the cost of Pure, Unending Joy is a sudden crush of naked visceral anguish, and is worth every bloody penny.

 

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My next theatre gig.

My Beautiful Infinity by David Vazdauskas

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“I need Light!”

A writer struggles with the question: “Where does love begin?” With the help of the librarian, can she help his “mind’s eye” journey the twisting staircase of infinity to the source of love? Just in time for Valentine’s Day, bring your date to this technical marvel and enjoy a dose of absurd twists and turns.

World Premier!

By David Vazdauskas

Directed by Scott Gilbert

Bloomington Center for the Arts@1800 W Old Shakopee Road, Bloomington, MN 55431

Buy tickets!

Re-defining Fate

BOOM. Our universe. Here it is, it’s data imprinted in the fabric. Let’s ignore its (visible) 4-dimensional structure for a moment, and analogize it to another type of universe we can understand: the White Album. A musical universe, created with a physical structure, its data imprinted in its fabric. We bring the album home, play it, and experience this musical universe linearly as our record needle scratches across its surface. The tracks seem new to us, but they have always been there, since the album’s pressing, waiting for our consciousness to observe them.

Back to our universe. Our minds, contained within these fleshy Meatbots[™] are needles, scratching across the surface of our universe and experiencing it linearly. The data has always been there, since the creation, waiting for our consciousness to observe it.

Is it fate, then, that the most important parts of our lives appear to cross our paths randomly, and yet seem as they were always meant to be, and will be a part of us for eternity? That they were waiting for us? Perhaps the tracks are already there, laid down at the beginning, the data unalterable once the vinyl is pressed. In this universe, on this copy of the album, fate is our tracklist. There are as yet plenty of unheard songs, still waiting for us to experience them; but they are coming, unavoidable. They are with us already, whether we have listened that far or not. And when we think back and replay our lives, we can choose to skip the story of some songs in the retelling, or linger in them and replay them over and over, but their data, and their consequences, are woven into the unalterable fabric of our existence.

pare normal

I like to daydream that most paranormal phenomena will eventually be attributable to our being rooted in the olde idea that time is a singularly linear thang. Once we eventually accept that our day to day (and our observable universe) is only experienced linearly by our consciousness, interpreted data from our five sensory inputs strung together and played back super-slow for our conscious benefit, we will adjust our measurements, and will begin to find that many cases of prediction, ghosts, intuitiveness, etc are simply echoes or glitches in that playback, or at least an innate part of physics rather than something paranormal.

Perhaps “telepathy” is our ignorant name for a rare but observable phenomenon we don’t understand. i.e. “Zeus’ arrows” Could there be transfer of energy beyond the spectrum of my observable senses? Could a ghost be an explosion of energy with a quantum connection between future and present states that I’m physically incapable of observing? I’m an atheist. I don’t think its a far leap for me to lay the odds heavier on either of those possibilities before blaming it on magic and dead people, or even deciding “telepathy doesn’t exist” just because I haven’t seen it.

So, if you think you’re telepathic, I’d say “go for it!”
Wait, is that what you were asking?

“smart phones”

I hate smartphones.  But mostly, I hate my wife’s.  Smartphones are sinkholes, black holes, vortexes of suck that drain everything they can from their hosts.  Their competition for my attention has changed the dynamic in my home, as I’m sure it has all the families of the increasingly lane non-specific, bent-necked human traffic-hazards wearing out their reading-vision while whizzing past me at 80 mph, faces glowing blue.  I tend to feel the effects most often while we’re driving, as well, lost in thought by myself on some lonesome road with her next to me catching up on the kitten news from Brazil, or the latest TrumpFart.

And that’s how I know, btw- I know what it used to feel like.  I remember what a city bus full of people felt like before everyone had a smartphone to look at.  It was different.  The younger generations won’t understand, and it will be left to us to acknowledge the shift- that digital has changed us as a society, and as a species, altering how we fundamentally communicate, connect and relate to one another.  How we share our energy with each other.

Watching movies is the worst.  I can tell, and I wish I couldn’t, when someone is watching a movie “with me“ or not paying attention.  Newly reissued cyborg generations, mankind’s grand experiment, movie-lovers! settled-in and snuggled-up, watching their latest recommended video stream when, suddenly, the lead actor’s lip twitches just a bit too deliberately and GASP! you realize it must’ve been his TWIN BROTHER the whole time!!  and you look over at your date to share the energy of all this, ’cause it’s just way too mind-blowing to handle alone (right!?!) and…  they’re looking at their phone.  They’ve been looking at it the whole time.

(plop.)

That energy, that experience that had been building – the art of sweat, love and light hitting your retina, your body, your mind and then (BOOM) into all the possibilities that a film can evoke, shared between you and a person into whom you have invested considerable time and resources acquiring a rare, less-than arm’s-length degree of safe, pleasant physically proximity, building on the laughter and suspense together, in a way that only a crowd can, BUT…

then… all just SUCKED into that little fucking phone, that little sinkhole funneling in her precious 24hrs… and now mine as well…    and the filmmakers’… and now even yours, you poor sad cunt.

 

Fucking smartphones.

 

 

self-image

A long time ago, in a college photography class, I was tasked with the assignment, “create a self-portrait.”  In those days, “selfies” were cumbersome affairs, with bulky cameras and lenses long enough to make you doubt you were in the frame at all, accompanied by an innate sense of suspense and surprise while you waited for your print to arrive.

I choose a different route.  I took close-ups of my friends’ body parts:  Ben’s foot, Ryan’s hand, Feli’s torso.  I pinned them to the wall in the shape of a person, with a snap of my head at the top, and I told the class, “To get a clear image of who I am, you need only look at the people I’ve chosen as my friends.”

I got a C-.

It wouldn’t be the first, or last, time a teacher was put in my path just to show me how much I already knew.  Love yourself!  Those same things you love about your friends are most-likely mirrored in you.

 

The Art of the Distraction

What are you guys talking about?
“oh, that new foul-mouthed white house rep!”

What are you guys talking about?
“oh, that ridiculous anti-trans military tweet/ban!”

hmm.. So none of you are talking about the overwhelming mountain of circumstantial evidence painting Donald Trump as a willing agent of a corrupt, hostile foreign government, marking January’s inauguration as the most monumental transfer of political power in America’s history since the signing of the Declaration of Independence? (and Russia’s most successful land-grab, ever?)

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