Name: Brock F. Hanson

Submission: Energy

Past artistic achievements: is this really relevant to your project at hand?

Address: 2017 Fairview Ave E

Houseboat H

#328-8138 PO BOX 45187

or Seattle, WA

98145

The piece submitted dealt with the projection ahead 20 years...

looking at 1992 in the retrospect of a series of changeable events

leading to the possibility of inner changes

affecting the whole of the arts.

This piece isn't what you'd call easy

to cess the motives of performance

to the problem at hand.

Suffice to say:

Its setting is twenty years in the future

looking back

to the idea that your perception changes reality.

The character has somehow contacted himself

through borrowing a metaphorical boat

he considers quite real.

He is an artist,

disallusioned by the state of affairs this time

1992

has led him to.

The boatowner and his wife convince his better judgment

to ignore itself, and embark on an exploration

of disremembering the casual

that got him to this place.

They infect him with the ides of balance

and suggest a single person

can change the entire world's vision.

2474 words

Seattle arts commission

Diverse views competition

312- 1st Ave N

Seattle, WA 98109-4501

#684-7171

--------Energy--------

Have you ever tracked its procession

out of the body?

All living things are clocks,

wound up

and run down. Once in the beginning

Once in the end

and many times each day

inbetween all that stuff

you'd call the important aspects of life.

"Would you like to stay for something to drink?"

I'd just borrowed their boat and returned it

with a foot of water in the bottom.

I'd already drunk plenty all right

the waves pouring over the side.

Sure, why not.

They wanted to know about me, I was odd by their standards of behavior,

a misfit in the right use of expressing yourself.

"Tell us about your past."

Why does everybody want the past all the time?

As if I can't be a different person entirely

from one moment to the next.

Quite the contrary...

what if I denied you the right to explain myself

in a language you've come to understand?

Put that way, I have to release the grip of fear

bodies hold on their captive souls.

Time the immortal keeper

pays no mind to the callousness

we rub the skin of the testament to.

You rub the face of the illusion you've come to identify with.

Nothing could be further from the truth...

The Truth you testify to ignore.

Why haven't I met with the demons

that receive these blessings..."these things of which you speak"?

Let the show begin.

We're waiting for the daylight's break upon your divinity

Let us empty the boat

while you feign your disbelief.

This time had no coincidence to its happening.

At what point I began

At the point I serrated

Twenty years the duality

months and years at seas calling.

Point blank.

Destitution, hunger, recalling from the void

all that passed its gastric ulcer

20 pieces of vomit...

units as meaningless as the paper we've given them.

Yes, yes, we know all that.

Don't just think it here in silence\articulate

You're sitting here for a reason you know

Forwards-Backwards

What sort of an illusion

do you think we're begging here?

There is\was nothing to tell the couple who dreamed so real

What didn't the song of their own judician say

That couldn't be foretold?

We want you to think the future to being

The one you dressed

all those years ago.

Be creative

Be insightful

Use the things you've learned in retrospect

To set the stage for what's

about to happen.

Did I get their drift?

Were they telling me to create the future

right now different

from what I'd always uncovered as a fixed set of circumstances?

Indeed. Nineteen ninety two.

Your arbitrary starting part...

propose a solution to all the ill's conceives

Believe it, and see what happens.

The whole world's complaints? Or mine own?

The difference?

Oh.

A symbolic voyage, oh lad of young.

Your shipwreck that happened on the tide

of illusion. Do you think you didn't drown out there?

Fate.

You ate the meat of your muscle

and survived.

Now.

Do the same for the world's collapse.

Artist you say. Aristocrat.

Look deeply into the motives of the Ming

Roman and Cartesian. Look for the sign you set

forecasting the humility's collapse.

What were they talking about?!

Who were these people?

Envoys from another culture,

time and planet?

Why were they asking the persona

of all they've come to understand

before the realization hit. Why.

Why indeed. You are the annals of time and history

watching itself

trying to see the different paths

it could have followed.

Who we are is unimpaired

by your questioning of the knowledge you've seen,

You Know. Wwwwee have seen.

So what?

What cause have I to argue

with the minuscule theft

my reason takes from the whole of understanding?

Your purchase to the credit of your belief

things have been the way they are

no particular way

only redeems my own point of view

exactly as it stood through time.

Tell the fiction them'all call the truce

'tween what was and what could have been.

Go ahead and try

to separate your dreams of the future

from what it held

in the actions your body chose to take

denying its possibility.

This conversation had gone far into the deprecatory

of all the structures I'd loved to hold.

It can only begin here dear one, for the very alterations

you entertain

travel back the energies

to the point of their inception

those twenty little units of time and space ago.

We're also the product

of every thought for betterment we'd helmed

now

Held twenty and more lifetimes past this date.

We spoke for a loam of tide's deposition

silt upon the shore of reason's possibility

veiled in the constancy

it acquired.

Why shouldn't the mind transcend the tide

by flowing with it?

Who's to say the future's present

isn't written on the receipts

we all call our own?

Can one person change eternity?

Who you ask would never know the way through the maze

that got them to the point of the answer.

Changing history is making it anew

wiping clean what was in a distant land of possibility.

To have the program's card

you have to forget the past

that made its changing real.

Possible.

Through some form of dissatisfaction...

(or boredom)

1992 did suck.

Going by the depreciation.

Going by the now

That could be ahell of a lot worse.

Did this moment occur

as a dream of a potential apocalypse?

What right do I have

as a shapeshifter of infinite regard

to rearrange the perfection of another's vision?

One less, one more

of a thing I know nothing about

could have foretold

The worse possible scenario,

The Death

of the person's dream

who stalled the imagined cortege.

None.

Nonewhatsoever.

But I'm going to do it anyway.

(cause I'm bored)

I am an artist. I work 24 hours a day. My work is little akin

to what the society recreated

from the ashes' monument

to every other civilization that graced or plagued

the planet's surface.

I'm 29 years old. Or is it 30 now?

I forget. I disremember. What matters it really?

Another tick of Schroder's cat-clock.

Another benchmeld.

This thing we call the reality

this joke of time, place and cling

to the familiar...

I'm as much the pawn

as the hands that move them.

My art is my dreams; accomplishments inside the form of being

on the planet at all. Through the waking world I trip and tarry

at the places of fraternal order. Wondering what hit me.

Wondering why I reel out of balance.

Practicality.

Serving other's ends.

Bend your will to the masses

Grab your ankles to what sells the best

Innocence offed, stolen, forgotten. Lying face down in a puddle

of blood. Dre-asms?

Thy curtain for its calling.

"We're here to explore the mystery called killing"

Why does it seem like everybody's saying track

so godam'd seriously? This is my likeness.

My likes and dislikes.

I'm working twentyhours aday

putting the patterns of destruction in place

and four putting the gum eraser to them

working as frantically as possible...

Twenty personalities for twenty lumps of shit

I've produced against myself.

Schizo-rift. Good vs; the evil of the time's me.

We're driving etc., pulling the donkey cart.

Dragging it along

The technology of a hundred years yet to come

discarded as long ago.

Why?

Because the car is slowly coming apart.

And we don't seem to give a flying fuck.

This is indeed,

very interesting.

Is this what you've become

Is this what you've been

Is this what you've ingrained?

What reasonality to choose my young friend.

Young?! I would hardly call the disillusioned waif of a 60...

a fifty year-old man's dream Young.

"That's up to me."

Don't kid me with you and your precious enigma...

boat half-full or empty with the waters of life.

I'm a product of a generation that spit its occupants

to the fart of tomorrow.

Short-sighted-mess is all the rage these days of our remembrance

(for we're living them right now aren't we?)

Well, I've got a thing to say for the butchery

I saw a thousand kindred souls cut down to.

Every one has the potency...the possibilities. Right now and then.

Where's the initiation?Where's the warning of the pitfalls?

No native culture laid its artists, its visionaries

so low as ours has done us.

And here I speak for the "us".

Those whom never continued long enough to get the club in sight.

As usual.

The greatest artists are the ones who never considered themselves

anything of the sort.

Art is the foundation of likeness upon itself

though usually it follows the form it's inbred.

The fractory of personas

it's cleaved from its essence.

Welcome to the fad, the flick, the chick and serenade.

All this is the shit

the smack of opium's Marx

that makes or breaks the popular culture.

Every road leads to and from the arts. Arts is nothing short\other

than nature. Observed. Imitated.

Society that disbecomes nature at its roots,

redeems the coupons

in very short order.

Stumbled blocks. That's what you're saying?

We've disallowed the following of vision

funding the popular.

This is only what happened. Not what IS.

By what right,

should it be any different?

Stop with the advocacy. I'm nothing of the fool

you metten minuteshence.

Please sir, continue. I'm pleased to wring

you hand. (In friendship?) Yes.

Why not? You are nothing more than the I

who ceases to be.

Do things, trot

spin the horse wisely, look behind

dump the car

keep in time.

Andy Warthog

legitimized the slaughter of

starry-eyed youths

of commercial's fodder\keeping

delved deeper\lighter the righteous abyss

of everything that existed/was amiss.

You're creating history in each moment now

do you feel its etcetera

existing in intersect

with every hesitation to action

you're completing?

My assumptions

My art

The people's art.

What's the difference really?

I'm the product of the things we're all producing

This is surely tremendous.

Here are the pieces of the grandest puzzle ever existing.

The end-all of your dreams reluctance--

You ask the answer in each utterance,

in each diversion from the passion of which we speak.

Your art

My attempts to convey the essence of my own

My wife and I are no different than the end

of which you seek to call your visions release.

(Everything looks worse in black and white)

Memory is the call to action sending me

to the very moment of time that caused its becoming,

wondering why it understated its true purposes.

I can color it in differently,

deceive the perpetrator with its own designs

not to be seen so clearly

or

stand perchance dangerously close

to the edge of its serendipity.

Let's start again:

in between the tear

callousness brings its blessings

feigns a disbelief

ceases its indictments.

The judiciary stops his arbitrary solutions

from the Ming, Cartesian belief structures

(foresting the unimpaired with wealth).

Thermally lame, redundant arguments

receipts for alchemical collaborations

(Art receives its best facelift)

Apocalypse in its making.

We spelled shapeshifter

in as many ways as possible.

None-what-so-ever

That found its crease too.

Penciled sketchily...

Dreams

Theatre.

Godamn if the body had its day...

Fractal illusion, it is all

Schizophrenic funk.

We'd call our reality's kin

Reasonable

Then turn and toss the nightmarish sleep

of disillusion

and remembrance.

The poetry lacks

the initiations fade...

laid rest their foundations imbrued

with the blood of the hands that cast them.

ART.

That sacrespective persona

of all we've come to hate in ourselves

sold short in imitations

disbeliefs and

disillusionment.

That's where I am right now.

Where was I before? Can I remember?

Was it worse that I gave the world, by giving this anger to myself?

Look around the quay of artist's forgiveness

that burnt to the blackened seas.

What can you find

in the relics of the past?

Hope,

Passion

Sands of time slipping

taking the song of initiation

with them cruels of life.

1992 held the seeds of attainment

like the passover of every year to date.

What's now is no different that what has ever been.

What point then, changing it so?

Why not my son, if it tries so hard to matter?

Enjoy the freedom to do so, and feel happenings

flow through the tenancies to resist.

We met in circumstances legitimized by folds of our own keeping

righteous to extreme

etceteras to the hilt of reality's coinage.

Diversions to grandeur...

essential characters

toy with the rules

So you have said.

Thus I will continue to create truth with my imaginings.

I was 29 years old, focused in the aberrations of a youthful pride

slipping away.

The society became my scapegoat,

the negativity of my soul came forward

trying me against the jury of my peers

(those persons just like myself image).

This perception became my norm

marmalade to the toast of every brand new day.

I ladled my inbred past to the companions I sought

changing lives drastically to the dream

my vindictiveness schemed.

They in turn, past, and present, perpetuated it,

spreading their versions far and wide.

Who was I to dirty the word art with ist?

Like I was something different than

any one else.

Separation breeds the difference at schools, in industry, at every step of the educational nemesis against the subject. Art has no broken dreams, no lack of funding... everything ever done funds it.

Only the titles are lacking.

That society ostracizes it is only further illusion

the language proceeds towards.

Lack of energy, (money) is attention to other words of subject.

I the boy of traitorous deceit

to the nonduality of character the artist became

chucked it all

and wanted everyone else to follow suit.

Smiling, is a lot harder than frowning, when agendas

of success

of investiture

aren't being met.

Very good. "Would you want them met"?

and "How do you feel now"?

Did I say that?

"What does it matter".

I suppose you're right.

I feel pretty good, that's surprising

being words just for cure to something dramatic

I didn't even know I harbored.

Are things really different?

Sure feels like it.

Yea.

They departed, none the wiser

for being a little less dumb.

Handshakes into the present, the boatowner got to thinking.

Between the comings and goadings

disbelief breeds itself

frosting every argument against it

with the alchemy of its woeful collaboration

in truth's desire to hold itself down.

Faces lift to the stars of reason and explanation

seizing any facts to justify their spelling

from a dictate of the infinite

Theater is a good word for it all.

Let the show begin again.

Disillusion and remembrance? They're all the rage these days.

In imitation's disillusionment is the song of god

the song of the artist.

Pulling the tendencies of attention to the boarder of art

in the year 2012

is the righteous rambling spread of sanitized marmalade--

far and wide inbreed...safe sex thought

By exclusion to examine the impact of the self

upon everyone that's ever been.

The quay of attention frames itself against the object

desire wishes to overcome, illusion begging separateness

from an either - or opinion.

Retrospect:

What's this about a boatowner's explanational tendencies

rambling on the inbreeding?

Do you always read the manuals?

It's just that I've never owned a boat before.

Welcome to the art of sailing.

I'm you now aren't I?

(yes.)