Byline: Celebrity Bookmarks

Buford Youthward
stockcap@hotmail.com

The knowledge of form connects man with nature. All talk about art and truth attaches here.

Riddled with doubt and fleeting rays of uncertainty it's easy to become an author, less so an empathetic receiver. The human impulse to document experience is ubiquitous and overwhelming.

Placing judgments on the truthfulness or falseness of an environment or situation takes keen leadership. I'm hip to that skill set.

Imposing structure and order on sequences of sounds, shapes, forms and patterns requires crafty perception; how this structure leads us to experience emotional reactions is part of the mystery of graffiti, music and poetry.

Reality is non-negotiable. Subscribing to the admission of evil in order to exorcise it is no suspenseful, chilling event. Being human or becoming human is not necessarily part of the bargain.

The search for meaning breaks the heart of the guilty and innocent alike. Fits of regret drive many into mad rages.

Nobody likes being told to bury the bodies when it's not retiring quota. It's a salesman's game. You can only hope to make up for it in the mix.

Like playing fast to hide your faults. In music, if melody is your malfunction, make sure you honor it with decent treatment or don't blow. It's all hip advice. Like when someone tells you no, become dyslexic.

Graffiti, like all humanities, encapsulates the dilemma of living and dying concurrently. Like fine wine, great graff has taste, courage, individuality and irreverence.

As all musicians must pass through stages of creating unlistenable sounds before creating rewarding, listenable experiences, graff heads get gawky before getting loose.

Cool clouds gather, and at once the ultimate image emerges, defying chaos. And you grasp at things more significant than any symbol. Allowing an intense yearning for something else to take root in music, in aerosol enamels and oils.

And reaching for something greater than some celebrity's bookmark or seeking some enigma as old as the twelve-bar blues, we stumble upon what we hope is a platinum sentence.

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