Friday, November 4, 2016
An Emphatic Umph: All These Infinite Things: On Naama Kates' film, "...
An Emphatic Umph: All These Infinite Things: On Naama Kates' film, "...: From one perspective, there's not a lot of action in Naama Kates' new film, Sorceress (she wrote, directed, and stars in it). Ni...
Monday, August 17, 2015
One Way or Another: Why I Released My Film for Free on YouTube - MovieMaker Magazine
One Way or Another: Why I Released My Film for Free on YouTube - MovieMaker Magazine
Such an honor to be published by MovieMaker!!!
Such an honor to be published by MovieMaker!!!
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Entertain Me By Michael Shinafelt: Where In The World Is Naama Kates?
Entertain Me By Michael Shinafelt: Where In The World Is Naama Kates?: Naama Kates: On The Move and Ready for Adventure! Singer/Songwriter/Actress Naama Kates has been living out of a suitcase for ...
Monday, February 2, 2015
Good Hair Day: Who Cares Day
OK. I'm just a bit lonely and feeling skeptical here. I don't have anything to say or offer. I don't have any resources. Nobody really cares about any of it. So, what then?
Saturday, November 29, 2014
residence artists 2015 | haihatus
residence artists 2015 | haihatus
Soon I'll be listed up in this company!!! February and March... along with all the other brilliant people... the arctic... the sauna... like Russia... I can't wait.... art w/ no distractions. What an honor.
Soon I'll be listed up in this company!!! February and March... along with all the other brilliant people... the arctic... the sauna... like Russia... I can't wait.... art w/ no distractions. What an honor.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
View Our 3D Artwork | Disc Makers
View Our 3D Artwork | Disc Makers
I've finally, finally, finally, manufactured my physical CDs. YAY. Coming to Amoeba records, Amazon, CD Baby, and a WHOLE gang over to my guy Peter Holmstedt of Hemifran in Sweden :-)
I've finally, finally, finally, manufactured my physical CDs. YAY. Coming to Amoeba records, Amazon, CD Baby, and a WHOLE gang over to my guy Peter Holmstedt of Hemifran in Sweden :-)
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Eventually.
Eventually no one cares. Neither about your fiber, your DNA, nor your passions that burn in a language that only GOD SPEAKS.
And it's not their fault. No, of course, it's yours. And eventually, they've simply got to clarify that point. In a language that only reeks of condescension.
You spend hours doing god-knows-what and you're a recluse and you don't send Christmas cards. And you can see right through just about every charade because you have sight. And you can hear things that aren't even emitting any frequencies at any amplitude because you've got sight. And if you share these thoughts, these truths, that indeed are self-evident, with anyone but yourself-- well then, eventually-- you'll be mocked. And you know their mockery is fear.
"You poor thing," they say, after inserting insidious jabs about what a terrible person, selfish and stupid, you are and have been. "You poor thing," they say, "we all make mistakes. And you can always count on me."
And it's transparent and wouldn't it be, to anyone?
It's just a green-eyed monster.
They'll say it, plainly, to drive it home, what fool you are-- how much you've disappointed them. But shit, you're the one who feels disappointed.
By the WEAKNESS and the true BETRAYAL, of those who've claimed to understand.
And you're sickened by it.
But it's lonely. The ennobled trumpet behind your life is only heard by those few that live the way you do, with one foot, not planted firmly on anything, but en pointe in your ribbon shoes, the kind of for pros-- and the other drawing circles on the surface in ronde de jambe a terre until you lift it straight up into the air, along with your arm, and you reach up into the stratosphere, that, is how you live.
There are so very few who understand, who can relate, well enough at all, to remain satisfied. Perhaps only those whose passions somewhat match your own. The ones with whom you build, really build, dream-build, truly build, not just the verb from the Hallmark tautology- your collaborators, perhaps. Or another beautiful girl who translates her emotions to gigantic murals. The odd, the cursed the blessed the dabblers in magic. And you know you are blessed for they are in your life.
And you can't convince, deceive, deliberately or not, that you are something wrong. That Grandfather Sky skimped, that you are lower than your are. The ennobled trumpet sounds for the nobles, and I am a Noble, in the Nietzschean sense.
And I won't, and simply don't fail to see the agendas and the questionable behavior caused by ego laceration. And it you, who disappoints, in that your honesty ends where your resentment begins. In order to maintain your positive face, you mustn't show it, that ugly sentiment that you know doesn't flatter. And because I have touch, I can feel it.
And it feels like dried blood.
And it's not their fault. No, of course, it's yours. And eventually, they've simply got to clarify that point. In a language that only reeks of condescension.
You spend hours doing god-knows-what and you're a recluse and you don't send Christmas cards. And you can see right through just about every charade because you have sight. And you can hear things that aren't even emitting any frequencies at any amplitude because you've got sight. And if you share these thoughts, these truths, that indeed are self-evident, with anyone but yourself-- well then, eventually-- you'll be mocked. And you know their mockery is fear.
"You poor thing," they say, after inserting insidious jabs about what a terrible person, selfish and stupid, you are and have been. "You poor thing," they say, "we all make mistakes. And you can always count on me."
And it's transparent and wouldn't it be, to anyone?
It's just a green-eyed monster.
They'll say it, plainly, to drive it home, what fool you are-- how much you've disappointed them. But shit, you're the one who feels disappointed.
By the WEAKNESS and the true BETRAYAL, of those who've claimed to understand.
And you're sickened by it.
But it's lonely. The ennobled trumpet behind your life is only heard by those few that live the way you do, with one foot, not planted firmly on anything, but en pointe in your ribbon shoes, the kind of for pros-- and the other drawing circles on the surface in ronde de jambe a terre until you lift it straight up into the air, along with your arm, and you reach up into the stratosphere, that, is how you live.
There are so very few who understand, who can relate, well enough at all, to remain satisfied. Perhaps only those whose passions somewhat match your own. The ones with whom you build, really build, dream-build, truly build, not just the verb from the Hallmark tautology- your collaborators, perhaps. Or another beautiful girl who translates her emotions to gigantic murals. The odd, the cursed the blessed the dabblers in magic. And you know you are blessed for they are in your life.
And you can't convince, deceive, deliberately or not, that you are something wrong. That Grandfather Sky skimped, that you are lower than your are. The ennobled trumpet sounds for the nobles, and I am a Noble, in the Nietzschean sense.
And I won't, and simply don't fail to see the agendas and the questionable behavior caused by ego laceration. And it you, who disappoints, in that your honesty ends where your resentment begins. In order to maintain your positive face, you mustn't show it, that ugly sentiment that you know doesn't flatter. And because I have touch, I can feel it.
And it feels like dried blood.
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