i will talk to you of art
-
CarlNaamanBrown — 20 years ago(November 01, 2005 02:52 PM)
Pray that you become his diadem
gold, glory, paint, clay,
that he might take you in his magic hands
and work upon your marrowWonders!
As Walter Paisley awakes after killing the cat,
he hears lines from Maxwell's Poem that are not
in the open credits of Bucket of Blood.
Now THAT is true imspiration!
I saw the movie when it first came out and
have never been the same since. -
ratra — 19 years ago(April 27, 2006 09:41 AM)
Here is the full version that works quite well.
From the screenplay for A Bucket of Blood by Charles B. Griffith
I will talk to you of Art, for there is nothing else to talk about,
for there is nothing else
Life is an obscure hobo bumming a ride on the omnibus of Art.
Burn gas, buggies, and whip your sour cream of circumstance and hope,
and go ahead and sleep your bloody heads off.
Creation is, all else is not.
Creation is graham crackers; let it all crumble to feed the creator;
feed him that he may be satisifed.
The Artist is, all others are not.
A canvas is a canvas or a painting.
A rock is a rock or a statue.
A sound is a sound or is music.
A preacher is a preacher, or an Artist.
Where are john, joe, jake, jim, jerk? dead, dead, dead
They were not born before they were born, they were not born
Where are Leonardo, Rembrandt, Ludwig? Alive! Alive! Alive!
They were born!
Bring on the multitudes with a multitude of fishes:
feed them with the fishes for liver oil to nourish the Artist,
stretch their skin upon an easel to give him canvas,
crush their bones into a paste that he might mold them.
Let them die, and by their miserable deaths become the clay within his hands that he might form an ashtray or an ark.
Pray that you may be his diadem: gold, glory, paint, clay, that he might take you in his magic hands and wring from your marrow wonder.
For all that is comes through the eye of the Artist.
The rest are blind fish swimming in the cave of aloneness.
Swim on you maudlin, muddling, maddened fools, and dream that one bright, sunny night the Artist will bait a hook and let you bite upon it.
Bite hard and die!..in his stomach you are very close to immortality. -
The_Dying_Flutchman — 18 years ago(April 09, 2007 12:08 PM)
Let me add my 9 cents worth: Let us meditate on life; absolute perfection in the face of woofinghow shall the stars on the cheeks of this mandrill find a number? The hydrocephalic in the act of milking a cranial harpAnything else is not nothing. A mud elephant wading thru the sea leaves no tracks. Amen. Owomen.
Nothing exists more beautifully than nothing.