Random thoughts and spills. 
But first, a quote from Joey:

Harnett-Hargrove / Laundry, Harnett-Hargrove, Harnett, Hargrove

The hero is the champion of things becoming, not of things become, because he is. Before Abraham was, I AM. He does not mistake apparent changelessness in time for the permanence of Being, nor is he fearful of the next moment, as destroying the permanent with its change. Nothing retains its own form; but Nature, the greater renewer, ever makes up forms from forms. Be sure there’s nothing perishes in the whole universe; it does but vary and renew its form. Thus the next moment is permitted to come to pass.  

Observation #399:
My self imposed to-do list is once again, at the moment, is manageable. Sending projects on their way with little lives of their own ... On the other hand; if it’s not going to be finished, this is the week it won’t get done.

What I learned today:
Security is confidence in leaving an environment and knowing you can come back to it. Constance is comfort. At home it is easy to assume and feel on top of things. When traveling we plunge into uncertainty. We are reminded of this everywhere we turn, everywhere we go. This venture of uncertainty is exciting. Also, de-habilitating. Knowledge gives out, lights go dim. You need to be more attentive, do more interpreting, be more intuitive about your environment.

Idea: having an emergency at the Emergency 1/4 Mile sign. 
Queue to remember memories. 
Memory chained to physical forms.
Rules vs. expectations.

trinket + trick = tricket 
going upstairs helping an elderly person get to a landing i cant back down overtime i turn to egress the escape hatch gets smaller as i move toward it the same landing the next night in the same dream the room turned elevator turned cage turned trapped into a barred coffin.


The warm evening breeze carries the heady aroma of the honeysuckle though the open window. Wild honey suckle. Uncontrollable, growing + covering anything still. 

And the fireflies. 

You cant have a light with out a dark to stick it in.  -Arlo

At a small town community center there were tear sheets from decades of past Saturday morning posts illustrated by Norman Rockwell. I’ve heard he did not consider himself a fine artist, + he admired greatly those who claimed that title. He was content to beautifully, sentimentally, illustrate - exposing the american human condition at a time when there was much to question. Not much changes.

Now the years are rolling by me
They are rockin’ evenly
I am older than I once was
And younger than I’ll be; that’s not unusual
Nor is it strange
After changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same
- P Simon

We are back where we start. 
Always struggling to find ourselves right here, right now – missing it.


Harnett-Hargrove, Harnett, Hargrove

Random thoughts, or, chewing the re-entry scenery 

I want to read something real weird and real loud with out words
modify that —
well, maybe something not too weird and not too loud
but defiantly with out words.

What I learned today:

• Quantifying my ignorance is a hard thing to do. 

• Mixing red and blue paint, still wont make green.

• Waiting for the music to make an S curve sometimes takes a real long time.

• Making the sublime look spontaneous takes more time than one might think.

• Devouring space that is expanding beyond concept devours time.

Tricky connotations, endless denotations. 
Using words to justify something far greater than.
Communication that is more complicated than this takes more time than I have.


9 out of 9 
the ending of the beginning dream
Racket sounds off from both ends of the house as heat pump + the refrigerator are rehearsing a forthcoming music group auditioning for Little Carnegie Playhouse but I'm terrified to let them both in on that LCP has been defunct + dejunked for years I know I am making a mistake + go intoVan Eyck mode except not by painting pupils into the eyes of pinhead sized figure sitting in boats floating on a Renaissance lake but me spiraling into the details of guilt shame + other dark human condition type thingies remembering every wrong I have ever done to anyone any thing every mistake + insult to the artistic aesthetic I ever made every one every single one this goes on for a way too long till I recover in the waking hours the pain of the dreaded evil entity fading + remember again like all the previous springtimes a portable table will be placed over the heat pump clamped down creating an outdoor nook to enjoy our afternoon tea time + so there in a few weeks the baton will be completely handed over to the fridge + the heat pump will take a long rest from heating as the fridge will takes on the cooling with it’s own brand of whining for attention who knows what they think? 


8 out of 9
next day in January
The weather turned unseasonably cold so the pump humming  along diligently never stops this night the rumble transforms into a biplane engine as I circle Ellis Island down on a gray landscape there is a pre dawn shadow shaping suspiciously into the likeness of a refrigerator the liberty woman is standing with an incriminating left eye sealed shut + in her right hand she twirls an hour glass saying in heavy French accent she can talk to me as long as what’s left of sand as she flips the glass like a coin + only a moment of sand remains + is gone as it crashes to the rocks below oh well she says she'll talk anyway what is it you came for but you must salute three times and do 6 jumping jacks before she will answer I motion I'm strapped in the cockpit as she waves a very rehearsed + overused annoyed never mind + turns to watch the sunrise.


7 out of 9
next week in January
Nothing to report except that something in the far room is trying to get all the attention ah the refrigerator is competing with the heat pump making a horrible noise chewing the scenery with random buzzing on off on off on on off off like a morris code signal a random wanting to alarm someone w/o triggering the part of the brain that seizers + dressed up like a veteran Vizier with a black belt + black collar + just the best black costume ever for a refrigerator + begins making her way outdoors toward the heat pump + he with fists up imaging himself in my imagination to be a stumpy scrappy boxer ready for the fight lifts himself from his foundation and begins the arduous journey forward navigating into lucidity I lift my head I see a mental chalk line in the room the central spot where the two would meet + showdown but no they will bow upon meeting + waltz + I will glance away like interrupting a private moment … I awake cursing to a widening gyre of brightness dawning on my closed eyelids it was quiet too quiet like missing santa I had sleep through the dance + now all is settled for now communication is often more complicated than this.


6 out of 9  - if you are barring with me 
early January
The pump began a basso profondos splat ticking as in my dream actors marched on deadline along side them Picasso is dressed like the riddler circa 1955 penning signs with a spray can onto corrugated cardboard + handing them out to the lineup for a french theater piece entitled the entitled pygmalion each person brandishing a graffiti sign enigmas stating that time has stopped and asking which ocean will rise I jump awake seized with the impression of the heat pump backing up + flooding the hill my little room a cork in the drift turning into 1950’s riffs in my head that I never lived through as this trilogy of tunes go together kicking + screaming I become aware that I have had nightmares that make more sense than this dosing back off the exaggerated ticking now a thunderous menacing clock as it creeps in through the window terry + I are working a triage tent using patches taken from our jeans as tourniquets that miraculously grow back as fast as they are torn off we work fast to bandage people together sending them on their way sometimes into waiting rooms sometimes onto an operating table sometimes back out through the in door the maddening ticking continued as my mind animates the sound that is reciting prose channeling the words from somewhere + writen down in the fog lost forever literary devices or a bullet list of projects listing themselves or a non-sequitur flip book the size of an encyclopedia or switching the tv from channel to channel or a long toenailed dog scampering across a wood floor or roden’s thinker tapping his fingers on his marble knee over and over + then it is dawn.


5 out of 9
late December
The tune of the heat pump screeched a friendly chickadee’s song as it happily easily leaped from person to person onto heads + shoulder + hands + head + on + on coming towards me - she landed on the top of my head + immediately got tangled in my hair I was in need of assistance because I could not see to help set her free the chickadee screamed calling in a cloud of locust swarming like a pit crew insisting on rotating the crop of ideas determined to dissolve + take back a concept that was never that great to begin with.


4 out of 9
middy December 
Frozen rain fell at midnight and melted off of the heat thingy at dawn below the window making a tink-tinkling of the mini waterfall hitting the surface of patterned bricks inside my minds line on sight reinterpreted as water leaking through a ceiling from upstairs I followed the tap tap tap to the source hunting down the origin being a cracked toilet easily patched I continued information gathering by following the meander of the leak back down down through the house + the watercourse growing larger the farther I descended the path eventually believing it had it’s own destination + determination seeing a shut-off spigot I turned the handle strangling the water supply but it had been too late I turn to see behind me the room afloat fucktangent wicking water over + over melting low walls again + again opening the line of site my stream of consciousness turned into an ocean current in the atlantic with an ocean liner zooming away into a ginormous (which is actually 40’s military slang) void I hang my head as I had been so very silly worried about curtains on the titanic.


3 out of 9
Start of December
The heat pump off-cycling allowed a slumber of night driving the large windshield framing an animated surreal sharpness half lit by head lights every street-sign every billboard every car zooming past blurred eyes + head swims toward the right as I struggle to hang on to the steering wheel concentrating on the tires grounding with the road pull off safely now huddled at a rear wheel for a time-out gaining composure still a mild trace of the mind twisting as though now acclimated to this new way of deciphering through my energy I see nothing but variations of motown sounding off through a half dead walkman the flat beat boomed inside me + losing my will + obeying the air-splitting rhythm awaking a ghost inside my chest an ancestral ghost who had danced this dance a thousand years ago it pulled me away from the rear tire + into the dark forest to join other wantons celebrating about a fire lost in a swaying trance dance i hope for nothing i fear nothing i am free epitaph written on foreheads leaping with sfumato + fire bits + oh then sitting dejectedly in the smoke filled air a few little sisters inside their minds of luxury glass + beam hi-rise condos running hot water + safety locks + a tv screen as large as manhattan + they saw me + oh so cooly politely rolled their eyes turned their heads to each another + pecked + clucked to keep warm reevaluating the future every three minutes in the best of neighborhoods a heavy mist coincided with the fire dissolving into lucidity when the on-cycle kicked their small hateful embarrassed eyes up up + away with the seam from snuffed flames I think how much more interesting the dilapidated heat pump would be 100 years from this as it is easier to make an interesting picture beautiful than to make beautiful picture interesting.


2 out of 9
farther along in November
The swamp thing awoke me on its recurring cycle of heating + relaxing spinning + creaking with off-balanced ticking like a card in the spokes of a stingray with a sissy-bar like a timer on a time bomb reinterpreted reengineered in mind as the radio station droning traffic conditions conditions for traffic you need a lot of cars you need too little road you need loss of time upon investigation the metal fan box revealed a lightly frozen over casing — not loosened by a verbal cuss coaxing (whoa to the Legion of Decency) nor swinging a rubber mallet — on the third chance to remedy a heat-gun flashed to mind I hooked up an extension cord then I hooked up an extension cord then I hooked up an extension cord to make it within reaching distance blasting hot air aiming at the sinister hi-pitched warblery sound that smells of cat litter + base elements holding fast + then backed away as the alarming noise pitched up + fell reduced to a low roar of a smaller scary animal easily taken + understood being less than what it had been it worked swell for a bit after that as I hit my toe so hard on a table leg retch without vomit +  the bed had gotten cold but if I was given the native american name Shoots Hot Air At Her Heat Pump At Midnight it was worth it. 


1 out of 9
During the winter of my discontented heat pump.
Somewhere in November 
Waking this morning I do not remember my dream of night time the sound of the heat pump having noised off every half hour or so + the paying of the dreaded utility bill came into my rolling condensed mind along with vivid memories of an iron maiden thump thump thumping with bruised tar laden lungs distorting the breath sound triggering the dreaded  — oh my — this conditioning we have of a sound that will plummet whatever hope of leveling the playing field for the day + as it is barely cold enough outside to leave a watery frost on the inside of the windows that I have quilted over dark for the rest of the wintery part of the year yet still needing to plant a bit of spring when there is a break to 41 degrees on Saturday


Harnett-Hargrove, Harnett, Hargrove

if we are interested in the craft cooking
if you are interested in the craft painting
if you are interested in the craft of writing 
if you are interested in the craft dance
if you are interesting in fill in the blank

Cross-training keeps us growing.

Circa '94 - Caught cross-training, bewildered 
somewhere in Hong Kong... 

Fire-ready-aim; The ability to start before you are altogether ready in order to initiate a beginning 
so go ahead 
inscribe an epic poem with a burned carrot
smear your favorite cookbook with marianna 
scribble your heart on your sleeve with your new favorite dish
forgo supper for a marathon dancing onto wet paint
go ester williams dancing within 30 minutes of eating a huge meal 

Who said that? I tend to blame the devil on surrealist’s influences. They had way too much time on their hands. Pretend you do, too.

... with these folks.

Are art forms still viable forms of learning, amuse/ment, or escape? Why is it important to have fun or forget all this worldly world. And, really, should we? The compassionate response is so fleeting, when there s so much to be done. Overwhelming. How large does a hole need to be to crawl into it? Meher Baba was silent for 40 years - until his death. He believed there has been enough talk - time to live it. Thinking this is only impressive if you decide, and then live for 40 more years. would it have been so great if he had taken the silence vow and then got hit by a truck two days later?  Oh wow, he didn't talk for two days before he died!

May be Bushido training is what we all need.