A bit of film from inside the upcoming art installation, Body Orthodoxy: A Sensual Education. Song by me and Tara Ward.
Jan 26-29 | 17:30-20:30
1172 Republican St
Everything ever completely gone and something about lamenting.
God is the being capable of erasing the entire existence of everything ever in a single moment–no, it wouldn’t even take a moment. No one would even know it happened. It wouldn’t even happen. Everything gone, including the idea of everything, including the idea of gone, including ideas, including including. There would be nothing but God to observe to God that there was once something else. (Why bother). It is a most terrifyingly awesome thought. How about humans: sometimes we split atoms and incinerate cities. That is the best we have.
When my friends lost their baby the week we were all expecting him, my deepest and purest thought was to God and went a bit like this: tell us why you created this world the way you did, you idiot. I think this was a genuine lament. Christianity says that God welcomes laments, that God empathizes and in some way acts. I’ve become far too cavalier in my laments if I believe this. I’ll never know the answer to why, and I’ll never not want the answer to why. As soon as I say I’ll have it in Heaven then I’ve got an answer that buys me time and hey, why are you lamenting if you’ll have the answers in a few decades. See how silly this game is.
I’m losing my point, time for a henceforth and a quick credit to my co-conspirator Ben Oldham. Henceforth: I think my lamenting should have a small sense that I could be in deep shit for telling God I think everything is wrong.
(And yes, this is all a lament and I could be in deep shit if God ever reads these damn things.)
Hey God, j/k. Stay cool 
The pill is hard to swallow.
Once again I am in awe of my friend Bryan Free. His latest album, Red Queen, is staggeringly difficult to understand. If I think I like great music then I know I have to put in the time. My first few listens went down like stroganoff, the kind with mushrooms and onions and Russian detritus. I suspect the sales for this album will be poor. Too bad.
On commercial use of your lovely song.
Maybe they should sell their songs to Coke, so we don’t have to endure these ridiculous knock-offs.
Drive (5/5)
Paced, quiet, elegant. They make film-making look easy.
I cannot love this artist any more…
…than I already do.
Oh, I don’t own a TV.
I used to be a smugly about not owning a TV, well now I do and I love it. A gorgeous 32″ 1080p wi-fi enabled TV. It is my favorite form of entertainment and it makes my life better. I don’t read very much and I write these helpful blog posts.
Pineapple Express (3/5)
Franco, stoned in this and every other scene, pokes his hitchhiking thumb through his zipper and exclaims: “hey look, it’s like my thumb is my cock”. That’s funny.
Charlie’s Angels (DNF)
I couldn’t finish this or muster the courage to watch those Spy Kids movies, but it seems they are all made for nine-year-old people who aren’t ready for the sophisticated characters we find in the Pierce Brosnan spy catalog.
The Company Men (DNF)
Rich, corporate guys feel the economic squeeze and stick knives into each others’ backs and make it really hard for anyone to finish watching because doing whatever it takes to make the stock go up is not good film.
