red carpet

TT 1 and 2 VERT

There will need to be some muting and texturizing still. I think another three or four hours on them should do it. Plan to be finished by Monday.

Nemesis..... Emesis

All of the things that I think uncontrollably and involuntarily and don't share..
things that no one anywhere knows that I feel
are more important to me than you think they are.

I'm not gonna say, "It doesn't take anything to crack the case."
I'm not going to threaten you if you discover my fear.
I will say, that there is no case a man can make against me... that I have not already feared, if you follow me at all.


Here is Triptych I stage 3.



I will flip them all to a vertical position soon and also show a before and after process with each set.

Dear Buyer,

I haven't abandoned the assignment YET. You know how these things go by now.

Triptych Series order. Stage 3 of II

Inspirational Poster

Lately, I have been feeling... exposed.

But I have also been pretty productive.

Productive to me is:

killing mice and spiders.
feeding starving dogs.
slapping layers of neutral colors over the fluorescent insanity that bleeds from me like oxygen.

Productive to me is:

Keeping my tongue flat for longer than my hands are busy.
Hunting art and being compassionate about it.
Getting through a chapter before going to the next book.

Productive to me is:

Checking in on who the fuck it is that I think I am
and finding someone home who isn't fucking crazy or an invalid or angry, and raising them up to advance and never retreat.

For now, and then we work.

Triptych Series order. Stage two/ 2 sets.

I'm having issues with the assignment.

Triptych Series order. Stage one 2 sets.

Global Demolition

Demolition is so much fun.

Update, Bitches.

Where am I at right now?

For all of my masked indifference, I feel like all of my successful relationships with creatures and noncreatures on Earth are 100% the effect of being obsessively accommodating.

Recently, I awarded myself with a basic need. Interaction with people that I need.

On the off time from the physical demands of a Hell Shack renovation on the Bering Sea.... in the smallest village rounded out heavily with full blown "villagers" on the edge of the planet, I try to find music and art and philosophy that cranks my rusty chain. I feel it yanked alot, but it's nothing I can't handle. I still swim with the fish.

My family... my loved ones.. are all battling deep personal tragedy, and I am the finger tips of their current. I fuck the sky blindly when no one is watching, when no one that matters can bust me.

Lately, I think... I like the Commodores.

And my recent freak out with my ability to process Mark Rothko's work... Resolved. When I leave this seat, I will "express" my feelings for Disco as if I was endlessly terrified of my own politics.

There's more to me right now I suppose.

But I am dissolving the worst of it, and will return when I have something solid enough, yet soft enough to process, and I will seek one of your wise wise wise medicinal quips, that will no doubt set me straight, right, and thrust me back into the same fucking place in line that I curse out all of my verses from... at you... constantly oblivious... and I will sustain my hunger by eating my heart to spare my soul.


Shiver me timbers.

Fire is come. Fire is gone.

Number one.
Number fucking one.

Tonight's Photos

My Disclaimer. My First Aid Skills. Mona Lisa

I am going to use you. I am going to use you more than you may have ever been used. I am going to take and take and take.

And what I give in return may live in the shadows of your sacrifice to me until the end of days, but you should know that I can't breathe without you. I'll make it up one day. But for now, I hope you can swim with me in a panic.


A psycho personal tornado shreds the thousand thoughts that blink my eyes.


What keeps me calm is knowing that your turn to batter me within inches of my life... to keep your head above water... may be coming. And I wouldn't miss that for anything. That's real gold, and everything else called gold is ash.

grave

Let me preface this entry by saying that sometimes I come across harshly. As if I didn't care about the people I talk about. Recently, I told a friend that I was too self involved to really care.. IN retrospect that was venting to someone I think understood me. And understanding me, you would also understand that I probably don't mean it. But the truth is, I don't know what I mean. WHen trying to personally process pain or grief (which this village has been drowned by) I have removed myself from telling anyone who asks what I think about our dreary summer. Our summer of death. What I have ultimately realized is that it doesnt matter at all what I think about all this death. The person asking (usually an outsider) is just waiting to tell me what they think. Some gram of wisdom meant to sooth me. Meant to prop me up. Meant to turn my frown upside down. I am not saying I don't like interaction with the human race. In this case, I am saying... Just shut the fuck up. Just listen. Just watch. Don't replay your own personal tragedy from ten years ago to make mine look less dismal. And don't wrap it up in a fucking pat on the hand and a sympathetic practiced flash in your eye.

Today we had another funeral. It was Russian Orthodox in nature like all the rest. You don't get buried in the cemetery here if you aren't Russian Orthodox. That's right. You get buried outside of the gate. Even if you choked to death. Even if you were one of the 30 graves of unmarked victims from the Flu Epidemic in the 20's. Even if you hadn't even learned to walk yet. Anyways.

I didn't go to the funeral. I did prepare the space today though, like I always do.. alone.. for some reason... I cover all the children's art with cheap white sheets and a stapler. I take down signs that say "no running". I pull out the podium and the skinny white candles. I line up enough chairs for the immediate family, because everyone else has to stand for the service.

The service is done by a priest or lesser who is flown out to the village. He typically wears a long black dress, is unshaven... looks like Nick Nolte and seems giddy when you hand him cash for his efforts... A donation. The same guy has been coming for the past few services.

After some words about life and all that, everyone is invited to kiss the corpse. So, I stay home. Some people go just for that... I truly believe that. Not many... But even three drama queens in an island population of 25 is enough to make you sick. So.. I stayed home and children came to be with me instead of the services. We made three pizzas that I had prepped the dough for the night before, just like Alton Brown.

There is always a feast after the body has been lowered into the ground. You can see the grave from the window as we line up to take food from all the families who prepared it. A 15 foot long countertop usually holds it all. 5 fold out tables, 30 chairs...

I give my hugs. Show my respect. Put spoons in everyone's dish. Make coffee. Make jokes. Make myself up in presentation. Terrified that I will have to say something I couldn't plan and just fuck it up lousy, in the face of someone who lost their mother. Lost their grandmother. Someone I knew too, but not enough to want to invade their goodbye.

I look over during the meal, and see the priest chug a coca cola and the whole prop of religion just fell through the floor and I laughed out loud. It was probably listening to "We Care Alot" as I mopped the floor before the memorial that got me through the day. Now... I am looking for songs I haven't heard to get me through tomorrow.

I think I tried to say initially, that I am not cold even though I present events like a newscaster sometimes. That's my way. If you really did know me, you would read my candid and flip comments as they were truly inspired.

I AM devastated but the recovery is instant when I have to take care of you.

How old do you have to be

I feel like I understand something now.

I have the same pain in my heart. I have the same obstacle in my speech. I have the same monster in my dreams.
I have the same cramp in my style.
The same flinch in my response.
The same anger in my compassion.

I have the same hunger in my rage.
The same sadness in my resignation.
The same confusion in my seeking.
The same aggression in my judgement.
The same weakness in my flexibility.
The same fucking alphabet to give license to my terror on worlds.

You tell me. I've already told you. But I'll rephrase it until my every inch is destroyed by the antagonists we run from.

new shit... only, its old after seconds.

dave matthews slits his pasty throat.

..I feel like sometimes, I am
this machine that bashes and fillets wildlife. Every screw and cable
and beltway of me is embedded with sinew and the guts of each minute
launches into this judgmental and shallow header, that hangs
like a hole at my gate, my unholy entrance, and it doesn't stand a chance in my whiz of a meat grinder... I try to shove aside and save every piece of soul before it enters me. I am a mess of my own job at being me.



I drank whiskey tonight. If I had drank Vodka, I wouldn't be sitting at a computer. I would be off punching elders and stabbing delinquents. True stories. Doctor me.

There's something wrong with me. It's not obvious. I mean, yeah... there's obvious shit wrong with me, but here's what isn't wrong with me...

I hate Hootie and the Blowfish.
I hate The Dave Matthews band.
I hate Blind Melon.
I hate Creed.
There's a shitload of other music I hate, but there isn't enough invisible paper to house the listing. That's what I get for being too lazy to change satellite stations while vomiting up 9 midnight paintings.

Back to what's wrong with me.

Where do I begin?

I must be obsessive.
I must be compulsive.

True. You got me. I've faced it. Nurse me.

But I wasn't those things before I melted down. Before I melted down, I was stable, and I could want things whenever it fell into my every day function. I am no longer functioning. I am careening. I am back to bouncing off of the walls of my own stable. I feel fine. I can mother my child. I can answer phones. I can make a 5 star dinner with cabbage and will. I am stressed. I am working my hands like mad to fill in for my mind. It can only last so long, and I fear my heart.

Maybe it isn't fair to say I was stable. I was resting. And I don't fear my heart. I re-introduce myself.

Never saw the lightning.

.
.
.
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I have got to strike a balance or I will go fucking crazy.
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blow out

One time I was riding along a Texas highway with my boyfriend. I have an incredibly selective memory, so the fact that I bring this up, means that recalling the moment is significant especially if I was then able to find a file for it in my dusty ten story internal library... for means of referencing it now.

I wasn't driving the car. I didn't have a car. I had a motorcycle, and that doesn't make for too many cross country conversations with a partner. If Ihad been driving... we would have stopped the car.

It was a boring and typical stretch of Texas highway. We were high on each other's company. Listening to music. Waiting for the next ridiculous billboard to insult. Thankful that we weren't toothless, proud of our intellect. Maybe even satisfied that we hadn't died by 20. Whatever.

I look out my window and I see cotton growing in fields as we cruise along. As soon as I see it, I say, "Stop. It's cotton." My boyfriend laughs and we continue at the same speed. I say, "Seriously. Stop." He keeps his foot metered on the pedal and says "Why?" I say, "I want to pick some." He laughs again and we continue to move at the same pace. I think I start to panic. I can tell that the fields will end soon and I will have blown my chance. I say, "I never picked cotton before." It was true. I had only bought balls of it to wipe off my grease paint and had filled my guilty soul with stories of slaves destroying their fingers from picking it. I had to do it, you understand?

My boyfriend thinks I am kidding, then realizes I am probably serious, only my kind of serious is more insinuation without anger. But once that insinuation has been ignored (since I rarely push people) there is no telling how I will retaliate.

He did not stop. And I was actually really upset about it. I think he was afraid to "lose time" or be caught trespassing. Trespassing? The cotton was growing through the fenceline. I was one girl wanting to feel it in my hands. How could anyone have cared? If anyone had cared, I would have paid that price gladly.

I haven't forgotten about that, and I knew at the time, I should have thrown a fucking fit.

That's one story I want to share.

This other thing, isn't really a story.

I have very light colored eyes. I hate flourescent lights. Can't handle bright lights at all, but I hate talking to people with sunglasses on because I think it is self engrossing. So half the time I wish I could hide my eyes and shoot out the streetlights.

I was telling my sister in law about how people with lighter colored eyes are more affected by light than others. It was something I had read. I was convinced. Then she told me that she had read something about huskys. She said that they had such blue or whitish irises because of the intense amount of light that was let in while enduring long days and snow in the northern regions. I don't know about this. I need to know about this, but opted to make my notes about my sad cotton picking story instead of research.

Cotton... light eyes... the world is full of thoughts and blown out the sides with needs.

mechanical dissent

I was told that there was a scorpion in the driveway this morning and a ladybug hanging upside down in the kitchen window.

My Kurdish friend is going to do my hair tomorrow. I put off carving into my haystack until here because I wanted herto do it. She's a Paul Mitchell big wig who is tired of event planning and wants to get back into the creative aspects of hair. I'm the perfect candidate because I have a shitload of hair and apparently my natural shade is one step removed from the lightest shade possible.. except Albinos I guess.

This house I am staying in is large. 3,000 square feet or so. There is a neighborhood committee that requires that you tell them if you are going to build a deck, soften your water, or do anything funky with the landscaping. Funky might mean something like put a strange bush too close to the curb.

The neighbors on one side are referred to as the Taliban, because they didn't bring a cake when these guys moved in and they didn't wave back. The response? Dress in a burkah and trickor treat and then put a large crucifix in the yard at Xmas time.... Yeah... Not a Metropolis. Apparently these guys have a green beret friend that informed them that "They don't wave becasuse you are the Infidel and they want to kill you." If you could only see this neighborhood... A sleeper cell? How fucking absurd.

I am not saying that I want a purple house. I want the option to paint my house purple. I am not saying that having a zealot for a neighbor bothers me, but I would prefer Muslim to Christian. I would really prefer nothing to everything else. Nothing to everything else.

I am tired of bared teeth and gutted glimpses of little nuclear families... set in their fashion. Set in their diabolical and safe communities in the middle of nowhere. The only additive being fear and consumer comfort and stale renditions of atypical fight songs to ward off the unknown.

How could you sit in a small stadium watcing Junior score a point if everyone on the bleachers next to you were closet fags and openly prickish? How could that be progress? How could that be where you want to go? Tennis? Are you kidding? Do you file that under Athletics or Down Syndrome? (My apologies to Down Syndrome.)

I guess I don't miss it here. I felt like an alien looking at new products on the shelf at the most basic grocery store. Still I was trapped in some ADD like haze as I tried to figure out what the fuck I needed. None of it was to live. I wasn't stealing tortillas and cheese anymore to live an extra day. I have credit cards I was ashamed to display.

I am moving back to pen and paper. Screw this mechanical dissent.

dreamsicle.

I have been tormented with dreams probably no stranger than those visited upon the depressed and beaten upon savages of any era.

Still...

There is a girl who appears in my dreams in the same fashion.

She starts out having fun and partying with the natives... Any natives in Any Nation, and after a spell... I see her start to get out of control. I see the giant rubber mask start to slip off of her head. I don't pay attention too much because my mind is elsewhere at the gathering, but her head gear is most intriguing.

There is a man in a corner along a fenceline out of sight. He occasionally draws the attention of the party goers because he is making some kind of art. They accept him. He seems interesting. I get closer, more out of trying to find a corner to be comfortable because I am not so comfortable here. I feel like every one in the crowd is operating on a different time piece. I feel like they are wolves waiting for a reason to cut my throat... In some ways I welcome it, but it's a dream and I know that if I want to get somewhere I have to be willing to be the victim... and I have to appear as if I can't fight.

I move around the muddy swimming pool and dodge drunkards having the good time I kind of wish I was in on... Kind of, except I hate them. I hate them and I can't tell you why in any way that seems sensitive or giving. I dodge them and I am not afraid at the same time.

As I come upon the artist at the fenceline, I see that he has strung before him several canvasses suspended from a wire. They hold portraits. He has flipped them and is painting from the guides of shadows from the portrait's other side. They are mine. I made those original portraits. I left them amongst friends and strangers and they must have been uncovered as easily as some dumb teen crime novel.. if they were even hiding... He has them now. But I am not angry. I am hungry. I am looking for a comrade in this backyard Poltergeist.

I am fascinated. I don't tell him who I am. I don't tell him that they were mine. I only watch and wait for the wolves to lunge at me when they are too drunk to masturbate and seek violence for pleasure, as they splash and spit from the muddy pool at anything that seems ill fitting. IN this corner with this thief, I feel safe... But I feel like my escape plan lacks space for an unsure brush.

From the corner of my eye I see the girl. I see the girl I have seen before. She wears a rubber mask that covers her head. She jumps into the pool. Her Osiris Horsehead mask starts to slide off and I realize that her skull has been cracked and half of her brain is hanging out.

I move to her and beg her to sit while I check out her skull. She acts happy as if she knows and it isn't a big deal. Her friends are oblivious to the danger and start to harrass me for giving her shit about swimming with a fractured skull and brain exposed. They start to push me around and I can see her laughing with no cares as they move me from the shallow end. I see the artist at the fenceline covering my paintings, stopping only to watch and memorize our expressions...and I go down without a fight.

Because I know they have a 30 second attention span.. ALL OF THEM.

Ruffage.

My brain is a mess. I can't sleep. My mother says it is the time change and the stress of travelling with a toddler. It could be. I prefer not to think literally right now. Literally is a kind of front door "honesty" that doesn't cover everything.

I have been missing something. I am kind of a moron and I guess in a lot of ways I am always missing something. I'm slow to the take on fancy jokes but I can pick up on the unholy ones before the slumlord even knows he was trying to make me laugh. I laugh when people say horrible things that I think are supposed to be funny. They were only meant to be a horrible thing. I knew that. I knew it before I smiled.

I do miss my muse. Don't I have a right to one? If freedom wasn't my right would I fall in line?

I am in line. I have always been in line. Even when I am scraping friends off of the shoulder. I have been lost. I knew I was in the woods. The woods are beautiful, but I am not the wood. I am not the ruffage. I am not the wet earth. I am not the bugs with sharp teeth who burrow into flesh. I am not flowers after rains. I am not a sun scratched upon by highest branches.

I am a desert with a boom box. And I am too hot to stay here.