Hearts and Diamonds

There's no need for me to worry to the point of tripping over before traveling, speaking to others what I think of the world. I don't claim to be infallibly correct. "Infallibly," because I claim to be corrrect, because I mean what I say.

But like anything said, anything in the world, the world, what's materialized in communication with others is always potential and fallible.

Art critics talk about their surroundings but blur and mingle with the historian.

Or is what is past, history, unable to be criticized, subjectified? It is moving by its recipients, just as the art of the living is. But the artist here is dead and no longer moves in time. No longer creating. No more affecting the fates of those around him. No more breathing CO2 to this world.

We act so absentmindedly and pretend to be so methodically rational--inaccurately, consciously self-deceiving and tragically romantic.

The fallacy of the -ists.

Mysogynist. "Many consider his Women paintings of the early 1950s the work of a mysogynist." Racist. Classist. (Homophobicist? What's the deal here.) A label, for those whoi label. The labeling of labelers to round a group up, cast a wide net, form groups, PACs, to protest and fight claw and nail jointly against the -ists. I used to, at one point for the course of a few dozen months want to start a Hating the Haters group, because I thought it'd be funny, effective, shocking, pacifying, cleansing, for illogical random premeditated acts of violence against someone that hated delineated demographics--the imagery of a white hooded guy just walking from work, a dark alleyway, crept up upon like shadows, beaten actually what's the word, titillated? my humor, my intelligence, my vengeance, my hatred of stupidity.