Art Versus Evil (Byline)

Carving with synthetic mechanisms, producing sounds and shapes with the authority of stone, waves and frequencies surround our earthly cell.

Understanding the knowledge of connection within the context of separation makes us better people.

All successful hustlers have the soul of an artist, journeying to the end of the night, hearts filled with hope, hands filled with grime. Creative business always follows the craftiest of arts.

Those in deviant precincts know cops can lie better than you can think as they set off for some stimuli that makes the sensation stick then settle in with said substances to soothe the system's sting.

Basing virtue on the dogged and indiscriminate application of effort, making a lot out of a little, wraps madmen around cans of metallic chrome. Cats with fat caps seek self-expansion in the face of self-deception forever forsaking flat black and gloss white.

Recorded music, digitized archives and last years' lost loot become long distance love affairs. But good things happen when echoes from the source refuse to sour.

Art versus evil and gets its can kicked cold, counted out on the canvas, sporting an abstract expressionless gaze and black, blue and burnt sienna bruises.

Don't be fooled. They really are old friends. They go back like ancient heart attacks, selling services to each other and fornicating mutual disgust.

The desire to connect is in everyone's game plan. Passengers make passage scratching signs on the walls of the internet, self administering dosages of affluence and anxiety while finding ways to kill the things they love.

Art is a lonely thing. High adventures and epic vacancies await all gamers looking to escape or create narratives they are forced to live up to.

But even the king of outcasts knows living for oneself has its price and we can't avoid feeling overcharged when we're ignored by the ones we adore.

(C) 2007 SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Jutified.

Famous Monsters Part 8: Bride Of The Monster

Looks back at her lover and laughs.

As if all good things in the night go on without consequence.

Either way, anyway, it's all okay.

Especially in a system where aesthetic worth is based on units shipped. The differences between getting-it and seeing-right-through-it become heir-apparent.

Apparently information is controlled in houses of government anxious about depression. Deflation economics was never my strong suit.

I best digress and stick to dissecting the hopes of every hopeless kid. Like a scarecrow of rock and roll making sure that Johnny Law doesn't catch up with Johnny Rebel.

Scaring sparrows for amusement is plastic enthusiasm. It's not something real. Like music.

Music does something special to those that have experienced near death situations. It's hard to explain. The bylines help.

Still. Don't confuse live music and art performance. They are both the same thing.

Spray painting on rooftops in hot neighborhoods is a whole other story. You won't catch me atop Motorcycle Club digs where wheels of soul sip sanctioned sauce.

I'm too old trying to return to forever fusing cool blue grooves with funky edges. In this area of operation no think tank commandos are needed to trademark words like success. And hip.

You see, all spoils garnered by pen are ultimately judged by their penmanship.

(C)2007 SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.

100th Post: Celebrity Bookmarks...

The knowledge of form connects man with nature. All talk about art and truth attaches here.

Riddled with doubt and fleeting rays of uncertainty it's easy to become an author, less so an empathetic receiver. The human impulse to document experience is ubiquitous and overwhelming.

Placing judgments on the truthfulness or falseness of an environment or situation takes keen leadership. I'm hip to that skill set.

Imposing structure and order on sequences of sounds, shapes, forms and patterns requires crafty perception; how this structure leads us to experience emotional reactions is part of the mystery of graffiti, music and poetry.

Reality is non-negotiable. Subscribing to the admission of evil in order to exorcise it is no suspenseful, chilling event. Being human or becoming human is not necessarily part of the bargain.

The search for meaning breaks the heart of the guilty and innocent alike. Fits of regret drive many into mad rages.

Nobody likes being told to bury the bodies when it's not retiring quota. It's a salesman's game. You can only hope to make up for it in the mix.

Like playing fast to hide your faults. In music, if melody is your malfunction, make sure you honor it with decent treatment or don't blow. It's all hip advice. Like when someone tells you no, become dyslexic.

Graffiti, like all humanities, encapsulates the dilemma of living and dying concurrently. Like fine wine, great graff has taste, courage, individuality and irreverence.

As all musicians must pass through stages of creating unlistenable sounds before creating rewarding, listenable experiences, graff heads get gawky before getting loose.

Cool clouds gather, and at once the ultimate image emerges, defying chaos. And you grasp at things more significant than any symbol. Allowing an intense yearning for something else to take root in music, in aerosol enamels and oils.

And reaching for something greater than some celebrity's bookmark or seeking some enigma as old as the twelve-bar blues, we stumble upon what we hope is a platinum sentence.

(C)2007 SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.

Catching A Predator

All my favorite innovators had rough edges. Something in their style spoke of larger truths.

Trying to return and expose one's authentic voice is the game I'm trying to name.

To reach one's own story is nothing more than a proposal for life's meaning and purpose. It's all about finding the right balance between intensity and clarity while intensely transmitting a personal environment.

While the experiences of literature, film and television are still one way feeds, trends are moving at a fast clip toward truly dangerous interactive mediums. New meanings and symbols for freedom, peace, war and unrest await.

The internet is the closest thing we have to mind reading. We can create a thought, a fantasy, a situation then entrap any mind magnetized to that specific trip. We can press charges, charge credits and secure sentences for the unlucky souls lured into their own digital quicksand. I'm not too cynical to suggest that it doesn't make for great television.

I guess there are worse ways to merge the two mediums. Certainly there must be better ways of producing product, I guess. And who among us doesn't wish our conscience as easy to clear as the cache on our computers?

The shared experiences of riding a roller coaster, catching a film, reading a book automatically shifts select audiences in community with links to shifty characters. You have to watch out.

But it's not like I need to write that out for an audience of graffiti writers. Some new graffiti kid is always on my back making sure I'm looking out for the right things on the right reasons. Making sure I know the score. And what it means to be true.

But I'm just like you. Just another boob sitting in front of youtube. Letting waves and generations of mediums come and go. Something in me still pledges allegiance to all things eight track and reel to reel.

Kids still get itchy and I know there's still a bit more paddling left which makes for good advice considering an old African proverb warning not to mock the crocodile until you have crossed the river.

(C) 2007 SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.

Digital Blasphemies

There's no time for analogy or metaphor in the land of the lost. Life has its own schedule and we have to find our own way to pick the lock.

Conquering and subjugating nature is what we've been conditioned to do. Reaching for an ambition higher than circumstance requires accepting our natural state. This is what organic growth is all about.

Decorations such as music and graffiti live parasitic on the margins of nature and just as melody is the ultimate triumph of form over detail, graffiti is the triumph of will over state, will over power.

Graffiti addicts have at it, servicing craft to inform truth and beauty, creating sublime work from suspect beliefs, running on a love with limited passion and a lust consumed by its own want.

Having love for what something is rather than for what something isn't settles our souls. Helps sleepwalkers slip silently. It allows us to get past our past while presenting a case for the present presents moments of great pretense. But we need to get past this point.

If you have bad shit in your soul, it has to find its way out. So we must go to the devil in our own way, controlling our demons so that we can become the monsters we wish to be.

Borrowing a phrase from Shakespeare, rock stars with voices from the edge leading to the ledge are false pundits "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Bonfires of sanity are ceremonies for drunks riding a wave of hiccups.

Great graffiti writers steer clear of potential potholes. They get fixed on simple information knowing the key to all art is in violating expectations. Mastering the mathematics of music, the craft of graffiti, and handling your malt liquor makes for meaningful mood swings.

Anybody that stakes anything against itself talks mad shit. There's no analogy to it. No metaphor to put it in perspective. To speak of things sacred while navigating through the ruins says it all.

(C) 2007 SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.

As of the 28th of February...this Blog was a year old. An entire year of thoughts, mood-swings, and rants. Cool huh? Anyways, before I get all teary-eyed and nostalgic and wreck my keyboard with Saline solution....let's get on with this month's Byline.

Oh, to be anxious, restless and innocent under the midnight moon. Cool shapes in outer space provide all the mystery necessary to those without want.

Sometimes you need to set off on a lunar cooling. Get your graff on and go. I know.

Acting on emotion has its own logic. Scrambling up the math keeps it locked down in craft. Science and voodoo art cast their own spells.

Trying to return to your genuine voice is as odyssean as it gets. If you're any good at all (at anything) you know you can be better. And you're not growing if you don't feel awkward.

I can't contemplate the pleasures and luxury of making a decision without having my back against a wall. Modern society doesn't let one be, it forces one's hand.

Battles being built to lose line up. Long Tails of tolerance dot the tactics but the strategy is up in the stratosphere. Some parties pledge that confrontation allows you to call winners when you're nowhere near the bullets and flames.

But then some artist from the 1980s hits you. That high dose delivered quickly that overwhelms the senses. Setting it off.

And this character creates dialogue. Thinking.

There's gotta be a better way than smoking dope out of cherry coke cans and listening to alt takes of Charlie Parker like an art student devouring Leonardo sketches. So long ago but the outline hasn't quite faded.

It's easy to come up with something like that when you decide everyone deserves to dream in dayglo colors. Or we all should be entitled to.

Populist sources say the convictions of your heart and the actual contents of your thoughts are less important in guiding your actions than the immediate context of your behavior.

I don't know what the right answer is. But I'll check Wikipedia then check back with you.

© 2007 SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.

Hero Worship

Beware the rise of the fire gods. Sound the trumpet and radiate courage boys. The airwaves sing a plea for violence, asking to give war a chance.

There's a firefight in sight and not too many chances left to take. Roadside bombs keep exploding, changing everything in a Baghdad minute.

The skyscrapers are standing tall but the collective will is growing thin realizing demons disguised as democracy do deadly damage.

Heroes don't fabricate will. They don't suspend termination orders. They find a way to augment diplomacy in order to restructure the guns for the benefit of the butter.

With that high expectation we detach here, finding personal salvation and social revolution packed in a capsule, bottled in a can. It's as fake as double tracked vocals.

Just like our heroes. Nothing more than cassette tape rockers in a VHS world. Pat Benatar almost had it right, it's lust that's a battlefield.

Running to take shelter in sexual congress and senatorial sin, I get high off post-pop anthems from the post-war western world, pandering to poets posthumously.

Relaxing with recondite rituals and myths, I feel vibrations of violence amidst an impending sense of goodness.

It's a sick feeling that makes you shiver like thinking about French kissing a razor blade.

All your heroes become cartoons. Starting out with a gimmick ending with a bang. But there is beauty in the notion of pathos being underrated.

Meanwhile, demons on demonstration display demonstrative demeanor. Dragging around, mildly drugged. Trying to do the research and making a genuine effort.

When love is the subplot and you believe in inspiration, you deserve your moments.

© 2007 Buford Industries/SEASE Productions. (Thanks Stockcap!) All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justfied.