Sunday Scribblings #167: Absurd
Salvador Dali’s “Dream Caused By The Flight Of A Bee”
[PAT BOOKER STILL DREAMING TRACI BURNS STILL DREAMING]
Shot Amy the Gremlin last night, put her down we did, well Buck did anyway, gasping as she was, I still didn’t have the heart. Buck took the 45, Patrick the shotgun—in case there was resistance. There wasn’t. Ass down in the backyard now like Stanley Kubrick’s apeshit lollipop, gonna plant a sweet Georgia peach tree in her hope she blows to smithereens in 50 años, grandkids can tell me all about it at the nursing home. You’ll be 102, Buck sez, I say I don’t give a damn, they can still tell me. Buck gets the brunt of my abuse these days, but he was there on the trip back from Rosedale, Mississippi to SA, the stink of turpentine and 7 oily Robert Johnson paintings piled in Amy’s hatchback. Cop down in Copiah County thought we were stoned out of our gourds which we were but stripsearch was out of the question, he wasn’t that good looking. Stick your head back in there, officer, sez Buck, tell us if we ain’t found a new controlled substance. Bobby Johnson painting on top was still wet, officer came out baptized by the devil, starts talkin’ ‘bout the 7 veils. I said there’s 7 alright but they ain’t veils and you’ve fucked one of ‘em up, State of Mississippi got any compensation program for Art? I still capitalized in those days. State of Mississippi got any ART period is the real question he sez, then sticks his Jane Freilicher head back in Amy’s hatch, see if he can smear BJ back into a blues icon. He can’t: BJ Thomas is more like it and then I have to hear that goddamned song in my head all the way through the Atchafalaya Basin. That’s the day I turned nonrepresentational for good or at least the remaining year and a half before they tossed my Fairfield Porter ass out of the Big Fucking Assdeal program at UT-San Antone. I represent nothing so much as a paint-by-number dipstick in these my Georgia exile days. Marcel Duchamp got the hare-brained notion of signing his name to the pissoirs and bread loaves of ParisFrance, found art he called it, I routinely sign mine to the broken down appliances in my avocado kitchen: “Blender,” “Dishwasher,” and my latest objet d’art, “Amana Fridge.” Sears doesn’t deliver my new Maytag side by side tomorrow between 1 and 5, I’m gonna TraciBurns the delivery man’s ass and it won’t be found art, believe you me. You see the toll Amy’s demise took on me: original paint job, original transmission, but I could have owned Goodyear with the rubber I’d stuck on her wheels. Hell yes I was partial to that smelly hatchback. Turned down Buck countless times in the back seat even as I played loosegirl of Roosevelt High and granted Patrick first entry. The Roosevelt gig was Patrick’s kink: I went to Brack, the real Brack. The things we do for art. Amy rocked and I rolled and Patrick thought he was bedding Mary Magdalene of the Northeast Independent School District. On our lateral move from South Texas to the Georgia low country, we took Officer HT’s Bobby Johnson collaboration back through Copiah County just on the off chance. You don’t get many of those, but damned if he wasn’t waiting over the rise at Wesson, Mississippi grinnin’ big like 25 years and too many damned Republican presidents hadn’t passed under the bridge. Howdy, Trace, he sez, mind if I take a peek? Suit yourself, HT, this here’s my husband Patrick, sez I, no doubt you remember Buck. Damned if he didn’t come up slapping Bobby Johnson like déjà vu all over. Like the credit card man sez, some things is priceless.
[PAT BOOKER STILL DREAMING TRACI BURNS STILL DREAMING]
Shot Amy the Gremlin last night, put her down we did, well Buck did anyway, gasping as she was, I still didn’t have the heart. Buck took the 45, Patrick the shotgun—in case there was resistance. There wasn’t. Ass down in the backyard now like Stanley Kubrick’s apeshit lollipop, gonna plant a sweet Georgia peach tree in her hope she blows to smithereens in 50 años, grandkids can tell me all about it at the nursing home. You’ll be 102, Buck sez, I say I don’t give a damn, they can still tell me. Buck gets the brunt of my abuse these days, but he was there on the trip back from Rosedale, Mississippi to SA, the stink of turpentine and 7 oily Robert Johnson paintings piled in Amy’s hatchback. Cop down in Copiah County thought we were stoned out of our gourds which we were but stripsearch was out of the question, he wasn’t that good looking. Stick your head back in there, officer, sez Buck, tell us if we ain’t found a new controlled substance. Bobby Johnson painting on top was still wet, officer came out baptized by the devil, starts talkin’ ‘bout the 7 veils. I said there’s 7 alright but they ain’t veils and you’ve fucked one of ‘em up, State of Mississippi got any compensation program for Art? I still capitalized in those days. State of Mississippi got any ART period is the real question he sez, then sticks his Jane Freilicher head back in Amy’s hatch, see if he can smear BJ back into a blues icon. He can’t: BJ Thomas is more like it and then I have to hear that goddamned song in my head all the way through the Atchafalaya Basin. That’s the day I turned nonrepresentational for good or at least the remaining year and a half before they tossed my Fairfield Porter ass out of the Big Fucking Assdeal program at UT-San Antone. I represent nothing so much as a paint-by-number dipstick in these my Georgia exile days. Marcel Duchamp got the hare-brained notion of signing his name to the pissoirs and bread loaves of ParisFrance, found art he called it, I routinely sign mine to the broken down appliances in my avocado kitchen: “Blender,” “Dishwasher,” and my latest objet d’art, “Amana Fridge.” Sears doesn’t deliver my new Maytag side by side tomorrow between 1 and 5, I’m gonna TraciBurns the delivery man’s ass and it won’t be found art, believe you me. You see the toll Amy’s demise took on me: original paint job, original transmission, but I could have owned Goodyear with the rubber I’d stuck on her wheels. Hell yes I was partial to that smelly hatchback. Turned down Buck countless times in the back seat even as I played loosegirl of Roosevelt High and granted Patrick first entry. The Roosevelt gig was Patrick’s kink: I went to Brack, the real Brack. The things we do for art. Amy rocked and I rolled and Patrick thought he was bedding Mary Magdalene of the Northeast Independent School District. On our lateral move from South Texas to the Georgia low country, we took Officer HT’s Bobby Johnson collaboration back through Copiah County just on the off chance. You don’t get many of those, but damned if he wasn’t waiting over the rise at Wesson, Mississippi grinnin’ big like 25 years and too many damned Republican presidents hadn’t passed under the bridge. Howdy, Trace, he sez, mind if I take a peek? Suit yourself, HT, this here’s my husband Patrick, sez I, no doubt you remember Buck. Damned if he didn’t come up slapping Bobby Johnson like déjà vu all over. Like the credit card man sez, some things is priceless.
Labels: ray price
posted by murat11 at 1:01 AM
10 Comments:
I am now inspired to page through John Ashberry's "Just Looking"--and get a load of what a Jane Freilicher head looks like exactly. I think of languorous arrangements of loaves and fishes, not the heads of cops, but I'm sure that my looking will now take on the Paschalian influence.
Love the image of Gremlin blowing to peach smithereens. 50 years fast forwarded.
Turpentine and oil. A smell I associate with new gallery shows, the smell of possibility, acrid around the edges but heady.
One who signs their avocado appliances MUST visit Fridgehenge in Santa Fe. Although I believe it's fallen, literally, and the artist has no funds to keep it up.
AMC Gremlins and avocado appliances. Absurd, yes. Almost as absurd as knowing I may have looked at either of those things in longing. Excuse me while I bow my head into the shag carpeting in shame....
San: I'll have to make an Ashbery visit as well. I'm sure Traci's take on Ms F was influenced, no doubt, by the oil and turpentine fumes.
Miguel: Unshag yourself, amigo. It was the 70s. What did we know about anything? Remember: longing is as longing does...
Man, I was this [-] close to buying a used Gremlin once. It was purple with white "racing" stripes. As if anyone could race with that cast iron I-6 tractor motor.
Clearly, Miguel, you were (are) a man ahead of your time. I assume the only holdup was that the beast was not purple enuff.
Now this is some fun here! And San and the music man upped the fun past priceless…if there is such a thing. Like credit cards, there’s gold, platinum, then what? Titanium? Then what? I could have done without the stirring of the sleeping Gremlin dog but for the added merriment value. Trouble is, once you wake up one dog, the others start to howl: Pacers, Pintos, Chevettes, Vegas, Yugos…eyesore nightmare. Thank you, Paschal, I can’t wait to lay me down to sleep ;-)
Miss A
Ms A: Girl, you know none a them dogs can hunt. pb on the periodic chart, cher: that'll be your Lead credit cards: no bouncing there, for sure.
Personally, I suspect you carry a champagne card, for the finer, more fun things in life. Plenty of bubbles, lots of float.
The thing about those 70s appliances... they never stop working! After we had to replace nearly every appliance we installed five years ago, avocado green or harvest gold took on a new allure.
Anno: Busted I am. Sadly, the only 70s thing that doesn't still work is Rick James. It was pain before pleasure / Oh, that was my claim to fame...
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