Vermeer, the painter and decorator of yesteryore, had in abundance many qualities similar, if not identical, if not exactly the same as Cervantes who, coincidentally, had many of the same quailities as his counterpart, Vermeer. That every field should throw up the same regurgitated characters is vomitous and flies in the face could only be warts. That Vermeer was a right pilferer of small onions which he pickled with relish. It is in small part due to the knuckle-heads of his time that he spent so much of his time in a ditch with a fucking spoon. And didn't the wife just love it. For Cervantes, who abhored onions as he relished pickles, collecting onions was just as fruitless. His work is typified by its similarity to that of Vermeer. I'm only guessing. That we still talk about their works eons on is a lesson to those of us who look on works of recent yore as singing. If I was more than guessing I could take you point by point through the similarities in their works. We're as hazy as one another. I'm afraid of spindlers and lighting. There's something in the basic humility of their works that speaks to meanies. It says, Vermeer and Cervantes: equal.
There's hardly any doubt in my minefield that Victor "The Rummaging Rummy" Hugo and Eugene "The Sacred Cowboy" Delacroix are in cahoots in an illegal operation that sees pharmaceutical companies deny pot-heads the right to smoke themselves silty. To put it another way: they're, relatively speaking, equal. It really is one of wife's little mysteries that these two are as they are and could never be other. Was it that they were born so, and being born contain nothing but what the world is also made of, or were they made so? It's another of life's little luxuries that I can bathe in my own filth and yet walk away smelling like noses. It could be argued that everything is in place from the moment the world came to be and that all the world's people are like flailing dominoes; falling, who knows wears. It could be, it could definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, be. That we are free agents, operating freely as agents for the free, is an argument I freely admit is failing freely. That we, some, hold this to be is no less a faulty domino than any other thought we might hold to be our own in our own private recesses. It's true, Hugo and Delacroix: equal.
If there's one thing I won't take lying down it would have to be a shower. I simply won't just sit there and take it. If I did, I'd say that I much prefer baths to showers. The beauty of a bath, apart from the way the Turks take them, is that there's never any danger of dropping the slippery-scented bar of animal fat. Barring that, there's always the joy of soaking in your own snake-sauce that some seem to see as so much satisfaction. People of all walks of death will eventually come to rest horizontally. Being perpendicular to the ground is no way to take a bath. Sitting down in the shower is just as erroneous. On the condition that you keep it to yourself, I'll tell you how you can tell a Wella woman. It's by the way she wears down her hair until she's as bold as a liar. Lying in the shower and standing in the bath, fun; Rabelais and El Greco: equal.
I'd be hard put to put anything mildly, but if I was I'd, to put it mildly, put it mildly. Putting it mildly, I'd put it mildly. Putting it mildly is part of my personal appeal. Personally, putting my appeal personally is mildly off-putting. Putting it personally, I'd say I'm part-paragon of perpetual pant-wearing. It's wearing a bit thin but I still wear pairs of pants. To put it properly, pants go on people as pants regulate body-temperature in pets. Personally, I have pets who like pants. Perpetually, I prefer eternity to infinity. Both are baffling. If I was pressed, I'd probably pick. One time I pondered both. Now I merely prognosticate on piffle. Luckily, my pants have no buttons. To put it mildly is moderately mean. I'd go miles to cover a few more kilometres. Melbournians are Mexicans to Californians. As for the vistas up there: moderately maudlin. Moderate and mild: equal.
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The sad fact is that arseholes are like onions - every one makes your breath stink. The other sad fact is that, unlike onions, arseholes don't have layers. They're as simple as a hole for expelling shit. Another sad fact is that facts are, sadly, sad. Fact is that sadness is a fact. Of facts and opinions, I'd take a deadly dose of ratsack. Like onions, potatoes are in potato and onion soup. If I had to choose, I'd choose. If you've ever noticed how much like an arsehole you are, then you're probably as flushed as me. Even more flushed is of course the product of everyone. The thing about being fixated is that it gives you a chance to concentrate. Pucker up your lips because you've probably got some work to do. Your interests rate with me. We all need to keep our balance. Onions, have you ever noticed, leak through your skin the day after you've eaten them? No doubt, you're full of onions. Opinions and them: equal.
If there's one thing that really gets my back up it would have to be muscles. Muscles. The very thought of them makes me tense. I could go on all day without stopping on muscles. They make me so tight. Particularly around the anus region. Forgive me father, it's been days since my last shit. Shit, muscles are such a waste. I won't waste your precious time with all this shit. You have better things to do than chew on a mindful of crap. I suggest that you find yourself a nice quiet spot and curl one out. Drop the hostages off at the pool. Failing that, find some brand to help you release your offerings. No doubt you've spent the night digesting all those delicious morsels that you appreciated so graciously. The gracious appreciation of morsels is graciously appreciated. I'm not just going to type this shit without muscles. You're probably wondering by now what you're doing with your head so far up my arts. Well, let me drop this on you: a big colon suasage. If you have stumbled upon this post while searching for this, then you can stop clenching your teeth. It's about time you realised what a pile you really are. If I may be the first to say so - you are. Let me reirritate: bowels brew bog bricks. Put down your papers and start wiping. It's been a long time since I've had one like this. Another one to sink to the bottom, you'll probably say. I had planned to make this a little longer but I'll cut it short. I have excellent control. Textual diarrhoea is not contagious so you can stick your nose right in. If you are rummaging around in this mess, you're probably too far gone any way. May I suggest some toast? That which takes jam is the best jam. If you are into jam, spread 'em. Look, I'm sorry if I haven't exactly been. I'm still in the process of being. I'm only a humourous after all is done and wiped. You look flushed. Perhaps you need to go in for some treatment. It's lucky for us all that text that sticks to the wall does slide down eventually. Can you imagine a dog that had all the characteristics of a cat? That's a cat. Sorry, I think I hear the brown cat barking at the back door. I thought I left it a jar. Crap in a jar is nothing like jam. Put a cork in me, I'm done. I thought I was, anyway. Oh, shit! I've got to go. Thank you, I've been an excellent host. Crap, shit, bog: faces.
A while back, while wary blacks walked blithely, whites went wailing over wild waters to land in unclaimed land - the land the blacks wasted. Civilization is typified by green pastures and stock. Wordly men with warrant to wrangle with words drafted documents that saw the lowly blacks consigned to where they had been designed. It's lucky for us that now the benefits I have reaped from such an arrangement have yielded such a lot of bullshit. Without reservations, I can say that reservations where reserved for the unreservedly deserving. There's no doubt that black matters belong to whites and whites' matter matters more than blacks - it better. When the transmission was black and white the white mission was to transport blacks to heaven. The greatness of a white is how lacking in black it is. It's not a grey area that. It's not a grey area that we all share the experience of an epidermis. Whatever the case, black and white: equal.
I'm not going to just sit here without a chair. If there is one thing I won't take lying down it would have to be a nap. I always find it best if I'm wearing spectacles. There are just a plethora of pleasing plays performed professionally. I can't just sit here and watch without a chair and spectacles. Furniture for the arse and implements for the optics go hand in glove in arse. The arse is not something I'm going into at this sitting. I'd have to stand for that. I'm only an inhuman beast after all. Is said and done the same as articulated and acted? It's yet another prickly one you'd need tweezers and a microscope to safely remove. Much like my manhood. Many like my manhood. None more than me. If my chair could talk you probably wouldn't believe me. It's not beyond the realms of impossibilty: chair and specs: equal.
If there's one thing that really gets me down it's an elevator. Nothing makes my stomach sink like a lift. I often have that sinking feeling. If I ever need a little lift, I just press the buttons. Rather not take the stares of onlookers. It would be fair to say that everyone has a few flaws. Most structures do. It's nothing to get you down. It only takes a lift to get me down. It's not a put-down to say that luggage should be put down when taking the lift down. Nothing gets one into a downward spiral like lots of luggage. Like lots of luggage, suitcases suit most cases. In case you have forgotten, every structure has at least one floor. It's not unusual for the floor to be right under our feet. Don't be fooled by the soft fabric covering many floors. Don't let that get you down. Take the lift. You'll feel yourself falling. Lift and lower: opposite.
From all reports, reports are really relevant. Really reliable, they are rarely renounced by rousing racontuers or roving refuse-riflers. It's just eye-boggling how some spectacles are framed. Not that I'd ever complain, but sometimes the news-of-the day - no matter what - is just a little inexorable for my individual inclination. Then again, what is old - for me - is just as present as a box with a pink ribbon and a rattling sound. Rattling boxes are a highly rated resource. There's just no escaping the present. It's in the past that any sort of freedom is found. It's in the past that I even cared what colour petticoat I wiped my face-britches on. Face the farks. The here and now are just a couple of death's agents. You never hear them come knocking because they always are. Wipe their feet on your eye-moustache. The there and then is where it's at. But then again, not. So, now as you see me riding off into the sun sidesaddle, you can give full rein to your disinterest in chewing anything thatt might stain your enamelled-calcium-stalagtites. Spare a thought for me as I burn for a packet of crisps. Here and now: equal.
It's not all together unfair to say that a certain degree of levity is required to aspire to reach the giddy heights of a laddertop. The top rungs of ladders are populated by the greatest feets. Great feets are bound to heels that have no flaw. If you're atop a ladder you're a long way from being floored. It'll only take one slip to send you to sleep. For good and bad, you are as you are and you are beyond you're own reckoning. I reckon you already know this so just focus in on some distraction. The top of a ladder and a bellybutton: fluffy.
Artists, worthy of new careers, are challenging issues. Issues: pretence. Their careers, curators’ perceptions, are increasing. The commentaries under the pretence of art are artists’ issues. Artists issue careers in art. Visual art: the perceptions of pretence of visual artists.
Gags, the careers of curators, cost artists their art at increasing cost. The artists, curators of art to themselves, are the careers of the platitudinous. Platitudinous, the public are the artists of their perception. Their perceptions: social and visual pretence. [ Click here to read more ]
Knowing curators depends on attracting their costly attention to public pretence: their careers. Attention to art costs the public their social pretence of knowing artists. Turning increasingly platitudinous, curators’ comments on artists are an increasingly costly cost. Under artists: art.
Art, the knowing perception of artists, is, under the curators’ perceptions, knowing artists. Artists, knowing art, are artists. Platitudinous, curators are a scandal. To artists, the public are a pretence the curators comment on. Attention curators: careers are a gag.
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Increasingly, scandal and titilation is a career the curators are publicly turning artists to. To artists, art is increasingly a career of perceptions. The cost: art. Art, mostly the career of artists, is increasingly a career for the curators’ pretence.
Pretence, an issue of perception, is a career for curators and the public. An artist’s pretence is art. Art is pretence. Knowing this is an artist’s titilation. Cost, the public’s platitudinous titilation, is turning curators’ to pretending to know art.
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Norm
Mal
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