What makes us.. the malcontents.. so much better than everyone else?
What makes us, the malcontents, so much better than everyone else? We will never take things for what they are. We will constantly push ourselves and the expectations of others around us to go bigger, create better and be all that they can be. We are not ok with the status quo. We will not hide our heads in the sand and listen to the music that the radio says we should, we don’t think that art is what the magazines tell us to and we will not be the people or lives the lives or love the ones that our parents, bosses and the people around us tell us to. We want more.. we want better… we want the BEST, the BRIGHTEST, the most amazing and wonderful and perfect things and life and music and art that the world has ever known. We are better because we are constantly on the search for more. Never settling for what is force fed us, we will hunt down what we know is out there or die trying..
05/12/12
Come check out some talented new artists/Art Therapist as we show some of our cutting edge new work at the BWAC. I’ve got 2 pieces in the show and we expect a huge turnout including some of NYC’s top art world movers and shakers..
05/03/12
Ceremony after a Fire Raid - Dylan Thomas
I
Myselves
The grievers
Grieve
Among the street burned to tireless death
A child of a few hours
With its kneading mouth
Charred on the black breast of the grave
The mother dug, and its arms full of fires.
Begin
With singing
Sing
Darkness kindled back into beginning
When the caught tongue nodded blind,
A star was broken
Into the centuries of the child
Myselves grieve now, and miracles cannot atone.
Forgive
Us forgive
Us
Your death that myselves the believers
May hold it in a great flood
Till the blood shall spurt,
And the dust shall sing like a bird
As the grains blow, as your death grows, through our heart.
Crying
Your dying
Cry,
Child beyond cockcrow, by the fire-dwarfed
Street we chant the flying sea
In the body bereft.
Love is the last light spoken. Oh
Seed of sons in the loin of the black husk left.
II
I know not whether
Adam or Eve, the adorned holy bullock
Or the white ewe lamb
Or the chosen virgin
Laid in her snow
On the altar of London,
Was the first to die
In the cinder of the little skull,
O bride and bride groom
O Adam and Eve together
Lying in the lull
Under the sad breast of the headstone
White as the skeleton
Of the garden of Eden.
I know the legend
Of Adam and Eve is never for a second
Silent in my service
Over the dead infants
Over the one
Child who was priest and servants,
Word, singers, and tongue
In the cinder of the little skull,
Who was the serpent’s
Night fall and the fruit like a sun,
Man and woman undone,
Beginning crumbled back to darkness
Bare as the nurseries
Of the garden of wilderness.
III
Into the organpipes and steeples
Of the luminous cathedrals,
Into the weathercocks’ molten mouths
Rippling in twelve-winded circles,
Into the dead clock burning the hour
Over the urn of sabbaths
Over the whirling ditch of daybreak
Over the sun’s hovel and the slum of fire
And the golden pavements laid in requiems,
Into the bread in a wheatfield of flames,
Into the wine burning like brandy,
The masses of the sea
The masses of the sea under
The masses of the infant-bearing sea
Erupt, fountain, and enter to utter forever
Glory glory glory
The sundering ultimate kingdom of genesis’ thunder.
04/25/12