Mind States Conference Talk

Delivered May 28th, 2005

Jim was invited to give a presentation of his work as part of the Visionary Art Panel at the Mind States Conference, held last Spring at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. Assuming it was a celebration of traditional Bay Area values (alternative energy sources, holistic medicine, dream research, and so on,) he prepared a written text to accompany the Lazy Robinson sequence of Mysterio Simpatico, feeling certain that the assembled altruists would find the blend of crisp prose and puzzle-pictures refreshingly grounding.

As we were driving down I started reading some of the titles of the other lectures in the program and the true psychotropic nature of the event became clear. "Sacred Herbs of Buddhism", "Designer Minds," "Hyperpeople," "Ecstatic Evolution: Dance Music Culture and Transcendant Technology," "Digitritus: Virtual Species and the Dream State," and so on. When I read the list aloud and reached "Lazy Robinson" Jim had to pull over because we were laughing so hard at how incongruous it seemed.

The talk, delivered on the third day of the mindblast, was indeed as out of place as a weasel in a candy shop, but came off well, I think.

(Thanks to Jon Hanna and family for the invite and for letting us stay at their totally bitchin' house.)

- Madame W.

When I was a confused little boy living in the hills of Burbank I would lie awake for hours in my bed at night, watching processions of incomprehensible objects that appeared in the air over my feet, posing, slowly turning, and offering themselves for examination. Watching them gave me peculiar little shudders of pre-sexual ecstasy. They seemed very serious and meaningful; they promised me a deeper look into things.

A deeper look which I never got and never stopped wanting. The older I grew the more I became convinced that I had really seen something important and significant in those floating objects. I believed they were visible in the dark because they fluoresced, so to speak, with the invisible rays of something too subtle to see directly. As things have turned out, seeking a closer union with this unseen presence has been the major goal of my life, and I confidently expect a full explanation at the last minute.

In the meantime, I seek out this oblique radiance which nourishes and comforts me, and I work hard to produce drawings that seem to have it. This series, called LAZY ROBINSON, is artificially sequenced to suggest a progression of forms taken by a cognizant object during a specific and identifiable train of thought.

As a consumer constantly on the lookout for mysterio autentico, I find that for me aquarium-gazing represents the western horizon of empathy. The feeling of separation is wonderfully painful. I ache to absorb the tiny creatures' little light, to give them new life as a part of my magnificence. I want them to boil inside me with uncontrollable glory, so that my schoolmates will say, "He's glory-poisoned, he'll never get well."

Yes, I am glory-poisoned. Yes, it is fatal. Yes, I am frightened. I don't want to die, but I'd rather die than suffer. So I pray, "I don't want to suffer. I don't want to suffer". Then suddenly, I'm dead. And just as my father told me after he died, it's not very pleasant.

As he himself might have put it, this is meat and potatoes art. It is an emblem of the well-known basic unsatisfactory spiritual contract, the one that says it is the shapes your mind takes that determines your relationship with the absolute, and not whatever shapes are taken by whatever mind the absolute possesses.

With the promise of a mind that controls the cosmos through prayer, it is perhaps time to invest in a primordial state with some potential; so let us turn, if not return, to the embryo. Here we see ourselves as we were, in this case celebrating access to the higher attributes with the addition of a party horn.

This is not the bad joke it may seem. Every infant is a potential partycrasher, but this horn may develop into something more universally significant. However, this is a pig embryo, ha ha...and if it grows up with its horn intact it is likely to do its most impassioned honking in the abattoir.

But that grim future does not matter to me. I am concerned only with the here and now, the moment at which appears our eponymous hero. The idea was to make a hat that looks great on display but terribly undignified when worn; and further, to make the wearer appear to be the problem.

Accordingly, I went to a hatmaker in San Francisco to have one of these made. He was a serious old-world craftsman and became angry when he saw the design. "People like you, you just play all the time!" he told me. "A man's hat is not for fun! A man's hat is for a man!" This self-evident truth left me with more answers than questions, and now I believe that hat never will be constructed.

In fact I enjoy that man's condemnation of my idea more than I would enjoy the hat. It is a pleasure to submit to his prejudice. Empathy, knowledge, identification. Such powerful tools! If only we could transfer our will to them. If only we were not trapped in this limiting flesh!

But perhaps our bodies are necessary. Perhaps they are like bookmarks, holding our places among the increments of spacetime. Perhaps it is necessary to limit the mind to focus it. But we find ourselves fighting a new enemy: disgust. Turn away, it says. No, says the artist. Disgust is your ally.

But suddenly the divine is within reach! Was our ally treacherous? Or did we presume? At any rate, with this new incentive we look for our face everywhere; and what's more we see it... everywhere. And when we are thus attuned, everywhere we find our face is the face of the almighty. We see it in every plant, every root, every insect and mollusk. And when we do, we can only stare, mute and yearning.

This is difficult and strenuous work, and when we give it up we may feel frustrated and unfulfilled, and a little peevish. On the one hand we are encouraged to meditate night and day; on the other we are told that enlightenment comes when it will, to whom it will.

It is easy to say, and even to believe, that the rich experience being rich for us, that the tortured experience torture for us. The journey to the center is ongoing, everything is separate, but shared. We are all one, only not yet. Those of us who enjoy feeling isolated and aloof would like to be admired for our cynicism, but whom can we trust to bring dignity to such a transparently egotistic ploy?

At this point our object develops the power to provoke jealousy in us. Why are some people, some creatures, able to see more than we are? Are they somehow better? Are they more beloved of God? Are they less afraid of death?

How aggravating it would be to learrn that death is exquisite, joyous, pure bliss. Of course if that were the case we would have to salute the mighty taboo against possessing this knowledge, for if that little secret got out we would eagerly kill ourselves every time we got a little down in the dumps.

There is no taboo against being born except among the saints, who would like to be done with this place and its loathesome creatures for once and for all. That taboo shortens their voices, makes their words fall flat, makes their goals uninviting.

So, go and eat a pound of candy. Be a little bit elfish and a little bit selfish. This kind of fun is not trivial. It is miserable, vast, all-destroying. It floats on the cold broth of our discipline and determination like an inch of congealed fat. An entire birthright is contained within its potential.

This kind of fun is mysteriously allied with empathy, the sixth sense and most powerful force to which we have ready access. So eat, eat for pleasure! Eat for fun! There is no sin in destroying perishable objects made for that purpose. Those liquorice allsorts, for example.

This gluttonous middle path preserves intact the intellectual potential of every incipient free-thinker, the realm of undifferentiated personality, the imaginary intersection of flesh, mind and spirit. The equilibrium is temporary. The lover of simple pleasures will inevitably choose to succumb to or refute his degrading passions, and the destruction of potential through utilization will commence. Don't look too closely or that little puppy of yours will assume the aspect of a stomach-turning experiment in emotional deficiency.

So is nothing really nice, when you get down to it? Are we all something out of Lovecraft? Should we simply go ape? Our resolve to remain civilized is briefly tested,and lo and behold we are found to have the moral wherewithal to persevere. Whaddaya know about that?

We keep watching. We look for things with faces. We are surprised to find empathy and disgust can coexist very well together and are embracing happily, each a stimulating adjunct to the other. There they go, slobbering and leaking all over the dance floor. How sweet it is!

Ah, who are we kidding? If we were quitters, this is where we would give up. Why is it all so difficult? Why are we put within eyeshot of our heart's desire yet kept from it? How is it that so many billions of forms tumble by while we struggle to connect with ourselves? It just ain't fair. And the book-keeping! How is it possible for everything to be noted, remembered? And what is our role in all of this? If, as the anthologies of aphorisms claim, every person's life is a failure when viewed from the inside, just what is the nature of this boat that everyone misses?

No. I am the boyfriend of the weather. I would rather be good than lucky. I may not attain the goal, but by God I will have the struggle. I look at my hands and I see a pair of lions.

Now comes the first serious temptation. "You'll never understand. You'll die before you understand." It can be difficult to resist the bizarre allure of furniture that is not ours. For me the grisliest harbinger of disaster came one nightmarish morning in my house when I saw a roomful of anthropomorphic sofas and chairs being illuminated one piece at a time by the rising sun. I was in heaven until I heard a voice say, "You have become a salesman of these. "

Immediately I got to work making that dream do what I wanted. Now there was something not quite improper about the way the woman I now saw was doing things. She moved herself around like a big fat cab. There was something buggish about her shiny round hump and that one yellow leg was as perfect as a column of poured paint.

This is the midpoint in the series; something completely unidentifiable. Oddly enough when I offered these images for sale this was the first one that went, and I could have sold it a dozen times over. For some reason the image that had the least to offer in terms of comfort and conciliation was the most sought-after chicken in the shop. There are those who refute the self-evident idea that knowledge extinguishes the flame of curiosity, but these people are only robbing themselves of the satisfaction that comes from burning their bridges while still satnding on them.

As a disincentive to commit to an absolutist philosophy, our little swimmer takes the form of a wasp's spider pantry. The tiny terrors of the natural world have an honored place in these proceedings; they are so appalling that they can't be modelled over.

Werner Herzog said if you want to see the devil, look into the eye of a chicken. The next time I came across a live hen I did as he suggested, and I saw in its eye a reflection of the farmer who stood stood behind me. He was picking his nose, hie eyes rolled up into his head. It would have made a great porcelin figurine.

Which leads us to the present-day world of amoral contemporary design and the general sanctioning of whimical luxury objects, like this solid platinum coctail shaker. Unlike the riches of kings, today's treaures can belong to anyone with the gumption to pony up the wherewithal.

The dead man's theory of wealth does humanity an incalculable service by making it plain that the cosmos doesn't give a damn whether we are buried in mud or gold. It also imposes a natural statute of limitations which terrifies the vulgar rich into abandoning all else in order to compete with one another for the honor of possessing the biggest heap.

This nasty, fluid game results in an abominable lust for the corrupting influence of wealth, the abuse of technology for immoral gratification and the creation of unthinkably inhumane weapons. Because they love the idea of dispensing thunderbolts like Zeus, they make these weapons as attractive as possible.

The wise man shuns these and arranges for the ministrations of a divine prod to goad him down the right road at the right time to the right door. He may be burned and ravaged when he gets there, but he will believe unalterably in providence.

The scene unfolds in silence. A dark doorway in a dimly lit room. A man pokes his head through the door, low to the ground, as if he were crouching, and looks cautiously around. He has dark hair, bowl-cut. He looks self-important, stupid, mean and worried. Another man with wild, wispy hair pokes his head in, above the first man's. He grimaces in terror and distaste as he scans his surroundings. A third man, bald, pokes his head in over the second man's; he wears an expression of determined idiocy.

And then comes this little item, held aloft above the trio by some unknown fourth person. It is such an important clue! It says: NO.

But let's think a moment before we jettison our defects. Suppose the poor were suddenly to have compassion for the rich. Universal peace would ensue. Every human heart would be a beautiful garden, and every human action a bouquet of flowers offered and taken. Discrimination would become a thing of the past, both in its anti-social and critical senses. All humanity would rub haunches indiscriminately. Wouldn't that be great?

NO, it wouldn't. NO. And thank God it will never happen! Let every person buy and proffer their own little gift. Let the pitiful dollar stores open and close. Let the independent gesture flourish.

Is it worth running the risk of heading down an evolutionary dead end in order to explore the possibility of developing sensory equipment capable of responding to stimuli that is undetected by the present set of senses? NO. Do you want to be some kind of big shot? Where's your loyalty?

No, stick to what you can manage. Respect boundaries. Don't meddle just because you can. Once known, always known, since nothing is lost in a closed system. All information is yours whether you know it or not. This swimming creature could be mistaken for either a crab or a hat. It's a classic case of a good design doomed by inter species competition for style and nourishment. Why on earth would you want to get involved?

To assist the the child who loves the world and wants to avoid this kind of embarrassing mix-up, this wind- up tin nudibranch is a must. By viewing nature as essentially mechanical, we endorse the view that it is all eyes, teeth and stomachs lashed together with various sorts of appetites.

Now here's a good one: imagine all those stomachs, removed from their respective bodies and filled with rock-hard cement. Now imagine them all resting on neatly-made cots. Rows and rows of cots, and new stomachs coming in all the time to be carefully placed on them. The joke, of course, its that the last donor would also be the last spectator.

Perhaps it would be as well to do away with stomachs altogether. There is no gainsaying it, the whole question of meat is fraught with compromise. It makes one queasy to look closely at it, like listening to one's heart through a stethoscope. We are directed outward, away from our guts. We hate to think about them and hate even more to see them.

It is one thing to fill our bellies with our animal friends, and quite another to subjugate them for purposes of questionable ecstasy. But it happens, we all know it happens, and we accept it. None of this was our idea in the first place. But it's so sad... the lonely kitten... his little paws, the catnip mouse, bone dry. Another failure.

Yes, but here is a success story. I met a man who had gone with a group of his friends into the woods with a case of dynamite to play chicken. They took turns lighting sticks and seeing who could hold them the longest before throwing them. The man I met was the winner. He had held a stick so long that it blew his arm off and opened his abdomen like a sardine tin.

He was proud of his achievement. "I took it to the extreme, man," he said. "Did you see your guts?" I asked. "Hell yeah, I saw 'em," he told me. "What did they look like?" I asked. "Bloody," he said.

How pleasant it is to contemplate that nature devours itself with gusto, that God plays rough, opening our eyes with dreadful shocks and then comforting us until we laugh with joy. It really is a closed system! We really do meet ourselves coming and going! It's all a big joke! As the cross-eyed flounder said to St. Francis, "This is the longest god dam tunnel I've ever been in!"

Anyone who doubts the veracity of the flounder's exclamation can verify it by arranging two small mirrors at right angles to each other and gazing into them so that the eyes look directly into each other. The result can only be called reciprocal brain-looting. I insist on that.

Yes, we also serve, we who keep moving and think only of how to make things work out for ourselves. We prop up the world not only for our friends and progeny but for everyone we will never know. We help create the idiotic multitudes, by focusing our attention on where we would like to go. Each of us is a cell, a building block, a car.

Some of us realize this and seek to entertain the rest of us by creating fearful little tableaus to send a shiver up the spine. Dangling bodies, miniature enemies. They have a million signs printed up that say Keep Out. They don't ask the rest of us for permission, they simply grab what they want and expect the rest of us to accept their authority. It's too much; they've spoiled the illusion. We must return to our own home and consider our next steps.

But which home? That green-doored enclave of genial provisioners that fills the road? That awful hotel with the rules protected under a sheet of saran wrap and the nearly vertical parking lot? The rambling fixer-upper with the white-carpeted basement and the two stairways that always put one in mind of nadis?

Any of these. Any of them at all so long as we can hole up there and really figure out what to do next. All we need is a place to flop. A place to flop and a clean glass to drink from. And a snack if there happens to be any anywhere. Anything at all would do.

And so, with our freshly unwrapped dinner gently oxidizing on the windowsill and another seven years of night settling around us, let us bid adieu to the haunting strains of little trusts that pipe in the woods at dusk. Let us let go of that dwindling flesh, those cloudy eyeballs, that artificial knee. Let us experience the frisson of handling a tiny body for the last time. We have considered things until our brains ache and we are ready for our reward. We want to see lightning in a bottle. We want to observe ourselves in a laboratory situation.

It is getting light. We have been up all night, eating candy and drinking soda. We are drunk with lack of sleep. We go outside to watch the sun come up and the sky takes on the aspect of a vaulted dome. Everything is sacred, everything thrums with divine energy. The secret is wrapped up very tight in everything, but we sense that we will be allowed to glimpse, at last, the truth about ourselves.

The final message makes the messy child proud to be human, glad to be part of this awful world, honored to be able to live and die with such singular dignity, deserved or not. Look around at our tomb, how well- stocked it is. We ought to lie down. But... do you feel sleepy? I don't. I tell you what. I know it's wrong, but let's slip outside and have one more day together in the world.

Here comes Demeter, carrying two sheaves of wheat. She is searching for her daughter. She would like our help finding her. But we have no idea where she is; and anyway, it's not our lookout.