No Title / Is It

(This one is of me, in the long black skirt blurring, whirling the dervish on a Viennese bridge. 
Illuminating light in photo by: just-before-dawn.)

He sent his man's-man out to the store to buy the nights dinner only to return empty handed.

The evening’s entertainment was spent projecting movies on clean beige china.


The morning began as the type of day when one does not know what time it is until the evenings dim sets in to darken the mandatory list that is randomly crossed off.

Last were the rifles. As objects of significance, they were to be cleaned justly, done directly and at point blank.

When they were shot worthy, the artillery came in handy as the dogs barked incessantly, so instead of throwing them hush puppies he shot them.

He breathed in the aroma of blood and smoke and from his mouth flew the purple ravens spoken of in mythos.

For a few seconds he was full with complete expansion if the air around him, leaving no room for other egos. The darkness was quiet, close and suffocating.
Looking through the color of rot was not his favorite paradigm.

As his mind chased through, scratching and trying to rid itself of the tragic hue, he saw memories numbered out of order. Those memories organized and queued in line-up vying for his attention.

The one most interesting happened to be absent. Perhaps a drunken blackout memory that someone else owns and is not sharing.


He adjusted his mask and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The sun shone his shadow, exposing him as a ridiculous and fictitious character. His ears were the likes of George Bailey widening his palms to show the length of a suitcase.

Wrongly, he remembered his list and went to collect water but he forgot what it was for.
The postage stamp screen on his taskmaster devise suggested no-such-thing.
He doubted the physical world.

Not using a hand signal is rude and dangerously idealistic.
As is putting glass plates in the juicer.

Life is a zero sum equation.
And it only gets darker.

Well, okay, then.
Do I get to vote?


  1. so just how does glass plate juice taste? probably feels just as bad on the back end...surreal as always...

  2. Hah!

    Actually, this is rather nice in print. And, yes, definitely affected your usual style a tad. I think I even see a linear thread (albeit frayed in the typical H-H sort of way).

  3. Wow - I just realize some things about how your writing relates to your couture and costume work from the last two comments-
    Thread is a something that used to hold the important parts together, and it isn't meant to be seen, unless it is a "thing".
    You write how you design - there is a complete garment or picture containing a spontanious recipe of composition, color story, texture, period, style, narrative, context and you trust the viewer or reader to take in the composition. It is about the costume, not about the interfacing or the thread.

  4. keep following that silver thread but mind the shards

  5. You are the Dali of 10thDoM. Your images combine to create a intriguing picture that I always appreciate, even if I don't totally understand it.

  6. For whatever reason, the pic says to me - "the meek shall disinherit the earth."

  7. "Not using a hand signal is rude and dangerously idealistic." ha!

    and yes to lonnie's last two sentences...


  8. Aha I know where that came from . . you definitely have an interesting brain. I like the glass plates in the juicer and forgetting what the water was for. Yes, you get to vote!