Forward Slash

Written weekly–usually–on Sundays by Jacob, welcome to the hidden-in-plain-sight blog named after the aesthetically and pragmatically essential '/' in the menu bar.


2021

February 28th

Spinning plates between pool cues: balancing too many things–subtly hoping it drowns out the holes in me that seem to keep letting minutes slip through them. It's 12:26 AM now. Almost slid it in by Sunday. And I think about writing more, pouring out letters at this moment, but they need to head elsewhere.

February 21st

Hard to find a place to get quarters these days!

February 14th (written on the morning of the 20th)

Lost track of time! That Sunday was quiet. All is well in my new home.

February 7th (written around noon on the 8th)

"And the river keeps on flowing."

January 31st (written on the evening of the 1st)

Little did I know my metro card expired on the day I should've written this entry. Had what felt like a wild day today. Fingers crossed, Sambeaux, fingers crossed.

January 24th

Been watching Ted Lasso after ol' Barry Jenkins tweeted about it. The "be curious" monologue got me. And their damn use of the song "Strange." I'm not crying you're crying. And happy Sunday.

January 17th (written on the 19th)

Still have a quiet mind.

January 10th

Nothing to say.

January 3rd

A new year. Kept reading Dune today. Enjoyed.

2020

December 27th (written on the afternoon of the 29th)

I'm late! Been babysitting a kitten. Had the best Christmas morning of my life. Got champagne for New Years today. It's getting cold again. I hear the music and everything is alright. Best wishes to anyone out there who sees this.

December 20th (written on the 21st)

All is well.

December 14th

I am plainly warn out as I type. Applied for a job on a whim last night. Haven't heard back from the poetry contest people. Been writing for hours and then revising drafts of poems on top of that work; my left thumb just had a panic attack, calling it there. I wonder where I'll be Christmas Eve this year…

December 7th

Deferring to TikTok this week, citation here.

November 29

November 22

Shot My Camera Was Depressed today. I hope the humor in it shines through; was fun to conceptualize regardless. But I have to shoot something even more 'important' if you will by Tuesday evening. (Personifying my D800 isn't gonna cut it for that assignment.) And here's the rub: when I took a much needed but albeit unapproved break a few weeks ago, when I came back to the keyboard, I flew. The words, left in my mind's oven much longer, would've burned and been unreadable, but instead they tasted–at least to me and those who've read the piece so far–wonderfully! Probably the best thing I've ever written in some aspects come to think of it; though Carl Phillips will in some ways be the judge of that when I submit it for a contest soon. That said though, school wants me to make art-food too quickly for my taste sometimes (okay, all the time!). And I'm not saying it doesn't make for good practice–and sometimes it's responsible for some of the first sparks of a work–but that's just it, all you end up (at least to me) is being able to practice. And the work that has gotten me shows or published or admired wasn't made under the motif of "let's try to make something in a week." And now I'm reminded of writers, "revise, revise, revise!" they say, flaunting their marked to hell stack of drafts. Suppose all this talk could be boiled down to the age old dilemma: school real world. Anyways, if anyone sees this before Tuesday afternoon, wish me luck!

November 15 (but written the morning of the 16th)

Have a headache. Father is on the line, speaker phone is on, can likely here my keyboard click away as I write. We haven't talked in maybe weeks, which hasn't happened in years. I feel a bit queasy. Looking forward to the first snow of the season whenever it decides to fall.

November 8

Happy birthday.

November 1st

Been listening to this one song a lot this week, it's called "All My Fires" by Adam Townsend. Here are the lyrics:

I can't put my finger on it, it's hard to say

The more I think about it, it's better this way

If I said what I should, would it ease your misery?

Sometimes it's just hard to say I'm sorry

Oh my my, I'm starting to

Feel remorse for those things that I do

All my fires start this way and

I'm a liar most everyday

And I conspire, and accept the blame and

I, I retire amidst the flame

Oh the longer that this sits unsaid, the bigger it grows and

The harder that this becomes to swallow

If I'd done what I should, would I be here all alone?

Sometimes it's just hard to say I was wrong

Oh my my, I'm starting to

Feel remorse for those things that I do

All my fires start this way and

I'm a liar most everyday

And I conspire, and accept the blame and

I, I retire amidst the flame

Oh my my, I'm starting to.

Feel remorse for those things that I do

I've just sat by, now I've got to try

To swallow my pride, ohhhhh

All my fires start this way and

I'm a liar most everyday

And I conspire, and accept the blame and

I, I retire amidst the flame

October 25th

I'm so tired (I'm saying it in my head like Paul McCartney) but things are looking up! Gonna learn some new things, learn a new medium from the BASIC (hint-hint) level. Saw an exhibition at MoMA PS1 today, it was great. I'm so tired (I'm saying it like Paul still). Gonna eat and get some rest. Tomorrow, I continue to try to get in better shape, or sleep in 'till class again. But I'm working at it! Getting better at it all day by day. One day perhaps not just I will know that is true. Add biographies of Da Vinci and Ada Lovelace to the reading list.

October 18th

Nothing to say tonight. Here is my excuse: "the more you know, the quieter you get."

October 11th

Almost took down this whole website (I'm tired of the art world, of art professors, of selfies, of app stories, of witnessing self-promotion and thinking I need to do a better job of it myself, of seeing people I love get sucked into the vat of "trying to make it," of galleries and their pretentious milieu, the markets, the advertisements; tired of it all). But I didn't, not yet. Won't do me any good while I still have to show up for art school. But I look forward to it, and look forward to the day I get to erase it to the best of my ability from the web, because that day too will be the day I'm doing anything else successfully enough to wash it all off and live like I know people still can, like I know I need to, want to, will.

October 4th

Whew. What a week! Anonymous readers, somehow, amidst all my delicate, cautionary efforts I got the infamous COVID-19 not this past Wednesday but the Wednesday before that (thinks the nurses working with NYU). I have been asymptomatic the whole time despite a minor coincidence of symptoms that made me wonder after having Chipotle (TMI?). I will, hopefully, get the call sometime tomorrow to learn how to be able to go back out into the city, for I will have done my time in isolation with no symptoms by then. And it's been just fine. I wasn't fine at times, but it was just fine. I got a good poem out of my sorrows, and (for still lack of a better explanation) got bit in the ass by Forrest Gump himself early this morning and ran 10 miles back and forth within the confines of my apartment–or so my GPS tells me (they say on the internet the Nike Run Club app is 100% accurate most of the time...and it was wonderful! Truly. Felt like afterwards I was a little less cursed. And speaking of cursed, I've been watching the Paramount show "Yellowstone." Watching it feels like home, philosophically, at times. Many of the same things that make or break those men in that show; made or broke me too (as cheesy as it feels to write? –though I know it's not cheesy stuff at all, I suppose that's what the city has done to me ;) I think I'll leave this week with this quote from an ole timer in the show:


"GREENHORN"Oh, fuck!
"OLE TIMER"You need to see a doctor?*pause*It's the shame that hurtsthe most, you know?But shame, it's in the mind.*pause*You can turn that faucet offwhenever you want to.*pause*Rough business becoming a man, ain't it?Beats the alternative, though.Come on, let's go to work.

P.S. Sorry if I botched how this scene goes down a little, Paramount.

September 27 (though technically written on the 28th at 1:54 AM)

A friend of mine said I text like a robot sometimes. Another someone told me I can be very dry over text and was shocked how I talked when we spoke on the phone for the first time. Coincidentally, I've been designing an artwork for the past 24-36 hours that could, provided that the person is skilled in doublespeak, prove them right. Though I'm no machine obviously; I conclude I've just been attempting to fix myself up since I was rather young, as if I were a broken machine, so as to simplify the work that is in fact healing a living organism's consciousness, not to mention my own (though I have, fortunately, had some help). I told them both in response then that I thought that would be the case because I am an avid writer, and texting has the same input as writing prose, poetry, essays (you name it) and I think I am not very good at switching to a social output as opposed to a pragmatic, essayistic, metaphoric, and/or poetic output. Admittedly, I am working on it and the artwork, if anything, juxtaposes their observations eloquently. I may have laid myself out like a computer in the piece to better understand myself but in the process seem to have shown myself and one other–so far–that I am a human with a makeup far too intriguing to be a robot; at least by today's standards. Going to keep it close like a chain around my neck though, so if you're reading this, odds are you'll never see it. Sorry not sorry and see y'all next week!

September 20

Apologies–to perhaps no one at all–for my hiatus. Life is good; I'm back in NY, doing school online. Jackson Pollock said something to someone (pretty sure it was him at least) in an interview about losing all his mannerisms over the summer so that by fall he could go back to work and be able to do it better. And hey, I know how problematic he has become among theorists and critics, but that stuck with me nonetheless (and arguably doesn't have any relation to what he is becoming infamous for in those art discourse groups). Moreover when I go back to Texas during the peak heat season I seem to lose whatever is bogging me down, and by the time the cold starts to creep up on me (especially in NY) I am spick and span for whatever comes at me more so than if I had not spent the summer shedding my old skin–which also isn't to say I spent it doing nothing. And I haven't told many this, in fact only a handful have any idea at all, because, like, who cares, but I'm going to pursue psychiatry. I'll always be an "artist" (that word gives me more annoyance–akin to how I imagine someone who gets called an "influencer" feels–by the month) but monetizing my creativity is just not how I like to work and definitely not how I want to make a living for the rest of my days. There was a guy in Texas who taught my mom at some point and even hosted Hemingway briefly while he was getting treated at Mayo clinic, who was an artist and psychiatrist. Evidently he even went to Italy to pick out marble for his sculptures, and he had the financial means to, which, I have no intention of being that traditionally posh but I'd like to be able to if I want to further down the line. My parents did a good job fighting for a stable life, I got to follow their lead for my children's sake. If 2020 has taught us anything, it's that the old boy scout motto isn't so corny after all–but I am glad they went bankrupt. Prejudice is a shovel that can only dig you straight to hell. Ta-ta for now.

June 21

"Nothing ends–nothing ever ends."

June 14

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

June 7

So many pennies trying to funnel down into the water jug, so many that not one alone seems to make it through.

May 31

Going to try to do my part for others. Going to try and write.

May 24

Found the song "Daily Battles" by Thom Yorke and Flea off of the Motherless Brooklyn soundtrack today. Will most likely be the highlight of my day. Haven't seen the movie. Maybe I will soon.

May 17

Nothing to write. Sorry?

May 10

A friend is over so I'll be brief. Finished The Master today. Saw the first hour and fifteen months ago. Glad I finished it. All good, all things considered.

May 3

I was cautiously socializing again today. I'm listening to song a friend suggested, "Letter to Madeline" by Ian Noe, as I write. But I don't think I have much to say. Just thinking a lot.

April 26

Reworked the website yesterday in preparation for the potential of new visitors after my first exhibition opens up in two weeks. I'm doing well. Getting more and more organized around the house under quarantine. Part of me still wishes I was dealing with the pandemic from my New York apartment but I'm glad to be home too. The studio in my parent's garage got a slight makeover; that has helped, made a self-portrait sculpture the night after the day it was rearranged. I wonder now who is/will be reading this "blog." What will they think of me? Another spoiled artist? A good man? He's not worth my time? All is well. I'll keep doing with what is offered and see if I really can leave the world a little better than I found it.

April 19

I miss New York. Cuomo is talking on the TV behind me. I'm glad he has a sense of humor (did you know he can marry you and your partner?). And I'm still in a funk. I'm showing up and getting most things done but as a worker in society reasonably deemed "non-essential" I'm trying to wrap my head around how to make work that is essential (wildly more so than usual) or that shows how essential art can be (also more so than usual). Contagion did go up in rentals, I guess. I hope it was at least mildly cathartic to some. Going to try to make "win-win" art. I win in the process of making it because it's what I enjoy doing; the audience wins because they get something out of it when they see, hear, touch, smell, taste, feel it. We'll know how it went down one of these Sundays.

April 12

This marks the first entry of Forward Slash. Made a video called "how i feel" for school. Got news of my first exhibition show acceptance a few days ago, I should be more happy about it! Got news a week or so ago of my denial to a dramatic writing program I applied to in January, I'm sad about it. Over the last month, I've lost my velocity; I've got speed, but no direction. Can't write, not painting much; only trying to figure out where to go. I've lost everything I had to say, but I know how to say things, usually, and how to say them well. We'll see where this goes.