My Brief Foray Into Courier

On my flight back from California, I sat next to an art 
historian. We talked about an hour or so before I pull-
ed out one of the Gordon Onslow Ford postcards that Ryan 
had given me and said, "What do you see here?" "Well," 
he said, "I see Spanish surrealism, for sure...and, uh, 
contemporary Australian dot painting...and, um...yeah...
it's interesting." I never know what people mean when 
they call something "interesting," but I have to agree 
with him - it is, unlike a lot of art, pretty damn 
interesting. 

Ford constructed an esoteric art philosophy called Inner 
Realism, which held that painting, if done the right way, 
could be a doorway to other planes of consciousness, all 
the way down to the "Inner Worlds of the Mind Shared By 
All." In his artist's statement he explains that "we 
travel over vast distances, at great speeds" to these 
inner worlds every night as we dream and thereby "become 
recharged with cosmic energy for the next day." He goes 
on to explain that "On waking up, our experiences of 
deeper dimensions are too fast, too vast or too minute 
for human memory, with its limited range of awareness, 
to recall." 

I like these ideas. I mean, they're crazy. And I like 
'em. I'll tell you what I see, though: Thumbprints
hexing hammerheads, poxed in bundle/s of rod material, 
quiver, hole in a man, breathe, tap tap eucalyptos- 
concen- what did you- in ventricle of the sauropod, oh, 
emptied out eyes, it supposes, the sand world- eclosing, 
all busy with its bowl of hearts- and fastidious! the 
production, microfilaments of the solar lookaround, trying 
with your golden meat of the empathy collect. dynamite 
in the desert and now an animal draws its shape from 
sunset boxes, eddies of the juju pentecost...