Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
“Now hold on just a moment, Mr. Stone. I didn’t say it was bad. I said it said something, and that’s what good art ought to do. We’ve forgotten that. Critics want us to remember that. People want to scratch their heads at that. Don’t you see? This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for. The crowd wants something with an edge, something that’s dangerous and a little dirty, something that uses evident indifference to voice concerns which are far from indifferent. Something you don’t want to look at straight on. Something iconically ugly. We’re in a bad habit of expecting art that’s meant to be perceived. In this day and age, why not art that isn’t perceived? Why not derive substance from the… the sort of negative space behind your eyelids, or in your peripheral, where you want to keep something that heavy out of sight and out of mind? Why not have art you’re supposed to look away from? What kind of transformations might we undergo when we are actively forgetting a particular subject? Ah, yes, that’s the ticket. What our gallery needs is something that will revolutionize art, and Mr. Harrier is just the man to do it for us!”
They put me in a play about people arguing over whether Jesus was gay. The set was very minimalist because it was a parking lot. I couldn’t read my script because it was raining and the paper was soaked and you can’t really read small print in dreams but a few lines stood out. The one I remember is:
“Beware the scarcity of scarcity. God is baffled by the travesty of Africa.”
I am not sure what the fuck that means but it kinda sounds cool in a mega-pretentious sort of way.