this is called composite prose. it is when you take a complete written work & include it, verbatim, in a larger work, usually trying to answer a question posed by the original work.
the italicized words were written by
toneski & the rest is my craptacular additions.
thanks for the mixtape homie. here's my ode to your philosophical musings....
simple beauty & complex questions: the philosophy of toneski featuring delusional commentary.....
when i first saw him, sitting there outside of an irish pub on the corner of 3rd street and 3rd avenue , i thought that he was a boy. but, then, i saw the impatience in his eyes, under his thick-rimmed glasses. and i saw the anxious way he grieved the waste of his time. he wasnt sipping dark beer or idling away hours the way boys do. he had sold his time to meetings and clients, the way men have to do.
slouched in an iron chair, accompanied only by an iron table, he turned his arm over to meet his watch face-to-face. he gave the time an irritated glance and he mentally wrote the story of his woe, the one that he would recount to his wife when he got home. I was stuck in downtown Minneapolis, he would say, with nothing more than a briefcase full of false hopes and a cigarette to keep me from falling asleep, waiting for over an hour for a client who never showed up.
His watch ticked away the seconds, adding up the wasted minutes, as he gathered the annoyance that he would save and later type out, in an e-mail that would rewrite the story of his morning, adding a California girl-spy to his Midwestern cast of characters.
I watched him as he waited and he silently recorded. he didnt have a pen in hand or a keyboard under his wrists. but, as he sat there, on the corner of 3rd street and 3rd avenue, he crushed out the orange cherry of his cigarette, flicked a tongue of flame over the tip of a fresh one and inhaled. he breathed in and then he exhaled these mute words:
i faced the building in front of me, with the sole intention of hopefully catching a glimpse of my contact, walking by the interior entryway. as the late client became the client who never showed up at all, i saw the impatience settle his tapping foot. by the time he lit his third marlboro light, I noticed that his eyes werent looking through the glass walls and doors any longer. he was looking AT the glass, admiring what it showedhim. i watched, from afar, as clumsily drawn conclusions and blossoming questions contorted his pensive face.
he envied the things that the glass facade knew and understood. he stared past his own portrait, seeing what he, with his back turned, had no business knowing about- what he wasnt supposed to be able to see. he admired the transparent canvas and the accuracy with which it painted the reflections of other buildings, trees, light, people walking, people sitting...people like me. he was impressed with the knowledge of what he was seeing . like photographs, the reflections showed him things that were behind him, images of places he had been and the things he had passed by on his way to that morning and that table. it had taken his entire life for him to end up there, at the pub that stood like a mirror, between 3rd and 3rd.
then i watched the awe slip from his semblance as he caught a momentary vision of the reflection resembling himself. and he started to think about what I was impressed with and he started to lose his admiration for it and for himself. But I wasnt sure why. and neither was he.
hoping that he wasnt watching me watch him, i studied his open face as he edited and censored and stumbled over the words of the story that he had started with the easy reporting of location and time. it was harder for him to relate-more difficult for him to explain- how he had come to realize that he is more inclined to see beauty in the reflection, in the representation, than in real life itself
he knew that he was confused because, had he simply turned around... he would have seen the real thing, seen what he was witnessing on the window. but that would not have impressed him. he would not have even thought twice about light refracting off the windows of buildings across the street. half-disgusted with himself and with the way he had waxed poetic about the talentless team of glass and sun and half satisfied with himself for taking the time to have this minor epiphany, he hastily drew the kind of conclusions that make existentialists cynical and make cynics existential thinkers.
he turned and faced me. he saw the street. reality did nothing for him. the beauty had fallen off. even the words to the morning story that he wrote turned ugly and harsh.
it saddened the fuck out of me. he would write, in an e-mail that he would compose, later, when the art that he had seen in the window that morning still haunted him, long after he had decided that it wasnt art at all.
Now I may be over-dramatizing it, but I think I am on to something. What I am trying to figure out is this. Do I have the mentality of an artist? or an art appreciator?, he would wonder, in print, as he turned his story from the memory of a morning wasted into a request for commiseration on his half-hearted search for a larger, more satisfying truth. Thats where you come in with all of your literary glory. he hoped, as he sent Minnesota questions in search of California answers.
as he gave up hope of the window ever bringing back its powerful exhibition or the face of the man he waited for, he got up and walked away, thinking he was alone with his questions.
am I just too fucking caught up in technology to realize what is real and how to enjoy it?, he pondered. Granted I am not constantly looking in windows and playing games...I do appreciate life and respect the natural beauty of the world...but not enough to comment on it or even really think twice about it., he tried to console himself.
he walked back toward his honda element, along a deliberate sidewalk, under a concrete-colored wet sky and started thinking of other things he was that way with. Video games for instance and the way he would ooh and aww over how fucking real the trees look on a game and how cool it is that they made each leaf blow spontaniously in the wind. or how well the sun glares off the windows of that car racing down the street. or photographs ...remembering saying to himself... oooh that would be a good picture rather than, this is beautiful. im glad im here. in this place. now. with these people. he went through the routine of unlocking and entering and starting and driving away. he tried to appreciate the flowers and the trees and the way that the sun rays broke through the threatening, pregnant, grey sky. he tried not to wonder why beautiful things werent as beautiful when they were real.
he said out loud, to himself, For the first time in a long time...I think I could go insane over this. Even though I realize there is no answer. Life is life, art is art. Both are here for just being here.
he is one part artist, turning the reflections in storefront windows into paintings and poetry, the natural grace of natures exacting replication is his muse. he takes the ideas that are presented as words from his clients mouths and he makes them tangible, carving them out of stone and wood and steel. his art is traded for dollars and clout, it is an art form which prides itself not on creativity, but on its ability to translate theories to reality, without altering them or adding to them. this is the part of him that reveres the panes of glass and asks questions like Does an artist really respect the real and tribute it with their art? or do they feel the need to enhance it with their own personal touch? he is a Realist, concerned with the preservation of what is being carried over the medium of art, rejecting the flowery notion that art must be splashed with emotion, the signature of the recreators humanity.
he is also a philosopher, the thinker of abstract thoughts, willing to assign the label of art only to things created as a function of talent, skill, commitment and the understanding of the intricacies of what is being presented. a writer must read before commanding language well enough to write. a musician must learn notes before composing a song. a graphic programmer must stand still and watch enough leaves flutter in the wind before birthing the 2-D animations which render men who still play video games speechless at the beauty of the tree they have created.
trees dont read books. trees draw only one line, in a loop around the inside of their bark flesh every year. they learn nothing and they have nothing to teach. trees can only lend their skin to the pages of books that carry knowledge from those who understand to those who seek to eradicate their ignorance.
gnarled wood requires no comprehension of photosynthesis. branches push green leaves through their fingertips and shake them loose when they die. brittle and brown, lifeless leaves skip and dance down morning grey sidewalks. nobody gathers around to applaud this performance. we dont pay $7.50 to see the matinee showing of the Birth and Death of Leaves, because the tree possesses no talent and imparts no wisdom. it does not form a link in the chain of conciousness that connects humans across history and geography. trees just inhale sunshine and exhale leaves.
artists tear the world apart by its pixels, by its syllables, by its colors and shadows so that they can recreate the things that have inspired them, imparting the intricacies of beautiful things that they have studied to those who had the experience but missed the meaning, and to those who have never seen the real things or will never see them, or to preserve real things that are vulnerable and will someday fade. art is the translation of emotions, the externalization of internal visions of beauty.
art is the freeze frame of human experience, suffering and exhiliration and depression and confusion in the abstract realm, out of contextual relationships. we create to remember and to prove we were in this place once, we were in this time, we lived here and we loved here and we hurt here and we died here. art is the pictures that give history books skin and bone and blood. art is words that put california faces in minnesota places.
the italicized words were written by
toneski & the rest is my craptacular additions.
thanks for the mixtape homie. here's my ode to your philosophical musings....
simple beauty & complex questions: the philosophy of toneski featuring delusional commentary.....
when i first saw him, sitting there outside of an irish pub on the corner of 3rd street and 3rd avenue , i thought that he was a boy. but, then, i saw the impatience in his eyes, under his thick-rimmed glasses. and i saw the anxious way he grieved the waste of his time. he wasnt sipping dark beer or idling away hours the way boys do. he had sold his time to meetings and clients, the way men have to do.
slouched in an iron chair, accompanied only by an iron table, he turned his arm over to meet his watch face-to-face. he gave the time an irritated glance and he mentally wrote the story of his woe, the one that he would recount to his wife when he got home. I was stuck in downtown Minneapolis, he would say, with nothing more than a briefcase full of false hopes and a cigarette to keep me from falling asleep, waiting for over an hour for a client who never showed up.
His watch ticked away the seconds, adding up the wasted minutes, as he gathered the annoyance that he would save and later type out, in an e-mail that would rewrite the story of his morning, adding a California girl-spy to his Midwestern cast of characters.
I watched him as he waited and he silently recorded. he didnt have a pen in hand or a keyboard under his wrists. but, as he sat there, on the corner of 3rd street and 3rd avenue, he crushed out the orange cherry of his cigarette, flicked a tongue of flame over the tip of a fresh one and inhaled. he breathed in and then he exhaled these mute words:
i faced the building in front of me, with the sole intention of hopefully catching a glimpse of my contact, walking by the interior entryway. as the late client became the client who never showed up at all, i saw the impatience settle his tapping foot. by the time he lit his third marlboro light, I noticed that his eyes werent looking through the glass walls and doors any longer. he was looking AT the glass, admiring what it showedhim. i watched, from afar, as clumsily drawn conclusions and blossoming questions contorted his pensive face.
he envied the things that the glass facade knew and understood. he stared past his own portrait, seeing what he, with his back turned, had no business knowing about- what he wasnt supposed to be able to see. he admired the transparent canvas and the accuracy with which it painted the reflections of other buildings, trees, light, people walking, people sitting...people like me. he was impressed with the knowledge of what he was seeing . like photographs, the reflections showed him things that were behind him, images of places he had been and the things he had passed by on his way to that morning and that table. it had taken his entire life for him to end up there, at the pub that stood like a mirror, between 3rd and 3rd.
then i watched the awe slip from his semblance as he caught a momentary vision of the reflection resembling himself. and he started to think about what I was impressed with and he started to lose his admiration for it and for himself. But I wasnt sure why. and neither was he.
hoping that he wasnt watching me watch him, i studied his open face as he edited and censored and stumbled over the words of the story that he had started with the easy reporting of location and time. it was harder for him to relate-more difficult for him to explain- how he had come to realize that he is more inclined to see beauty in the reflection, in the representation, than in real life itself
he knew that he was confused because, had he simply turned around... he would have seen the real thing, seen what he was witnessing on the window. but that would not have impressed him. he would not have even thought twice about light refracting off the windows of buildings across the street. half-disgusted with himself and with the way he had waxed poetic about the talentless team of glass and sun and half satisfied with himself for taking the time to have this minor epiphany, he hastily drew the kind of conclusions that make existentialists cynical and make cynics existential thinkers.
he turned and faced me. he saw the street. reality did nothing for him. the beauty had fallen off. even the words to the morning story that he wrote turned ugly and harsh.
it saddened the fuck out of me. he would write, in an e-mail that he would compose, later, when the art that he had seen in the window that morning still haunted him, long after he had decided that it wasnt art at all.
Now I may be over-dramatizing it, but I think I am on to something. What I am trying to figure out is this. Do I have the mentality of an artist? or an art appreciator?, he would wonder, in print, as he turned his story from the memory of a morning wasted into a request for commiseration on his half-hearted search for a larger, more satisfying truth. Thats where you come in with all of your literary glory. he hoped, as he sent Minnesota questions in search of California answers.
as he gave up hope of the window ever bringing back its powerful exhibition or the face of the man he waited for, he got up and walked away, thinking he was alone with his questions.
am I just too fucking caught up in technology to realize what is real and how to enjoy it?, he pondered. Granted I am not constantly looking in windows and playing games...I do appreciate life and respect the natural beauty of the world...but not enough to comment on it or even really think twice about it., he tried to console himself.
he walked back toward his honda element, along a deliberate sidewalk, under a concrete-colored wet sky and started thinking of other things he was that way with. Video games for instance and the way he would ooh and aww over how fucking real the trees look on a game and how cool it is that they made each leaf blow spontaniously in the wind. or how well the sun glares off the windows of that car racing down the street. or photographs ...remembering saying to himself... oooh that would be a good picture rather than, this is beautiful. im glad im here. in this place. now. with these people. he went through the routine of unlocking and entering and starting and driving away. he tried to appreciate the flowers and the trees and the way that the sun rays broke through the threatening, pregnant, grey sky. he tried not to wonder why beautiful things werent as beautiful when they were real.
he said out loud, to himself, For the first time in a long time...I think I could go insane over this. Even though I realize there is no answer. Life is life, art is art. Both are here for just being here.
he is one part artist, turning the reflections in storefront windows into paintings and poetry, the natural grace of natures exacting replication is his muse. he takes the ideas that are presented as words from his clients mouths and he makes them tangible, carving them out of stone and wood and steel. his art is traded for dollars and clout, it is an art form which prides itself not on creativity, but on its ability to translate theories to reality, without altering them or adding to them. this is the part of him that reveres the panes of glass and asks questions like Does an artist really respect the real and tribute it with their art? or do they feel the need to enhance it with their own personal touch? he is a Realist, concerned with the preservation of what is being carried over the medium of art, rejecting the flowery notion that art must be splashed with emotion, the signature of the recreators humanity.
he is also a philosopher, the thinker of abstract thoughts, willing to assign the label of art only to things created as a function of talent, skill, commitment and the understanding of the intricacies of what is being presented. a writer must read before commanding language well enough to write. a musician must learn notes before composing a song. a graphic programmer must stand still and watch enough leaves flutter in the wind before birthing the 2-D animations which render men who still play video games speechless at the beauty of the tree they have created.
trees dont read books. trees draw only one line, in a loop around the inside of their bark flesh every year. they learn nothing and they have nothing to teach. trees can only lend their skin to the pages of books that carry knowledge from those who understand to those who seek to eradicate their ignorance.
gnarled wood requires no comprehension of photosynthesis. branches push green leaves through their fingertips and shake them loose when they die. brittle and brown, lifeless leaves skip and dance down morning grey sidewalks. nobody gathers around to applaud this performance. we dont pay $7.50 to see the matinee showing of the Birth and Death of Leaves, because the tree possesses no talent and imparts no wisdom. it does not form a link in the chain of conciousness that connects humans across history and geography. trees just inhale sunshine and exhale leaves.
artists tear the world apart by its pixels, by its syllables, by its colors and shadows so that they can recreate the things that have inspired them, imparting the intricacies of beautiful things that they have studied to those who had the experience but missed the meaning, and to those who have never seen the real things or will never see them, or to preserve real things that are vulnerable and will someday fade. art is the translation of emotions, the externalization of internal visions of beauty.
art is the freeze frame of human experience, suffering and exhiliration and depression and confusion in the abstract realm, out of contextual relationships. we create to remember and to prove we were in this place once, we were in this time, we lived here and we loved here and we hurt here and we died here. art is the pictures that give history books skin and bone and blood. art is words that put california faces in minnesota places.
VIEW 15 of 15 COMMENTS
I have thoughts like those all the time... I often try to grasp the natural beauty of people and places, only to know that if it were in an art medium it would be easier. My mother is one of those lucky people that can do this at will. She tears up over sunsets... It used to bother me that she was cheesey and sensitive, but I grew up and know how amazing she is for that ability.
Its like seeing beauty rather than looking for beauty.
I tried to read this yesterday, but I knew my head wasn't into it. I'm glad I waited, it was a perfect morning read. Thank you.