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World Community Arts Day 2010

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ZEN COWBOY 

Van Gogh You Stupid Shit

mindlessness over matterlessness

Okay, if I am so smart, how come it's taken me so long to come to this moment to try to say how I would do it differently. Yes, it is life that I refer to---past---present---future.

There is no question...only to act as if I know, as if I have always known and  accept this gracious gift of living for what it is.

So what, if Van Gogh lost control of his poetry---so what if humanity made a mockery of his pain in a San Francisco art museum---it doesn't matter.

I am alive.

I am fighting.

I am learning to give and to give in.

Van Gogh was then yet as you are with us this moment.

Vincent still lives, still feels.

That is the difference of what matters. Spirits don't evaporate like farts in the wind.

Van Gogh you stupid shit! Why did you do that? Could you not see the sun?

"Who are you my friend to say these things to me? Such impertinent questions!"

I know, I know! I'm hardly anybody at all. I know, yeah? I've got a long way to go. Listen! I don't mean to put you down. you really tried hard. I guess I might have murdered myself if I'd been you---but that was your mistake. I don't equate it any other way. Sure it's a pain in the ass to be an artist---you, me, and John Lennon know all about that. But you know what?

"What?"

You gave up!

"I gave up! You fool! You do not know the first thing of giving up! What suffering have you had?"

Oh for Chrise sake! What makes you think you are the only one who has suffered? If you're gonna talk to me don't get so high and mighty indignant---you think I'm insensitive to suffering? Get off your fuck'n high horse. You're not the only one who did something important and nobody noticed.

Listen. I'm not just say'n nasty things  about you, Vincent, cause I'm jealous. For one, you probably disserve a lot more---really I'm on your side. Look! I'm trying to help you, as well as myself. But you! You got yourself in this crazy limbo because you bumped your self off.

Part of me helping you and myself is to know why you did it. Now come on---tell me why?

Silence. There is only silence in the room now. The spirit is removed. Shadows fall from the candlelight and the fireplace squeaks popping sparks, but not a word from Van Gogh. Honestly, I wonder if that man will ever grow up.

I know he is here, only he does not to play anyone's game but his own. Crap. What a bad sport!

"Have you only foul names to call me?"

So. You came back heh? Well, how about it? Do you want to answer my question or do you just want to talk? Really though, I 'm not interested in idle cit-chat. I would like it if you told me why you had to kill yourself.

"You would not understand if I told you."

That's a possibility all right.

"I find it ridiculous to speak to such a man as you to begin with...but...I suppose it may do you a bit of good."

Oh brother! You're so damned righteous Vincent! Why can't you face the fact that maybe my life has not been any easier  than yours? For that matter there have been a whole lot of people that gave all they had and know one knows about them. There's probably a lot of those people that didn't even get a smile for all they gave.

"You are such an idealistic fool."

All right. Get back at me and call me names, but it's true, people have given a lot of things...you are not alone.

"Trifling trash. The lot of humanity has been nothing but greed infested vermin. Mankind has never had an ounce of benevolence in it's twisted existence except to save it's own rotted heart."

Vincent, you know you are just fucking unbelievable. After all this time you are still so bitter.

"Bitter! You imbecile! You have no idea of the essence of my passion. You are misguided in the depths of buffoonery. What you think of life is nothing but a juvenile dream of romance."

Boy, you like to hit back don't you?  Okay, so I'm a romantic. Big deal. I admit it. At least I still have both my ears.

Vincent? Vincent, where are you? What's the matter, I strike a nerve? Holy mackerel, this is nuts. Look. I don't want to get into a name calling game with you. I want to understand you. I just want to be friends so we both can be better...come on, Vincent?

Okay, I just said that because I thought cutting off your ear and sending it to your girlfriend was a terribly romantic thing to do. I'm not making fun of you, honest...

Oh for crying out loud! What a kid. I say one thing and off you go into a silent pout. Okay. I'm sorry. I apologize. That was mean and unjustified.

"What do you want of me?"

Oh, back again? Thanks Vincent. I thought you'd gone for good. Really, I'm sorry, but I already told you what I want to know---why did you commit suicide?

"I do not want to talk about it."

Okay...what do you want to talk about?

"Nothing."

Come on, I know you want to talk of otherwise you wouldn't have stuck around. Hey, you want to talk art?

"Please, do not say a word of painting nonsense, I never want to think of it again."

Yeah, well, I can understand that, especially after seeing that exhibit your descendents were showing all over the states. I mean, not because it was not good or anything like that. You know I love your stuff. I just thought all of those fat heads that came to ogle your work were jerks. It was one of the biggest crimes I ever saw.

"And you were not involved I suppose?"

Vincent you know I am one of your biggest fans. You were the first artist that ever inspired me. Sure, I have more to learn about it, but I wasn't like the rest of those bird brains.

"What makes you so positive of that? Were you not goggle-eyed and blabbing your foolish mind just as much as they? No one has ever understood my work except for Theo. You and the lot are fools of the worst kind."

"Hey I don't get it. How can you say such stupid shit? I cried the day I saw your exhibit. I felt so much pain for you, for your work, your life. It was all a crime---and damn you. You know I felt for you. But no, you act the idiot and a cold hearted one at that. Fuck you. Why should I even think about you? You don't give a damn for anyone but old persecuted Van Gogh. Yeah, none understand you. You disserve to be crucified...

Silence. Again with the silence. I guess we're having an argument. The fucker finally pissed me off. Yeah, I lost my compassion. God, what a dope he is. Now I don't want to talk to him. I can't think straight about what's going on. We are just making each other sicker. This is what lovers fight about. Bullshit. Friends don't do this crap to each other. The son-of-a-bitch. Who does he think he is? Yeah, lovers leap and friends find. I feel better just saying it like it is. Anyway...it's a fucked up curse to identify with such a jerk. I should bury him again. He never disserved resurrection, or a friend or compassion or anything. Come on man, get yourself together and stop talking to the wind...

Cool down to sifted moments and let time pass. Let it go...remembering when you hurt more than you want to remember...

San Francisco, July 1968. The weather had been that off and on cold morning fog that fades into warm afternoons.  There was the nut house in Presidio, my buddy Pete, sweet little Angel and her apartment on Pine and Jones street full of day trippers, night creatures, shattered lovers, lost children, running freaks popping in, pulling out...all of us crazy crazies. Inside eyes pull back layers, glimpses of madmen screaming tears in the middle of the night. It was a cold shiver slithering up my back into the soft moist warm dreams of friends lost and found...

Where am I this moment. Always this moment. Surfaces. So many surfaces laced together into one body, one time.

The nut house. The army. Van Gogh.

How do they fit together?

Pete in the Presidio nut house. Little Angel scratching my back yowling like a tomcat while the lights went on the high rise apartments around the roof top. The Stripper in Portland.  Vietnam. My Lai.  All of that, a thousand years ago. All of it a fast connection of kinked knots. An embezzlement of the mind. Yeah, what a profitable relationship of madness exchanging bank account numbers...

The lock-up of Presidio. Am I still insane? Was I ever sane? Tide pool. Reflections of time eternal.

Was it 1968 or 1970? I can't remember. The Van Gogh exhibition. The rotating exhibition old Charley Van Gogh had. Maybe that wasn't his name. It doesn't matter. Golden Gate Park. Yes, yes, it was there. The Museum of Art. The line of people. Pull my friend, pull. To remember that is important. How was it?

We got up early. We didn't want to stand in line. That's right. Three hours before the museum opened its doors. It was a beautiful San Francisco morning. One of those mornings when the fog burns off and the sun stabs golden blades through the park's trees.

People fuse into the green and mist. Down the shafts of light the sun glitters like lint in a dusty room.

It was a day of invitation and Zen balance. The faces blur. Who was with me?

I remember the feeling of being alone, and yet I know there was somebody cruising with me. Yes oh yes, cruising for burgers. Lally-gagging into the mood of seeing serious art. Art done by the madman genius, Vincent Van Gogh. Vincent the maligned, Vincent the misunderstood.

It was a special day for me. I had only seen one original years before, in Oregon. I was about to see more mirrors of reflected misery. Van Gogh in depth. Van Gogh in honor and glory. Van Gogh the magnificent displayed for the public.

I was prepared to have my head cracked open and filled with divine measurement. After all, he was my hero. On top of that, I even resembled  Van Gogh. All of my friends told me so, sooner or later.

Moving past the Japanese Gardens, out of the shadows, sun gold leafed sidewalks lead to the museum. I see the crowd. Three hours before opening, already a crowd four abreast and a block long. I don't want to wait. That is what I think. The army. Lines. Crowds. No, no, no.

I start to walk away.  No, I can't. The little white dog chases the black one and the magnets join tail to tail. The line is full of talk and clumsy anticipation. One hour, two hours, three. The crowd has grown to four or five blocks long. How is this possible?

Yes, Van Gogh, they want to see you. Factory workers, taxi cab drivers, suburbanites, teachers, students, whores, evangelists---they are here to see Van Gogh, the loser of losers.

The doors open and the crowd like sand at the top of the hour clock begins to fall into the museum, past the relics of time, past the refined art of old masters, past rich art for rich people.

Fall, fall,  down to the savage art of the wretched one; the one who painted for the poor.

My God, at last I was surrounded by him, the Vincent. I stand amazed.

Yes, of course the paintings are beautiful.

What is that noise?

People. So many people the room is a sardine can.

There is a red velvet rope around the perimeter. The curators answer questions of how come, when, where, why, who and whatever. "Yes, Van Gogh was very miserable at this point in his life..."and blah, blah, blah. "He was so despondent at this place that he..." blah, blah and blahed... "Vincent was progressively more...." yet blah de blah blahed.... "Of course his brother Theo was very aware that..."blah, blah and wambam blayhehah...

The room was shrinking. It was getting difficult to walk. Still the sand poured in. Where were all of those people coming from? More. Yet more. The museum officials had not anticipated such a crush. The guards and curators began to see an emergency situation was occurring in front of their eyes. Noise rippled through the echoic salon. Guards demand lines formed. Hop, one two three, march people, eyes right and see your Van Gogh. Click, see, move. Tromp, tromp tromp. Eyes right, Yes Starry Starry Night. Move on people.

The middle of the gallery is full of people anxious to form a new line. Insect lines close to the velvet rope 6 feet from the walls of hung Van Gogh joyful miseries.

The insects continue to march, Tromp, tromp, tromp. Such big bugs, they block the view to anyone not exactly in front of a painting. If you are not in the bug line, tough luck. You can watch the ceiling.

There they go. I stand in the center and watch unbelieving of what is happening this day to poor, poor Van Gogh, who no one but his brother, in his own time, thought he was any kind of an artist.

Oh, Vincent, the poor pitiful son-of-a-bitch. You see what they are doing?

Tromp, tromp, tromp, eyes right, and you have exactly three, point five seconds to see genius in front of you. Ho. people march! Tromp, tromp, tromp, eyes right.

Oh the multitudes, they are so merciless.

Van Gogh, you are spinning out there, aren't you? I can hear you groaning. You didn't want it this way did you? Look at them Vincent. Blessed are the meek. Look. They are an army of ants. peering, sputtering for a few seconds at a time at each piece of your pain.

They are wasting no time. They make quick work of you my friend. That's real gratitude for you.

Abundantly rewarded. So many of them Vincent. At last your art is beheld by mankind. Blessed abundantly. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

Oh Vincent, I feel like crying. Poor, poor Van Gogh. Van Gogh, you stupid shit!

cut from

THE CRYSTAL TIGHT ROPE