Yes you lied to me all these years
You told me to wash and clean my ears
And talk real fine just like a lady
And you'd stop calling me Sister Sadie

-N.Simone

this blog was never intended to be serious...but whatever..

 

there seems to be a declining interest in First Nations thought processes, especially in the critical theory aspect of toronto art schools:

your boredom with first nations art and theory is inadmissible

postcolonial theory means nothing to an audience whose practicalities and 'discourses' have too much to do with existentialism and metaphysics when the institutional chain gang makes its way down the throats of our greater populace.

have you ever considered the viable nature of those outside the western canon?

you claim to understand the 'native' and their 'beat down' culture but our conversations proceed as if such issues have been handled accordingly as we blissfully transcend into our postcolonial existence

fuck those colorful renditions of untouched landscapes and their inextricable tales of corporate fist fucking

i guess your bored with the sacred and sensation

keep on packing intellect with your new academism, moving from one philosophy to the next without achieving any real sense of accomplishment.

as if your country was climbing the hills of acceptance when this is the counterfeit of oppression and degeneration

your praise of Darwin and Hegel allows the institutional creep of genocide to slip beneath the pillows of sleeping children and their brain dead parents

fuck your apathy, you sink lower then those you chastise when you neglect a people who own the very land you rape 

your decay is useless

the pictures you paint with their tattered edges
the loneliest place you can find
you beg for their beauty and abandon their fears
liquidity hidden in the palms of your hands

keep promising them an existence
riddled with-
without vacancy

your broken down houses
sheds
and bedrooms
let them sleep without provoking them with your silent lens.

fancy that

today i looked over into the book the lady beside me was reading on the street car. i read only this one sentence:

"what is taking  so long Ashok, is this going to be the same as last time."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txqiwrbYGrs

zhang peng: goldfish

there is always that sweetness that grabs your entrails and drags them slowly across the linoleum. 

the manufactured face, plastic forms of grotesque internal associations.

what part of ourselves do we see here,

a subverted presence of hopeless and ruined aspiration.

a lostness 

a desire to devour and to ingest.

cheesorama

dear diary/ kristi

i think you are traumatizing the cats with your lasers.