Day 1 of temp mural

Spent roughly 4-5 hours today working on this. S'bout a third to half done. Hopefully can put in another 4 or 5 tomorrow. And then finish her up Thursday. Pretty stoked about it. I won't explain what's going on, in a couple of days it'll all be there... good grief, the suspense!

The flu is still shredding me life to bits, but I powered through it today. I couldn't take another minute lying like a salted slug in my bed. In my room. In my house. Indoors. I swear to god I've been watching the walls move.
I have some new plants, which I should photograph sometime soon. I guess that sometime is whenever I can afford a new camera, for my fucking digital broke at the Godspeed You Black Emperor show. Those bastards sucked the soul out of my Cannon. Fuck it. I forgive them.
But these god damned plants in my window sill. They are all beautiful, but one of the bastards has some small little fly infestation and every 30-40 minutes I end up clapping one as it tries to enter any one of the orifices on my face.
Ok. Time to go watch the coolest series I've ever seen called Carlos. If I last 20 minutes I'll be surprised.

sickness

I am sick. Again. The frequency of unfortunate health conditions for me is preposterous at this point. I have the flu, which is nothing to fuck with. I've never had the flu, but figured it to be something like the common cold. I didn't realize how fucked up you can get from a 103 fever and what type of muscular pain ensues from head to toe. My body is constantly in a frenzy, either sweating profusely or bone chillingly freezing. There is no respite, even with ibuprofen. The ibuprofen actually helps to bring on the heat. Needless to say, this has fucked up my weekend. I was supposed to have worked and made hella cash, and made a mural. Instead I lie pathetically in my own sweat watching documentaries or the walls breathe. I did play 2 shows back to back, and I wasn't feeling all that great either of those days, so maybe this is payback. Both of the shows were worth it though. The first was a solo acoustic set with Des Ark, Pygmy Lush, and local greats, Slow Teeth. All were awesome, but Pygmy Lush fucked my whole night up. An amazing band. The day after was with Carrion Spring, Hang the Old Year and Lumber Lung. That show was fuckin awesome.
But I was an idiot that night. I knew I was getting sick, so I did what I used to do when I was a teenager. I drank a bunch of booze and thought it'd kill whatever was writhing inside of me... which worked countless times in my youthful past. But the flu don't give a fuck.
And this sickness comes only a couple of weeks after our tour, which I unsurprisingly (somehow) ended up in an Oakland hospital for 2 nights. I am guessing I worked myself to exhaustion the last 2 weeks before we left for tour, and through exorbitant deprivation, put myself into the hospital. We had played one of the best shows of Carrion Spring's existence that night at the Yellow Room, with such rad bands like Calculator and Matsuri, and then went off to continue the party. The partying was pretty tame and eventually by 2 am or so laid myself down on one of the bench seats in the van. Within minutes I realized my heart was racing at some unfathomable pace, and noticed I was going white and blue. I began shaking uncontrollably and could hardly breath. I thought I was somehow about to die... that was it, this was death. I hadn't ever felt anything like this before, and it felt incredibly wrong. So luckily, Thom was in the van as well and he drove me to the ER. After a lot of bad interactions with the ER unit, they finally found that I was possibly having what's called atrial flutter, or something of the like. My heart rate was recorded over 180 beats per minute. My typical sitting heart rate is usually in the low 50s!!! So I was administered 100 volts to the heart through defibrillators. I don't remember too much after I arrived at the hospital, but it was pretty insane.
And now I lie all phlegm and sweat in my bed, fevered and useless. It's just not fair!
So I just had to send an email of my "artist bio" for this upcoming mural, which ain't anything to flip over, but is nevertheless a rad little opportunity to work big. At a time, and for the most part still do hate writing artist bios. But I've come to realize that doing this can function as a moment to reflect on how far you may have come along since the last time you wrote one. I think an artist bio is like that of product packaging. In only so many words you have to convince the viewer of the content's legitimacy... because there are so many of the same product, just a different label slapped on it. I think an artist needn't an explanation of the ingredients. But, the people still demand to see what's behind the mask. So it's fun to work with that. This was the bio-
My name is Adam Brock Ciresi and I am from NY. I've lived in Portland for 4 years now, and am entering my final year studying at PSU. I am 27 years old, and will probably live to see 28. I make music of varying styles in varying projects, just as I enjoy doing the same in painting and other forms of art. If there is anything I've ever truly related with, it is punk. But I find this interesting to use, because I feel if someone reads this they may immediately think of some preformed person, covered with safety pin piercings, studded leather,a 4 foot green mohawk, a CBGB's shirt, a torn up pair of Converse, so on and so forth. For such a large majority of people, this is probably and sadly the case. And this is capitalist consumerism, where an image is rendered into a commodity, and then spewed back into society for all to place on themselves like a mask. People pay good money for this! For me, I see my formative years as an "artist" as a means to resist this type of life.

So I am stoked for this term at PSU... for a change! I am taking a life drawing class again, with a teacher I love. I am taking a painting class with a cool teacher who is letting me making 8 paintings all together for the term. This will be good, I right now need the discipline for sure. The other class, a 100 level theory based class seems like it will be ok, mainly because the teacher seems pretty rad.
I am glad to know I will be doing nothing but producing art work for the next 10 weeks. And then I will need to find a way to survive this summer in Portland. Gulp.

Carrion Spring tour and new album

Mother fuck it's 3:10 in the morning and I have to be up at 8 am for a class and I don't know how that is going to ever really happen. I've probably slept all of 6 hours over the last 3 days. Tour is just another 3 days away. It's finals week. I still need to send the album off to get mastered and I still can't stop mixing the thing. Tomorrow I am going to make some linoleum cuts of the album covers and then hand print 100 copies. And then hand sew them shut. We are playing on the radio show Revolution Summer at KPSU from 7-9 this Thursday. I hope anyone hears. The next day we leave with New York's finest, Dead Channels, on our short voyage throughout California. Jason Romero booked our shows, and I love him... just get us that last confirmation brothaman and all is gravy. On Friday we play in San Jose, at the Texas Toast house, I think? I dunno, holler at me Jason. Saturday we play at his house, the Yellow Room, with Calculator and Matsuri. Pretty stoked on that. Sunday we play Santa Barbara at the foundation press with buncha bands... I'm amped to play with Lumber Lung.
Our new (and first) full length album has been underway since the very last days of 2010. Eventually Carl Saff will master the damned thing, but for now we are just gonna get a cheapo master to have with us for this extended weekend tour. I think I've still got some patches lying about my room somewhere. We are too frequently unprepared for everything.
I should finish my final paper for that Street Art class I have to be up for in 4 hours. Yes, that's right... a class on street art. I too thought it contradictory. Still can't tell how stoked I am on the class itself, or that its just a lot cooler to talk about vandals than doing math problems. Banksy will someday soon be the new Chomsky. Right? I guess one recognizable benefit has been my growing lack of interest for institutionalized contemporary fine arts, even though I've never really given a shit regardless. Studying many of my favorite prolific and profound artists is inspiring but it ultimately is just a class, not some radically pivotal shift in academia. I mean, shit, it's not even recognized within the art department.
Somewhere in the distance of this city, I hear a car horn going off. It has been going off for close to 5 minutes now. I wonder if it's because of an attempted thievery. Or maybe a terrible accident and no one has arrived yet to the scene. Strangely curious.

old gods, new masters.

waited all these years
for a second coming
given up dreams and denied reality

So pretend now we lived in a world where
within communication
there existed no such ideologies
of God
and an ultimate judgment
of all your attempts at living
beyond any capability you've known before
before this moment
that exists in between flickers of the flame
upon the pale wall of a dark night
any moment
execution can be infamous
but not as profoundly beautiful
than the experience known by its creator

Now for everyone else
compensation is the next best thing
and the shot is heard around the world
it is amplified through myriad institutions
through oppression
through manipulation
through distortion
through divinity
but as well
through art
through the dissenters

and for anyone
for everyone
this shot can ring as loud as the crack
of a bullet to the back of the head
deafening
but not as lucky as deafness
because you still hear the ringing
and you'll lose so fucking quick
the ability to know
that you'll even hit the ground

but you've hit the ground
and you feel at the back of your head
and it hurts like you've never known
and you look at your hand
and there is no blood

and now you you know what it is to be alive.

Well, here's a good point to pick up.

Gosh I haven't used this thing really since I got facebook. And whether or not I am going to delete it remains undetermined, though highly possible, I realize that if I am going to spend extra time everyday primping and priming myself as portrayed on the internet, I should at least use it more for something like this than Facebook. You know, EVERY SINGLE THING... not most things, but everything; every single word, picture, bit of information, and so on, is held within the memory of a super computer directly feeding from that website. There is no complete privacy... maybe from other users like yourself... but as for the owners of the companies and those who pay good money and invest quite well into this arena, including the sick bastards who run our country..well, they have full access to that shit just as they can tap our phones and records.

So anyway, I've spent the past week in the OHSU hospital.. and a good deal of time doing nothing but writing. I will have a lot to put into this blog over the next week... but in the mean time, I'd actually just like to post an assignment I did for an art class... it follows the same format of a famous poem called "I am for an Art."

I did this assignment under the direct pretense of this unfortunate condition. When you're writhing in pain for a week straight from a cave of a hospital room with dying people all about you in a half school/half medical facility full of contradictions on top of a mountain away from your loved ones and the true (and/or illusory) societal realities, it's hard not to seriously and honestly think about that which is most important to not only you, but your own health, and even the health of a public and it's consciousness.

I am for art which attempts to destroy anything against the pureness of expression.



I am for art that doesn’t limit the potential for communication; to go beyond the boundaries of language.



I am for art which grants me the time and space to observe my surroundings, environments (both static and tangible), and under a realistic pretense; not under the hyper-reality created by mankind.



I am for art that remains out of filthy and corrupted hands.



I am for art as lived experience.



I am for art that deviates from the naturalization of perception.



I am for art that keeps me thinking beyond the expectations of banalities and societal norms.



I am for art that can give grounds to revolution.



I am for art that attempts to dismantle the convolution s of everyday life.



I am for art that can sing you to sleep.



I am for art that can sing you awake.



I am for art that provokes the skepticism for all reason and truth.



I am for art that keeps me safe from my sane self and insane to others.



I am for art that teaches what words cannot.



I am for art that can be insurrectionary.



I am for art that can make disorder out of imposed order.



I am for art that exudes blood and guts.



I am for art that gives me the means to reflect on the evolution of a conscious person.



I am for art that can portray the absurd while exposing the falsity of the real.



I am for art largely as a contribution to my own social survival.



I am for art that may possibly reach even a single other person, even if I never physically do.



I am for art as an extension of one’s own consciousness.



I am for art that does not adhere to any systematic belief system or any system of strict governance.



I am for art that defines existence for an individual.



I am for art that can speak to a person, like a conversation with a stranger of whom you’ll never forget and may never meet again, and becomes an influential memory on the creation of that individual’s future existence yet to be unfolded.



I am for art as a weapon, not a commodity.



I am for art which sits in harmony with all of the beauty of nature and all of the wreckage of corruption.



I am for art that does not have a face, but has a soul.



I am for art that remains detached from its creator.



I am for art that can take on myriad meanings depending on the settings of which it is placed.



I am for art that disregards imperfections in a deliberate regards to disregard.



I am for art that does not completely take itself seriously while taking its potentiality with the utmost seriousness.



I am for art that is of the artists and not of the cogs of capitalism.



I am for art that has no beginning and no end, but may suggest a certain experience within the definitions of time and existence.



I am for art that can move mountains.



I am for art that has the strength of a million humans.



I am for art that is as fragile as human existence.



I am for art that scoffs in the face of the fear of the look-in-the-other.



I am for art that is as ethereal as the last breath upon the rattle of death.



I am for art that is not obvious and has the potential to stop or slow time, if even for a fraction of a second.



I am for art that does not fear nor protect itself from destruction.



I am for art that never fully defines itself.



I am for art that helps me learn about myself, from myself, about others, and from others.



I am for art that won’t let anything ever stand in its way.



I am for art that contributes to my willingness to stay alive.

4 am sleep-writing

An artist is a person who hones acute skills and abilities of perception and acts upon them in such a manner that they themselves become a watermark upon a period of human existence. The purpose is not to create a grand masterpiece, but to render and produce with such a frequency that the art becomes larger than the life of the artist... that then becomes the masterpiece.

bleh

Uncontrollable mood swings. Lots of them. I can't fight them. And with them comes the crippling lack of creativity. Self-loathe and lethargy. Too much time on my hands can capsize self imposed structure and ambition. And most of what I have produced lately seems to me a failure, or a faint voice at best. Days and nights are quick. I shower every morning, and under the teeming water I feel as if I was just there. The shower has always been a time for me to sort out my thoughts, plan my day, and reflect on my past-doings. Lately I just feel a premeditated defeat for the day... I know I will come up empty handed before I retire for the night. I'm wading in stagnancy. I am not necessarily pessimistic for my future both near and far, but I'm bereft of any enthralling optimism at the moment. I mull over plans to work on many different projects, but I hardly find the motivation to act upon them. I feel trapped. I look at the stray cat I have recently been taking care of. And I relate all too well with him. He yearns to be outside, to roam and chase everything boundlessly at free will. He sits at the window, he sleeps too much, and he meows every here and there at the door. I want to let him loose, but he comes back after a day with hunger and curiosity. And then he gets stuck with us again. This cycle of banal predictability just feels all too familiar and I need to pull myself from this incapacitating flypaper. It should be a simple mind shift from introverted self-pity back to confidence and being constructively focused. It's always easier said than done, as they say. But I think I just need more time to myself, to really figure out how I've derailed and how easy it really is to step back into full swing.