Owner: pRose, DC URL:http://danielcosentino.blogspot.com/ Join Date: Sun, 10 Feb 2008 23:29:18 -0600 Rating:0 Site Description: A journal of prose, pictures and fiction based on the life and travels of a twenty first century American. In the second year of this experiment I continue to seek love, build relationships, practice art and otherwise reveal myself through pure desperatio Site statistics:Click here
the hill 2008-03-04 23:23:44 The girl is a good human. This is not to say that others aren’t, rather that there is a natural goodness to a person that is apparent in the way they hold themselves. Her goodness has not saved her from hate. She spent years being beaten by her boyfriend. Fucker would wound her with fists until blood or a scream broke the spell. That’s how it went down, that’s what she put up with for a few years. Then practicality set in and the girl left and the man stopped beating her because she was gone. Otherwise the beatings would continue. Simple. Like most things except when they aren’t. They often aren’t. It’s confusing this way.The man I’m standing with in this picture, his father died of complications arising from heroine use. He hit it hard and died young. His mother was beaten,
stack 2008-02-28 23:27:01 Somehow I report only parts of it. I notice stacks of things everywhere. It comes from a formal art education partially. I learned the importance of repetition and pattern, so much so that I see it everywhere and in everything. I see it in my own work and the work of friends – more and more and more until a pattern is established and the product flows out. I like to resist things. I resist products but get exactly that. What you resist will appear or some such. Stacks of repetition. Stacks of goods in transit. Stacks of ideas. Stacks of whores. All things possible. I’ve passed this stack for days, that little bastards, so beautiful curled up with the snow and brick. Bah!
bone cairn 2008-02-26 00:09:34 I live in a brick building. I come to be here through kind acts. We all do. You too. But the brick here, on the inside, has been painted. It drips with protection and drips with finality. You will be I will be you will be I will be. Some have gone insane and made it here as refuge. They will do no more in this world than finish their days. This will be a good life. Survival is a good life. I am like dust in this place. I fall upon it softly collecting history, full of mites, together with soot and make a mold like a memory, all on its surface and the surface is enough. The surface will tell you all that is needed. I want you want me I want you want me. And when I break out of this harried pansy bullshit, after Monday’s beers seep through the deep sockets of my lumpy numb liver I’ll wa
twenty first century men, digital queer 2008-02-20 18:34:54 For now, for half of the week I frame exhibits for the George Eastman House. This is not fiction, I do this. J got me the job. J likes art, likes me and now I do this part time. There are other details worth mentioning but I refrain. At work this morning I was reframing exhibition prints - Woodburytypes by John Thomson from the 1900’s and came across one of soldiers standing on a street corner in London. I asked audibly “could I be one of these men?” J looked on and pointed to the one with the blonde beard. “You’d be that one.” I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t sure if I could be another man in a different time. “So many lives,” I thought. I felt fortunate. The prints were of such extraordinary beauty that I wept in the privacy of the studio for the shear possibility of it. Read more:twenty
Write a book 2008-02-19 18:21:45 V-Daddy learned along the way that poverty is ignorance. He ended up in South America as a peace corps volunteer to escape fighting a war of ideology and ignorance in Vietnam. From the many stories he’s told about his travels I recall one about villagers whom he taught to irrigate the land and practice safe hygiene in exchange for the nearly non-existent peace corps pay along with the chance to practice and learn from the vernacular language of the region. He didn’t speak of his own merit when telling the stories but what I gleaned was his commitment to do something with his education and talents that may help in peaceful efforts. He returned to finish a medical degree and now studies a disease that affects the people of that region. It seems a good life, I’ve always thought so. Amon Read more:Write
Confessionals - no dumping, N.Y. state 2008-03-09 23:43:06 Ah, the sweet and putrid truth. The flump of failure. The utter fascination of wanting something, finding it exactly as imagined and losing it as foreseen. Schmuck. The way there is a horned devil whispering it into being. The way of want. The way out. The honesty of pain, the foolishness of honesty. The stupidity of courage. The misguidance of valor. The end, the bitter end and the match that ignites it. The beginning and end, the beginning and end. The day. The first day. The last one. The last day. The fight. The last violent act. The last act. The final act. The loser. The last word. The final word. The finalist. The next day. The out. The out again. The city and all her distorted lovers. To each a city. The city of each. The hardened, embarrassing putrid truth. The real. The hold out Read more:dumping
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