In which ferocious glory is ground into a soggy mash of language

Apotheosis The Vug

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."
- Winston Churchill

Episode IV
In which ferocious glory is ground into a soggy mash of language

Prolegomenon

We all recently passed through a date which I consider to be one of the most profoundlysignificant of the greater holiday season. It is a day of celebration - a day on which to give thanks for the great things in life. I am referring, of course, to the shared birthday of Samuel Clemens and Winston Churchill, celebrated by us all on November 30th. These were great men, and the world is a better place for them. A happy Twainhill day to all.

Chapter I
Guv Eht Sisoehtopa
A (poorly) coded message

I have been asked what "apotheosis the vug" means. A part of me - one of those parts of me which no one really likes - feels as if to simply give an explanation would be to destroy the mystery - the romance, if you will - in a most base and despicable way. It would, in short, lower us. It would be much like showing the ghost (in the machine) in the horror movie - the choice of over enthusiastic and under talented film makers which invariably eradicates all hopes of genuine fear. So, instead of a soul-crushing explanation, I present instead a brief catalogue of an assemblage of parts:
I discovered the word "apotheosis" when I first read William Faulkner's "The Sound and the Fury." It occurred (at least most strikingly to me) in an exchange between Quentin and Mr. Compson. It unfolds, in part, as follows:

you are not thinking of finitude you are contemplating an apotheosis in which a temporary state of mind will become symmetrical above the flesh and aware both of itself and of the flesh it will not quite discard you will not even be dead and i temporary and he you cannot bear to think that someday it will no longer hurt you like this


The word "Vug" I discovered in conjunction with my colleague in heroic absurdity Mr. Joshua Elwin Gaillard Smith Esq.
At some point I became enamored of one Mr. Douglas Hofstadter (this is not to say that I have since ceased to be enamored with the man). Due in part to my several attempts to make it through any one of his books, I took during my stay in germany a low level philosophy class titled "Theorien zum Wesen der Erkenntnis und zum Verhaltnis von Geist und Koerper."
At the risk of alienating the religious, I will admit that I am fascinated by the naturalizing of humankind by neuroscience and consciousness studies. In my defense I do hold to the truism taught me by my epistemology professor that the most devastating line of argument to take with any strict behaviorist is to look them deeply in the eye and declare "you are wrong and you know it."
And with that, as I tell many of my students, you have all the tools you need to solve the problem (except, as many of them note, any justified, pragmatic, or genuine motivation to seek the answer out).

Chapter II
Orphan's Thanksgiving
yellow journalism

At my fathers house the day after Pilgrim's Thanksgiving we celebrate Orphan's Thanksgiving. Although, much to our (and Sun Tzu's) shame, we were precluded from bathing in turkey blood this year by the rashness of our foray into the turkey's home, the greatest holiday celebration of the year (a distinction won due to its marked lack of disconnect between any supposed significance and the celebration itself) was a striking success.
The food included standard Thanksgiving fare, from both deep fried and rotissary prepared turkey through gravy and "heart attack" mashed potatoes to sweet potato orange bombs and traditional holliday beer. The guest list included (but was not limited to) the Stalwart Gregory "Large Gulp" Whitney, the aforementioned peripatetic Mr. Smith, the charming and romantic Titus Cain and his new assistant Monsieur L'incissor, and the ever irrigative Mr. Hank t. Cat. For coversation topics we were supplied with voluptuous peruvians, psychosis in young children, exploits in fermentation science, the prolonged and dramatic unveiling of antipersonality (featuring such diction as "lubricant," and "parade"), and organic farming techniques. To close the evening many of us visited the local kiln firing for beer and discussion of clay types and heat flows. There is nothing quite as magical as Orphan's Thanksgiving.

Epilogue

Although my crypto-czar father would be ashamed of my coding, and I have deftly side stepped all those alleged "purposes" I sutured to the underthigh of this blog in its neonatal state, we will be content with this instantiation of vugal apotheosis as is. My (likely vain) hope is to gain enough control over technology to have some arts ready for internet before the next full blog. Until then, though, take care of yourselves, your loved ones, and your deeply entrenched convictions regarding a robust ontology of numbers.

In which disappointments abound, and various and sundry articles of metaphorical clothing are cast off

Apotheosis The Vug

"I'll be back to save the world"
Speechwriters LLC

Episode III
In which disappointments abound, and various and sundry articles of metaphorical clothing are cast off

Prolegomenon

I like to pretend at times that I write for a vast audience of devoted and loving fans. I know that this is not true. I persist in the delusion for a couple of reasons, though. First, if I were to face into the fact that in truth not one person other than myself reads this, my motivation to create would slip away with any slightest inconvenience. As I am trying to use the internet as a motivational tool these days, this would be an unwelcome turn of events. Secondly, I consider it good preparation for the day when the thousands of data mining and market research programs that whip through my few paltry lines of code every day to improve corporate access to my thoughts and desires finally become self aware.
In keeping with my useful fiction, however, I must express my (largely insincere) apologies to my (likely nonexistant) audience. Despite my hopes and dreams from last week, I missed my first Tuesday. This is partly due to a flat tire, partly to a well intentioned loan of a malfunctioning floor jack, and partly due to a 200% increase in my work load over the past two weeks. Like any mythos, though, that of this newly conceived blog was bound to break down eventually, and I suppose it is better that it happen now rather than later, in order to get myself as well as all of you over that metaphorical hurdle of disappointment.
If you have never read Henry IV part I, do so now.

Chapter I
Ecliosynclectic
A bitter realization

I consider myself a man of eclectic tastes. I derive great joy from all kinds of foods. I listen to classical, rock, country, hip hop, electronic, bluegrass, and big band music fairly regularly. My favorite literature includes Jane Austen, William Faulkner, Frank Herbert, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Mark Twain, Lewis Carroll, and the Harry Potter books. I am a politically and fiscally conservative environmentalist. I am an analytical virtue ethicist who loves Kierkegaard, a philosophy and literature major who teaches math. I watch japanese cartoons, listen to NPR, enjoy gardening, and like to art. I like to think that I break molds, defy socio-cultural definition. So, when I am as effectively marketed to as I am when video games team up with mixed martial arts, it is a bitter pill to swallow.
I still maintain that I am a creature of variety, though. And, for that and other (less ego-satisfying reasons), I have cast off my hope of rigid thematic adherence. Instead, I present a peculiar mix of arts, derived for various reasons from a collection of sources, thoughts, and flashes of inspiration. Having already cast off my hopes of temporal fixity, I hope to touch up and post these for sale within the next few days, despite the best efforts of technology to foil me. I may even add a picture or two that have burst, fully grown, from my head in the past few days. Time will tell.

Chapter II
Postviews, Previews, or Prognostications
A grimy window, perhaps with a small green frog adhered to the surface by its own mucus

I have found that I am more likely to deeply enjoy - to find lasting aesthetic value - in my thoughtless and rambling sketches than in my single minded push towards a completed project. I prefer to ignore what this says about any hopes I may foster for my legitimate artistic talents. Instead, I try to slam these two spheres of my artistic life together. I have a profound respect for physicists, and they seem to get good results from banging things together.
Large hadron colliders aside, in my situation this takes the form of me rifling through old sketch books, class notes, and napkins to find those images that jump out at me. I then try to repeat the work in sketch form, experimenting with line, composition, proportions, etc. Next, I try to transform all of that work into something more solid, grand, and cohesive. This goes on for a while until I despair and decide the original poorly composed, sketched out corner of notes on Orphic legend as portrayed in 20th century French cinema was the best I could hope for.
I would like to share some small portion of that process with you, my faithful collection of not-yet-sentient leftovers from corporate demography research. The following are a few of my favorites from my most recent stroll down memory lane. Please remember me when the robot war comes.

Epilogue

The holidays are rapidly approaching. There are probably many of you who are thinking "man, my {loved one} really could use a picture of a man vomiting an elephant in his/her living room," or "my Christmas decorations would be complete if only I had a picture of a pregnant woman with three right arms and rhinoceros on a tricycle." I want to help.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/DanielLinsenbardt

Keep alert! the options will warp and expand in the near future.
Or, rather, if you merely find joy in my scribbly aesthetic, enjoy the art of my wife and I at

http://linsenart.wordpress.com/

Until next time, give thanks and take care of yourselves. I hope you will all join me next time, for Apotheosis The Vug.

In which the Hero vaingloriously aspires to amazing things

Apotheosis The Vug

“Whole societies were paralyzed by the mind-blasting vistas of absolute possibility.”
- Schismatrix

Episode II
In which the Hero vaingloriously aspires to amazing things

Prolegomenon

It is hard to believe that when I woke up this morning I did not know that a band named “The Fuck Buttons” existed. Thanks to technology and vast iterations of base 2, I have been enlightened. It seemed only fitting that I share this gift with those who, like me, woke up in ignorance.
If you have not heard my extended apologetic regarding the proper use of sounds conventionally considered to be profane, I suggest you do so for your own edification.

Chapter I
Motivation, Absurdity, and Hope
A veiled jest (?)

Tuesdays are very important in my own personal mythos. Some of you may think that this is because I was born on a Tuesday. This is partly true, though this discovery was more explanatory than generative. As an heir to the mighty Norse, I have always had hidden away in the deep, moist recesses of my subconscious that our modern “Tuesday” is adopted from “Tyr’s Day,” or the day of the Norse god of war. It is a day for battles, for conquering. A day to see your enemies driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women. A day to sketch out my next line of pictures and write about it on the internet.
As I am trying to wrest from the writhing madness of my life some recognizable and comforting patterns, I intend to make this my regular day of advance on this front. Or, rather, on two fronts: the art front and the e-front (luckily, my ancestors got out of Germany in the nineteenth century, so we never learned that lesson).
In this spirit, I spent much of my day scribbling out ideas while listening to the soothing music of The Fuck Buttons and curling my toes into the warm fuzzy underbelly of Augustus the Cat. I decided that I will attempt to adopt themes for each bout of art. I did this for two reasons. First, my psyche moves in cycles, and different thematic elements emerge in my art in their due seasons. Secondly, I like the intellectual challenge of tying together a picture of an elephant coming out of a guys mouth with one of a naked woman’s back peeling off in long elegant strips into a single unified theme.

Chapter II
A Gift Horse's Mouth
an (small) amalgam of media

This blog is, ostensibly, mostly about stroking my distended, tender ego and promoting my hyper-oxygenated wonder-art. As such it would not be complete without images of this art. I am, I must admit, reticent to post said images. Many of these ideas have been with me for some time. They have evolved, become friends, even. To expose them in their early sketched out stages feels slightly like exposing the nakedness of a loved one to the world. It is also a pain to scan, adjust, rescan, adjust, and resize them all in order to get them out into the ether.
A large part of my intentions for this blog was that it serve as an impetus for me to look into my own process of art-making, to solicit critical opinions from my self and from others regarding my art, and to become more tech savvy in order to show up my students who continually make snide remarks regarding my old cellular telephone and my alleged ignorance of popular culture (they have not heard of the Fuck Buttons). It seems only fair, therefore, that I put something up here, to set a good precedent. I will settle for baby steps in this, my initial attempt, and give you only a small slice of an idea as it has surfaced over time.



Enjoy...

Epilogue

It is coming up on my bedtime, now, so I will bring this all to an end. As time goes on I hope to become more advanced in every aspect of my character that is on display in this blog, including (but not limited to) punctuality, wit, and quality control. I hope to see you next Tyr's Day here at Apotheosis The Vug.

In which the Hero regales you with descriptions of decaying organic matter

Apotheosis The Vug

“The report of my death was an exaggeration”
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Episode I

In which the Hero regales you with descriptions of decaying organic matter

Prolegomenon

It has been more than three years since my heart-wrenching departure from the fatherland, and I have become both more and less peripatetic, more and less the warrior-poet of Die Momente. For those of you who were with me then, I have a confession to make. I made a promise that I had no intention of keeping when I spoke of a final, concluding installment of my bi-weekly travel narrative. Please believe me when I say that it was not my intention to break any hearts. Rather, I merely sought an immortality of sorts. I hoped to live on as a small shard of expectation (is it too bold to say of hope?) embedded deeply, maybe even comfortably, in your minds.
I have decided it is time to return to my literary career, to cast my silly little tirades into the howling maw of the storm – that vast, ineluctable, vertiginous beast INTERNET – for what purpose? For the same purpose that undergirds every blogger at his or her outset: shameless, masterbatory self promotion.
Though it is not the sole purpose of this undertaking, I shall begin by promoting myself generally…

Chapter I
Where I Am Now
In several concise bits

Bit the First: Spousal

We got married on August 29th, 2009. If you were not there, you are to be most pitied, as it was, to be concise, badassery manifest. I now have another half: Cynthia Elizabeth Linsenbardt. It is spectacular. However, as I assume is the case with everyone else who has “married up,” I can not permanently shake the feeling that I am half a mistake away from being exposed in the eyes of my wife as the farce that I really am – cobbled together from the leftovers of poor decisions, grapefruit pulp, and Saturday morning cartoons.

Bit the Second: Feline

We have adopted into our new family a noble beast whom we christened Augustus Deathmachine Poopmonster Linsenbardt. Aside from displaying the gnawed off ends of lizards to us on our kitchen floor, Gus enjoys lounging on our bed, singing, and chasing his – not tail, I assure you – but right hind leg. He does not bury his excrement.

Bit the Third: Horticultural

My radishes are sprouting. My spinach is, too. The carrots will come. The catnip and parsley are questionable, but I have not given up hope. I have never successfully grown a bonsai from a cutting, but I’ll be damned if I’m giving up. Beets and garlic …

Bit the Fourth: Professional

People pay me a fairly large amount of money to shout at, lecture, and tell esoteric jokes to children ages 5 – 15. I am also a tutor and substitute teacher.

Bit the Fifth: Domestic

My wife’s Job provides us with free housing in the Santa Cruz mountains. All these damn trees block my view of the nearby roads and buildings, but it’s free, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I have hotwired 1 appliance, contracted poison oak, torn out roughly 1.5 square feet of carpet, chiseled 3 portions of a door frame, installed 1 shelf, juiced 7 tomatoes and 1 cucumber, and extended 1 drain pipe.

Chapter II
What I Am Now
An expository essay

I have never been comfortable with the appellation “artist” applied to myself. “Philosopher,” maybe. “Visionary,” or “Sage,” even. It would be a lie if I said I did not consider it fitting to consider me a “prophetic, storm-riding warrior poet of glory and doom.” But “artist,” never.
However, I have dabbled in art for as long as I can remember. It brings me great joy, and I have even adopted it as something more than a passing fancy, even taken up trying to improve myself in the field. Only now, though, have I made an attempt to monetize my little known mediocrity. Which brings me to the more pointed promotion of self I have in mind for this grand undertaking: the promotion of my newly christened internet store.
I am unprepared, at present, to give any sort of advertisory summation of the themes, methods, or value of my small body of available work, so to speak. I am hoping to expand on these capacities as time goes on and use this as my VOICE to the proverbial art connoisseur. You can find my work at the following:

http://www.etsy.com/shop/DanielLinsenbardt

Chapter III
I Am A Hot Compost Heap
an explectanation

I have been able, in our new home, to put together a compost pile. There are two basic kinds of compost piles or heaps. The first is called the “slow compost pile.” It is so called because it has never been able to run very fast, nor perform particularly well in compost elementary school. Also, it is little more than a pile of decomposable materials left out to slowly become soil.
The second is the “hot compost heap.” Captain of the compost wrestling team, socialite, and the dream date of all the female compost heaps, hot compost heaps are the irrefutable cooler of the compost mounds. They also actually generate warmth as they break down decomposables.
How does a compost heap become “hot?” There are two things required. First, there needs to be a good mix of “greens” (high nitrogen organic materials) and “browns” (high carbon organic materials). Usually a 3 to 1 ratio is about right. A little bit of soil into this mix (for the microbes) and only one more thing is needed: mixing. You need to turn the heap to mix up all the various elements in order for the proper reactions to occur to make rich, succulent soil.
If you don’t mind me getting some metaphor on your shoes, please allow me to explain how I am a hot compost heap … of art. I take great care to have the right mix floating around in my psyche. Comic books and science fiction are the starter, amended heavily with Russian literature and classical philosophy. I throw in a fair amount of math curriculum (for the microbes) and dust the whole with a liberal amount of public radio and Chopin to neutralize the smell, and I am a heap with high potential for rich yield. As long as I turn the whole cocktail, I can be amending my garden and potted plants with abandon for years to come.
Why the sappy, poorly composed metaphor? Because I have created this blog to be the pitchfork that turns the hot compost heap of me. As the owner of the pitchfork and the creator of the heap, I expect to be doing all of the work, but it would be silly and ungrateful of me to turn down any help you, my readership, might want to offer. So, please, if you have any eggshells or grass clippings to throw in the mix, or if you just want to give the pile a few turns, it would help me ensure a high and regular yield.
I don’t know what this means.

Epilogue

So begins my glorious, scrotum-tightening (thank you, Joyce) saga. I hope you have enjoyed it, and will return for more in the future. You can look foreword to more of my meticulously constructed metaphor, mind-withering wit, and vicious rhetorical prowess as well as vague explanations of my art, vain declarations of logistic foresight and planning, charming anecdotes from my life as a husband, educator, and hypno-ninja, and any number of yet more glorious and multisyllabic explosions of artistic genius on this newly birthed ball of encoded potentiality: Apotheosis The Vug.