Artist Gordy Grundy writes about his heavenly designation 'Baby Buddha' in the new issue of the Coagula Art Journal.

Readers, Sorry. Slammed. I didn’t have time to write a essay. So hear (sic) are a few of my recent TWeaKr posts. In no particular order.
All the best, Gordy

[Editor’s Note: TWeaKr is the windy version of Twitter the social-networking blog site.]

++ The extra large Louis Vuitton’s under my eyes are a product of many things. Harsh life, real death, primal emotionalism and Mahi Mahi are the prime contributors to my staggered and declining condition.
Most destructive is the Mahi Mahi. Around the third or fourth hour of every new day, I wake up screaming, only to spend the next two hours flip-flopping in bed like a fish outta water. Horrors, headlines and my own gall shriek through my nerve endings like a freight train thundering through your bedroom. I cannot sleep.

++ I have to stay strong for my sister. She needs a solid shoulder right now. I gotta be there to listen and to walk her around the escalating drama. She has a complicated relationship with my mother and it’s killing her. Old battles cannot be fought in old ways, but she tries. My sis has covered my parental commitment for so long, my debt is great. I owe, owe her.

++ I’ve been making a daily trip to see my Dad. It’s forty-five miles each way. It’s a grind, so I’ve been taking the coast as often as I can, just to roll down the windows. The smell of the ocean air is in my DNA. It revisits me to old and long forgotten places.

++ Honest to God, it’s like chasing after a goddamn teenager and cleaning up their mess. That woman is getting her revenge and stickin’ it to us. She just plowed into a curb, cracked a wheel and casually stated that she wants a new car. She’s driving without a license and ‘forgets’ to go take the test. She smiles like a Cheshire when she says she’s “watching for cops.” Now with her incoming cell phone calls forwarded to me, the fucking Jamaicans are calling twenty, thirty times a day. Why in the hell would I ever think Mom would go down easy?

++ Shit. My photographer just got hit by a car.

++ Montana got hit and ran while on his bike. Montana Casey is my photographer-collaborator, a promising genius. We shoot in two days. Vicodin loose. He says he’s OK. Looks OK. Yeesh, maybe we got lucky again.

++ Had an introductory lunch at the rest home. At least it didn’t smell like urine.

++ There’s grime on my steering wheel, a film of cold sweat and hot tears.

++ Matt Pope walked up to me this morning and said, “In all the years I’ve known ya, you look terrible.” We laughed about the suitcases hanging under my eyes. Then we laughed about all of the other episodes in which I’ve looked less than seemly. This time I was not bloodied, bruised or mauled, but I’m a wreck nonetheless. If God never gives us more than we can handle, then She must think I’m Superman. I’m not so special. I’m just a man, like many, in our terrible times.

++ Deep within my being is a Sea of Eternal Sadness, an ocean through which passes all of the pain and misery in the world. I used to think it was a curse, but now I’m grateful, realizing it provides the higher sensitivity and the intuition.
Nonetheless, I must be afraid of water, because I have spent a lifetime, working very hard to calm the seas. These days, the illusion of controlling the weather is impossible to keep. Batten the hatches; there are many storms on the bay.

++ Just when things were going so swell… In retrospect, I have demonstrated an amazing and uncanny ability at family management. Except for birthdays and major holidays, I haven’t really had to deal with ‘em since college. Now with the advent of a crisis, I’m in the thick of it. It’s been a sudden immersion to hearth and home. In the beat of an old heart with a bad valve, I went from wayward son to busy big brother, uncle, son, friend, advocate and handyman.

++ How funny. Never saw it before. I look like Tintin and we have the same dog.

++ I am getting close and I can see it. I’m almost ready to lay the foundation. I’ve been on a circuitous voyage for the last three years, a journey through uncharted waters, without navigation, that has tested me every nautical mile. And now I have land in sight. It is the result of a long, hard effort. The bricks are about stacked and the cement is mixed. Time to start building. It’ll be an intense, three to four week burst of concentration.
Once completed, a new adventure will begin, moving in a direction no one can ever predict.

++ I guess Facebook isn’t all that bad. People popping up. Matt M. heard about Dad and sent nice words. I remember how important that family is to me, the influence of childhood neighbors, the tight warp and weave of shared lives.

++ In Trader Joes, a frustrated lady on a cell phone was loudly placing an order with her pot dealer who was getting his sativas mixed up. “No. No, three Train Wrecks, not four. And two of the Blind Eye.” It was a classic slapstick slow burn, until she caught herself shouting and turned away to whisper.

++ Shit. The show is limping slowly in San Antonio. Fortuna Rising doesn’t work if it’s passive. The LA show was a success because we broadcasted it, a gift given. It has to be sent to you. Shit. I didn’t plan for that in Texas. I don’t know how to make it happen… Gotta think.

++ What happens when you go broke? What happens when you can’t cut any more expenses? When expenses exceed income? When the landlord isn’t so nice? When you can’t get a job? These are very real considerations. I’ve downsized before, but I fear this is something else.

++ Jeez. I’m scrambling. We only have one female model. I need two, early twenties, in twelve hours.
I also put a notice on Facebook. Unfortunately, I wasn’t too descriptive about the situation. But I did make clear my desperation and immediate need for young girls. *Sigh* It’s so easy to be misunderstood.

++ On the freeway, on an old mix, Moby came in sweetly with ‘One of these mornings, you’ll look for me and I’ll be gone.’ Yeah… Poor old Pop.
I’m already missing him. It’s not like we hung out or anything. We weren’t buddy-buddy. We had a loving and distant relationship. I just liked knowing he was there.

++ I stank of urine. I stink of hospital. The design of hospitality and healing. Pleasantness wrapping pain. Hope against the gamma knife.
So many passing ships, brief encounters to share fear, agony, faith and community.

++ I’m trying to be a good son. I’ve said my peace. I’ve made reassurances, confirmations that the life was well lived. I don’t know what else to do. Listen. Give attention. Make efforts, extroverted gestures designed to signal thanks and appreciation.

++ I had to help my old man take a pee. Gee, we were never that familiar. I could have done without the preview of my coming attractions.

++ Changed my mind. Want to have a closing for the Western Project show. It’ll be a ‘Luck Up, A Harmonic Convergence,’ the first of many. Walk in, Dance out. The idea being you’ll leave luckier than you came. Get your ‘Luck Up.’ Post-modern variety show. Aggressive joy, disarming pathos and interesting ideas. About eleven performers. Open with Buffy Visick, my latest and most clever discovery. Words, music, big rousing finale. I’m liking it. How can I get a gospel choir? I don’t know anybody who has one.

++ Shit. The refrigerator door is glued shut from the tonic bottle that exploded when I dropped it. The kitchen floor sticks. Don’t have time to do that now.

++ I’m waking with a hangover and I don’t think I’ve been drinking. I am surprised at the physical toll of the emotionalism. I’m wiped out. Fear, fretful concern, anger, disgust, more fear, weary, weary exhaustion. What in the hell is Mom up to now?
I guess I have done a pretty good job of insulating myself from the messiness of humanity. But they keep pulling you back in…

++ Forgot to feed the dog yesterday. Ditto the car payment. I’m doing everything twice or not at all.

++ Bleary. I have to remember to breathe properly. The heaviness in the chest. The skin around the eyes feels so brittle it could crack. The dull ache at the temples.

++ Everything has a pace and a timing that cannot be coerced. Grass can only grow so fast.
I’m trying to force nature. I’m trying to make things happen. But I can’t make ‘em happen fast enuf.
My crew is growing. I have more needs and responsibilities to shoulder. It’s an ever flowin’ cast of characters.
The money clock is running and I must think of time and thin it out. So close. I’ve been pushing nature, but I have been respectful when it shoves back.

++ Go Dad, go. What’s funny about life and death is the thin line between them, such a fragile, opaque portal. I can understand the desire to stay on this side of the line as long as possible. It’s comfy and familiar.
Pop is living at half-mast. He’s reading the last chapter of the book we don’t want to put down. His heart may skip a beat, but he seems to be having a swell time.

++ I’m beginning to warm up to it. A Buddhist scholar from Alaska was following the show and sent an email. In Buddhist teachings, there is a Buddha of Joy who shall come to this earth to teach the world of the sublime ecstasies of joy, as well as their converse, the beauties in sadness.
Then he stated that I was this Buddha of Joy.
He didn’t mention anything about benefits or health insurance.
_________________________
GORDY GRUNDY is a Los Angeles based artist. His visual and literary work can be found at www.GordyGrundy.com.

		GENUFLECT by GORDY GRUNDY May 2009, COAGULA ART JOURNAL, Issue 96 BABY BUDDHA	BACK
		Readers, Sorry. Slammed. I didn’t have time to write a essay. So hear (sic) are a few of my recent TWeaKr posts. In no particular order. All the best, Gordy [Editor’s Note: TWeaKr is the windy version of Twitter the social-networking blog site.] ++ The extra large Louis Vuitton’s under my eyes are a product of many things. Harsh life, real death, primal emotionalism and Mahi Mahi are the prime contributors to my staggered and declining condition. Most destructive is the Mahi Mahi. Around the third or fourth hour of every new day, I wake up screaming, only to spend the next two hours flip-flopping in bed like a fish outta water. Horrors, headlines and my own gall shriek through my nerve endings like a freight train thundering through your bedroom. I cannot sleep. ++ I have to stay strong for my sister. She needs a solid shoulder right now. I gotta be there to listen and to walk her around the escalating drama. She has a complicated relationship with my mother and it’s killing her. Old battles cannot be fought in old ways, but she tries. My sis has covered my parental commitment for so long, my debt is great. I owe, owe her. ++ I’ve been making a daily trip to see my Dad. It’s forty-five miles each way. It’s a grind, so I’ve been taking the coast as often as I can, just to roll down the windows. The smell of the ocean air is in my DNA. It revisits me to old and long forgotten places. ++ Honest to God, it’s like chasing after a goddamn teenager and cleaning up their mess. That woman is getting her revenge and stickin’ it to us. She just plowed into a curb, cracked a wheel and casually stated that she wants a new car. She’s driving without a license and ‘forgets’ to go take the test. She smiles like a Cheshire when she says she’s “watching for cops.” Now with her incoming cell phone calls forwarded to me, the fucking Jamaicans are calling twenty, thirty times a day. Why in the hell would I ever think Mom would go down easy? ++ Shit. My photographer just got hit by a car. ++ Montana got hit and ran while on his bike. Montana Casey is my photographer-collaborator, a promising genius. We shoot in two days. Vicodin loose. He says he’s OK. Looks OK. Yeesh, maybe we got lucky again. ++ Had an introductory lunch at the rest home. At least it didn’t smell like urine. ++ There’s grime on my steering wheel, a film of cold sweat and hot tears. ++ Matt Pope walked up to me this morning and said, “In all the years I’ve known ya, you look terrible.” We laughed about the suitcases hanging under my eyes. Then we laughed about all of the other episodes in which I’ve looked less than seemly. This time I was not bloodied, bruised or mauled, but I’m a wreck nonetheless. If God never gives us more than we can handle, then She must think I’m Superman. I’m not so special. I’m just a man, like many, in our terrible times. ++ Deep within my being is a Sea of Eternal Sadness, an ocean through which passes all of the pain and misery in the world. I used to think it was a curse, but now I’m grateful, realizing it provides the higher sensitivity and the intuition. Nonetheless, I must be afraid of water, because I have spent a lifetime, working very hard to calm the seas. These days, the illusion of controlling the weather is impossible to keep. Batten the hatches; there are many storms on the bay. ++ Just when things were going so swell… In retrospect, I have demonstrated an amazing and uncanny ability at family management. Except for birthdays and major holidays, I haven’t really had to deal with ‘em since college. Now with the advent of a crisis, I’m in the thick of it. It’s been a sudden immersion to hearth and home. In the beat of an old heart with a bad valve, I went from wayward son to busy big brother, uncle, son, friend, advocate and handyman. ++ How funny. Never saw it before. I look like Tintin and we have the same dog. ++ I am getting close and I can see it. I’m almost ready to lay the foundation. I’ve been on a circuitous voyage for the last three years, a journey through uncharted waters, without navigation, that has tested me every nautical mile. And now I have land in sight. It is the result of a long, hard effort. The bricks are about stacked and the cement is mixed. Time to start building. It’ll be an intense, three to four week burst of concentration. Once completed, a new adventure will begin, moving in a direction no one can ever predict. ++ I guess Facebook isn’t all that bad. People popping up. Matt M. heard about Dad and sent nice words. I remember how important that family is to me, the influence of childhood neighbors, the tight warp and weave of shared lives. ++ In Trader Joes, a frustrated lady on a cell phone was loudly placing an order with her pot dealer who was getting his sativas mixed up. “No. No, three Train Wrecks, not four. And two of the Blind Eye.” It was a classic slapstick slow burn, until she caught herself shouting and turned away to whisper. ++ Shit. The show is limping slowly in San Antonio. Fortuna Rising doesn’t work if it’s passive. The LA show was a success because we broadcasted it, a gift given. It has to be sent to you. Shit. I didn’t plan for that in Texas. I don’t know how to make it happen… Gotta think. ++ What happens when you go broke? What happens when you can’t cut any more expenses? When expenses exceed income? When the landlord isn’t so nice? When you can’t get a job? These are very real considerations. I’ve downsized before, but I fear this is something else. ++ Jeez. I’m scrambling. We only have one female model. I need two, early twenties, in twelve hours. I also put a notice on Facebook. Unfortunately, I wasn’t too descriptive about the situation. But I did make clear my desperation and immediate need for young girls. Sigh It’s so easy to be misunderstood. ++ On the freeway, on an old mix, Moby came in sweetly with ‘One of these mornings, you’ll look for me and I’ll be gone.’ Yeah… Poor old Pop. I’m already missing him. It’s not like we hung out or anything. We weren’t buddy-buddy. We had a loving and distant relationship. I just liked knowing he was there. ++ I stank of urine. I stink of hospital. The design of hospitality and healing. Pleasantness wrapping pain. Hope against the gamma knife. So many passing ships, brief encounters to share fear, agony, faith and community. ++ I’m trying to be a good son. I’ve said my peace. I’ve made reassurances, confirmations that the life was well lived. I don’t know what else to do. Listen. Give attention. Make efforts, extroverted gestures designed to signal thanks and appreciation. ++ I had to help my old man take a pee. Gee, we were never that familiar. I could have done without the preview of my coming attractions. ++ Changed my mind. Want to have a closing for the Western Project show. It’ll be a ‘Luck Up, A Harmonic Convergence,’ the first of many. Walk in, Dance out. The idea being you’ll leave luckier than you came. Get your ‘Luck Up.’ Post-modern variety show. Aggressive joy, disarming pathos and interesting ideas. About eleven performers. Open with Buffy Visick, my latest and most clever discovery. Words, music, big rousing finale. I’m liking it. How can I get a gospel choir? I don’t know anybody who has one. ++ Shit. The refrigerator door is glued shut from the tonic bottle that exploded when I dropped it. The kitchen floor sticks. Don’t have time to do that now. ++ I’m waking with a hangover and I don’t think I’ve been drinking. I am surprised at the physical toll of the emotionalism. I’m wiped out. Fear, fretful concern, anger, disgust, more fear, weary, weary exhaustion. What in the hell is Mom up to now? I guess I have done a pretty good job of insulating myself from the messiness of humanity. But they keep pulling you back in… ++ Forgot to feed the dog yesterday. Ditto the car payment. I’m doing everything twice or not at all. ++ Bleary. I have to remember to breathe properly. The heaviness in the chest. The skin around the eyes feels so brittle it could crack. The dull ache at the temples. ++ Everything has a pace and a timing that cannot be coerced. Grass can only grow so fast. I’m trying to force nature. I’m trying to make things happen. But I can’t make ‘em happen fast enuf. My crew is growing. I have more needs and responsibilities to shoulder. It’s an ever flowin’ cast of characters. The money clock is running and I must think of time and thin it out. So close. I’ve been pushing nature, but I have been respectful when it shoves back. ++ Go Dad, go. What’s funny about life and death is the thin line between them, such a fragile, opaque portal. I can understand the desire to stay on this side of the line as long as possible. It’s comfy and familiar. Pop is living at half-mast. He’s reading the last chapter of the book we don’t want to put down. His heart may skip a beat, but he seems to be having a swell time. ++ I’m beginning to warm up to it. A Buddhist scholar from Alaska was following the show and sent an email. In Buddhist teachings, there is a Buddha of Joy who shall come to this earth to teach the world of the sublime ecstasies of joy, as well as their converse, the beauties in sadness. Then he stated that I was this Buddha of Joy. He didn’t mention anything about benefits or health insurance. _________________________ GORDY GRUNDY is a Los Angeles based artist. His visual and literary work can be found at www.GordyGrundy.com.

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