Vince Quatroche's Rubber Eden

Statement du'Jour 2010 Jan 03, 2010

Statement De Jour Revised 2010

Much has happened since this Rubber
Eden arrived on line in the late Fall of 2005. The last five years have seen a
pronounced explosion of any number of personal websites. (i.e My Pervert Space,
Get outta my Facebook, and most recently Twitcher ) All devoted to the self-promotion
of Gridville’s citizen-oids to some unknown ego gratification circle jerk and
all manner of bonfire of the cyber-vanities. I've been asked (and invited
repeatedly) to participate, sign up and in general perpetuate this conga-line
of hook-ups, meet-ups, crack-ups, errant stalkers, weirdoes, and middle aged
ex-college/high school old-time used-to-be(s) seeking something from the former
ghosts of their past youth/lives.

I've said no thanks. I find this site quite
enough of a cyber-mirror of my own to indulge in as personality disorder masquerading
as creative talent. I really try to keep the bullshit around here to a minimum.
I’m quite aware of my polarizing attributes and while some reading these words
may be sympathetic souls, other cold eyes scan these lines with (at best) a voyeuristic
distain or just curious if they gleam a car wreck in any of this. Nope. Sorry.
No Dice. I get the first and last word here. This site remains about the
writing. The creation that blindly compels. The desire that drives. It could
disappear in a wink of nano-second. (and it just might some day) I created and
invited this CyberStein (and CyberTina, while we’re at it) into my life and will
pull the plug in a heartbeat. The experience has been one wild ass ride. (and not all
good either) You take your chances out here in the Cyber-Void. But you “pays (sic)
your money, go the dance, swing like hell while you can and soon enough it’s by
your neck.

I am a nobody here in Gridville.
Just another sucker on the vine. Existing like you in this virtual-Nintendo
semgma of the cartooning of reality. I add my voice to the defining cacophony
of this (in the words of e.e. cummings) busy
monster manunkind. I expect nothing. I am seldom disappointed. No
narcissism. Sophism. Or pleas for your understanding or attention. My message
exists (if anywhere) in my work. If you can call it that. Poetry ? Debatable.
Verse ? Sporadic and incidental (at best)..ok maybe a couple of good stories
here and there. But beware the illiterate mine-field of my typos. My flaws. Mia
Copa. Mia Copa. Yes. I am a deeply flawed man who is asking you neither for your benediction
or forgiveness. Take your judgments of me and my work (and in the words of my
old lady) go fry ice and see how brown you can get it. If you like it/get it ? Thank you. But make
no mistake about it. I take a great deal of satisfaction/pride in my work. It
might all be decidedly just so much small potatoes. But they’re my potatoes.

Perhaps Weldon Kees had it right after all. Just vanish. Leave your
bucket of bolts somewhere on a bridge with the keys in the ignition and just
never be heard from again. Having a little trouble getting the message here ?
It’s ok. (some will tell you that is the function of Art) and perhaps there
really isn’t one. You could awalys try asking Hot Horse, Lucky Ward, Frank Meyers, Billy Gas or even Mr. Cedric. I think I know what they might tell you about all this. Maybe it is never worth the price you pay, but I was going there
anyway.

Vincent Quatroche

1/3/2010

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a
comfortable disease:

your victum(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness

-electrons deify one razorblade

into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish

returns on its unself.

A world of made

is not a world of born-pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this

fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We
doctors know

a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell

of a good universe next door;let's go

- e. e. cummings

Statement du'Jour 2005

The work included on this website archive represents, in part thirty plus
years of self-expression, reflection and observation. Rather than launch into a
dramatic monologue that might be given by a dying blond "Replicant"
as heard in the finale of Blade Runner, I can only remark that
I lack the discipline, inclination and disposition that cultivating a widely
spread cultural exposure demands of a creative individual with
"aspirations." I find most self-promotion at this somatic level of
expression pretentious, vulgar and distasteful.

Perhaps it is a matter of the basic question of why an individual succumbs
to the desire to create in the first place. Whatever my talent is or can be
defined as a poet, it certainly is not as a "purveyor" of self. I am
haunted by the question; if one creates for the market place, then do they
simply become another "product" for consumption in that market place?

I know more about what I am not, than what I am. I am not successful. I am
an obscure enigma. I do not write for the intellectual. I write for you. You
who know what is like to not understand this modern life. I write for the
laborer, the journeyman, the ones who through the sheer effort of daily life
support the framework of this culture's humanity. I write out of pure blind
desire, fear and addiction to a way of living enforced upon a populous who has
so little control of so much to do with the basic dignity of their lives. While
I believe in the value of the everyday life and dreams, I do not celebrate or
promote the cruel, mundane or banal.

I do not have an all inclusive, all purpose, glib sentence to describe my
work and its purpose. Any "poetica" or "Musa" I am able to
convey is wrenched away under duress from a brutal insane system which has
slipped free of any moral or rational moorings.

I create from memory, dreams and the vast over-flowing junk yard of images
and mutated desires created by Madison Avenue and Hollywood under the watchful
eye of Corporate America.

It would be disingenuous for me to represent myself as one who doesn't care
or want approval and recognition from an audience. I want what any artist
wants, but I do demand at the very least some basic degree of honesty from all
concerned (including myself) regarding the depth and worth of creativity.

A walk through these words will not be a dry one. You will get wet, dirty,
warm or cold, you might laugh or cringe, maybe a little eyebrow raising, a
shoulder shrugging. But if I remind you of one thing that you know is true,
either by blessed or painful experience or you take one of these poems or
stories and insist someone else read it, then I've done my job.

Always bearing in mind the words of Jerzy Kosinski,
"insufficient talent is nature's cruelest gift."





		Statement du'Jour 2010 Jan 03, 2010 Statement De Jour Revised 2010 Much has happened since this Rubber Eden arrived on line in the late Fall of 2005. The last five years have seen a pronounced explosion of any number of personal websites. (i.e My Pervert Space, Get outta my Facebook, and most recently Twitcher ) All devoted to the self-promotion of Gridville’s citizen-oids to some unknown ego gratification circle jerk and all manner of bonfire of the cyber-vanities. I've been asked (and invited repeatedly) to participate, sign up and in general perpetuate this conga-line of hook-ups, meet-ups, crack-ups, errant stalkers, weirdoes, and middle aged ex-college/high school old-time used-to-be(s) seeking something from the former ghosts of their past youth/lives. I've said no thanks. I find this site quite enough of a cyber-mirror of my own to indulge in as personality disorder masquerading as creative talent. I really try to keep the bullshit around here to a minimum. I’m quite aware of my polarizing attributes and while some reading these words may be sympathetic souls, other cold eyes scan these lines with (at best) a voyeuristic distain or just curious if they gleam a car wreck in any of this. Nope. Sorry. No Dice. I get the first and last word here. This site remains about the writing. The creation that blindly compels. The desire that drives. It could disappear in a wink of nano-second. (and it just might some day) I created and invited this CyberStein (and CyberTina, while we’re at it) into my life and will pull the plug in a heartbeat. The experience has been one wild ass ride. (and not all good either) You take your chances out here in the Cyber-Void. But you “pays (sic) your money, go the dance, swing like hell while you can and soon enough it’s by your neck. I am a nobody here in Gridville. Just another sucker on the vine. Existing like you in this virtual-Nintendo semgma of the cartooning of reality. I add my voice to the defining cacophony of this (in the words of e.e. cummings) busy monster manunkind. I expect nothing. I am seldom disappointed. No narcissism. Sophism. Or pleas for your understanding or attention. My message exists (if anywhere) in my work. If you can call it that. Poetry ? Debatable. Verse ? Sporadic and incidental (at best)..ok maybe a couple of good stories here and there. But beware the illiterate mine-field of my typos. My flaws. Mia Copa. Mia Copa. Yes. I am a deeply flawed man who is asking you neither for your benediction or forgiveness. Take your judgments of me and my work (and in the words of my old lady) go fry ice and see how brown you can get it. If you like it/get it ? Thank you. But make no mistake about it. I take a great deal of satisfaction/pride in my work. It might all be decidedly just so much small potatoes. But they’re my potatoes. Perhaps Weldon Kees had it right after all. Just vanish. Leave your bucket of bolts somewhere on a bridge with the keys in the ignition and just never be heard from again. Having a little trouble getting the message here ? It’s ok. (some will tell you that is the function of Art) and perhaps there really isn’t one. You could awalys try asking Hot Horse, Lucky Ward, Frank Meyers, Billy Gas or even Mr. Cedric. I think I know what they might tell you about all this. Maybe it is never worth the price you pay, but I was going there anyway. Vincent Quatroche 1/3/2010 pity this busy monster,manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victum(death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness -electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange;lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish returns on its unself. A world of made is not a world of born-pity poor flesh and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell of a good universe next door;let's go - e. e. cummings Statement du'Jour 2005 The work included on this website archive represents, in part thirty plus years of self-expression, reflection and observation. Rather than launch into a dramatic monologue that might be given by a dying blond "Replicant" as heard in the finale of Blade Runner, I can only remark that I lack the discipline, inclination and disposition that cultivating a widely spread cultural exposure demands of a creative individual with "aspirations." I find most self-promotion at this somatic level of expression pretentious, vulgar and distasteful. Perhaps it is a matter of the basic question of why an individual succumbs to the desire to create in the first place. Whatever my talent is or can be defined as a poet, it certainly is not as a "purveyor" of self. I am haunted by the question; if one creates for the market place, then do they simply become another "product" for consumption in that market place? I know more about what I am not, than what I am. I am not successful. I am an obscure enigma. I do not write for the intellectual. I write for you. You who know what is like to not understand this modern life. I write for the laborer, the journeyman, the ones who through the sheer effort of daily life support the framework of this culture's humanity. I write out of pure blind desire, fear and addiction to a way of living enforced upon a populous who has so little control of so much to do with the basic dignity of their lives. While I believe in the value of the everyday life and dreams, I do not celebrate or promote the cruel, mundane or banal. I do not have an all inclusive, all purpose, glib sentence to describe my work and its purpose. Any "poetica" or "Musa" I am able to convey is wrenched away under duress from a brutal insane system which has slipped free of any moral or rational moorings. I create from memory, dreams and the vast over-flowing junk yard of images and mutated desires created by Madison Avenue and Hollywood under the watchful eye of Corporate America. It would be disingenuous for me to represent myself as one who doesn't care or want approval and recognition from an audience. I want what any artist wants, but I do demand at the very least some basic degree of honesty from all concerned (including myself) regarding the depth and worth of creativity. A walk through these words will not be a dry one. You will get wet, dirty, warm or cold, you might laugh or cringe, maybe a little eyebrow raising, a shoulder shrugging. But if I remind you of one thing that you know is true, either by blessed or painful experience or you take one of these poems or stories and insist someone else read it, then I've done my job. Always bearing in mind the words of Jerzy Kosinski, "insufficient talent is nature's cruelest gift."













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