Hard to fathom but the truth is, “yes, I am read­ing Dante — The Divine Com­edy I: Hell because I enjoy it.” You can grab your own copy of it by click­ing on the link. The ref­er­ence method used above is sus­pect and extremely ques­tion­able. No one’s required The Assem­blag­ist to uti­lize Tura­bian or any man­ual of style since 1993. Point is, you get it, don’t you? The par­tic­u­lar paper­back copy in my pos­ses­sion is trans­lated by Dorothy L. Say­ers. It’s a Pen­quin Clas­sic edi­tion which sold for $.95 in 1962. A col­lege text uti­lized by both my ex-​brother-​in-​law Rus­sell Rogers and my deceased sis­ter, Ann Heinold Cut­ler. Since Rus­sell can go to hell and my sis­ter is in some pleas­ant after-​space, read­ing this print of Hell seems entirely appropriate.

…But who are you, whose cheeks are seen to teem
Such dis­til­la­tion of grief? What com­fort­less
Gar­ments of guilt upon your shoul­ders gleam?”

After spend­ing 20 years assist­ing Mom’s death and then these scant few months absorb­ing life’s even­tual con­clu­sion; the news of my sister’s untimely death seems almost fore­told. It is the very foun­da­tion of my misery.

“Nor dead as yet, nor brought here as a prey
To tor­ment by his guilt,” my mas­ter said,
“But to gain full expe­ri­ence of the Way

He comes; where­fore behoves him to be led -
And this is true as that I speak to thee -
Gyre after gyre through Hell, by me who am dead.”

The more I read, the less I know.

Last night began a new project or two. Parts with plans for the total sum of the parts. Noth­ing from noth­ing leaves some­thing. Two altered books, one that is Mother and one that is Sis­ter. But real­ize that sis­ter, mother, spouse, aunt, grand­mother are all one in Art which is, to me, the very foot­note of exis­tence. It remains on the bot­tom of every page, it is num­bered in an orderly fash­ion, placed in log­i­cal form, con­stantly referred and remain­dered, but its con­se­quence depends on the reader, the viewer,

Maci­u­nas Mulch, note the Nuvo era­sure near the Fluxus bot­tom line.

the critic and the king.

What a process life is. Painful. Artic­u­lat­ing momen­tum com­posed by strangers, influ­enced by con­se­quences. Artis­tic lunacy. I am nei­ther Fluxus nor do I span any movement’s exis­tence. Where then is the log­i­cal denom­i­na­tion of my cre­ated forms? It lies in its Own Uni­verse. Mine Alone.

Mulch, the NuvoFluxus of Mine

Years ago, lis­ten­ing to an audio of Mar­cel Duchamp from many decades past, it came to be that Art receives it’s Name from Any­one. This Any­one called MacE­wan will then name Her Art.

It’s not here, though. The Name of My Art. It is beyond Assem­blage and Col­lage, as a mat­ter of fact, I do very few col­lages these days. But one never ends assem­bling. It is con­stant, my house, my yard… now I find I’ve col­lected dogs. Three is def­i­nitely com­pany. A bit too much com­pany but nonetheless.

Let me rake the leaves of my mem­o­ries, make a huge pile and jump onto it. Into it. Per­haps set it on fire. Per­haps bag it up in black plas­tic and turn it to mulch.

oooooh. There’s a good name for my art.

MULCH

Okay then. It is done. It is Named.

Mulch Art.

It is in the com­bi­na­tion of items and mean­ings that a new, more fer­tile mix­ture, comes alive.

Mulch Art is my NuvoFluxus. My new gen­er­a­tion of cre­ation. Mine. Here­with begins my Own Art Movement.

My man­i­festo will soon appear.