WHEEL ON A STICK
The Cinematic Storyboard as a stand alone element in the esthetic revolution we are now not witnessing
Dos Cabezas Getaway
This is a coming of age film about Boy Baby Wally (found wrapped in a 1943 issue of “Farm Implement” magazine) abandoned screaming in a Last Chance gas station toilet on Route 711 West of Dos Cabezas, New Mexico while Boy Baby Wally’s true mom floors the gas pedal on her kudzu green 1942 Chevrolet Fleetline 2 door sedan, spinning gravel and screeching onto the tarmac just as a stolen midnight black 1940 LaSalle Model 40 convertible slaloms up to the gas pump (throwing gravel and dust into the faces of nearby scorpions) a limosine of questionable virtue whose occupants are Pettigrew Van Dankly III, Banker (in a pin stripe suit and white silk tie) sweating rivulets in the passenger seat, a .38 caliber police special held to the back of his neck by Babs Maraschino, sitting in the jump seat, and her boyfriend of two weeks, Johnny Frank Eddie, (one of the last of the Piltdown carnival geeks) at the wheel, this ocurring shortly after Johnny and Babs, (facing the ridicule of their peers for their refusal to abandon logic as their primary process of mind) were left with few options of escape, selecting the less heinous (and more socially justifiable one) by robbing Pettigrew’s Casino Savings & Trust of the Specific General Hospital nursing staff pension fund (delivered only 5 minutes previously by enema Nurse Miss Veronica in a script heavy with Freudian symbolism) when Babs (suffering bowel flux from a bad burrito at Hank’s Diesel and Cabins (“Sleep With Hank on the billboard) 90 miles back) uses the Last Chance toilet as Johnny slits Van Danlky’s femoral artery and fills the LaSalle’s tank just as Babs emerges from the toilet with Boy Baby Wally held tightly against both her ample breasts, (the glow of epiphany illuminating her features) who, stepping onto Pettigrew’s now limp and biologically decomposing body and into the LaSalle’s passenger seat, lights up a Lucky Strike (LSMFT the first of the pop culture acronyms) and informs Johnny that she now wants to be a mother without the inconvenience of child bearing (and thus lessening the sum total of human misery in the world) causing Johnny to go into rivalry anxiety hypoxia requiring an emergency theft of Specific General’s burn ward breathing apparatus filled with residual sodium pentathol vapors from a previous procedure involving pain and mascara sending Johnny into a flash forward, (many years later) when Boy Baby Wally becomes a high altitude parachutist-poet, who can only bust a rhyme while falling through space because his primal infantile trauma was happily compensated for by the feel of the wind when the LaSalle Model 40’s top was down, and hurricane force winds made him smile like the Rocket Sled Pilot.
Two chattering ravens narrate a tale of blind revolution and seedy redemption, as we follow a Raisinseed V9.003, the latest hermaphrodite sex worker cyborg prototype (grown by the Non Sequitur Corp from lawn cuttings) in her or his meandering narrative from birth to illumination, at the beginning of which we first see Raisinseed’s body parts being vapor gun printed from lab rat DNA by Prof. “Bam Bam” Bernie Roundhole, who has secretly grown Raisinseed alongside an evil twin (kidnapped with the Professor’s connivance by gypsy low riders, deviously paid by the Bureau of Land Management, to detect clandestine ectoplasm at the FEMA Summer Camp Ouija Board seances held in a recently constructed chain link and razor wire facility) in a devious scheme to harness the power of human gullibility, where the twins’ only link to sanity (and dietary sustenance) was the giant artificial cow udder they both suckled with the help of a mysterious one eye’d Hungarian ex-Tatar payroll robbing Romany Brigade railroad bandit turned private investigator (whence or hence the eye logo on his business card that read “DEEP, DEEPER, DEEPEST!”) the “Sure Bet” brand dowsing rod inventor, and his partner, the equally mysterious “Tubby” Tepys, who sells the secret Twin named X for the purposes of this narrative, to the hunch backed major domo of Castle Bathory, and who, (over the span of two generations of political mud wrestling) reveals the key to the reuniting of the twins utilizing the tracking capabilities of a “Mark of the Beast” model branding iron and Homeland Security RFID laser detector which slingshots via the Einsteinian space time reversal dilemma in a mathematical simulation that hires the separated twins for an inter-departmental National Plasmatic Administration foundation grant fund raising public service announcement about the potential for life “out there”, and they are reunited by men who shrink heads with the help of tungsten filament light bulbs.
Mechanical Intervention in the Nick of Time
Biography of the greatest cryptoanalyst of them all, “Bumpy” Boedecker Hines, custodial staff at Blimply Park, where the best Scrabble players known to humanity work feverishly night and day to crack the great enigma of glosso-hominymetry, (the ability of speech to convey more than one meaning simultaneously) (a problem that has plagued civilization since the invention of the charred stick, with which was mapped, (at the dawn of time) the great Panoply of Mischance that got us here to everyday common sense reality where Bumpy, finding a Conundrum Model 4444 encryptor in pieces in a waste basket, (hurled there in utter frustration by dept. head Sir Percival Burneydick III, whose temporary bouts of apoplectic wall bouncing left him unable to recall which end of the screwdriver is normally grasped) a problem that Bumpy had been able to evade as he arranged the Conundrum 4444’s bits into bags (according to weight) and shook the bags vigorously (while shouting “Ala Kazaam!” three times to the 4 directions) so that, little by little, the Conundrum 4444’s parts lined up (tab A to slot A much like molecules are managed in the cells of living organisms) whereupon, within a matter of several months (of periodic agitation) the Conundrum 4444 sat shiny and proud and ready to decrypt the actual thoughts of men upon Bumpy’s (now ucluttered) workbench where he began to dissect the process by which sadism, (administered in measured quantities to the unwary) was believed to be a fruitful benefit to mankind by simply “making them smarter” (via the behavioristic teaching of avoidance) or, (in the not so rare cases of death while building a “stairway to heaven”) made them into angels, a nice win-win situation by any measure, particularly among esoteric wayfarers churning out victory in the Sea of Absolutist Perfection (where perception was craftily equated to reality via a logic that resisted all contextual input in a global conspiracy of insulation) which Bumpy, whose eyes slowly opened and grew wider and wider and wider until all that he was was a mosaic of probabilities (without measurement or comparison of any sort whatsoever) now armed for battle against the great orgy of solopsism (and narcissistic fervor) which ultimately popped like a bubble wrap ceiling under the inverted hooves of his cohort of Viking lawn chair baloonists when he concluded (without effort) that sanity actually extended life and comfort in an existence dominated by inexorable tomorrows.
The Great Biology Experiment
This is a documentary about the evolution of the human mind from mud and magnetism to a sentience limited only by the distance between ocean and sky as a carrier for circularity, linearity and random field-free motion of conception, (rather than perception at the simian level) in the shadow of the inescapable collision between magnitude, direction and intention (at any given instant) which then inescapably and ineluctably and sneeringly begs the question of the evolution of intent (distorted by imagined outcomes based upon imagined inputs) in a gigantic heaving life and death guessing game with a reductionist dividing and analyzing and hair splitting to the point of meaninglessness, incapable of ruining the reputations of the mighty, where what is known is inexorably (if reluctantly) modified by what is learned in the next ten seconds when contextually liberated by the concept of pure potential (much like a seed carries within it the seed of a seed of a seed of a seed of a seed) which is subsequently igonred in an automaticity made apparent in the visual metaphor of several millions of spermatizoa swimming single mindedly towards their deaths in servitude of simple minded stupidity ungoverned by any ability whatsoever (to see beyond the immediate interval) which, (as is generally known and agreed upon) is a measure of observational competence (in insuring certain pragmatic consideratons) such that physical necessities are met so that mental necessities can be met, or as the film demonstrates, possibly vice versa.
Sagitanis Goes, “Bow Wow”
Nightengale Sagitanis is a homeless woman suffering chronic and debilitating bouts of near-terminal existential ennui and muscatel intoxication until, (in the midst of a heat spell caused by bovine methane in the suburbs of Happy Valley, South Dakota) (as her heartbeat thankfully approached zero) she hears a whimpering and feels a warm furry body tentatively crawling up her leg on the crack whore mattress she calls home (in a concrete culvert pipe under the streets of the Splitdorf retirement community) fighting off the alarm of impending invasion and quickly concluding that this couldn’t be land crabs or police drone robots or Chupacabra or a bacterial infection or the dream of marital child bearing bliss that often haunted her lonely nights or delerium tremens or a pack of Blast bubble gum (her favorite) born on the backs of soldier ants driven from their homes by a lawn sprinkler malfunction or an errant cable guy on a peeping Tom mission or the icy fingers of doom (which she secretly hoped for in a Freudian nihilistic reaction to a cruel foster mother who forced her to read the entire literature of time lapse orchid pornographer Marshal McLuhan) or a full body orifice search by Homeland Security or vanguard elements of the yearly grey squirril migration, none of these, rather, as she felt the charming tickle of not one but three cold wet noses and the slap slap slapity of 3 vigorously wagging tails and the lap lap lapity of three enthusiastic tongues did she realize that she had been adopted by a triumverate of abandoned labrador retrievers, (left bewildered in a mall parking lot by a family of PhD lawn dwarfs) which she quickly named, Larry , Moe and Curley, the dogs, not the dwarves, who then provided enough love, slack and protection for Nightengale to attend canine night school and learn the ways of the wolf and the coyote and the dingo and rip the throat out of her oppressors.
At the Core is Decor
An intense psychological thriller about ruling class oligarchs (wearing chic swastika armbands) revealing the clandestine boulevards of hidden influence upon the minds of pleasure seeking urban multitudes who, out of a vague translated and transferred and transliterated and egomanaical sense of guilt (over the pain we cause our mothers in childbirth) worship a vague sense of nature’s horrifying beauty based upon magazine pictures and post cards and travel brochures, and who are additionally incapable of analysis (in the analytic sense) which renders their dreams of apathetic comfort and endless romance novel spa fantasies ephemeral (if not a little fishy in the suspicious sense) and yet recently discovered (by banjo strumming whistleblowers) to have been run as a psychological warfare operation with the collusion of seedy motel owners (in white silk ties) with no conscience who figure all the angles in a grand game of financial Hide the Braunschweiger and cartelized total control of all transhipment of global food commodities with a geopolitical acumen that can only be accounted for by a deeper study into the pathological dimensions of human mentation (which may well conclude that all of humanity is the victim of infant trauma) often practiced wittingly with a feral strategem of cognitive shrinkage and pre-frontal inhibition, knowing that stupidity pays in so many ways if one is mentally dissociated enough to embrace (and prolong) the tradition of crippling the instrument of salvation that we generally, (if not ignorantly) if hopefully, (if not ruefully) if necessarily, (if not tragically) if laughingly, refer to as mind.
A pataphysical circus of visual elements possibly comprehensible depending upon one’s ideological orientation or level of pre-programmed self-inhibition as a product of The Secret Alliance of Manipulators who are able to make time seem to sputter and stall which renders eras readable as non-immersive abstractions (accessible to self-evolved synthetico-interpretive frameworks) which, (strangely enough) can be scenario-independent (yet anti-universalist) if perceived from behind protective eyewear (and handware) when transnavigating the immense rainbow-hued gulf between pleasant surroundings and a 3rd World prison cell in a forgotten jungle at the mouth of the River of Dispair (where zebras eat unicorns for breakfast, and blend in so much better to boot) in a time where protective foilage is the name of the game and infiltration a fine art enamored of free spirits capable of moving from demographic to demographic while in the pay of no orthodoxy, no tradition, no taboo circus, no constricting corsetts of approval, no appetite or appetite suppressant, no failure to observe and snicker at the many ironies the 3rd dimension presents us, no reluctance to laugh at the great archive of human failure and triumph (so evident upon the pixels of Imagos) no refusal to laugh in the face of presumption or habit or imitation or indecision or equivocation about the acceptance of new data, period.
Citadel of the Doinker King
A Coen Brotheresque take on a Soska Sisteroid version of a Wachowsky Siblingish revisiting of a Farrelley Brother-like celebration of extraterrestrial homesickness and nostalgia as experienced by nine year old arranged marriage child bride- Nadine Needleman and her Light Being Space Brother inamorato Major Clacridox Inana, Psyops Division, Planet Zeep 13, (known as the Planet of Skulls) where hideous embellishments to the Zeepers’ bodies have traditionally been performed by blinded disease carriers with the help of cogs and springs and levers and cosmetics and worm parasites and broken mirror glass and saw blades and dotted lines and squiggly lines and rubber bands and pointless trapezoids and high pressure fire hoses and a great gathering of party guests all united by a deep longing for the way things were in some unspecified point in time that haunts us all like memories of our parents grunting and making the bed squeak and the mirror rattle and the dogs whine and the gold fish dart to and fro in his porcelain Captain Nemo palace where the Doinker King pontificates about the woeful inadequacies (of the many touted and spouted marginal conclusions) among the hare-brained (and excitable) globalist intelligentsia, he being an apostate from that dreary self-annointed avocation due to his unique refusal to employ latex yardsticks (in his measuring duties) which require him to take the gauge of truth and beauty as though they really mattered.
An anthropological graphic novel fantasy shot against a contrasty mono tint, color highlighted, claustrophic backdrop of dystopia among the underclass reminiscent of “District 9” only without the aliens or the police or the the J’oburg location, set instead in the wastelands of Outer Bogomil where wives are traded for goats or bushels of chickpeas or rolls of copper wire or a good shotgun or a pair of pliers or tractor parts in an ancient tradition of assuming all value to be computed by the quantity of envy it produces in a potential admirer who would typically express their covetousness by grinding their teeth audibly while standing inches from the face of the covetee whereupon both parties begin the ancient bargaining process with a series of coded eye blinks- left right left left right, right right right left left, right left left left, left both left both both, right both left, and so on, (sometimes for days when meals and bodily functions are forgotten) while the villagers gather to observe and murmur their approval (or not) of the progress of negotiations, by raising up on the thier toes and touching elbows with one another (in an arms akimbo frenzy) until the bargaining is completed and the wife is exchanged for the goods, whereupon the bride, (trussed and gagged and wearing garlands of threaded horse testicles) is welcomed into the family of the husband, being dragged by the hair across the threshold, (untied but not ungagged) given a broom and told to get to work.
A pilgrimmage of enlightenment undertaken by Bob the plumber (after experiencing a spiritual detonation that woke him from a standing nap while pensively propped up by the handle of his GripTool string mop) after an eruption of offal from a badly clogged pay toilet caused by a voluminous dookie left behind by Ashton Niblick, mysterious playboy black marketeer golf hustler, after binge eating on Exxon Bay oysters, clams and mussels with his winnings at the annual Hole in One Tee Off and Wet Tee Shirt Contest at the T Bone Dunes where Bob happily keeps things flushing, draining, expunging, purging, liquifying with such a frequency and intensity and sacrifice laden unquestioning consistency, that he witnesses an ephemeral phantom visitation by his trans-spatial muse, Calliope, taking the form of an incandescent carrot with the power of speech accompanied by the sound of whining turbines who begins a lengthy soliloquy about the powers at play in a sociological era of limitless free time and tools of cognition (only a mouse click away) in such abundance that they fill space to the horizon with objects of utility.
A Dogme 95 gut wrenching revelation of the struggle for political power among lumpenproletariat street derelict elements, their social programming enablers, the news media who profit from the endless stream of human interest reportage that is the meat and potatoes of tabloid editors and family conflict exploitation talk shows, who, after trashing the studio of the Sally Montel Springer Show over an inadvertant comment by the host regarding bathing facilities, sexual proclivities, shopping cart engineering, parasitic organisms and hope, develop their own media outlet, the Overpass Broadcasting Network, which becomes syndicated internationally in 34 languages (with a dozen foreign news bureaus) bringing the world the latest in updates on all-weather camp locations, squats, instructions for tapping into overhead power lines, shelter construction, medical intervention (both emergency and chronic) autonomous self-education, PTSD counseling, gleaning tips, festival organizing and employment grooming, eventually becoming a movement for social change and justice, running political candidates on the Overpass Party Platform advocating rational wealth redistribution and free dental care.
“Nyuk Nyuk” and “Whoop Whoop”, two archtypal vagabond minstrels sing an ancient free-meter saga describing the political turmoil of the Dogbone Kingdom and the pilgrimmage of Bobby Molecule from oral tribalism to industrial cultural homogeneity in a submersive ambience where anyone or anything can be “seen”.
-N & W sing in falsetto to the rhythmic accompanyment of wooden matches being struck alight.
he progressed clumsily
wanting for a ratchet with pretty teeth
but knowing that such would be
forthcoming on the day that Hell took in laundry
in the 3 Stoogian tradition
clever monkey went the voices
inside his revolving eyeballs
wondering what the opposite of
deification could amount to
a clodhopper riposte if ever there was
but the clodhopper philosopher knew his soil
in all the ambiguouos contexts
and quietly planned his retaliation
as he paddled deeper into
the Sea of Dilemma
or was it the Sea of Nostalgia
so many Seas in the engine room
they are power but is it true power
and if he were to test its truth
would the fabric of the Universe
be torn like a hyena’s lunge
the drums began their ritual booming
the steam pipes began to hiss
her face giggled to him
you live in a playland of ingenuity
that could be somewhat more deomocratized
tip the statues all of them
you see what I mean
when the medium is the message
he paddled to shore pragmatically
the footing on the flanks of the Hill of Beans
was worse than he had sussed
but beans be damned
and their counters with them
poke their eyes with your finger
yes I know a smoking mess
all the wheels spinning off center
raised on a juggler’s stick
the spokes filled with arms and legs
of Nyuk Nyuk and Whoop Whoop
harlequins from the Era of Swans
but then who can say
where the seeds may be gathered
the really smart ones
appear to be well camouflaged
this fact has skewed many calculations
by and for the grammatical
you want to live with contradictions
here’s a fucking straight jacket
what you sense is no more a delusion
than what you don’t sense
within the freedom to inquire
Artist – Heretic – Savant