Category Archives: Uncategorized

Not been up to much.

But I’ve been painting.

Here are some of the projects I’ve been working on.

 

For years now, I’ve some times had the suffocating sensation of being trapped in a thick glass bubble.

Depression is fun, yeah?

 

The sea of evil hands.

 

 

A symbolist Apocalypse. Still in Progress.

Isn’t it always though?

 

That’s what’s been cooking.  I may have a show at the beginning of May.

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Keep it real, folks.

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Metropolis

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i am fucking

empty

.

i wish i were a Satanist princess

dancing beyond the masses

like Robot Maria of the Black and White City

.

Except this

time

It’s the other way round

The Flesh-

Blood- and Soul-

trip

ple god

dess

-First Mother-

winding finally

together

into flesh and blood and soul

fluid darkness arcing

Body

.

Now-

mechanistic mothers of ideal

shuffle

wide rolling eyes detached from smiles

in circle kitchens

herding

swarms of children into the lines of graves

as

the Dollar-Junta overlords implore

in

apparent preparation

for…

.

Mother of Humans

Monster

in their eyes or not

is and lives

her

Shape

with every drop of her moving

monstrous

Real

 

 

And drops the mic.

.

 

Ave

Maria.

Maria

Futura.

I must be a Satanist now.

lady-gaga-pepsi-zero-sugar-super-bowl-li-halftime-show

if death is pushing daisies, desire is pulling off their petals.

I don’t think she’ll want me.

when she finds

my goddamn skull is a cave of Aladdin horrors and she

shuts

although she brightened while we met and left.

It was hard

when I was trapped in

a world I couldn’t fit.

Knowing I am the trap

I can’t get out of

is worse.

Open.

 

 

Directive.

crumble smooth plaster. Unveil

the tomb. breath into bones.

Resurrectionist anarchy bleaches the land into color.

 

Don’t leave one single dead

soul living

dead

 

 

catch-fight. fly.

The more one acts like all opponents are harmless or misguided, the more scope abusers have to gain ground while you’re not looking.

“peace in our time”

The more one acts as if their victory is inevitable, or that conceding things will make them treat you well, the more ground one cedes before things become so unbearable that one must turn and fight, whether victory is possible or not. Or just give up and die.

“arbeit macht frei”

The more one hides- emotionally or literally- out of fear of an enemy who threatens or out of fear of fighting, the more horrible the fight is going to be and the more horrifying the enemy is going to be. And the more horrifying you are going to become in the process.

If you want to fight as morally as possible, fight as soon as possible.

“Now I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

Humans are emotional machines with an attached function of intellect.  There are certain circumstances in which the function of intellect will engage. There are many more in which it will not. Emotions utilize the intellect- they rarely are guided by it.

The emotional drives are more powerful than self interest. Watch who engages people’s emotions-and how- and to what end. And watch how, by whom, and by what your emotions are engaged.

“All things are known because we want to believe in them.”

Nothing known or believed or wished changes what is.

Fight in the world as it is. Fight for the world as you wish it to be.

There is no destination except the one you yourself make.

 

 

 

 

 

Save them- Save yourself

This year. Could it be rewound? Be kind, please rewind?

A friend has died. Last I heard they didn’t know why or how. He was in good health.

He was brilliant. When he was optimistic he was one of the most optimistic people I knew.

I used to.

I used to, if I had a really good idea, write it to him. Cause I thought that if I didn’t make it he would. We had talked about the things that are now, about the tree and the serpent, the winter and the fire.

This can’t be real.

This is real.

god. what is this?

I am the one to do the things now. I have remember- myself. I don’t have the luxury of failing. There is no one else.

oh god. this is not how it was supposed to be.

 

Strange and Marvelous Shiftings of Blame. Part the Second.

I wish my dad’s death had changed the effort he put into his relationships. With me or, really, any of his children.

Picking fights with him or my mom worked. Kind of. For me.

But you know. Before I started in on that- or if I didn’t fight, it wasn’t like he bothered.

And it’s not like any of the others are gay, so it wasn’t even that.

 

Strange and Marvelous Shiftings of Blame. Part the First.

Content note: Sarcasm and lack of reverence for sentence structure.

I saw a film. That’s what I did. A week or two ago. Went and saw Dr. Strange.

It was such a cool movie. I have been waiting for them to do Dr. Strange- not as long as I have been waiting for the Prometheus sequel, But at least all summer. All the magic and stuff. Inception style curdled architecture. Mordu as Dr. Strange’s black best friend. Wong being the librarian instead of Dr. Strange’s magic personal servant.

The inspiring theme about accepting failure and never giving up. I really liked that. I really want to write a post about that.

It made me feel happy feelings for a while.

Wait. Back up.

Ooooohmygosh. Marvel reduced the black hero to being merely the white hero’s black best friend.

Again.

Mordu is given no back story. Even in the case of Dr. Strange’s Asian Mentor who was magically a European Woman who was magically deprived of all Feminine Markers Like Hair so that a White Man could almost learn to take her seriously without throwing a hissyfit-

well

the story(tellers) decided she still had to die for it. for correcting a White Man- and being right

-even in her case they explain the lack of backstory by saying ‘she doesn’t talk about her past’. She hasn’t told the other characters, so the Audience(protagonist) can’t find out either. OoooOOOoooo. Mysterious!

She probably doesn’t talk about her past because she used to be an Asian Dude and she knows what racist transphobes y’all are!

Mordu, they don’t even make a mystery. Why is he doing the things he does? ‘He had a hard life’

What does that have to do with it?

Doesn’t matter. Case closed.

He’s told the other characters. He’s talked about it. They’ve been round and round, trying to work through the pain of his past, channeling it into constructive forward facing strategies.

It’s just that the suffering of a black man isn’t important enough for the white (protagonist)Audience to even suffer through a one or two sentence description of it.

He has fulfilled his narrative function in the White Hero’s Journey. No vestige of humanity is required. Dr. Strange moves from ignorance to enlightenment and from whimpiness to badassery -by means of Mordu’s instruction- without ever having to become conscious of -say- the white cop who shot Mordu’s dad over a broken taillight.

Or whatever.

‘Cause if it wasn’t something White protagonist(audience) was implicated in-

Then they could say what had happened. Couldn’t they.

If it were Thanos’ fault somehow. Or maybe an Asian Dude’s fault. Then it would be okay to say ‘Thanos killed his father’ ‘He follows the rules so strictly because he was cheated- an Asian Dude blamed him for a thing he didn’t do.’

It wasn’t The Big Bad who caused the pain in Mordu’s life. Because then we(the audience) could bear to hear WHO caused that pain.

And- because I can see the words forming in your brains because of how magical I am- if they bring Mordu back, in a later film or WHATever-

They will still not make him a full fledged character. I guarantee it and bet you a thin dime. They aren’t withholding this information to make it more special when they finally tell us later. They are

never

going to tell us Mordu’s backstory.

Well. For all that. It still could have been worse.

They could have had three black best friends, like they did in Civil War.

AND THEN.

And then.

And then the black best friend turned out to be EVIL.

His evilness consisted of a plan to run around the whole world- and STEAL the power of OTHER PEOPLE.

Which is LITERALLY

The story of EUROPEANS and the rest of the HUMAN RACE.

Running around the whole world, stealing the labor and the ideas and the bodies of other humans. Trying to scrub their souls into the same state ours were in, so that WE would be more likely to attain salvation for having made the attempt.

Europeans literally betrayed the humanity of All Humans Everywhere, by treating other(any) humans- and in practice particularly Africans- as a sale-able commodity. Subsuming the power of an enslaved person to the (innately criminal)enslaver who may then by means of the enslavement use that power as their own.

And here we are.

Comforting ourselves during hard times with a smarmy story about how an African betrays a European by committing THAT crime and gosh isn’t that evil of HIM.

And how the European has such endless courage despite being killed over and over. Yeeaaaaaaah, that’s totally who gets killed over and over these days.

No.

No.

I am at the edge of my life’s energy here, magical or otherwise. I would love to sink into this tale of courage and death and adventure and meaning and let it lift me on wings like eagles.

And be comforted.

But I am not comforted by this story.

If Marvel meant that- that main theme- that you have to be willing to accept your failures?

Why are They not owning up to Our own goddamn crimes, America? Our- failures?

Embedded in the structure of the story is a refusal to do what the story seems to be saying. They don’t seem to mean what they’re saying.

And if the audience(We) was(were) able to accept what the story is telling us(our failure), wouldn’t (They)Marvel HAVE said it and meant it?

Who has failed?

There is something rotten in Denmark.

tired beyond reason

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That picture doesn’t really have to do with anything.  I feel.

So, all this has been difficult to deal with.

I’ve been drinking a little more than usual, which is a thing, I think, that is bad.

Drawing is better than drinking. Dancing is better than pacing.  Writing is better than laying on the floor- sober- staring at the base of a book shelf for hours at a time.

So I’m going to try to write more.

I’ve been too tired to do anything lengthy or linear. Yeah! Who needed that shit?!

Thinking of all the things boiling under the surface of your life.  All the things that could go wrong. Trying to calculate how many of them are happening and how soon they could happen and what you can do to fend them off and where you could go if you can’t.

When it’s too much effort to lift your foot from the car to the ground after you’ve opened the car door. But you know it looks funny that you’re just sitting there with the door open.

I don’t feel like the sort of person who survives. Times like this. Things like this.

I found my new favorite quote today.

I have never once in my life consciously and deliberately listened to a song by Madonna. Lady Gaga, Yes. Madonna, No. I don’t know why.  I’m sure they must have drifted past me, in stores or lobbies or wherever.

“People say that I’m so controversial, but I think the most controversial thing I have ever done is to stick around” – Madonna

But who did Madonna turn to, when Madonna was depressed?!?

Among others- Maya Angelou.

 

And that sums up social progress in America.

***   ***   ***

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

 

Window

The night of the election I had been at a coffee shop. Watching with jolts of horror as the numbers jumped and rose and fell.

It wasn’t over.

But the coffee shop had closed. And the numbers looked, except for a very unlikely chance, certain.

I rolled into the dark parking lot slowly. The other cars and the brick of the buildings rolled past. Despite my caution, no one was out.  I pulled into my parking spot.

My neighbor’s car sat next to mine. I did a double take.

One of the windows was smashed out.

Maybe I’m old at the beginning of thirty, but he seemed young to me. Early twenties. He worked at a large company nearby and always looked the part. Clean cut, button up shirts. Business like but friendly.  He sounded like white people, something I found out as we passed each other, coming and going to our cars, and I squeed over his nerd bumper stickers.  Howl’s Moving Castle. Death Note. Star Wars.

His car wasn’t even usually parked over here.  It was usually parked over at the edge.

I got out, stunned and thought of something.  I walked back to where his car was normally parked.

The spot was empty.

There was shattered glass covering the ground, right below where his window would have been.

***

The next day, in the cool sun and cold wind blowing through every thing, I visited one of the galleries in town. I had been there so often the owneress had declared me a regular.  She had paintings of puppets and people with their guts out and did shows by black artists and ne’er-do-wells.  It was refreshingly different from some of the more pompous galleries in town- blandly interesting paintings of farm landscapes, sculptures of corn.  Playing local interest and the wealthy tourist sorts.

Ah yes. I was in the Midwest once. On business.

Lucrative business.

I wanted to ask her advise about something.  I was facing a life direction sort of decision, made suddenly urgent.

We chatted for a while before I brought it up. We were both horrified by the results of the election. Shaken, if the tears in the back of my throat and the added wet brightness of her eyes was anything to go by.

I’d stepped into a Starbucks earlier. Hefty white people, laughing and talking loudly about their daily lives. Enthused.

“Oh, he texted me!” She was sitting on the couch doing a charcoal drawing and watching her phone at the same time. She was waiting for a buyer to show up. A round comfortable shape in a room plastered with colored squares. Someone from Africa was asking her if what they were hearing was true. The hate crimes blossoming in news feeds already. Only the morning after.

“I tried to describe it to him.” She waved her pencil. “It’s hard to explain about election cycle reporting, how the media plays the most shocking things for ratings.”

***

The night of the election. I went and sat back down in my car and tried to think what I should do. The parking lot was full of cars. And distinctly empty of people. And quiet. So quiet.

I had been living here like a hermit. No one over, talking to no one. My subliminal assumption is that I’m some kind of freakish abomination, so I general cut out the unpleasantness for us all and avoid people.

Finally I decided that I would rather try and fail then wonder and got out and went over and knocked.

His light was on, but there was no answer. I waited a little. Fair enough. This is a bad night, all around.

The next day, when I got home from work, the window had been replaced.

After the weekend, a different car is sitting in his parking spot.

 

 

 

 

 

Confession of an Atheist: God exists.

There has, over the last few years, been a slow boiling discussion among some of the people I admire, here in the land of the internet, about God.

When I have time and energy I intend to examine this in more detail, and give credit to everyone- they all spoke persuasively and with critical intelligence.

But right now I am very tired. There is just a little time to get to shelter before the storm hits, and I find myself wondering if I have enough energy even just for that.

So here it is.

God exists.

God is an idea.

God is not only an idea- he is an ideal.

God exists- not as a spiritual or mystical being- but as a pattern of approved behavior coded into the minds of the people who are socialized into His religions- true believer or unthoughtful backslider or holiday attendee.

God is a character in a story. Unlike most stories, the story God occurs in is called religion.

So instead of the readers reading the story and deciding what to think about that character, readers are told, from every direction and on as many levels as possible,

-that THIS character decides what THEY think.  That Wrong is disagreeing with this character and Right is agreeing with Him.

If Zie does somehow exist as a spiritual or mystical being, somewhere out in the universe, it does not change the fact that this pattern of approved behavior exists. It does not change the fact that it gets coded into the minds of those who have been socialized this way- that this Thing is called god- the One and Only.

I will also kick Zier in Zeir goddamn shin if we ever meet- for  leaving us to wallow in this slop that passes  for divinity.

Because God- as described in the book that so many take as literal fact- and so many other take as useful metaphor-

-is a shallow, blustering, gaslighting, rageful, moronic rapist of a homicidal narcissist.

God is the personality (even if as an atheist you don’t believe he is also an actual person) who forms people’s ideas of acceptable and unacceptable behavior.

God is the Father.

Because God isn’t an Abusive Boyfriend. God is an Abusive Parent.

Because America has Daddy issues.

And America went out and got a Boyfriend just like Daddy.