|T H E A R T P A R T Y|
|a b o u t ! ~ a r t ! ~ i s s u e s ! ~ p r o p a g a n d a ! ~ j o i n ! ~ e v e n t s ! ~ c o n t a c t !|
Monday, March 05, 2007
church of space (THE SONG)
The Art Party is loosely affiliated with the COSMOS (church of space mystical organisation of spirituality).
little has been known about the Church of Space--until now. this is basically all that exists about it.
DOWNLOAD "CHURCH OF SPACE" [5:05] (Illegal MP3)
JOIN THE CONFLAGRATION!
WE'RE YOUR BURNING INSPIRATION!
CHURCH OF SPACE SEEKS CONGREGATION
VISIT OUR OFFICES AT THE SPACE STATION
What is the ultimate reality?
The cause of causality?
Others think that they do know,
But they always fail to show
What it is they think they see,
Faith can't be so easy.
The Church of Space still seeks the answer,
Amidst aquarius, capricorn, and cancer.
We don't say we claim we know,
but into SPACE we must go
to perform stellar experiments
on our exponential firmaments.
Have Mass on Mars and commune on the moon.
On Earth, you'll never see the stars come into bloom.
We say Pluto's a planet, not just a rock.
Blast off into our holy flock.
If you want a truly universal faith,
We await you in outer space.
Look at all these earthly churches
Pontiffs on their purchased perches
They read books while we write them
Their chants pale next to our bright night hymn
Space is full of contradiction,
but still better than earth's simple fiction
Terrestrial religion is lazy,
but outer space is fucking crazy!
Quasars spitting gamma rays,
Pulsars with their radio waves
You might think that space is quite a rave,
but Saturn isn't just a place to play.
words by admiral alanna and cadet tom
music by cadet tom
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Never Dog-ear a DiaryI remember groggily my mother telling me stories of when I'd speak to her in my sleep.
She'd ask me unfair questions while I lay half catatonic on my dinosaur sheets.
She'd get all the right answers and kiss me on my forehead and retire to her bedroom.
After I realized that I wasn't dreaming I started sleeping on my stomach and hiding my diary.
Sometime later I remember finding it's pages dog-eared. I carried it with me the whole summer while I mowed lawns and saved up for a purse. My purse over my shoulder and my prized secrets batting at my hip. I came across a garage sale that promised freedom and solitude. We lived in a 9o year old house back then and so the locks were old. For 50 cents I purchased privacy.
My mother screamed about it being a fire hazard- but I knew that old skeleton key scared the shit out of her. Not only could I lock my bedroom door and closet- but I could lock any door in the house, from the inside or the out side.
She called the police when I locked her in her bedroom- I told them she needed a nap.
I surrendered my key and was grounded from cartoons.
I got my first kiss and my first job all in the same year, I was hot shit. I asked my mother if I could barrow her pearls for my date, she chortled and fussed over me telling me I looked like a lady. I was a lady with a secret. I discovered my key in her jewelry box, forgotten at the bottom amidst the gaudy costume jewelry. I slipped it in my pocket gingerly and whispered "I missed you."
Later that year I discovered sex and the basement window, the key made a glorious comeback and my diary was a pure unadulterated dime store trash novel. Mother began to worry as most mothers do. I embellished chapters about lesbian occult dabbling and peddled paragraphs of advances with married men in the congregation, I'd write several different versions of evenings in the volumes of diaries I'd amassed just to throw her off.
I live alone now in a studio, where the skeleton key is useless- I gave it to my boyfriend and told him it was full of secrets. My new dairy lays out in the open and in 3 rooms at once.
Mother found my old diaries and asks me if I've found god. I tell her I haven't really been searching- I ask her if she's found a husband and she breaks down and cries.
She 's afraid to die alone. I figured the two were equally relevant, but I hate to see her cry. I tell her that it's more important that she finds herself first. She says she barely recognizes me anymore. I tell her that I'm her daughter and she should never dog-ear pages.
Friday, February 09, 2007
There is No Modern RomanceThere were two people. Young and in love, and doing what young people in love do. There was also a camera, which is how we know that they existed. The camera was not on, but it's lens saw everything. His mother walked in and cursed. The curse is unimportant, since they are all misconstrued abbreviations of the truth. He did not stop, for he knew something about the world now, and he was young and carefree and most importantly brave.
The light of the sun came in through the window, which was open, and widened and shrunk in harmony with their movements. He was not on drugs, he was a young man in love. Slowly they became natural, without hesitation on either part, for they knew something about the world. His father entered and offered him a cigar, which he turned down. His father then offered him whisky, and as a final desperate move money, but he did not want anything from his father, who turned and left, defeated.
God came on the radio: You know you're right. But he did not need the reassurance, and so turned off the music. All he needed was her, and the light, which began to fill the room so that there was nothing but the two of them, the camera and the light. He raised the camera and photographed her in that empty space. The flash radiated, adding to the purest light and then there was nothing but his soul, filled with that light and that feeling of purity. He coasted out, out into eternity.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
A Path of Good IntentionsThe Actor and Actress lusted after each other for pretend. And then they lusted after each other for real, running circles in my mind as I sat on my hands and sounded my frustration with lips on vibrato. There was no camera rolling. They were brother and sister, for pretend. But aren't we all? Jesus spoke to me in a dream: I will burn the weeds with the chaff, and you my brother are more chaff than crop. Quit smoking weed, and live your life. That's all he said, then he turned into a lawn chair and I had a nice relaxing evening watching the stars plummet to earth. The Actor was there, but not the Actress, and we shared a cigar made of un-Canonized papyrus--the apocalypse of Peter I believe, or maybe the youth of Jesus where he killed a boy with his almighty powers. Either way, the Actress was not there, and this saddened me, so we smoked a cigar and talked about writing, the art of, which I know nothing of, since my best stuff writes itself in my dreams and leaves me a dull life in the morning.
Anyway, while they were lusting after each other, I was searching for a camera to take things down, or a pen, at least a pen, so that I might remember my place in society, which is as a set of training wheels I never got rid of or used to. I took a few anxiety pills and a soft pink lithium, and felt better about the situation, though there was nothing I could really do. When I approached the lusting I received strange glares, and yet when I stood far off they seemed to beckon me with their subliminal doublespeak. I lost the English language, or they did, and reverted to babbling. Finally, someone brought me water and I was satisfied. But this is not about "water" or "lust" but about "Jesus," if we can all keep these nouns straight for a minute (though they seem to elide), who spoke to me then not as a lawn chair, since I was awake, or mostly awake for that matter, but as a golden chain around my neck, pulling my head down in reverence. I had not smoked marijuana in four days, and so when he spoke I listened. He said, Do it. Previously I had been contemplating dumping the water all over the two lovers and drinking it off of their bodies. It had come to me from a comment an ex-girlfriend had once made. While searching for my name on the internet she had found a photographer who specialized in nude models, only that he poured milk on their bodies as the photos were taken. This brought me a smile, because I am lactose intolerant, which says something about my embarrassment over sex in general in a Freudian kind of way. Though every Psychiatrist I've gone to has disregarded Freud as a nut job, I believe there is more we can learn from him than from the current overly medicine oriented researchers. If they believe they can prove behavior through a mouse it is because they are acting like mice, constantly searching for the way to the consolatory cheese. I do not eat cheese, as I have stated, but at that moment I wished that it were milk I could pour on them instead of plain water. From the urging of my Lord and Savior I moved forward and poured the water on lust, whose fire quickly fizzled, and the Actor and Actress removed themselves from the scene.
Without subjects in my scene I took off my golden representation of Jesus and dangled it across my bottles of antidepressants and mood-stabilizers and photographed it with a camera I found on my back. I remarked on how I should have found the camera earlier, but life had been in a daze. John Lennon on a wall and the lyrics to "Imagine," left me wondering how I would get anything accomplished while in this bleak sobriety? I needed no signs, yet without them how would my actions amount to anything?
I blocked out my childhood at an early age and did not realize it until much later, watching Edward Scissor Hands with an old friend and her dog. The television mocked my artistic mindset, something I save only for boredom now. Both the television and my artistic mindset I mean. I emptied my bottles onto the floor, it was a hardwood floor, and photographed them in their somber-still state, and, realizing that I did not truly know where I was, I tried to frame the whole scene in front of me. There were the hard wood floors, but seemingly no walls besides a stage-like wall in the very middle, with a doorway in the middle, and if there were other walls they were of a perfect whiteness so that they seemed to stretch out into eternity. Very much it was like an empty mind waiting to be filled. I missed my Actor and Actress, both of whom had left through the stage wall, and I missed my Jesus, who no longer spoke since there was no more action for me to do.
Above spun a fan, counting off seconds with each turn. No clocks. No windows. No time. Much like a casino. I hated the spinning, like I hated conversation with a dull person, or sex with an unattractive person for that matter, for its monotony. Simple circles which lead to no end, at least not quickly, and I was reminded of Eliot, reciting to my self the beginning of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," just the first stanza, for that's all I really ever cared for. I flung my pill bottles at the uninteresting, unattractive and otherwise unlovable fan, but they did nothing. So then I flung my Jesus. And a voice rang out, and it said loudly as if from a Wal-Mart overhead speaker--and then I saw the florescent lights and determined I had arrived to hell--Why do you discard me at this your most desperate moment? Do you not realize the world has left you completely? That not even may you watch it still? Children giggle over your enlightened failure, and you will never see them again. And you discard your last hope?
The fan stopped then, and it seemed time stopped then. I am not enlightened at all am? I thought, noting my lack of effort, my utter apathy in all situations since the beginning of time. And just as I thought it the lights dimmed to a nothingness. The voice this time was less powerful, but much darker. It was a defeated voice, a voice that asked for punishment. It became smaller and smaller and then darker and darker. It grew and shrieked when it spoke, as if utterly terrified. It was my voice. I will not tell you what it said, for it would haunt you every night of your life as it haunts me every moment of this black existence.
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Brief Life of the Dalai Lama as a SquirrelTo the public eye the Dalai Lama was a compassionate and wise person. He held up his end of the role well and didn't dip into earthly pleasures it seemed. He fasted and meditated, even on camera sometimes, and the world could see that he was truly enlightened.
In his time away from the temple however he often held up in a shack drinking whisky and shooting at squirrels with a .22 caliber rifle. When he died of a heart attack while fucking a Taiwanese prostitute--they had the prostitute executed and the body hidden almost immediately--he followed the traditional steps of the afterlife, drinking the forgetting tea that would take him to his next form, but for some reason he still remembered who he had been.
He looked around at the dead leaves and stubble of brown grass. He looked down at his hands, but something was wrong, they were small and furry and from them sprung tiny black claws. Was he not supposed to be always reincarnated as himself, the Dalai Lama? Was he not supposed to know this until picking out an item of his former self? What were the rules of this life anyway?
Still retaining a grasp of the way he could use reality he stared up at an acorn in a tree, blinked his eye and it fell into his paws. He took a nibble; it tasted horrible; this would take some getting used to. He wandered around, searching for other squirrels, perhaps he would mate, but they all looked so repulsive. In his younger years he had fucked a goat on a dare from his school chums, but they all had, and that was before he'd been told he was the Buddha reincarnated anyway. He considered all wrong done before that to be null and void, and those afterward, well, they all had their mitigating circumstances. A man couldn't live lonely, and he obviously couldn't have a relationship with a woman in the public light, so prostitution had always held him over.
The Dalai Lama approached a fellow squirrel with the intention of engaging it--he could not tell the sexes apart--in conversation, but it ran off, up a tree. What would he have to say to a squirrel anyway? What would he have to say to anyone, now that he was a squirrel?
He ran over the essentials: reality was a construct of the imagination and therefore what he wanted he could have. Why had he been so concerned about appearances after they'd told him he was God essentially? Perhaps it was pride, perhaps he was so convinced of the system he'd lived in his whole life. Perhaps... it was cowardice. So much easier to buy a hooker than to walk right up to the girl you wanted and take her in your arms.
Across the road he saw a candy wrapper, he could take the last of the chocolate from it, he thought. He darted across, for the cars were not real anyway, but then in a a sudden crash, he was flattened, his brains splattering across the road. He now feared terribly the forgetting tea.