Son of a Bitch. loopy loop.

I wrote this song in 2008, it’s called Son of Bitch.. The song is basically just 2 loops that are colliding into each other.

I have been editing my video work to show at the Palm Springs Art Museum this Sunday like a mad man. The video is basically a visual version of the song I posted above..

On my way to work this morning at IBM I was thinking about what John Cage said in an interview about his work when someone asked him why he made the choices he made for


Cage said “because the work demands it”.
My practice has developed recently into a practice of non-judgement, I decided back in October that I would make my work with out judgement of the work as being good or bad, that I would post those images whether I liked them or hated them on the internet for all the world to see. Sometimes I make work that I am embarrassed to see, I feel as if I could make something better, but then I put those thoughts aside and just share the work, with my peers on facebook, and on my flickr page. I just move on, make something new, regardless of my frustrations or my self boasting about the work. I just keep making something day by day, hour by hour, listening to what the work demands. Trusting that my work, if I am honest and listen to the voice that I am hearing, the call to create will carry me. It’s a leap of faith, that creating and being an artist will somehow put food on my table, and put a roof over my head. What is truly a miracle for me is the more I listen to my work, the more willing I become to let go of myself and really listen and look for what the work demands, the more at ease I am becoming with this leap of faith that I have made, more at ease with my decision to trust in work the work that is being created.
It is a stunning thing to realize that I have little to do with my creations, it is as if an alien being or something is beaming the ideas into my mind. The poet Jack Spicer said “If this is dictation, it is driving / Me wild.” He famously said that his ideas where given to him by aliens. I can conclude that the last several months of my life it appears I have somehow gotten a in touch with this transmission, now part of my practice is fine-tuning the transmission so I can better hear the messages.

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.