IDEA TWENTY-NINE: Twitterpated!

It's spring and I'm twitterpated. You know: horny. Wanting it all ways, all the time. Fast and crazy, slow and insane...

Being good at making love is a lot like being good at writing:

In addition to having patience and mad skills, u have to have a willingness to

tap the alien vein that throbs inside you.

U gotta give in to the bump and grind of it all

Every piece of art has a rhythm, just like a fuck. Even so-called silent pieces like the pillars at Stonehenge and precisely decorated Grecian Urns and still life paintings of fruit positioned upon rumpled tablecloths have a way of dancing through the space that they are in.

I can tell you about this but the only way you'll really get me is if you experience it for yrself...like the bullseye of an orgasm, understanding in and of itself is a gathering up and coming together that outstretches like gigantic unfurled wings--there's the gusty, exhilirating rush, the sense of things falling into place. An unexplainable feeling of being at home.

No matter whether we are at rest, or supposedly thinking about something else, our desires are constantly working for and against us, pulsing thru our blood...widening our pupils and charging our nerves...all for the persistence of something larger than our singular lives.

In the end our most dramatic, Shakespeare-style life altering emotional episodes are the result of boring old chemistry, nothing more.

The same is true of art making. It is a pragmatic business, just like Andy Warhol taught. You go to work and do a job that in the end comes down to numbers.

Ask any musician and he or she will tell you...in the end it's about numbers.

Ask me about my own writing, and I'll tell you that it's less about a motive driven plot and more about how certain groupings of words work together better than other groups of words.

Some words are now. They are of this moment and HAPPENIN.

I never want to lose being of the moment.

My blog BRANDTRUEBOY is having technical issues that may or may not be resolved.

I'm trying not to get overly romantic about my blog's demise.

Every ending is a beginning, I tell myself.

Perhaps the death of BTB is a harbinger of the death of blog culture on a larger scale.

I wonder, what would Andy do? If he had a blog and it got all fucked up and he still wanted to be in touch with his peeps, how would he go about it? And I realize that while I don't know exactly, he would definitely be something quick and easy.



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