Tilling the Wheat Fields at 14 Below: Downtown Harvest Is My New Favorite Band
I just saw Downtown Harvest. They were phenomenal. Some of the coolest music I've heard in a while. That "Disco Bob" song was off the hook. I hear they are recording a new album at the moment. I will try and get an interview with them in the not so distant future. In the meantime, visit the link, download some songs. This band is a must see in Los Angeles. Trust me. They will be moving the world. They already moved mine.
Miguel's Mom Likes the Picture He Drew of Her
This is a picture of my mom. It doesn't really look like her. I was just experimenting with art. I saw a book about Keith Haring. He is my favorite. Now I want to draw like him.
My mom says she thinks it looks just like her.
I think she was just trying to make me happy.
I think it looks more like me. That's what happens when I draw people. They look more like me.
Tomorrow we're going to the Museum. It's a real big deal. We don't go anywhere anymore. Maybe, the 7-11. That's about it.
Miguel Likes Pop
I drew this today.I worked on it for a long time. It looks just right now.
Like Keith Haring. He's my favorite.
Right now I am watching COPS. This is what we do in the trailer.
I am 15. I like milk.
I like Dr. Pepper too. Nothing Else.
I got to go. My mom wants me.
I'll draw another tomorrow. BYe.
KATRINA AID: Flikr Artists Come Together
Dear Friends,
My artist friends at Flikr have pooled together an unbelievable collection of original art/prints to be sold to help our fellow human beings.
Please click here to obtain some beautiful artwork and make a donation simultaneously.
I will be donating prints as of September 16th. Maybe even a painting.
If there is a large collective of artists in the blog circle as well, it may be possible for us to start another auction over here.
Let me know if you're interested, I will see what I can arrange through ebay, etc.
Love,
Pirooz
My artist friends at Flikr have pooled together an unbelievable collection of original art/prints to be sold to help our fellow human beings.
Please click here to obtain some beautiful artwork and make a donation simultaneously.
I will be donating prints as of September 16th. Maybe even a painting.
If there is a large collective of artists in the blog circle as well, it may be possible for us to start another auction over here.
Let me know if you're interested, I will see what I can arrange through ebay, etc.
Love,
Pirooz
1,000,000 Times
I am not an academic writer . I am not interested in figuring things from Hiedegger's perspective or a Saussurian platform. I am not interested in schools of poetry.
I am not interested in Facsicle, Popsicles, or Siliman's blog. *
I don't think much of outcries of a scantily clad woman on the cover of Fence.
I don't care about publication from some reputable poetry magazine or publisher. I don't think much about winning.
I do think about money. I do notice my bank account. I do think about people who are hungry. I do think about my family and friends. I do love creating.
I would like to create financial stability for myself. I'd like to make money for the art I create. Particularly, the novels.
I cannot make this happen any faster then it is. Different ideas on different days. Different days on different ideas.
In my off time, one of my favorite things is reading Heartspeak. Art that doesn't care about schools of thought, because it is its own thought. It is its own school. A farmhouse. A city block. A community. A planet. A world. This is the art I love. That no critique can desecrate. That only those who enter understand. That is real and magical. That honors itself by existing. That honors us by saying hello. This is the art I live for.
I catch glimpses of it here and there. From myself. From others.
When I see the academic poetry world bicker over magazines and publication and who's who, I see so much art disappear. I see Heartspeak flicker. I see so many people who have forgotten why they create in the first place. Why did you start being an artist?
That beginning. That passion. I have forgotten it myself. At times.
Yes, Pirooz. Yes, sometimes you have forgotten. Like our politicians have forgotten. Like some creators have forgotten. Then the reflection turns on itself, and the only sense of refuge is to ask the question:
"Why did you enter politics?" I ask the Landlord.
"What made you want to do this?" I ask the Mayor.
"Why did you want to be a judge?" I ask Justice.
Then I turn to the poets--
"Why did you start writing?" I ask.
"What made you want to do this?"
Then I turn to me--
"Why do you want to be a judge?"
I raise my hand. I smack myself 1,000,000 times. This is no exaggeration. My identity topples like a rain forest. Words scatter in confusion. An 'H' there. An 'R' there! Until slowly I piece together one heart.
There are more letters. Entire sentences. Paragraphs. Whole novels even. Strewn about in large semi-circles on the forest floor. The ones who escaped the blow. Those creators. The politicians. My own heart. Work together to rebuild the city. Tall arching conifers. Pine and oak. Cypress and Redwood. Until Shikow blooms once more. Until one heart thumps a syncopated percision, and draws itself back together again.
*Glowing Popsicles are another story.**
I am not interested in Facsicle, Popsicles, or Siliman's blog. *
I don't think much of outcries of a scantily clad woman on the cover of Fence.
I don't care about publication from some reputable poetry magazine or publisher. I don't think much about winning.
I do think about money. I do notice my bank account. I do think about people who are hungry. I do think about my family and friends. I do love creating.
I would like to create financial stability for myself. I'd like to make money for the art I create. Particularly, the novels.
I cannot make this happen any faster then it is. Different ideas on different days. Different days on different ideas.
In my off time, one of my favorite things is reading Heartspeak. Art that doesn't care about schools of thought, because it is its own thought. It is its own school. A farmhouse. A city block. A community. A planet. A world. This is the art I love. That no critique can desecrate. That only those who enter understand. That is real and magical. That honors itself by existing. That honors us by saying hello. This is the art I live for.
I catch glimpses of it here and there. From myself. From others.
When I see the academic poetry world bicker over magazines and publication and who's who, I see so much art disappear. I see Heartspeak flicker. I see so many people who have forgotten why they create in the first place. Why did you start being an artist?
That beginning. That passion. I have forgotten it myself. At times.
Yes, Pirooz. Yes, sometimes you have forgotten. Like our politicians have forgotten. Like some creators have forgotten. Then the reflection turns on itself, and the only sense of refuge is to ask the question:
"Why did you enter politics?" I ask the Landlord.
"What made you want to do this?" I ask the Mayor.
"Why did you want to be a judge?" I ask Justice.
Then I turn to the poets--
"Why did you start writing?" I ask.
"What made you want to do this?"
Then I turn to me--
"Why do you want to be a judge?"
I raise my hand. I smack myself 1,000,000 times. This is no exaggeration. My identity topples like a rain forest. Words scatter in confusion. An 'H' there. An 'R' there! Until slowly I piece together one heart.
There are more letters. Entire sentences. Paragraphs. Whole novels even. Strewn about in large semi-circles on the forest floor. The ones who escaped the blow. Those creators. The politicians. My own heart. Work together to rebuild the city. Tall arching conifers. Pine and oak. Cypress and Redwood. Until Shikow blooms once more. Until one heart thumps a syncopated percision, and draws itself back together again.
*Glowing Popsicles are another story.**
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