AUGUST 2023

 
 

5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

THE ART OF SELLING A HOME: 12 POINTS OF INTEREST

For 10+ weeks this summer I had 1 goal: Sell my house. This goal was accomplished at the last possible moment. I learned many lessons in the process that I will share with you here. Perhaps you can apply portions of what I learned to your next project or other aspects of your life. 

1. VISION + MAGIC
First of all, you have to know what you want. Then, magic happens. Coincidental angels come to assist you. Difficult pieces suddenly fit and unexpected gifts fall into your lap. I could tell you a dozen stories about how various elements came together during this project. Things just kept happening to make it all work out. But before the magic appears, you have to take the first step. 

There is an allegory in a holy book where the people had to cross a deep river in order to reach their dreamland on the other side. And god said, “Step into the water.” So, with shaking knees the priests stepped into the river and suddenly the waters parted. The people walked into the promised land on dry ground. There’s something about taking the first step that signals the unseen forces that you are actually down to make it happen. These forces may simply be your subconscious mind or it may be a collective hive mind. Or it could be a divine source. It doesn’t really matter what you call it. 

2. SEEK COUNCIL + ADAPT IT TO YOUR WAY OF WORKING
After you have a clear vision, then seek counsel from people you trust who have experience. The first godsend was my friend Clarence who got me thinking clearly. I was complaining about taking time away from art to do the house sell project and he said, “Its only for a short amount of time, and it’s an investment you have spent time with for years.” What he said made so much sense. And yet it felt a bit sterile. And so I decided to make the whole project an art form. I decided to imbue the art spirit in each aspect of preparing the house to hit the market. From the color of the exterior paint chosen to the interior staging of each room. And because I approached it as an art project, my will could bend into it. At that point, the vision had the essential ingredient it needed: A Focused Commitment Infused With Desire. 

So, you see, advice helps but you have to put your personal stamp on it so that it moves your soul to act. Otherwise a logical endeavor will feel cold and detached. And, as part of this process, it’s good to know that your ideas are as relevant as those with more experience. In fact, sometimes people with experience fail because their minds are frozen in common laws. So, it’s a challenge to know when to take advice and when to follow your own knowledge and intuition. And you will constantly be asking, “How can I meld this all together in a way that works?” At this point, it's easy to become overwhelmed. But, if you look at it like a puzzle you get to solve, it becomes a lot more fun. And if something fails, oh well. Remember: Regret is a waste of time. Especially when you don’t have a lot of time.

3. CREATE A CLEAR PLAN
After I was committed, I mapped out a 2 page plan with a list of 35-40 tasks that needed to be completed. My friends Gary and Dael who are multi-faceted jacks of all trades agreed to complete the list with me, and so we were all assigned specific tasks. That first week in June, we started in. 

Many times during the prep work, I felt overwhelmed. Things would get foggy and unpredictable. At those times, I would sometimes go back and look at the list late at night and feel OK because there was still a basic plan with a definitive overall goal.  We did, however, have to adapt the plan almost every single day. And that’s what you have to do to make things work. 

4. PIVOT
So many unexpected obstacles appeared. For example, Gary and Dael were not always available. Gary’s mom is off her rocker and Dael’s mom had a rager fit because of an acute pain she was experiencing while in the care home. Then Dael’s van broke down. And beside the mom problems, they both have other jobs. So I had to pivot. I called my nephews. They are 6 foot 6 and 6 foot 7. And these giants came to help paint the chimney and power wash the floor and a bunch of other things. Two giant people on their hands and knees scrubbing the ground for buyers who will never know how hard we all worked to get this home ready for them. But I knew potential buyers would feel the love in the corner where the floor was scrubbed. And the subconscious corner of their mind’s eye would see that there is not one fucking cobweb in any eave. And that’s why they would buy the place at full price. Which they did.

5. TAKE CARE OF THE WORKERS
For many years during various projects I led, the work was more important than the workers. This kind of thinking takes the wind out of everyone’s sails.  At the end of the day, when you take your shower alone and wash off the dirt, it’s the relationships that bring meaning. So, you find little things that people love, and you get those things for them. Gary liked blue gatorade, so it was always in the fridge. Dael liked hugs. I tried to hug Dael everyday before he left. These guys are angels. And they know how to lighten the mood with jokes and strange stories. If it’s always a serious goal, it becomes a real drag and nobody wants to come back to work. You gotta have as much fun as possible in hell. 

And part of what everybody wants is to be heard. To have creative input. People love to come up with new ideas or tried and true ways of doing things to solve problems. When I was a band leader I often made the mistake of stopping a creative groove because what the bandmates were doing fell outside the scope of my vision. I hope I learned my lesson from those band rehearsal days and am now able to let everyones ideas elevate the work. 

6. OPEN + HUMBLE 
One day my mother came to look around and offer her thoughts. Now, I call myself an artist and I feel I have an aesthetic that works for me. But during the staging part of the process I had become blind to the design in the home. My mom offered advice on the placement of a large sectional couch and a large dining room table for staging. I almost resisted her ideas. But luckily we gave them a try and it was the best possible solution for both rooms. It changed the entire look and feel of the home, bringing warmth, cohesion and better spacing. 

Just about everyone who came to work on the project had an idea about how to do various tasks. And it felt good to allow them to share their ideas and see them light up when a new design concept or work solution entered their mind. The spirit of collaboration has the chance of elevating a project because you have more minds at work.

And as I look back now, I realize one of the most enjoyable parts of this project was the people I got to work with. For example, I was able to get to know my nephews better. If you want to connect with someone, work on a project together. Share a common goal. I’ll never forget when my nephew Max figured out how he and his brother Nick could use the shop vacuum to suck up the water when they used the power washer on the cement floor inside the annex studio room. We no longer had to scrub that floor on our hands and knees. We all got excited about that. 

7. HOW TO BE FREE IN HELL
I have to admit, I was a nervous wreck most of the time during this whole process. And that’s because I like order and knowing what will happen. And most of the 10+ weeks felt like bloody chaos and constant pivoting. And at some point I began wondering if I somehow actually liked the challenge of bringing order to the chaos. But it just about broke me several times. And here’s what I would have done differently in order to have more fun.

Organize staging areas and ask all the workers to clean up every day before they leave. Gary did this the first day. But after that it was 8 weeks of shit everywhere until I finally cleaned up the entire place and designated staging areas. That was a massive relief. Not everyone has the same idea of what clean means. And often inexperienced workers do not know how to organize and clean up. You have to show them. And its worth your time and energy to demonstrate how to do this. If you like chaos and drama, don’t worry, there will still be plenty of that everyday as you are trying to figure things out. But at least you won’t spend 10 minutes each day looking for the fucking hammer or nearly face plant into the blade of a randomly placed table saw. 

9. MAINTAIN A LEAST ONE CLEAN, ORGANIZED SPACE
Also, I had to sleep and eat in the home while all this was happening. And at one point I lost my shit because there was not one single place in the house that was not a complete mess. Some people can live this way. I cannot. Eventually I figured out that if I can at least keep the kitchen and a sleeping area clean, they won’t take me to the asylum. So, I did that. And as far as I can tell, sanity remains. 

In a world of chaos, creating a small space where order exists can save your life.

10. SILENT 10
All of these things kept me sane, but barely. I must admit that the one thing I did not master was a relentless anxiety that seemed to always be riding below the surface. It nested in my chest. I could feel it like a giant squid wrapping itself around my heart. And during this project I never did consistently figure out how to release that tension. Part of me believes it was needed to drive the project forward. And for that I am thankful. The property closed on a Friday and I had to be at work 500 miles away the following Monday. Somehow it all worked out. But if I ever commit my will to a project like this again, I want to be sure to figure out how to stay calm internally despite looming deadlines and perpetual uncertainty. Again, I humbly admit, I did not quite get that one completely figured out. However, I did do a few things that allowed me to feel more comfortable in the process. And I think these are worth sharing. 

In addition to becoming more organized and creating clean spaces, I spent time with friends and family and rode my bike beside the river every night. That brought balance. Fun is often underrated.

Another thing I did was develop a new strategy for beginning the day. I called it “Silent 10.” What I did was write out a general idea about what I wanted to focus on. In this case the first one was usually “Sell the home.” I would then set the timer for 10 minutes. During this timed “meditation” session I would allow the idea to marinate. And as I pondered specific tasks for the day, solutions would emerge from the silence. It felt like a graceful way to problem solve. I think this time of quiet reflection allowed us all to save a lot of time and energy.  

11. LET GO OF SHIT YOU DON’T NEED
I must have taken 10-15 large boxes of stuff to the curb to give to whomever wanted it in the neighborhood—from fairly decent kitchenware to finely crafted furniture. Human vultures and opportunists descended on the curb stack and cleared the pile everyday. It was amusing to participate in the experiment. Some of the items had an emotional pull and were difficult to release. But I doubt I will miss a single thing. In fact, when I finally did have the house completely clean and ready to show, it was in a state of minimalist design. And it felt freeing. It informed me about how I really want to live in my new home.

12. GIVE THANKS
One task that was a massive undertaking was moving a 30 foot vintage aluminum trailer that had the tongue facing the house. Before hauling the trailer away, we had to get it out of the side yard. I needed a specialized dolly to move the RV. It was amazing that I finally found a person with one of these specialized dollies who actually let me rent it from him. Once Gary, my dear friend Andrew and I were able to get the beast to the street, it was ready for pick up. A couple days later my generous older brother Ron brought his friend with a massive Ford F250 to tug it to a temporary landing place. I will never forget seeing that massive silver beast being pulled away and feeling so thankful to everyone who made it happen. When people do kind things for you like that, you never forget.

The day before I left, my 17 year old nephew and I loaded up my truck. Then I had to unload and repack it with my 84 year old mom helping out. Jeez. I know. And as I headed south on California 99 on Saturday morning I felt an enormous sense of relief and gratitude. I began going through a list of all the people that helped me. And I said their names out loud and thanked them all as hit the 99 out of tow. From workers to real estate agents to friends that offered good advice and friendship and I gave thanks to the trees and rivers that brought me back to life so many times during this summer art project. The gratitude list was longer than I expected. And this accounting of contributors allowed me to realize that there are so many things in life that we cannot do alone. We all need help along the way. And it’s usually more fun to work together anyway. 

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2022-23 Archives Below

 
 
 

July 2023

 
 

5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where monthly rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

JD vs. ChatGPT (6 prompts)

The following is a thought experiment using 6 writing prompts generated by the artist with with the intent of exploring human and AI processing. It immediately became clear that the nature of the response was based on the quality of the prompt. So, prompts were amended for ChatGPT (An artificial intelligence processor) in order to create a response that was either in keeping with JD’s response or in an attempt to generate a more interesting or more pleasing style. Moving further into the experiment, the first thought was that ChatGPT is essentially a collective human response, based on all information that his been uploaded to the web. After further consideration it seemed that AI was also going beyond human intervention. It feels as though we are entering a phase of what quantum theorists and artists have considered for some time, “The true nature of reality is up for grabs.” The fabric of our identity as a species in society is at the beginning stages of another major shift. For example, educators are now grading papers written by students who are using AI. While there are ways to track plagiarism with other AI bots, sooner or later the entire system of education will be forced to adapt to a new way of processing information. In some ways it feels as if all the years of work developing critical thinking skills, non-critical presence practices, and a writing and art repertoire is suddenly being washed downstream. Listen to the song, “Everything Is Free Now” by Gillian Welch. The flavor of that song seems to encapsulate an essence of the current shift in human evolution.

ChatGPT seems to tend toward certain trends in writing. But that may also be due to the nature of the artist’s prompts. If you have thoughts or ideas about this experiment, please share. Questions are also welcome.

1. Prompt for JD: “The Nature of Forgiveness”

JD’s response: 

The nature of forgiveness is the nature of the forgiver. The totality of the capacity of that person to employ wisdom, discretion, fortitude and indifference in the act of pardon.

It is foolish to hold onto old wounds once we have learned from them. And it is insane to remain in a situation where forgiveness must occur for the same offense, repeatedly. And, of course, it is rather easy to let love win once or twice; it is quite another thing to continue to pardon day after day until the wound is healed by sheer desire and the resilience of grace. In other words, employing the will to forgive within oneself, until there is no need to forgive again. 

Finally, there is a necessary detachment that eases the forgiver in the path of letting go. It is the ability—a learned tool—of stepping outside oneself to become the observer of the action. It is important to consider that this is a learned skill and is not to be confused with avoidance.

At some point in our lives we are given the opportunity to forgive. To let go of our idea of being the oppressed and to step into a new way of knowing, whereby all relations are imbued with kindness. This kindness is enhanced by building a complete awareness of ones own well being and the well being of another. 

1. Prompt for Chat GPT3.5: “Use your creativity to write an essay on the nature of forgiveness’

Chat GPT3.5's Response:

Title: The Transformative Power of Forgiveness

Introduction:

In the tapestry of human relationships, conflicts and transgressions often leave scars, sowing seeds of resentment and bitterness. Yet, amidst the complex web of emotions, forgiveness emerges as a beacon of hope, illuminating the path to healing, reconciliation, and personal growth. The nature of forgiveness is both profound and intricate, embodying a remarkable capacity to transcend pain, liberate the spirit, and foster empathy. As we embark on this exploration, let us delve into the depths of forgiveness and unlock its transformative power.

Body:

  • The Essence of Forgiveness:

  • At its core, forgiveness is a conscious act of releasing resentment, anger, and the desire for revenge towards someone who has caused harm. It is an inherent human quality that transcends the boundaries of culture, religion, and time. By embracing forgiveness, individuals free themselves from the emotional burden that weighs them down, offering solace to their wounded souls. Forgiveness is not an act of weakness but a testament to inner strength and resilience, as it requires the courage to confront pain, let go, and choose compassion over bitterness.

  • The Healing Journey:

  • Forgiveness is a transformative journey, both for the forgiver and the forgiven. It holds the power to mend fractured relationships, rekindle trust, and foster emotional well-being. When one extends forgiveness, it opens the door to genuine reconciliation, creating space for dialogue and understanding. By acknowledging the shared humanity in all individuals, forgiveness promotes empathy and compassion, knitting the fragmented threads of society back together.

  • Self-Liberation:

  • In forgiving others, individuals embark on a voyage of self-discovery and liberation. Forgiveness allows them to break free from the chains of victimhood, reclaim their personal power, and redefine their narrative. By relinquishing resentment, they rid themselves of the emotional shackles that hold them captive, enabling them to transcend the past and embrace a future unburdened by grudges. In forgiving, one learns to let go of the past, embracing the present with a renewed sense of joy, peace, and possibility.

  • The Complexity of Forgiveness:

  • Forgiveness, however, is not a simplistic or linear process. It does not condone or erase the wrongdoing, nor does it require the immediate restoration of trust. Instead, it acknowledges the pain, seeks understanding, and paves the way for healing. It necessitates reflection, introspection, and the willingness to confront uncomfortable emotions. Forgiveness is a journey that unfolds at its own pace, varying from person to person and situation to situation. It requires profound inner work, often entailing empathy, acceptance, and a deep understanding of human fallibility.

  • The Ripple Effect:

  • Forgiveness possesses the extraordinary capacity to extend beyond the individual, reverberating through families, communities, and even societies. The act of forgiveness inspires others, igniting a ripple effect that has the potential to transform collective consciousness. When forgiveness becomes a cultural norm, it engenders an atmosphere of compassion, understanding, and harmony, allowing communities to heal and thrive.

Conclusion:

In the tapestry of life, forgiveness stands as a testament to our shared humanity and the indomitable spirit of resilience. It carries the power to heal wounds, restore relationships, and elevate the human experience. By embracing forgiveness, we unlock our own capacity for growth, liberation, and empathy, transcending the pain that binds us. Let us strive to cultivate forgiveness within ourselves and extend it to others, for in doing so, we shape a future woven with compassion, reconciliation, and collective healing.

2. Prompt for JD: “The Pain and Pleasure of Transcendence.”

JD’s response:

It takes years to realize you are already there. The pain of transcendence is in the assumption that being the greatest will heal all suffering.

The question becomes: “Why strive?”

If the suffering is always present, why not end it all now? Why do we keep going? What is driving us to become something else?

Some of the most clear headed moments seem to occur as a by-product of a paradoxical loose grip on a faithful intent. 

And here we are.

And there are countless books and systems and teachers who will show you the door over the plodding decades of your life. 

And after all that glorious discipline and failure, one day you will walk right into that other room and it will smell familiar. It will feel that you have been here already—many years ago as a child, before you could speak—staring up into the bluest sky. 

2. Prompt for ChatGPT3.5: “Write a short, creative essay on the pain and pleasure of transcendence.”

ChatGPT’s response:

Transcendence: The Pain and Pleasure of Liberation

There exists a profound and paradoxical duality within the realm of transcendence—a delicate interplay between pain and pleasure, liberation and confinement. It is a journey of profound significance, leading one beyond the boundaries of the ordinary and into the vast expanses of the extraordinary.

At first glance, the pursuit of transcendence may appear as a serene ascent to elevated states of being, promising liberation from the shackles of the mundane. Yet, upon closer inspection, one discovers that the path to transcendence is not without its share of hardships.

The pain of transcendence is rooted in the arduous process of shedding familiar skins—the layers of conditioning, beliefs, and attachments that confine us to the limited realm of the known. It demands that we confront our deepest fears, question our cherished certainties, and venture into uncharted territories of the self. Like a metamorphosing caterpillar, we must surrender to the discomfort of transformation, allowing the familiar to dissolve in order to make way for the extraordinary.

As the cocoon of familiarity unravels, the pain of separation becomes palpable. We may find ourselves drifting away from the comforting embrace of societal norms and expectations, alienating those who once shared our journey. The road to transcendence can be lonely and isolating, as we transcend the limitations of our previous selves and seek connection with like-minded souls who share our aspirations for growth and expansion.

And yet, amidst the pain, there is an undercurrent of pleasure—a joyous anticipation of the liberation that lies ahead. As we shed the weight of the known, a newfound lightness fills our being, and we catch glimpses of the boundless potentials awaiting our exploration. The pain begins to dissolve into a profound sense of freedom—an exhilarating dance with the infinite.

In moments of transcendence, we witness the beauty of existence with heightened clarity. The mundane becomes extraordinary, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. We drink from the wellspring of inspiration, and our senses are awakened to the subtle nuances of life's symphony. Every breath carries the fragrance of possibility, and every step is a dance of liberation.

But even within this ecstasy, there lies a curious pain—a pain of expansion. As our consciousness expands, so does our awareness of the vastness that lies beyond. We realize that transcendence is an infinite journey, a ceaseless quest for new horizons, forever eluding our grasp. We become acutely aware of the limitations of our finite existence, forever yearning for greater understanding and deeper connection.

The pain and pleasure of transcendence are intertwined, two sides of the same coin. To seek the extraordinary is to accept the challenge of confronting our limitations and embracing the discomfort of growth. It is to recognize that liberation and confinement coexist, that pain and pleasure dance in an eternal tango.

And so, we embark on this journey, willingly surrendering to the pain and pleasure that accompany transcendence. For it is through this paradoxical interplay that we discover the true essence of our being—a boundless spirit capable of soaring to heights unimaginable. In the pain, we find strength. In the pleasure, we find meaning. And in the transcendence of self, we find our place in the cosmic tapestry of existence.

3. Prompt for JD: “Why it hurts to evolve and stay the same.”

JD’s response:

Cocoon

3. Prompt for ChatGPT4: “Write a one word answer for the statement “Why it hurts to evolve and stay the same.”’

ChatGPT4’s response:

Growth. 

4. Prompt for JD: “Points of contact in the battle to avoid intimacy.”

JD’s response:

If you had been walking in Central Park late at night and were suddenly stabbed in the back of the head and lost the most precious part of your memory—say, the way your mother used to push the hair back gently behind your tender ear as a child and you could no longer recall that moment but were left with a vague sadness and a scar—would you not avoid parks at night? Parks in Madison Wisconsin and Chico California. Even parks out on the gentle slopes of County Cork. 

“Why won’t Joan ever picnic with us?” your friends wonder. “She shows up for bowling and comes to the book club on Wednesdays.” They don’t understand and you can’t explain it to them because you don’t know yourself. But every time they invite you to a sunset picnic in the park, you sprain your ankle or get food poisoning or you might have a distant relative suddenly come through town. 

There is a place in you that has guard dogs beyond repair. It’s a shadow cavity. And without light there, in the darkest corner of that room sits a child. The child does not know its name and so rubs that spot on its head wherein lies the wound who knows better. 

And because it knows better, it keeps bringing you back to this point of contact that will allow you to feel loved again. And it will do this thousands of times before you die. 

4. Prompt for ChatGPT4: “Write a 4 paragraph essay as Joan Didion titled, “Points of contact in the battle to avoid intimacy.”’

The struggle to evade intimacy, as much as it is a voyage of self-insulation, also represents a profoundly human form of confrontation. It is a battle that does not brandish the traditional weapons of war, but is fought in the corners of dinner table conversations and silent moments on long car rides. It is fought in points of contact; in the thin veneer of communication that underlines our need for belonging, and yet, makes us squirm in discomfort. The effort to keep someone at an arm's length while not severing the ties of human connection is an art, and in this canvas of artistry, one may find a mirroring of their fears, their insecurities, their desires.

It is the fight that we wage within ourselves, first and foremost. We project the world in the likeness of our psyche, and thus, any battle against intimacy is rooted within us. If the world seems too intrusive, we must question whether it is the world that invades us, or we, who fear to step outside of our fortresses. Thus, the struggle against intimacy becomes a reflection of our own internal conflicts. Our points of contact with the outside world become our points of friction, yet also points of potential growth. They map the landscape of our internal turmoil, forming a topography of our fears and our deep-seated need for self-preservation.

We devise strategies to maintain the fortress; we perform, we conceal, and we masquerade. The quiet "I'm fine" when we are not, the rehearsed smiles, and the orchestrated small talks – all contrivances of a person in constant conflict with intimacy. Yet, paradoxically, it is through these points of contact that we make our most human connections. Each conversation is a possibility, an opportunity for us to either expand our horizons or to further retreat into our self-made fortresses.

Hence, it is essential to embrace these points of contact, not as battlefronts, but as gateways to self-discovery and human connection. The act of distancing ourselves is not just an avoidance of others, but a circumvention of our own selves. By understanding our fears and learning to address them, we can make peace with intimacy and perhaps, even find comfort in it. After all, intimacy, like every other human experience, is not a battle to be won or lost, but a journey to be undertaken. It is through this journey that we ultimately find our points of contact, not just with the world, but with our own selves.

5. Prompt for JD: “Why is it always so beautiful over there.”

JD’s response:

When she designed her home, she also designed the landscape. She was a landscape Archetict. So, in order to live up to her vocation, she created an elaborate scheme that included such things as an elevated cistern that fed a pool of coi and had lounge chairs built into the earth that cantilevered out over a lake of fire which all of her neighbors appreciated more than she. 

From high above the fire, on starless nights she would peer over at Horuko Mirakami’s dwelling, which was established without a blade of grass or an ounce of water. Haruko simply had a zen sand garden surrounding her home, bordered by a 4 inch curb of concrete. 

The landscape architect would watch Haruko comb the sand on quiet mornings just before sunrise. And the architect would imagine that after the raking, her neighbor would retreat into her simple abode for tea, and perhaps a moment of quiet contemplation. 

They lived in front of one another for 10 years but seldom spoke. When they did speak, neither of them mentioned the landscape. They both seemed to avoid the subject at all cost. 

5. Prompt for ChatGPT4 “Write a short 4 paragraph story by Virginia Woolf and Haruki Murakami titled, ‘“Why Is It Always So Beautiful Over There?”’

She had only to close her eyes and listen. The familiar rhythmic thrum of the vinyl spinning on the record player, coupled with the delicate pattering of rain against the window, washed over her in soothing waves. Lottie, seated comfortably in the warmth of her modest London apartment, didn't need to see the world outside to know that it was grey and gloomy. "Why is it always so beautiful over there?" she mused aloud, peering at the postcard of Japan she held, showing the vibrant pink cherry blossoms in full bloom.

Meanwhile, halfway across the globe, a man named Takashi gazed out his small window in Tokyo, staring at the cherry blossom tree in his garden, the pale petals fluttering down in the soft breeze. But the beauty of the season felt melancholic, just a brief interlude before the inevitable decay. He picked up a worn-out copy of Mrs. Dalloway, which he had found in a second-hand bookstore. "Why is it always so beautiful over there?" he whispered, flipping to a dog-eared page describing a sunny day in London.

Time and space stretched out between Lottie and Takashi, a fabric of unmet possibilities. As she slid the postcard back between the pages of her Murakami novel, Lottie could almost smell the sakura flowers, feel the tranquillity that the eastern philosophy inspired. Likewise, immersed in the intricacies of Woolf's prose, Takashi imagined the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot, the infectious laughter and energy of a bustling English pub.

"Why is it always so beautiful over there?" It was a longing for the unfamiliar, a yearning for what's beyond reach. The allure of the unknown masked the charm of the known. They didn't realize that the beauty they sought was not in the places they longed for, but in the way those places lived within them, shaped their thoughts, inspired dreams, and colored their solitude. As the rain on the window pane slowed, Lottie turned up the record player. As the petals fell, Takashi turned a page.

6. Prompt for JD: “The art and science of knowing the essential truth in every encounter—within oneself and therefore with others.

JD’s Response:

The answer is rhetorical, based on one’s definition of truth.

Novak Djokovic knows how to channel his mind and work the court while maintaining complete composure better than any tennis player. He looks for the weaknesses in his own game when his coaches and other members of his team see no weakness. And he uses this method of critical analysis to break down the opposition. He is a master at making his opponent uncomfortable. We assume that truth, in this regard, is conquering. 

But what about Leo Tolstoy? He asked us, “How much land does a man need?”

And where does Virginia Woolf fit into this idea of truth? She walked into the river with rocks in her pockets. She might wonder if Oprah Winfrey has rocks in her head. 

These are big names that have nothing to do with your neighbor who helps you mend the fence because you may have no skill set in household repair. He’s a kind person. Your neighbor. Perhaps he’s having an affair with his step-daughter and does not dare believe in an afterlife. At least not one that carries retribution. The two of you know how to toe the line in your own way. And how about you? How do you know if your fantasies are true?

Lest your wealth of mind or wealth of spirit become the lie, lie low in honor of the spinning web of self-mastery, because the gods have many names. 

6. Prompt for ChatGPT4: “The art and science of knowing the essential truth in every encounter—within oneself and therefore with others.”

Your statement appears to touch on several concepts related to philosophy, psychology, and interpersonal communication. Here's a broader interpretation:

  • Art: This term suggests a level of creativity, intuition, and personal expression. In the context of your statement, it might refer to the ability to empathetically interpret and understand subjective experiences, or to communicate and interact with others in a nuanced, emotionally intelligent way. Art is also often associated with the cultivation of beauty, harmony, and balance, which could relate to maintaining these qualities in one's internal state and interactions with others.

  • Science: This refers to systematic knowledge obtained through observation, experimentation, and reasoning. In the context of your statement, it could involve the empirical study of oneself and others, potentially through psychological theories or neuroscience. This could encompass understanding how the mind works, how emotions are processed, or how beliefs and behaviors are formed and can be changed.

  • Knowing the essential truth: This could refer to understanding core realities or truths about oneself and others. It suggests a level of deep insight or wisdom that goes beyond superficial appearances or assumptions. In a personal context, this might involve self-awareness or self-understanding. In an interpersonal context, it might involve understanding others' motivations, emotions, or perspectives.

  • In every encounter: This suggests applying this knowledge in real time, in every interaction or experience. This could involve active listening, empathetic understanding, mindfulness, or presence. It might also involve taking each encounter as an opportunity for learning, growth, or connection.

  • Within oneself and therefore with others: This suggests that self-knowledge and self-understanding are the foundation for understanding and connecting with others. It reflects the idea that we can only truly understand and empathize with others to the extent that we understand and accept ourselves.

Putting it all together, your statement seems to reflect a holistic, integrated approach to self-understanding and interpersonal communication that combines both intuitive and empirical methods. This aligns with many concepts in philosophy, psychology, and spirituality, which emphasize the importance of self-knowledge, empathy, mindfulness, and emotional intelligence in understanding and interacting with others.

If 5Doors enriches your life in some way, please consider supporting it with a donation. Thank you kindly for your patronage, which allows us to continue sharing this work with you.

2022-23 Archives Below

 
 
 

June 2023

 
 

5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where monthly rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

COELACANTH
by JD RUDOMETKIN

Ch. 1 CAPTAIN BOSCH and THE VESSEL with WOMEN STARVING AT SEA 

Captain Bosch stands on the upper deck of the seavessel, where dangled port and starboard are unmanned submersibles, inhabited by the anamorphic vapor women who perform deckhand and  conjugal chores—on their own time—when and where they appear: Connie. Cideer. Ambileen. Each gaunt in her own way. They are hungry in the morning through the fog where they spin webs for Skinny Captain Bosch, preying the polar bear meat will once more swarm into these woven nets. 

Since the great melt-down, their primary appetite wanders: “Are There No Fish in This Black Sea?” “There Are,” He says… though not a scale has been sighted. And so the hunger persists. They question him in oblique glances and twitching ribs, but no body among the women disagree straight away. They disappear, yes, but they do not disagree—as more than he, they feel a mother load below the seavessel, biomorphing as the vessel is, is the vessel, with its tentacles askew. 

But still, it's hard to feel Coelacanth or Flounder as often as they feel the hunger pang. Their bodies ever slowing into holy ghosts. The Captain sees this. He sees starvation and the soft tissue’s need. The words becoming flesh to dwell among us. 

And so, Captain Bosh scales the mast on frayed rope toward the crow’s nest, his bones jetting in and out of flesh at oblique points above the face of the waters, void and formless.  And Cideer sees that bone tremor. She sees his certainty.  And feels his body—and she giggles with the butterflies that Ambileen don’t need. Ambileen’s got her stuffed woodpeckers and thumb tacked posters of other women pushed into her Submarine-walls that Connie would never choose to meet. Connie doesn’t often meet things rather squarely, Even now, far above the vessel deck she helps the captain place his foot into the rope just below the crows nest 550 feet above the water where she hovers there with him—as he would have fallen, broken rope and hung himself in the clouds above this rather grey Black Sea. Her anorexic wings. She disappears behind a waving ship tentacle, the favor easily unknown to him. But that boney part of Captain Bosch at which Cideer peeks, seems to understand he has been aided in ways he did not, at this time, see. 

And thus he rises safely above the seavessel, as is his practice every dawn. And looking out there, far above the Sea of Glass, he communes with that great fish below the vessel, down there in the thicker water, blue and black.

Ch. 2 POLAR BEAR HAUNCH OR THIGH AND THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN CIDEER AND AMBILEEN 

The tentacles weave, they tremor above the vessel, three or four upon the upper deck, four or three, morphing as the keel has many more—or less—to steady her below the women’s mother ship. Tentacles that act as sails as if there were some place to get to. But there is no wheel as far as Captain Bosch can tell. The underbelly belches in the colder morning. And It is warm down there inside the hull where Captain Bosch can feel the heat rise into his trousers through the fog. The women are stirring in the mist at dawn, their ribbed chests a masterpiece articulated. Bellies full of brine from diving toward a Carp or Albacore. But these are only things they call the fish they cannot see. Hook-bait hardcore tunakitsch. The women are hungry now. Bulimia is a thing of the past. And still the loin aches: 

The Jack Tuna Jane in Ambileen’s mind, and also on the poster in her jade submersible of the dancer she once came inside a hundred years ago in Old Detroit. Fuck Women, she thinks, but not these skinny bitches. For Ambileen is beginning to put on wait. W.A.I.T. “Black Ambileen Don’t Do No Bullship Dreamin Captain Bosch,” she thinks. But she still knows where she gets her meat and how he wants his women lean, and so she junks her trunk in ounces day to day and insinuates a plump ideal for him in undertones round his dinner table where they sometimes share a polar bear haunch or thigh that has drifted in. She’s gaining wait patiently and the cushioned ounce by ounce the Captain pounds inside his MirrorCabin is gaining on him now without thoughtful permission. 

Cideer on the other hand is even thinner, if conceivable, as if a paper clip were she, with candle wax as flesh. Not a hair anywhere on her concave and stalactitic legs that go and go. The Captain could stare at her for hours while she sucks a lemon wedge for breakfast, noon and night. The ideal golden calf he bruised his knees at.  But it's getting less a comfort there inside of her since Ambileen planted her tawny seed. 

Ch. 3. CAPTAIN BOSCH’S QUARTER ROBOT HEART vs. THE WAY THAT CONNIE CATCHES FISH 

Connie doesn’t hoe a roe. She has plans all her own, tangentially aligned with the Bosch, or more or less, as he would tend to think. She doesn’t exactly think as he believes he thinks:

“If there are fish in these black waters, then there are cities that survived the meltdown, then there are ones and zeros in machines then there are weblike nets and evolution, and…”  

…all the while in the flesh a quarter robot heart is thrashing now inside his treasure chest, as always resting near his person. But Connie does not tease a salmon out that way. In waitless scales and caudal fin, in gills and with considerable ovary—by and by comparison—she enters not now anatomically does she. Connie with the silverbright or chum or keta, as the vessel or whatever, even without whatever and. And even

she gets hungry too. 

Ch. 4 HE CANNOT LIVE ON FLESH ON FLESH ALONE

The Captain is going lean:

pant: 31 X 36
shirt: 13 X 38
jacket: 28 Double Long
shoe: 14 narrow
hat: XXXL

Get a look at him in the MirrorCabin Captain Bosch spindled arm and leg extensions from a ||midgitcage|| of ribs. See him paint chimera into the looking glass and polydactyl when he fidgets—which in his witted carpels often cracking knuckles there he does. Tortiseshelled, a bit jaundiced and brownishyellow with his hermapherditic appeal to Ambileen in the mirror with him here, more and more, where she licks the platter clean. Sets his seamen out to see. 

But he’s losing wait. He’s thinning. 

And as beautiful as it is to waste away forever, man cannot live by a reflective tense alone. This Ambileen knows. She watches the belt wrap tighter round his waist now each new moon as Cideer becomes bone and offers up a rib to unknown gods to give some clay a breather crying “GOD O God I Do Love To Double Down on My Captain Out of Flesh.” Cideer understands that there is not much more to life than an infinite aesthetic. She and the Captain have become near holy ghosts. 

But half a quarter robot/Heart pulses there below the chest. Needles his olfactory nerve and so ensues the rumbling gut. “My Meat. The Hook. The Sirens, They Still Sing. And the polar meat drifts into spidernets now, less and less,” Thinks he. For even Connie saws and chews a polar nail—if not nervously—then certainly for a bit of forgotten marrow there, or a piece of lost seal meat.

Ch. 5 AMBILEEN SENDS FORESHADOWED MESSAGES INTO A THOUSAND MIRRORS 

Where have you gone bare flesh? Ambileen causes her hunger to uncurl into gurgles while the Captain takes his lumps. Burps in his ear, there in the MirrorCabin, she gently lets him know mid-air as he floats her there; a thigh round his girlish waist. She dreams up Detroit inside of her with his mechanism pushing the envelope, expressly. “Get IT boy. Get Some of That Fucking (Sea) Meat.” He sees, yes hears her coming and going. But he fills something else. “She’s Saying Some Thing Else To Me. Ambileen? (You Are Hungry).” But Ambileen has disappeared into the many thousand mirrors. She reappears, thicker with rotund bosom hovering over him with the fag in a corner of his mouth. And smoke screens. Smoke signals. Smoking rings. She’s bent her upper lip into this kind of undecipherable. Affirming back his interrogative so only the bones of him would know: the large brow left seemingly unaffected. A breath of hot air. An aire of hot breath. Then: Call The Sireens to The Upper Deck, is all he says.

Ch. 6 THE NEXT TO LAST LAST SUPPER

Cideer with a dozen studs round her navel and the black ink duende of some hindu dancer with a skull atop her ribs—she, oh she is so white is seers the retina and the jetblack round her eye, eyes she the Captain at this diasporic town hall. And Connie floats there ‘tween the tentacles, twixt, listening in, on, to, what rumbles in the Captains gut: 

Nec audiendi qui solent dicere, Vox populi, vox Dei, quum tumul tuo sitas vulgi semper insaniae proxima sit.*

But hunger is exactly what Captain Bosch wants. He unfolds a silver piece of tin foil. Three dark mints are seen. Where have these been? Three dark beans? And Are They Sweet? Ambileen sits upon the rigging near the harpoon listening to what will come of this confection: “What Does The Man Think He’s Saying?” Says he:

“Who attends?”

Ambileen?…….Co….? Connie (They see her but she don’t like to speak). Cideer? ..wheezing yes.

And Me. Yes. And yes there You Meat is What Seems Fed Ye Yes. Yes. Boar down Fish in Beelly Yeah. Uh-huh. Cooked too and Spiced Meat, There is there. Hmmmm. Ahh in below the Voayaje This Weee Seek. Hookit then Dive for under here in More Find Fill You meet. Is It Alone Fed Full then Yes? Yes. Go How.”  

It could be a trick question but Ambileen says it anyhow, “Yes.”

And the blackest spotted gull there just flew above the nest of crows. Floats on dead air round the upper tentacle where Connie coaxes it with her final dark bean the Captain gave. It rests at the crows edge spotted black all but its beak and takes the gem, and Connie takes its life. Into her smoothest strangulation brings the bird down to the upper deck.

* And those people should not be listened to who keep saying the voice of the people is the voice of God, since the riotousness of the crowd is always very close to madness.

Ch. 7 THE BLACKEST SEA—A HISTORY OF NATIONS— SPEAKS

[The black sea is a spleen]. Who threw the slaves bodies in the blender from before The Code of Hammurabi? The Akkadian, Assyrian, the so-called Ancient Egyptian Roman Indian, the United States of America. All the skin tones blend in 71 percent water.  The rest is:

  • Flesh and bones crushed into it. Stewed over centuries, thicker than nepotism. Oh but it is smoother than the price of gasoline. It’s an espresso stew.

  • Jawbones of asses and bi-cuspids. Ground down into motoroil. Holy molasses crapman.  

  • The Blended Spleen once viewed as the seat of emotion,  and all it does to refrain foreign affairs.

  • One part Sterility

  • A clear conscience

The Black Sea is a Spleen. And The Blackest Sea believes the

vessel is a migrant tentacle. “Maybe Not One of Us,” so says the Sea, with soft tissue and sclera too—chew-chewed up, and settling. Thick and greasy. Thicker than…..Well: “This Floating Dis-ease is a Parasite,” so rumbles The Blackest Sea, as ash as a Vietnam memorial. 

The vessel wades out into the goo. Hungry its ambivalence. “Could anything be living below the Vessel in this uncouth a texture?”

But who asks that? Call the captain. Tell the president. “Who the fuck asks that kind of thing? Who is not slaveworthy. Who can resist the urge to become a good slave. Hmm? Who asks the questions around here anyway?”

The vessel pushed through. Pushes through—its tentacles weaving and breaking wind. All the slaves of all the greatnationzzz piled high in the oscillator. Blended and moaning all night into the creamydawn. A Guernica emulsified. You could hear them groan if you knew the sound. After you got grind-chopuree-liquefied. mixminced. Cream-shreded. Beatme up a grate-whiped Ice Crush so the Empires drink on BlackSlave Seablood. The meek inheriting the dearth. No earth insight. Its gone out here in the mist. Kiss it goodbye: grind, chop, puree, liquefy. 

Motherfuckers May They Come Back as Shiteating Flies. Then the plank falls out of the Black Sea’s eye. So

She lets the vessel lie.

Ch. 8 SCIENCE, LOVE’S LOGIC AND THE CAPTAIN’S DECISION

poon–noun
1. any of several East Indian trees of the genus Calophyllum, that yield a light, hard wood used for masts, 
spars, etc.

2. the wood of these trees.

poon 2  (pun) 

slang  ( Austral ) a stupid or ineffectual person

Connie has not been properly lain in 2 to 3 months, slipping behind tentacles and engaging the bow. Her starboard incantations felt as mating sonar love calls into the Blended Sea and to the spotted gulls above. Shes going where no man has gone. But its lonely down in hell while you’re in the flesh. So she undresses and meets A Captain Bosch in his quieting dawn up, up the poonwood mast inside the nest of crows. She plays the harpoon for him while he inside his eyelids sees obtuse skeletons of pre-historic fish play with her and swim beside him. She conjures Arowana for good luck, and the Frilled Shark she calls up Arapaima to take its breath and Bosch feels the Aligator Gar appear inside his wisdom teeth. 

There is only scientific reductionism for a harp that calls forth sustenance. But men die for lack of poetry everyday as laboratory rats. The experiments they prove until the Lazarus Taxon floats into the lagoon and all the poonwhite mice re-write the white guidelines. 

So Connie conjures Colacanth from darker waters despite its sour taste, and fucks the Captain full of light until his 8 inch hook asks: “Wrap Your Spirit Leg Around My Skinless Bones” and enters he then, in and thinks he: 

“Burr Ye Down Forth Came From. Chutter Connie Out Twas Ferreted oh Her. God Up Chockez Me Ah In. Meat As They Calleth Not By Name. Push. Push. Shush ahhh. Down Ye, Fold and Strike for Feed. 

             open                             Wide.”

And then it comes to him. And now he knows that it is Ambileen who must dive the Colacanth for them, way down below. 

Ch. 9 AMBILEEN WALKS THE PLANK

He put her out to the plank’s far end where Connie bleating, moans as if in prayer. As if they all believed the same damn thing. And it may be so, in the place where their emptying guts do rumble—do they do. The rumble is as identical as it feels: quintepletic.  Octopulation’s mimic. Twinlike. But as Bosch says, 

| “Step” | in Ambileen’s direction, there are tears, even in Cideer’s pretty eye. She cannot doubt her Beloved Jawbone Bosch but she feels for the woman who must go below. And the desire to eat bread alone is culpable. It takes the responsibility seriously. 

At the end of the plank, the water non-water, the goo black sea, thicker than a vat of Armageddonsludge eases itself a jelloish burl forty feet below the starboard side. It seems impermeable to the naked eye. The eye striptease that Ambileen now dreams:

Detroit in the summer with it buildings going and going, and all falling down. Its impotent waste of warehouse space with pole after pole from floor to ceiling. “Someone Should Turn Them Into A Strip Club Dazzling,” she thinks, and maybe one day if she ever comes back around again she’d like to live in a suburban lake near Macomb County in her submersible in some quiet park in the palace called Detroit with the woman now pinned up in her underwater room. She remembers better days when the robots used to run things and the sun was not so far away. Back when her mother the oyster shell, as she called the container of her birth, gurgled in the unified field. “Now we are nearly back at Genesis,” she thinks—void and formless. And hungry. “Now the hunger has become this swan dive I Must Dive Alone Into My Beautiful Black Sea.” She dreams unknowingly as if some Ninevah with Dagon, the mermaid mangod were her only hope. And she feels Connie draw close behind a breezy tentacle, the wind gently blowing her hair. From out of nowhere the wind has come back around today.  

Ambileen turns to squarely face the captain as the omen blows its kisses. The boat shocks and plods through the mystic, while its belly burns while the tentacles dangle sheepishly with the keel. And now perhaps she slips and falls. Yes. Ambileen has gone out of sight, save for what the heady captain sees—550 feet above the rest. 

Ch. 10 AMBILEEN DESCENDS INTO THE BLACKEST SEA

Oh Lord my funkaholy ghost whispers. A low flying warcraft. Something of mother Gurgling fishlike, Wanting—Not Not—wanting to sail out of that le glue. She hears getdown Thunder.

Ambileen falling toward the Sea Black Sea of Slaves, not unlike anyone could. Waitless now she sinking through this aire, above the crow black sludge, and falling below where the black crows nest—the captain’s spine cracks—And there’s the thunder again. She sinks. 100 feet below. And down past 300. She’s feeling goblins now and ancestors floating by, at 7 to 9 leagues. She Sinks. They come up as close as forgotten dreams, so she opens her eyes and looks back into her head. And here you have it:

She was shaking like a little child. And that baby curls into she, the older woman at the well begging for an eternal spritzer from some handsome Hebrew. How now, she’s fallen into that dark well herself and some kind of Ambileen is lying there beside that bodhi tree, her petals full of honeydew—but the boy sitting there with the loti is on some other trip that melts her into a Persian sandstorm. And in this newer dunetown, she’s got her whole body covered up in burka-black with just her black eye eye-fucking who and whomever will not bend the knee. 

She sinks she:

Sinks.

Sink

Ambileen is inside Coelacanth, The mother bear, and she’s eating it alive. How was she so swallowed up untouched inside the dream? Not even Connie knows. And now, with this homo sapienlike thing in its gut eating it alive, Coelacanth dives deeper toward a center of the stew, Ambileen chewing on brine-rib and pickled liver. Her fat ass growing by leapin’bounds. She going blind to the mundane tricks of what were those,           tentacles? 

Ambileen will never consider polar bear meat ever again. She’s left the building. “Let someone else build it, I was put here to eat.” And she gnaws on, and disappears into the darkest hour. 

There’s a step one takes so far into the recess of recesses that  that rumbles of the future appear in the decades long long gone. And then you’ve done what you came to do. You gave every last drop of what you had left. She left no trace of her. And that kind of doing never comes undone. They shall forget your name but they will feel the thunder.

Ch. 11 FED

The three of them wait upon the vessels upper deck like a humbled lover’s phallic. Gaunt. Three days they wait. And three nights they wade into the sludge forthcoming. There is barely skin on bone. The air is still, and Connie can hardly hover. Way out there on day three there are aberrations moaning in the dawn. The low flung sirens of Detroit perhaps and an owl hung low reverberating in the torn bowels called Coelacanth. Cideer is thinner than her sacrum’s crest. She’s sinking further and further into the spaces in between these tentacles and the ancient stars. The edge of moon has not touched the manly face where Captain Bosch is still staring out and down across into this flaccid sea of glass, darkly. He has gone into a weaver’s trance. The captain only looks and sees only seeing now for three days in the darkest hour, but sees not a thing which sunk below. He stares into the blackest sea and gray upon gray and sees the scars upon dead women and the sunken eyes of his mother ship. 

He sinks he:

Sinks.

He sunk. 

And sinking sees:

There is some kind of whisper surfacing. Some hint of odor, known. And he smells it rising now in the form of fleshly bones.

A flank of Ambileen from way down below, with the crawl of black molasses coming forth into the nets. And lo, a rib cage now appearing. Her brown calf rises starboard there. And then the shoulder full of steaming meat, in pieces offered up. A course of 4 or 5 warm digit aperitifs in remembrance of she, the little finger shotguns. Her delicate features surface all apart, humbly and without desecration. A scleral orb, a plumlip, and then the other one port side, so as not to cause alarm. 

Connie chewing on the radius of Ambileen. The Captain holds an engorged liver up to Cideer, whom he cradles so her weakness may recede. The pickled genitalia softly swallowed and then the tender breast. 

“Were We Ever Hungry?” They wonder. “Were we 5 loaves and fishes once?”

Ch. 12 OF FUTURE CULTS AND THE DARKER CORNERS OF SOME UNKNOWN ROOM

The wind has begun to swirl out of the dark heavens. Now the vessel eases with the pull of tentacles. Cideer holds the heart of Ambileen. She wants to create a shrine in her submersible. She paints a picture as best she can recall. She says “We All Should Kneel Three Times A Day And Offer Ablution Each New Moon.”  It all seems feasible to the thousands of children she will bare into the upper deck, into the fog circling the emptying sludge over and over bowing until they believers do become. 

And what becomes of Connie? The unfathomable word or deed. The unspoken requisite in the holiest of unwritten works. More pure than what was once blamed upon the holy ghost. This Connie stays for a season in the mist between these tentacles.  And then someone one day, several moon festivals into the kneeling, claiming from the upper deck, that “This Connie Simply Did Not exist.”  Some existentialist.   

And the Captain looking out from the nest of crows, several decades hence, not up to phallic standards now—sees something way off in the distance through the hourglass. There are trace amounts of Frankincense and Myrrh. There are virgin births. He smells molten lava. Pele’s tongue of fire and a hint of sea womb. Its all as it once was and shall be and…and shall we as always begin again? Again he smells the sulfur of eden and a snakeskin antidote of someone’s forbidden fruit. But god damn--the music. He hears the music from some distant sphere gnawing closer moon by moon. Yes. Yes that music feels like everything he could not do this time around. 

And he feels the Messianic iron of Detroit in his arteries, and wonders if there is one last dance left in him. And he smells the crushing velvet ache of late night revels in the darker corner of some low-lit room. 

Jorge Davies and JD Rudometkin performing a live version of COELACANTH at the High Desert Fringe Festival in Joshua Tree, CA— May 2023. Davies created the projected images and composed the music with JD performing the piece and adding musical elements. (Visit Jorge Davies IG site)

If 5Doors enriches your life in some way, please consider supporting it with a donation. Thank you kindly for your patronage, which allows us to continue sharing this work with you.

2022-23 Archives Below

 
 
 

May 2023

 
 

5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where monthly rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

MUSICAL COMPOSITION FOR THE GREEK PLAY ANTIGONE

The song is often referred to as: "Fifth Ode: The Chorus pray to Dionysus, the patron of Thebes, for blessing."

The Greek Play Antigone, was performed at Falcon's eye theater in Folsom, California in April of 2023, under the direction of David Harris with set design and production by Ian Wallace.

Musical composition and melody by JD Rudometkin (lyrics exist within the play).
Actor/singer performing the composition is Catherine Gray.

Cinematographer for JD's song: Tim Chinnock
Cinematographer for Catherine's song: Ian Wallace

Visit Catherine Gray's IG page

Visit Falcon's Eye Theatre

If 5Doors enriches your life in some way, please consider supporting it with a donation. Thank you kindly for your patronage, which allows us to continue sharing this work with you.

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April 2023

 
 

5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where monthly rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

LIMINAL RITUAL with beads

Descending shadow mountain in late March with the temperatures rising and the hound veering off the trail behind me, I felt rattlesnakes crawling around my mind. The rains this year have been heavy and now the tall grass is growing thick between the stones. An ideal haven for serpents.  

Moving quickly down the mountain along a winding trail, I rounded a tight bend and took a large step to avoid a sharp rock on the path—and as I did so my boot landed near a coiled rattler—poised and ready to strike. I jumped back, and looked to make sure the dog was safe. When I turned back around to face the rattler, it had suddenly disappeared. 

In its place was a rather small opuntia basilaris. More commonly referred to as a beavertail pricklypear. The rattlesnake in my mind had become a small, native cactus of the Mojave Desert. My fear had materialized. 

In that moment, it became clear to me that my obsessive thoughts about rattlesnakes had influenced my perception of reality. Our thoughts create our world. Science continues to provide evidence for what the mystics have always known: 

“As a womxn thinketh in her heart, so is she.”

When I got back down to my cabin, a series of questions followed:

  • Where does my mind tend to wander?

  • Why does it go down that path?

  • Am I protected or harmed by these thoughts? 

  • Do I want to create a different reality?

For the month of April I invite you to create a ritual that will help you begin to create a new reality. Even as snakes shed their skin, we can slough off our old ways of being. 

Some will enter this ritual as innocent children who possess an innate faith. Others choose to doubt such enterprises. Either way, the mind goes on creating our world out of thin air. So, why not give it 30 days of your sweet time.

Perhaps you have notice a thought pattern that tends toward fear: “I am not good enough to create this project.” Or, “I am always struggling to meet new friends.” Another one might be, “I am afraid to get too close to people because I have been hurt before.” 

Observe the mind with care. And without judgement. Simply notice where the mind goes. And how often it goes down a similar path. Spend an entire day simply observing your mind. Then ask yourself: “Do I like what I think about?” And then ask, “How does it make me feel?”

Perhaps you realize that many of your thoughts are obsessive and based in fear and are not helping you at all. This is true of much of humanity. And the ability to gently observe ourselves is also an amazing ability that humans possess. And it is a skill we can improve.  And as we begin to notice our tendencies, we can then begin to create a new way of being.

It's best to begin this process by creating one simple, new thought pattern. Here’s an example: “I am deeply connected with my loved ones.” Or, “I am supported by my friends and I support them.” Still another might be, “I receive and welcome pure love.” Create this phrase in the present tense. Feel into what it feels like to know this new truth in your body and in your mind.

It's up to you to spend part of your day sussing out what you want most at this particular time in your life. And it is helpful to realize this process is not about being perfect, its simply about finding a phrase that’s close to your heart. You can always change the phrase if you need to. 

Once you have your phrase, it's very helpful to add repetition and a physical component to the ritual. In this case we will be using a chain of beads or a rosary. And if you don’t have one of those handy you can simply tie 30-40 knots in a piece of twine. We will move through the beads using our thumb and finger, while repeating the phrase for each bead or knot. We will do this twice a day. 

And finally, this phrase is to be repeated in the liminal state before going to sleep and again in the morning as you wake up. I keep my beads on a small night stand beside my bed. The last thing I do before I go to sleep is repeat my phrase. And this is also the first thing I do as I am waking up in the morning. Creating new thought patterns while the mind is in the liminal state of openness is a way of working with the subtle parts of our imagination. This allows change to occur in a more natural way.

If you will be participating in this ritual let me know via email (jdrudo@gmail.com) and I will send you a mid-month check in notification for a group zoom call in which we will discuss how our liminal rituals are proceeding.

If 5Doors enriches your life in some way, please consider supporting it with a donation. Thank you kindly for your patronage, which allows us to continue sharing this work with you.

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5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where monthly rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

THE WOMXN WITH EXCEPTIONAL EARS ink + watercolor on paper 18 x 24” / 45.7 x 61cm $500 + shipping. Includes light wood frame with white matte.

This is a companion piece to the story by the same name from 5 Doors, February 2023.

If 5Doors enriches your life in some way, please consider supporting it with a donation. Thank you kindly for your patronage, which allows us to continue sharing this work with you.

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February 2023

 
 

5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where monthly rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

THE WOMXN WITH EXCEPTIONAL EARS

She burnt her tarot cards and then poured her exquisite perfume into the shower drain. As if it were an offering. She purified herself in the hottest water she could find, until her skin fell off in flakes of ancient rage. Then she took her colorful robes down to the Goodwill Store and gave her cats to the blind widow on East Centaur Street. 

Back in her room she laid down upon the cold cement. As if in prayer. And, as if in love—she retired all her diaries—which were filled with the self-fulfilling prophecies of what she had once wanted from the world and all its charms. 

Last Tuesday morning, she did not attend the spiritual awareness group meeting at the ashram. Instead, she dressed herself in sackcloth and poured ashes upon her head. And then the womxn sat in front of the fire all day without making a sound. She did not utter the name of her ex boyfriend or speak of her ex-ex dandy or whisper a single word about her mother—or a thousand other wounds that kept her reading books about how to win big.

She sat there upon the cold cement and wept. She wept for the part of her that was dying. And not because she was sad. But because that part had wanted to die a long long time ago—that tender part of her that believed it had to be the center of the universe—because there is no center of the universe. In a shroud of sackcloth and covered in ashes, she gradually became the ugliest woman in the world. Frail. And weak was she—as her breasts fell apart and her womb stopped bleeding. Even the angels of the silences had to turn their backs. And then it happened. On the first day of the seventh month, the victim-ghost of her mind’s eye stood up and left the body—and walked out of her room.

Her ashen face. Her blackened teeth. Swollen eyes. And all of these things are clearly seen. And still she loved herself. 

And that’s when her ears began to grow.  Slowly at first. Of little nubs and budding leaves. And the sound of her father eating soup alone. And she began to hear the neighbor’s dog dreaming of bone marrow and of wild rabbit. Her ears were 4 inches tall now—sprouting near the crown of her head—and for the first time in her life she could hear the sound of babies crying in the barrel chests of rougher men.

Her mind was clearing. There was no space for doubt therein.

And thus, the womxn could no longer finish those imaginary sentences of handsome girls she thought would never love her.

Five, six, seven inches now above her skull. And then—after a year of listening—she gradually began to hear sound waves moving within a given word. And it was there within the recesses of antiquity and a common wealth that she began to know how it felt to possess the name they called Hiroshima and the numbers nine-eleven and the icy naught of code blue. 

Eight…nine…ten. And then it happened that, at inch eleven above her head, these prehistoric ears left the field of sound all together. And now she can feel the little gusts of emotion in the silences between. She has become a witness to the parts in us— and of us—that cannot lie.

And so it came to pass in those days, that people from as far away as Chesapeake Bay or Santiago de Compostela would travel long distances to sit in her sparse desert room. Just to be with her. Just to rest there in front of her quiet distillation.

As if to be seen. For the first time. 

And having been witnessed there, within the quiet room, they would come undone before her. And she would hear a single tear hit the cement floor and fall apart. And they would know she had heard that tear hit, because her very posture spoke to them in ways only their darker cavities could comprehend. 

There was no hero. No guru in her room. No savior or being saved. Because, as we all know, those days are gone now. Those cults of personality have become useless in the face of kindness.

The last time I saw her, she was swaying in the wind beside an apple tree at the edge of town. The color had returned to her face. And she was drinking lion’s milk from an earthen jug. Somehow her body had grown vigorous again. As if the Christ had risen within her ribs. As if she were born again. And beside the tree there, she said she had heard the cooing of her own death, and the moaning of a lover she would one day meet in Salzburg. She said she could feel the flight of doves within her womb and had tasted the child’s breath. 

And she said that all these things had happened already. And that it would happen once again. And then she turned to me and looked into my mind. And I heard her there crawling around my skull, planting seeds. And then my mouth stopped moving. And my ears began to itch. 

(c)JD Rudometkin 2023

If 5Doors enriches your life in some way, please consider supporting it with a donation. Thank you kindly for your patronage, which allows us to continue sharing this work with you.

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January 2023

 
 

5 Doors* is a monthly online magazine/gallery featuring new music, cinema, art, and writing from artist JD RUDOMETKIN and guest artists. It is also a communal space where monthly rituals are curated. * This gallery is best experienced on a desktop/laptop computer.

For all of you that donated, procured pieces, or were moved in some way by the art, music, cinema, writing and ritual, thank you. And for all of your encouragement, I am in deep gratitude. The compulsion to create is born from a great desire to discover a hidden truth. Upon discovery, it is the artist’s responsibility to share the insight. This completes the cycle. Thank you for being part of that cyclical creation in 2022. May your 2023 be filled with beauty, joy and an intimate relationship with the Great Mystery.

the stATION oil on canvas 18 x 18” / 45.72 x 45.72cm - for a private collection

This piece was created to be a charging station within the home. When ever anyone is feeling overwhelmed by anxiety or fear, they are encouraged to take a moment at the station, to draw their gaze into the light source and begin to take 10 slow, deep breaths. This allows the mind to clear all unnecessary thoughts. When we take time to be still and breathe, we allow the body to reset the mind. This is a beautiful gift for young children who often experience more anxiety than we may perceive, and it is also a regenerative tool that adults can learn to utilize at any age. If you would like a charging station for your home, I would be happy to provide one for you. Contact Artist.

If 5Doors enriches your life in any way, please consider supporting it with a donation. Thank you kindly for your patronage, which allows us to continue sharing this work with you.

2022 Archives Below

 
 
 
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