28.10.09


She had done horrible things to every pet she had ever owned.

And she would do horrible things to you, too.

Some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity...  - Gilda Radner

When fear steps in, there are no boundaries.

NEVER trust a talking bug.
- Chloe Mae

24.10.09














a few Random / Thoughts
W
e need to release all of the marginally insane.


four kinds of adults
-the kind that were teased as kids.
-the kind that were not teased as kids.
-the kind that teased.
-the kind that did not tease.

Bing EFFORTLESS
I've been reading articles about Zen to Houdini, all of them emphasizing the need to be effortless in your work. Regardless of the hard work you put into your writing, the reader must sense it's easy for you. Is this idea important?

Star Wars: There is a war going on for chrisake, why doesn't anyone lock up the flight machines? Everyone seems to be taking off in whatever vehicle is the most convenient.


Never wear your Bulgari or Prada to a charity meeting.

When in a museum, when you know from the map that around the next corner you will be seeing a Rembrant... does your head trumpet,
Ta Ta Ta Dahhh.


lood i palms... ? 

I reckon I write to get down ideas, not to be able to read it later.

21.10.09

Traffic conditions.
Conditions for traffic.
You need a lot of cars.
You need too little road.
You need loss of time.
You need a driver fishing for a cd on the floor of the truck, some one opening a pack of Fig Nutons, someone who can‘t put down a book, or a cell phone, etc...
You need at least three thoughts, not on driving, for each behind the wheeler.

21
Driving to me is about watching things go by, not necessarily about watching where I’m going.
Chloe notices that,
“The blue mountains are closest to the sky.”
As we do because we can, on another level I was thinking of how painterly the clouds seem. But if painted this haphazard on canvas it would look contrived.

...And thinking about when to paint the return. What if the return is already painted another color and thus the returns begin to argue over which is the real return? Return to forever? Return from where? This implies that we got there safely. After tagging the wall do we turn and head back?

...And, also regretting not being able to write something down, since I was already reading while I was driving.
‘Drew’s voice wafts into the front seat. He heralds seriously to Chloe how it is going to be.
“Well, I have some bad news and some good news. The bad news is that the Earth is going to blow up. The good news is that we’re all going to be gone.”
Always eager to up the wager, Chloe responds,
“Yea, well, I learned how to speak Spanish today. I can say corn! Cornalito!”
“I am so over you, Chloe!” ‘Drew blasted, frustrated at her lack of obeisance.




















from a WIP book image, above: Chance Neglected
She hailed a cab by using obscure hand gestures.
The cabbie zooms by a costume shop named Just Decide. A restaurant called Food. A leather place run by Hell’s Angels that touted a teetering lineup of hogs on the front sidewalk. Tiny, the tallest Angel, wore boots covered with retablos, buckles and buttons. Scraps scavenged from the shoes he repaired. This layer, in turn, was covered with the dust of his exploits. She saw memories in every shop, on every corner, every greasy spoon offered a fleeting tease of an image, color, or conversation, until the collective experiences blurred and flew by as a giddy roller coaster in suspended animation.
A painted tin votive rested on her kitchen altar. It was her attempt at visual gratitude to those who have interceded on her behalf. When she half prayed, she also half wondered if this ex-votos stuff was effective.

This was indeed a traffic meander, but it’s what I do.

18.10.09



















H
eroes do not mistake apparent changlessness in time for the permanence of being. Nor is he fearful of the next moment, as destroying the permanence with it's change. -Joey C.

14.10.09


















“You write like you just got out of prison.”
(The most interesting compliment of opening night.)

Inner drafts and outer climates.
...Food went in, art came out.
Usually austere in the face of her Saturnine humors, when she felt them creeping up she could be bitterly sarcastic, giving way to a melancholy that left her wondering if the black bile came from one’s mind, not gut.

The images in the corners of the intellect remain.
I never flinch at what is produced in the cryptic dissolve of my mind.

In isolation she met with psychosis, from time to time, which led to intense hallucinations.
Complex, intricate and intense. The deranged mind is sitting inside a howling cyclone. Turn the music up to calm thoughts and focus.
They say very articulate things, very strangely.

Apparent horror vacui. A suffocating atmosphere and clutter are shown by filling every space with drawn imagery. Yet, every sheet contained an empty hole known to her as eggs. Open for spirit’s escape. She entered into the art through the same device. Ghost signing her name with a 8H pencil. Progressing herself by transforming from a child to Knight to Emperor and finally to Saint.
Life planned as escape. I can’t die yet, I haven’t painted my DanaĆ«.
She had been busy for years backing into a corner nest. Hatching escape plans and not getting caught, yet. Nor freed.
The stress of not moving only exaggerated her minds eye flying out over the fabric of the earth.

Purely decorative images held deep iconoclastic and idiosyncratic meaning.
Of course she was usually the only one looking.
Go ahead, ignore me...


From THE PAPER DOLL STORIES: life profiles & confessions.



1.10.09




174
Glancing back to photos from this time I looked poetic.
It has always helped me to leave the country. There isn’t a better remedy than seeing my puny life on the other side of the world to put things into perspective. Long distance vision will anchor on what is amuck.

I broke the bit this time by going to Central America. First leg of the trip included a white knuckle flight from San Francisco to New Orleans. The pilot announced that we were in the eye of the storm and would turn around and have another try at heading it off. The pilgrims were getting drunk in their seats with the complimented hospitality that says give ’em free booze and they won’t realize what's happening. Every time the plane pitched and hawed the clients whooped ‘yah-hoo’ as though they were riding the most exciting roller coaster ever. In sober distraught my silent mantra went on uninterrupted. We are all going to die.

For me, air travel is too close to astral flight. I spin out easily, so I ground myself at the first feeling of deliverance. When sentenced to a mandatory air transit I usually end up thinking,
“The pilot is going extremely too fast!”
No dare devil me in the sky at this time or ever.

I have thought, though, being a trapeze artist would be a real kick. It would be fun to wake up one morning and be on a flying team. But I’m certainly not willing to train for years and years to be able to do it.

175
Layover in the Nicaraguan wilderness.
We were waiting for the six seater to drift over the hills and collect the next group to be flown into Costa Rica. Fuselage lined both sides of the rough short rural landing strip. I remember looking hard and imagining that THAT piece was still smoking! We were several people with diverse accents. Someone casually mentioned the most beautiful beach in the world. Then each in turn told of their sanctuary. Very specific places, on the other side of the world, on the fifty-five degree parallel, south of Bombay, second sand arch on the left. People pulled out paper pads and took down obscure directions to hideaways as though they were going to travel there next week. The scene had all the flavor of a group of Dead Heads scribbling down concert notes.

Travel is a bug that, once bitten, becomes an addiction.