Home

Photo by Ray Kairos

appropriate.12.09.

Polanski & by coincidence, Van Gogh by Robert Morales

If there was ever a guy I’d like to give a free pass on protracted misery, it might be someone who’d suffered the Holocaust and the massacre of his wife, unborn child and friends – as well as the initial media blame for their deaths. But the point is Polanski anally raped a 13-year-old after drunkenly plying her with drugs and booze. He made those decisions. Later he copped to a generous plea, then understandably fled when he saw that plea wouldn’t be honored and he’d be made an example … but he’s guilty of hurting a kid. He deserves whatever judgment due him because in THIS society, we are not supposed to let people who hurt kids slide. If we do, what’s the point of having a justice system at all? Polanski may receive mercy in his sentencing because of the forgiveness of his now-adult victim and the mitigating circumstances of his flight, but it’s ultimately NOT about him, it’s about US not having the luxury of looking away.

I’ve been ruminating this weekend on Steve Barber’s Van Gogh question because of the romantic conceit behind it: Great art is born of suffering or madness or pain or some terrible sacrifice. Nope: Great art is born of insight and prolonged decisiveness. Countless micro-decisions went into “The Starry Night” … from how Van Gogh chose to mix his paints … to what visual effect one element in his palette would bring out in another … to whether or not allow an UNINTENDED result to stand … And so on. Van Goghs are really difficult to reproduce because of the magnitude of his technique, the way he applied his vision – it’s like the difference between a great photo of the Grand Canyon and, well, the Grand Canyon. Has it occurred to anyone that had Vincent NOT been fucked up, he might have been MORE productive? It’s extremely damaging to art and artists, this mythology that one produces because of one’s deficiencies not despite them. It’s a psychological handicap to artists that buy into it.

If you love artists, let them live no differently than you. Don’t romanticize their 12-step issues, make sure they take out their garbage, respect the need for peace everyone needs to work efficiently. Whatever judgment Polanski gets should be mitigated – like all wise judgments – by the circumstances, not because he got an Oscar. If you see a Van Gogh, remember that he didn’t simply throw up his tormented vision but fought past his own bullshit with such doggedness he could reach a level of clarity as to color, light, texture – the same satori that gave us the polio vaccine, flush toilets, and chocolate cheesecake, among myriad, fine things. Madness gave us MEIN KAMPF, genius produced THE TRIAL.

on friends/ships/lovers/rum that smells and tastes like cake/saying you love someone out loud for the first time/looking in a friends eye/while she talks about her happiness/while she encourages yours/while she tells you to pursue love/leave another alone/looking at her tell you that you let her down/disappointed her/she thought you wouldn’t show up for her birthday/apologizing/feeling intense/eyes watering because you’re getting older/because she was there when you were embarrassed about the size of your breasts/now she says stop giving men love/for they go crazy/growth/letting in/being happy because your friend is happy/12am/saying happy birthday/let’s rebuild/

blogs that make you feel a certain way.

models eat ice cream.

@animalbehavior_ always shows up to the bookstore with gifts. makes coffee.

On From Jump

It’s my mixtape. I always say to friends, I should be a rapper. Flood the internet with music, Z-share links, interviews, photos and anything else people will post, or retweet. Maybe that’d be easier?

Than being a writer. Releasing a PDF of short stories. Heavy in content. Realism. Words about family love and sex and heartbreak and breakdowns and confronting loneliness and intense love affairs and thoughts on having unprotected sex then pulling out.

I thought of making Maria the opening piece. Ha.

From Jump contains stories posted here on the site in addition to pieces that have not been published. It’s not a diary. More like this.

That’s all I’ve got for now. Maybe I’ll post more about it, in video or something. But you know, let’s take it a day at a time.

Saturday Night with AB, MARIA, 106th.

like the river, we been running.

FRIDAY, August 21st @ Santos Party House.

The Unsuitable Woman

“I met her 20 years later. She had married a graphic designer who was about her age, very intelligent and talented, and she was still a landscape architect. He loved her madly. It was obvious in everything he did—he adored her. They were a wonderful couple. He loved her and admired her talent and praised her. What had he seen that I hadn’t? They had no children, they were devoted to each other, they seemed very happy and well-suited to each other.

Their happiness made me think that I had judged her wrongly before; that the selfishness and incompetence I had seen in her had been in me—my faults.

I had been suspicious all those years ago when she had been so willing. But she’d been sincere. She’d found someone who appreciated her, needed her, loved her, and his love had improved her, too.” -paul theroux

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

our dreams and to dos and right nows are unfolding.

if you’re drunk off love.

jay-z – song cry [fade to black]

in case you’re wondering.

I mean that I write what I see, what’s told to me that I feel very deeply, or what happened to me that I can’t forget, but also what happened to others I love, or what strangers have told me happened to them, or what I read happened to others. I take all of this and cut and paste it together to make a story, because in real life a story doesn’t have shape, and it’s the writer that gives it a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Of course, I cannot borrow anyone else’s story unless I have lived a similar emotion. That is why I say all the emotions in my work, good and bad, are autobiographical. Does that make sense? For how could I write about a broken heart if my own heart hadn’t been parted in two like an apple? -Sandra Cisneros

Not Summer of Love

I think I love someone. For the past two days I’ve been suffocating that idea. Hands hold a firm grip. Die. For if you return. I will kill again. I can be unlovable or not. And you. The other one. With the different kind of love given on top of me. I decided not to suffocate my feelings for you. But drive them off the road into the water, so I can watch them drown. Like the way you did between my legs. Fuck love.