to your ear,

I have loved many women and men, but I love
none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb,

I should have made my way straight to you long
ago,

I should have blabbed nothing but you, I should
have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns
of you;

None have understood you, but I understand you,

None have done justice to you, you have not done
justice to yourself,

None but have found you imperfect, I only find no
imperfection in you,

None but would subordinate you, I only am he
who will never consent to subordinate you,

I only am he who places over you no master,
owner, better, god, beyond what waits intrin-
sically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and
the centre figure of all,

From the head of the centre figure spreading a
nimbus of gold-colored light,

But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head
without its nimbus of gold-colored light,

From my hand, from the brain of every man and
woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about
you!

You have not known what you are—you have
slumbered upon yourself all your life,

Your eye-lids have been as much as closed most
of the time,

What you have done returns already in mock-
eries,

Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not
return in mockeries, what is their return?

The mockeries are not you,

Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk,

I pursue you where none else has pursued you,

Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the
night, the accustomed routine, if these con-
ceal you from others, or from yourself, they
do not conceal you from me,

The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure
complexion, if these balk others, they do
not balk me,

The pert apparel, the deformed attitude, drunken-
ness, greed, premature death, all these I part
aside,

I track through your windings and turnings—I
come upon you where you thought eye should
never come upon you.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is
not tallied in you,

There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman
but as good is in you,

No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is
in you,

No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal plea-
sure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I
give the like carefully to you,

I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God,
sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of
you.

Whoever you are, you are to hold your own at
any hazard,

These shows of the east and west are tame com-
pared to you,

These immense meadows, these interminable riv-
ers—you are immense and interminable as
they,

These furies, elements, storms, motions of nature,
throes of apparent dissolution—you are he
or she who is master or mistress over them,

Master or mistress in your own right over nature,
elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles! you find an
unfailing sufficiency!

Old, young, male, female, rude, low, rejected by
the rest, whatever you are promulges itself,

Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are
provided, nothing is scanted,

Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance,
ennui, what you are picks its way.

fall seven

jessica Ku — Sat, 24 May 2008 00:23:05 +0000

researched:

blood type theory

corporate companies

books & products:

The Struggle for Ecological Democracy: Environmental Justice Movements
in the United States (Paperback)
by Daniel Richard Faber (Editor) “With the approaching dawn of the new millennium, the environmental movement in the United States is confronting what appears to be an immense paradox…”

Good: Ethics of Graphic Design (Advanced Level) (Paperback)
by Lucienne Roberts (Author)

Lucienne Roberts is the founder of the design studio sans+baum, which focuses on projects outside the commercial mainstream. A contributor to Eye and Grafik magazines, she lives in London, England.

Products of Our Time
Name: Kate Bingaman (29)

Lives in: Starkville, Miss.
Occupation: Asst. Professor of Graphic Design
Website: obsessiveconsumption.com

i am not finished

jessica Ku — Fri, 23 May 2008 05:19:05 +0000

i want to mark this day. in her cruel may. twenty second of two thousand eight.

in the period of memorial to my deceased sister.

as much as i envied her death, i desired hope to live.

i wanted envy myself under the full sun, next to wide bluegreen,

concaved by brittle jadeorange layers. unripen.

the sea beckoned me to run barren to join her bones.

i shivered. shivered to shake her away.

i shivered. shivered to shake my flesh to survive

i must desire to feel more than the layers of the push and pull.

i must drip more blood on the sand. to leak my complete self out.

i must lose my bloodline. to feel how you feel.

case study

sound * image

7 intervals. 8 notes in an octave

www.glenbrook.k12.il.us/GBSSCI/PHYS/Class/sound/u11l3a

tasting the beautifully layered cliff-rocks that concaved us today

[ddulbda] no matching word here, not ripen, astringent

seeking the bloodline.

most of us neglect to constantly identify oneself.

assuming what we see from our dad is the d(e)adline.

who can own the original human identity?

one with the mysterious seed and soil?

adam and eve?

imagination embraces infinite possibility.

inspiration completes illogical desires.

i want to see what you see.

what’s washed up and moves on.

because i’m marshed up moving none.