I’m Guinotte Wise and this is my WTF moment
Not me—it’s James Joyce’s death mask which I found, looking for a certain Irish author for the AI article below, and it spoke to me. It said, “Read Ulysses.”
Pardon my language. I am writing this from a hospital bed in a rehab facility. Broken hip. I was moved here from a modern medical trauma center after a week. It’s in an older section of town; big, once-stately homes with smaller old tract houses squeezed in between them on land that used to separate the bigger, older homes.
And there are birds. Inside. Red-beaked little birds, four or five, with perches and places to hang out. They’re in a glass and wood cased affair about ten feet wide, six feet high and three feet deep. I don’t know what to think about that, as I regard zoos as animal jails, but these birds seem reasonably perky and active. Probably a metaphor here but I’m too drug-befuddled to pursue it.
I won’t dwell overlong on this hip deal; slam, bam, move on. It happened after a successful delivery of sculpture to a show (if you’re around Kansas City, it’s at Tomahawk Ridge Community Center, 119th & Lowell, Overland Park, KS—it’ll be there until April 15th) at my home. I was outside, no phone, the dogs wanted to help but finally lay down near me and waited. After an hour, I was discovered. The dogs helped attract a couple from a neighboring mill by barking incessantly. Cash and Millie don’t usually bark at them and that got their attention.
Then it was EMTs. Gurney. Maybe a shot. Swaying around in traffic. Post-op. Morphine nights. Onward. I’m G. Wise and this is my WTF moment.
High time for “Critterland” and a lighter mood? Not promising…
This is now my official farm & home, Wise Acres anthem. (link) Love this Carlisle guy. The album’s title song isn’t quite as offhand or toss-away as one might think from a casual first listen; messages lurk here. Willi Carlisle is a country/folk poet for real, with eerie touches of John Prine and Ralph Stanley, Ozark hill country and dust bowl echoes. Another great album from a stone original. I chanced upon him BC (Before Critterland) with“Tulsa’s Last Magician”. Plaintive, resigned, and worth a listen; something about it impales me. Posssibly engendered by my Tulsa boyhood in that postwar boomtown. And on “What The Rocks Don’t Know” he sings, plays harmonica and…bones. All the while doing a sort of sitting flat dance. You need to see and hear this—could cause goose-skin. (link) Mesmerizing. Willi is one quietly powerful talent and I’m a fan. A Carlislist. Carlislie?.
AI Can’t Weld
But many think it can write. How can it? It has no life experience. No essence. Just an algorithmic soup of a bunch of writers and it shows. It will always show. As to the headline, maybe AI will weld, but without life experience it can only copy what has been done before. Robotic welding is a staple, and it’s quite good. But art welding is inimitable to the artist and only a tool that s/he uses to stick things together. And I’m so far behind the AI dustup, I’m commenting on something I know too little about. (Surprise, surprise.)
I saw this statement weeks ago and it really stuck with me, but when I looked for it, it had disappeared. I remembered it was a highly accomplished Irish author (there are plenty of those) and while exploring that rabbit warren, I came across James Joyce’s death mask shown above, in the first article. Finally, after some digging I found the pithy statement at Sean McNulty’s Auraist (I subscribe to the Substack free version). McNulty is an accomplished writer himself and his Auraist reviews the best recent UK and US books in some depth.
I urge you to read the very substantive Doyle interview in Auraist (link) and, perhaps, subscribe. It’s well worth your time. There’s a point where Doyle shows a Martin Amis quip and how AI could never, ever compete.
Doyle’s 2014 novel, Here Are The Young Men (Bloomsbury) was selected as one of Hot Press magazine’s ‘20 Greatest Irish Novels 1916-2016’, and has been made into a film. His latest, Threshold, (also Bloomsbury) was published in 2020.
Me, I’m off to a favorite online bookstore to check out his books.
Gonzo, not forgotten
An artifact from his nearly successful run for sheriff of Pitkin County (Aspen, CO) in a year I remember well…
He was suffering toward the end, from pain, depression, ennui they say. Physical discomfort from various operations. There was the suicidal, if not downright suicide note, days before, titled “Football Season Is Over.” Some said his whole life was hurtling toward this moment; he, himself said, ”Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!” And he frequently expressed gratitude that there was a way out anytime he felt the need. He’d given it thought. Here are a few words from FAR OUT about Hunter Thompson’s final ones. (link)
Back to the future…an electrified icon.
I never had one of these, being more of the noisy V8 jalopy persuasion, but fondness for the era includes these kitchen clock-colored VW breadboxes on spools. The complaints ran from underpowered to unheatable in winter, to rusting out in a light mist and unreliable whatever the season. They were popular in a certain segment and sported love beads hanging from the mirror, PEACE bumper stickers, and flower decals. But it’s back and it’s electric. Take a look at how an outfit named Kindred (link) has pulled this into the 21st century. But I have a feeling it’ll cost ya.
And that’s about it for this blog edition other than the following plugs. 1. My new poetry book is out. (link) 2. My sculpture show is at Tomahawk Ridge Community Center, 119th & Lowell, Overland Park, Kansas, through April 15, for those of you in the area. XXO GW
45 pieces, including photography, “lit” sculptures, poetry, and more. Title RUST&CHROME&LIGHTS&POEMS. Through April 15th