-ryan william sigg

everything else is still there, as in, the links to 'dust'
would go: http://mamascience.net/

dust.html
christ. i smoke too much. i'm getting winded just typing.

noah called me tonite. when told him i was still at work
and would call him later he told me i wouldn't get out of it
so easy, and then "shit, i'm standing in the middle of the road."
a few moments later, when i was trying to coax his drunk ass
(the first thing i said to him when we got on the phone was,
"someone's a little toasted, huh?") into just concentrating on
the walk home, he started giggling, then mumbled,"fuck, i just
walked into a tree."

some things, like the song 'worthlessness' just automatically inspire
a series of visuals in my head, a consistent mood. in cases like that, there's
no way of stopping the process; in that example, i've shot a few things, but i
can't wait to get some equipment so i can do the entire piece justice(vomit
when necessary). when i do get the right stuff to make it with, i won't have
to script it, it will just ooze out of me as i go. that's why i can't do things
digitally (digital video is a world apart, i think, from digital
audio, at least in
terms of the process and time. i need some incremental space to think
about how the actual image differs from my idea of it, and then i can
slowly bring it closer).
at some point
my ideas and the limits of my abilities start synergizing and the result makes
a wierd sort of sense. a very personal sense. probably merely "taste".
but the end result, i hope, will be clinging like barnacles to the original
idea, and the concept that brought it forth won't be obscured.

first off, you can replace mentions of the [?????]
with "?????", including the mention i've mentioned
in this sentence.
oh, sweet mystery.

so. onto the wheezing.
due to having a cat in the house for a month or so now,
and having the hallway to my bathroom slick with bathroom
water from the upstairs
(the water runs down the walls {please let it be from the shower}
and sheet rock, and pools in the ceiling, forming bubbles
in the old asbestos paint, dripping into pools until it moseys
its way into the drain. a drain, i'm assuming, made especially
for flood-like events exactly like this one.)
and planting spores in the baseboards, all the resulting
dander and mold is making my nose whistle uncontrollably.
so much caked mucus can't be blown or picked, it's up
that far into my cranium.
and it's not the smoking. i was quit for about a month,
but now i'm smoking a few, or like tonight, just the one,
and only when i have other intoxicants in my system.
oh, sweet aging.

you have to take these things into consideration
when you were born as pitifully frail as me. no, i
wasn't born with infant botulism or some other
debilitating condition, i'm just the weakling child,
grown into the weakling man.
>>>>

oh, the new http://mamascience.net ( i can feel your
tense excitement through our broadband connection)
is abouts to be's unveiled. keep checking, if you don't
mind.

wow. that's a lot of digital breath just being blown around,
completely without substance or subject. that's what i'm
going to do from now on. ramble on meaninglessly.
there's as much weight in it, i'm sure, as attempting
to assemble my fragmented experience of the world
into anything resembling "art" or what someone would
(at the very least) perceive aesthetically as "art". we can
all spill enough crumbs of our own emotions or experiences
onto a page that some will stick and resonate with someone
else.

that's why i'm making video about cats from now on.
either that or Game-Boy musik.
since the massive multitudes of young artists cannot possibly
be relevant to the world, let alone the nation, let alone our own
generation, let alone our own community, ------> means most of
us will be living symptoms of everything gone wrong with norte-
americano society even as we writhe against what we perceive
to be the constraints of that society. twenty years will go by before
most of us notice that the pitchforkmedia.com offices have burned
down and that the land they stood on is owned and paved over
by every immigrant culture that is new enough to this country to
realize that most of us third-fourth-fifth-etc. generation bastards
are much more concerned with our status within our insular little
community of circle-painters than with actually taking hold of
our lives and making conscious decisions that deal with more than
hairstyles and cultivating an historical-yet-current record collection.

{fuck, i just spilled beer on my crotch. the kind of beer that,
when it dries, smells like you just pissed all over yourself.
beer-piss.}

we'll still be too busy looking in the mirror, comparing our carefully-
dirtied hairstyle with VICE magazine and congratulating ourselves
on what a unique and special individual within a highly unique and
individualized culture we have made out ourselves...

-oh, and if it isn't clear through the bile, the "we" i'm talking
about isn't "we"(though my point is, it might as well be. and
by "might as well be, i mean "might be".
and i know too many good souls producing amazing things
to be as cynical as i sound. most of the time.
some of the time.

-love.
r.