Mod Lit; or my tickle-me-pink aesthetics

[a rehash]


Weird is no
longer all that
weird.

Dada and kinfolk,
well beyond their golden anniversaries,
a 100 years later,
are no longer experimental

but post-experimental.

Even with its freshest incarnations,
it is still old.

There is a literature that lures man away from himself,
and there is a literature that forces man to face himself,

cope,

repent from,

replenish himself.

The one seeks to make the author
invisible thru plot or gimmicks with words,

while the other seeks to expose the author
and hence the common fallacies of his human bothers
either to air out wounds or
just let the gangrene set in,

to either heal or rot away, hopefully.

In my opinion,
art is no longer needed to
merely distract the species from its autistic
window-gazing during our time of obvious crisis.

Art, whether she realizes
it or not, like science, alleviates
and eases this bitch called life,

and both must respond to the needs of the people if they are to be relevant.

As much as I like
Gertrude Stein and
dismiss Ayn Rand,
people even then--even now
and far into the future--will prefer
to read Aynie over Gerty.

the status quo is to buck the status quo.

be a bride of your age, says Bertie, and be a widow in the next.