That the public are increasingly under the pretence that artists are themselves newsworthy almost issues artist to publicly gag. The public, under their increasing pretence of knowing, are, to artists, the cost of the artists’ careers: their careers cost art.
The artists’ public gags, attracting the attention of challenging curators, are almost their careers. The artists’ perceptions career to the curators’ pretence. Under the pretence of art, the public, issues themselves, turn to gag artists. Artists gag at their careers.
The curators cost the artists their perceptions under the pretence of their careers turning increasingly public. Artists are artists. Knowing that, curators depend on their careers to attract attention at the cost of social commentaries. The issues are mostly curators.
The commentaries, under the pretence of art, are public perceptions of pretence. The public are a pretence the curators depend on. Pretence is an artist’s career. Knowingly, the curators are increasingly turning to art for careers. Artists are increasingly turning.
Knowingly, and turning visual, the curators are increasingly knowing and turning to the public to cost their ‘art’. Most curators are public artists to themselves, at increasing cost. Public artists are artists attracting public curators at the public’s cost, increasingly.
Artists and curators, knowing that their careers depend on attracting attention to themselves at almost any cost, are increasingly turning to visual gags, titilation, public scandal or platitudinous commentaries on newsworthy social issues, under the pretence of challenging public perceptions.
Knowing that their artists are increasingly themselves, curators are attracting the knowing public to their visual pretence. The curators are turning the public on to the pretence of perceptions. The knowing artists are challenging the pretence of the public themselves.
The curators, platitudinous in themselves, and turning under titilation, are under the pretence that their careers, that depend on artists, are challenging to the public. Their perceptions of themselves, the curators, are increasingly turning any artists to knowing themselves, almost.
Knowing themselves, artists, are attracting the perceptions that, at any cost, their issues are issues of visual pretence. The public, knowing that, are themselves turning to careers of commentaries on public issues of visual attention and are platitudinous to artists.
On and under artists, curators are themselves under the pretence that the public are almost of knowing perception. Under the curators, artists, attracting titilation at cost, are knowing of the platitudinous public and their attention to scandal, titilation and pretence.
To find yourself, stop looking. If you really want to see the would for the should, turn on the telly. TV wants to think that it is our eyes and ears, and rightfully so. Using our own eyes is akin to using our own minds. To turn me on, turn on the box. Nothing gets me going like something. If you are in the practice of taking the blinkers off, you'll know that not much is a lot. The measure of a mind is a ruler. Rulers are just so many empty trousers. For the information of the knowledgeable, I'm ruled by my thumbs. Opposable all the way. It's a delicate balancing hack to get through the thick stuff of our bank yards. The TV, as I've oft remarked to it, is just so much the head that sinks on our own shoulders. Nothing is as real as anything. The TV, I don't mind mentioning, is a televison. It's profound and enlightening to add at this point that TV, telly and television: same thing, different letters. All these words suggest different internal attitudes, I'm sure you know. Watch out for how much affection I have for my own affectation. It's nearer to remote than control. If you monitor this closely, you'll know: potatoes.
I can't stand hackneyed cliches: not a leg to stand themselves on. I'd never generate or perpetuate them myself: opposed to them vehemently. The overuse of phrases or devices: against passionately. In summary, I'd say that there are certain things in this world, that are bound by certain laws. To say that everything is subject to the same laws is equal to slipping the old fella into the knickers of some lovely long legged thing with gorgeous long legs. Things that have no legs don't have a leg to stand on. Not everything that runs in this world of yours has legs. Take air conditioners and put them in your pants. Go take a long peer over a short walk. It's a simple fact that everybody in motion has an opposite. Beyond redemption am I from the tyranny of my own cliche generation. This generation is a lovely mix of new types of people never before seen before or since. Since we are all so special there is no need to revert to type. To type this out has been more joy than staring down the barrel of some buxom beauty busting out of her attire. I neve tire of seeing that. It takes a certain degree of nuttiness to write like this. Not to mention weariness. Weary and tired: equal.
There is a substantial case to be argued that substantial cases aren't worth arguing about. I'd argue, if I was so inclined, that cases of substance, or of no such quality, are really of no substance at all, and that all cases are essentially similar when the faculty of their relevant sense is removed. Relevant senses are really irelevant in all cases, substantial or otherwise, and reveal nothing of what is true and lasting. What is true and lasting is irrelevant in all cases of significant substance, in all cases. Significant substances are, without question, unanswerable. A substantial quantity of significant substances are worthy of elusive pursuits down back alleys and, case by case, based on intangible qualities. Intangible qualities are, for the most part, hard to put a finger on but, elusive just the same. Just the same as significance is to the eye of the mind so is substantial to the balance of the same. The same is the same as equal only different but, don't let that fool. You should be aware by now that awareness is only significant in substantial cases and, very often comes in handy in terms of intangible qualities. It is because of this, and the myriad of reasonable causes, that substance and significance: equal.
Certain things have greater weight than others, we all know this, but what we don't know is contained in the four walls of a blog. Certain things are more inclined to rise than others and fluff is one of those things. Finding out interesting bits of information to fill an otherwise meaningless life is just so much wallpaper over a crack. I'm not having a crack, but pull your finger out. Actually, it's virtually impossible to find any fluff on the internet and bloggers opinions have so much weight it's laughable. I laugh out loud to myself when I find myself with a ton of pricks and I'm in the wheelbarrow. Being in the wheelbarrow is no way to travel. You have to build a community prick by prick. Getting around on the back of my little mouse makes me feel like a knight of the realm. Around these parts, one has to ride pretty high in the saddle to avoid all the dangerous logs and snags. They'll take your head right off. It's simply so exciting that I can barely contain myself sometimes. Some would have you believe that pricks go in and out of fluff like trains in tunnels. I must say that I have to agree, that's the whole point. The pricks are out there and they are peddling fluff. Pricks and fluff: equal.
Bloggers well know that there are certain things in life that, for a spiritual crab, are detrimental to a healthy and long existence in the physical shell. If you've ever felt that you've lost your ability to do the the things for which you have an ability then I can't relate to you at all you pathetic creatures. At all times, I have maintained my ability to construct words into the most readable and digestable calf livers that were ever served up with onions and some sort of sauce. Some sorts of sauce just lead nowhere and some sorts of sorts lead somewhere and some sorts of sauce lead the rest in readabiltity. Read ability. If I was to paint a picture for you about what readability is then I'd probably resort to the most readable and delightful strain of brussel sprouts served with cracked pepper and some sort of butter. To butter you up to vote for my post, I might pop into your little domain and just flop out my old chop in your comments section and leave you in no doubt as to my intention. My intentions are pure. Purely as an entree to the majesty that is me, I'd regale you with readable snacks from the pantry of my experience. I'd open up my stinking hinges and you'd know that I've never come unglued at the sign of an ability lost. Deference would be your leaning as I leaned into your shoulder and whispered in your ear: painting and writing: equal.
For all intents and purposes, and there are too many to name individually, decisions are dictated by the movement of time, which is merely a clock that sits on a wall or a wrist, and making a decision without the use of a mental process one is merely urinating one's mortality up against a vertical structure that holds up a roof, and it is this that we all do without fail according to the hidden structure that holds up all human affairs, and it is precisely this that makes our efforts to make ourselves clear that leads to even more urine corroding the structure of the perpendicular support. Far be it from someone like myself to expound views that aren't consistent with my own, but we are not really of our making despite what we might think, and what we might think is never as important as what we do, and the fact that we don't enough or do too much is what constitutes missing the wall with two streams of liquid that splash all over our shoes; and it is missing pissing all over the seat that I will miss most about being a breathing structure of my own (and not of my own). Pissing and urinating: equal.
When one asks oneself whether this or that is possible, it is entirely plausible, not to say possible, that one has, to speak of imperatives, the need to tell the world of your greatness and have others confirm the previous proposition, which is all good and well, except to say, and in absolute accord with the logic of divinity, that humanity is never, hardly never, if ever at all then that, in receipt of the answer to any question for the question itself is already the answer, but to questions that are mere currents of spiritual awareness, and are silent in the highest degree, there is only the resounding answer of more and greater silence which can never sit well with those humans who are hell bent on delivering to the world their particular vision of their own experience, which, it has to be said, is rather less spiritual than would otherwise have been hoped for and is, in fact, more in line with traditional values of climbing ladders, scratching backs and kissing bottoms, not to mention sucking things that you would never flop out onto the dining table, even if you'd had a few too many and a lovely lady caught your eye and put it in her pocket, for it is having ocular organs in the pockets of beautiful girls that we all aspire, even those of us who are as spiritual as to not even have any, and all this crap can only lead to one and only one logical conclusion: one and all: equal.
By a street, my preferred fast food outlet is McDonald's Family Restaurant. When I'm eating the delicious food that you find at McDonald's I feel such a gamut of things. Sick in the guts is not one. At McDonald's I can enjoy the benefits of my humanity. I want fries with that. My sense of being an upright creature with a fine standing is that my carriage should be fueled by love. it is the love that goes into making a McDonald's meal that fills me with some things. Somethings are best left on the plate. Sick in the guts is not one. It is the love that I am eating when I bite into one of their burgers. Sick in the guts is not one. I can honestly sit here and tell you that I love to eat love. And yes, I want fries with that. Bring back capital punishment. I want fries with that. I want to see fries. Potatoheads are best fried. I feel no guilt about executing my own. The meat in this piece: McDonald's Family Resaurants. Their charitable work in the community is altruism in its purist form. An Altruism Thickshake, Large. I want fries with that and sick in the guts is not one thing, it's many. Ronald McDonald in the kitchen? Any clowning around in the kitchen is always a good thing. A kitchen in a restaurant is a place for clowns. Clowns belong being lots of things in lots of places. Sick in the guts is not one. It's very popular to belittle the family restaurant. I love the Family and I love the Restaurants. I love family restaurants. The Family and the Restaurant: equal.
Norm
Mal
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