I now reject facebook for journalistic blogging (ugh, terrible word, blogging). Surely, keeping a record can have more dignity than the daily wordbite.
So, now,
I'm beginning to seriously look at grad school, as rejection letters from residencies seem to rain down on me (2). I joined gradcafe, am requesting catalogues, and reading tarot cards (my superstitious behavior becoming even more pronounced).
So, I make photos and then paintings. Yeah, to my ego, this seems an overly simplified process when compared to the complex processes of others. I have yet to find the program or teacher who really delves into this dichotomy of image-based perception which so fascinates me (no actually, Kristin was my first mentor, I miss her being closer).
Reality, an instant, the time it takes to make a fucking "heroic" homage to a single second. These, like the truism of books as a unit of time (to write, to read, to process, to simply hold in the present, impossible to devour instantly). Why compare, why quantify so damn much, the painting/printmaking, the sculpture, the public process concentration! Why can't I find a program to aspire to! And I'll ve damned if I go somewhere that puts me 50,000$ in debt. Concentration camps happen folks.
Really, I just don't want to pick a future, and my cards say it's not going to be easy. They reflect my current mood, much like a parroting therapist. My paintings are nets for seconds digested, this is practice for saying, and a lie as soon as spoken!
So, silly again with juvenile angst and self-consciousness (our confidences seem, in retrospect, such diletantes), I troll for the little trail. Seriously, I hoped to travel the entire world, be more perfect, confident, worrldly. All these "labels" Alana said during one of our first conversations, and so what if these words project my "Neapolian" or "Chihuaha" complexes. Yes, I like to put things neatly into boxes, to file and measure. It makes things safer, more accessible. Visually, this comes in frames. In viewfinders. Stretched and labored over. 2-dimensional, as real-life overwhelms me. A frightened tiny hero; what a silly and typical stereotype.
Double-Jointed Sleeping.
Walking through the sundust days of rest, I spy a handmade cage swelling with grass still sweet, crinkling with memories of the field. The bars are lashed together with bright yellow unraveling thick ropes, and completely open in the front.
"Is this for viewing purposes?" we ask each other.
The shrinking grass pads the bottom for some odd creature that swings trapeze above it. Two of them, in fact, curled on hooks. Like to children's flash cards of caterpillars as anything I have ever seen. Little snakes, clumsy, compacted, cute even, but eyeless, which would eliminate any inkling of a cuddle, or even a quick fingerstroke. My small companion, big with the bravery of childhood refuses to even look and in her eyes closing stumbles, knocking the enclosure.
The curl (like a newborn fat finger releasing) goes jumping, changing, growing spider legs, thick and jointed, out of the open bars and onto the wet concrete floor. It skitters away with typical terrific speed into the freedom of the zoo viewing area. The day becomes tinted with magenta and we continue to the tigers.
While leaking with the orange-striped, pacing, eyelined rolling paws, you are reminded of your own lost patient passions. The day stays pinkish, sunny-yellow retreating as we sit arrested, grey in the knowledge of our complicity in the creation of the zoo.
Cycling Through
Last Thursday I woke up; a free morning stretching out before me a little lonely with T out of town again. The dog was already awake, peering at me from the foot of the bed. We decided to explore a new area. After a little Google Earthing, we headed out to the Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield area North of Atlanta. It took about 45 min. to get there.
We meandered off the Barrett Pkwy exit and entered a swanky residential neighborhood with huge lots and gated entrances flanking the gently sloping roadway. Sighting an enormous parking lot followed by a split-rail National Park gateway, I pulled into the gigantic but largely empty parking lot. The usual suspects were scattered across the absurd concrete expanse; lonely folks in parked cars of varying values avoiding eye contact with soccer moms striding confidently towards the paved roadside path, while a couple NorthFace suburban kids prepared for a day hike. No one acknowledged us, and we didn't bother either.
The dog and I jumped a red-clay washout and crossed a broad field kissed with wild phlox in bloom to a footpath on the other side. I tugged the leash off, and she went mundanely feral, snuffling loudly a couple yards ahead or behind me. The mood was determined and the sky was dark as clouds gathered for a show later. There was a particularly animated tree trunk; a Sweet-Gum to be precise, that presented itself to the left, sculpted into a snout facing up and Northeast. We traipsed over the railroad tracks, through another convex field, and onto an overgrown logging path. These broad dirt roads always make me feel so thirsty, so I struck off up the hill, noting the burgeoning poison ivy. A couple weeks and that hill must be impassible even to the most tough people hides.
As we approached the top there was a chair sunk knee deep in leaves facing a burned-out pine with a bum?-fire in the middle. Just the years-cold tracks of either boy-scouts or the intrepid homeless left-behind and sinking in. All signs were a little baneful and very post-human, with felled skeletons looming and their roots forming a colony of underground homes for whatever would nestle there. We continued quietly. I was practicing being very still while moving, doing a little Tom Brown roll with my feet as I high-stepped through more leaf-fall.
Rounding the hill, there were piles of rocks swooping broken-down along the crest of the ridge. Surely, it must be one of the Civil War Battlefields trumpeted on the Nat'l. Park signs. Pretty impressive for a piled up effort two centuries old. I mis-stepped vainly trying too hard to soft-foot, sunk leg-deep into a hole and out again all goose-bumped and suddenly afraid.
"Time to head back to civilization." I said outloud, and strange to the dog.
So we did, passing over the balding top and through the pseudo-graveyard and town. I was feeling even panicky and hurried the dog verbally and often, still weird and discombobulated. She stopped intently by a particularly large, and recently occupied root system. I followed her over to the open mouth of the den, and found her nudging a dead two-tone black canine puppy. It had healthy fur tipped silver in the clear light of spring. She was mis-behaving, whining, her maternal instinct all hackled up. I turned and almost stepped on another puppy, then another, both smaller than the first. All appeared to be healthy, excepting death. Dismayed isn't a strong enough adjective, but the panic was subsiding. These were just some abandoned corpses warming on an old battlefield, nothing to be alarmed or suprised about.
As we proceeded past the exposed and mother-less pups, the largest one gave a meek cry and shifted slightly. I couldn't leave him. I felt very purposeful, heroic even, as I whipped off my sweater and pulled his stiff body from the ground.
We hurried back, him curled up and swaying rhythmically in the sweater. Finally arriving back at the Subaru, and thinking of my afternoon plans, I drove to the nearest gas station for water while looking for a vet. I touched his grimy tongue with a wet finger and he mewed some more, and with more vigor. He seemed to be rallying slowly. We found a vet, who advised euthanasia and was out of formula. By the time we found the next vet, the sad little thing was warmed up and squirming. Vet #2 was not so dire and recommended formula, a heating pad, and some wildlife stations nearby. He doesn't look like a dog, probably a coyote.
I decided to go to house nearby that T is renovating in a Northwestern suburb. We stopped on the way for formula and a heating pad. I put the heating pad in a box and him on top, covered with the sweater. My hands itched and I wondered about mites or viruses. I started making phone calls. The two numbers I had were voice-mails, the second stating she was not accepting rehabiliations at this time and to call another number. So I did, smiling at the thought of my persistence paying off. The number yielded a concerned voice with the reassuring advice of formula, heating pad, and time. Their director had just died, they weren't taking animals either. But, she promised to call around.
I went into the garage and painted for a couple hours, checking on him sometimes. He seemed to be having sharp dreams, bad ones. He died I don't know when, his body much colder than the pad when I pulled it up and buried it in the copse of pines out back. It's very easy to dig in sandy soil. That made it easier. I stripped my clothes off and washed them, showered, and put on my spares.
T came in from being out of town and proposed to me at first sight. I was exhausted and started to cry.
I said yes.
We hurried back, him curled up and swaying rhythmically in the sweater. Finally arriving back at the Subaru, and thinking of my afternoon plans, I drove to the nearest gas station for water while looking for a vet. I touched his grimy tongue with a wet finger and he mewed some more, and with more vigor. He seemed to be rallying slowly. We found a vet, who advised euthanasia and was out of formula. By the time we found the next vet, the sad little thing was warmed up and squirming. Vet #2 was not so dire and recommended formula, a heating pad, and some wildlife stations nearby. He doesn't look like a dog, probably a coyote.
I decided to go to house nearby that T is renovating in a Northwestern suburb. We stopped on the way for formula and a heating pad. I put the heating pad in a box and him on top, covered with the sweater. My hands itched and I wondered about mites or viruses. I started making phone calls. The two numbers I had were voice-mails, the second stating she was not accepting rehabiliations at this time and to call another number. So I did, smiling at the thought of my persistence paying off. The number yielded a concerned voice with the reassuring advice of formula, heating pad, and time. Their director had just died, they weren't taking animals either. But, she promised to call around.
I went into the garage and painted for a couple hours, checking on him sometimes. He seemed to be having sharp dreams, bad ones. He died I don't know when, his body much colder than the pad when I pulled it up and buried it in the copse of pines out back. It's very easy to dig in sandy soil. That made it easier. I stripped my clothes off and washed them, showered, and put on my spares.
T came in from being out of town and proposed to me at first sight. I was exhausted and started to cry.
I said yes.
two years ago
I was just listening to Pandora Radio and heard these two songs while working on the reduction of a thrift store paint-by-number version of the Last Supper that Matt Gray gave me; we called it "The Blobby Face Jesus". I work on it about twice a year, never really expecting anything finished.This long stretch of morning dove grey weather is a lovely vanita, no?
Matt Gray (1980-2009) PBR Hero 2007, digital image
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| No more Jesus, sorry folks. |
This long stretch of grey weather is a loveliest of vanitas, no? So, I think of death; it's greyness, the quietness of it. Also, this season marks the 2nd Aniversary, approximately (which he would appreciate), of the death of an artist friend and lover of mine, one of my first lovers, and an intense and tender friend. Forgive my romanticism, we had an overly-emotive connection. And I miss that bastard dearly. Below is one of my very first blog posts, written when I got home from leaving work as a GreenPeace memberships salesman early on a grey Southern California morning; sobbing on the redline back to DTLA and my little room.I digress in the second, and obviously still sentimental vein. I came upon a Kahlil Gibran quote from Sand and Foam a couple weeks after his death, that claims:
"mayhap a funeral is a wedding feast among the angels"
"mayhap a funeral is a wedding feast among the angels"
And I, yet again overcome, cried at the realization of my first actual experience of death, and with the realization that both he and I were free now. This boy I had known as a man; who even as a 19 year old burgeoning alcoholic and drug-addict had treated situations with a thoughtful yet naively forceful judgement far beyond his years, was gone until and if we happen to meet again. He did access, poetically, beautifully, and I found him to be fair Judge; albeit one that held small grudges (and this is only human, expect it). He was a Man-child who tried soooo fucking hard to be a man; a good one, a fair one, a just and hard-working "Grown Man" (he would rant about this lyrically and often), even when we first met during our late childhoods. And selfishly, I remember how he loved, never stopping, with every courageous and peckish part of his heart, and how I knew I would never receive another fucked-up phone call from him. He was one of the first people I ever knew, intimately, in both the physical and abstract. What a dick. He always appreciated the honest truth, so... Goodbye Mr. Gray, fly away. It's nice to not romanticize adolescence anymore, and what a lesson he taught me (the value of the rational over physical impulse in regards to sex, LOL).
Yes, his clear grey eyes would have widened prettily in approval.
Yes, his clear grey eyes would have widened prettily in approval.
Matt Gray (1980-2009) PBR Hero 2007, digital image
My ex lover died yesterday morning. He simply didn't wake up from a Burrough's dream, just like that, his ticking slowed and stopped. When we first met in high school I was working at a Subway sandwich shop on Chapman Hwy (my first job as an "Artist" lol). Every night he'd come sit with me while I closed up and counted down; sketching in our little black books, telling jokes and stating insecurities. Our family anecdotes falling like crusty stalamite tears in full teenage disclosure. I fell in love with him when he drew this gelastic penis and vagina waving to each other, goofy big head and lashed eyes wide, and then later twister, and morning with the light still on.
He moved in with me at my Mum's, then we lived together on Laurel Ave. apt 2. We were hortoculturists, and had dogs in the manner of children. There weren't too many roaches. Both Picese. He was born on Feb. 29th, 1980, leap day; and missed having a real birthday 3 of 4 years. But, these were not bad days. Wonderful mesh. We shared our first real home, and played house earnestly.
Later, during the break-up I came to think he believed in a twisted Catholic truth of the masculine/feminine family, much like my father, as I watched him bloody with self-inflicted lovelorn melodrama. His eyes were gray like his last name, and he drank in earnest torture. He would call me and recite Bukowski poetry with a crackling tone. We were 19 and 20.
He moved in with me at my Mum's, then we lived together on Laurel Ave. apt 2. We were hortoculturists, and had dogs in the manner of children. There weren't too many roaches. Both Picese. He was born on Feb. 29th, 1980, leap day; and missed having a real birthday 3 of 4 years. But, these were not bad days. Wonderful mesh. We shared our first real home, and played house earnestly.
Later, during the break-up I came to think he believed in a twisted Catholic truth of the masculine/feminine family, much like my father, as I watched him bloody with self-inflicted lovelorn melodrama. His eyes were gray like his last name, and he drank in earnest torture. He would call me and recite Bukowski poetry with a crackling tone. We were 19 and 20.
He did forgive me eventually, and an understanding was reached. He was my book guru, and always available to talk me through a panic. He burned Peanut Butter Wolf and Hank Williams cds, then folded them into hand-drawn envelopes. We got high together sometimes, and he would tell me how proud he was of me for going to school, for being "Type A", for pushing and getting it done, for moving away, for making it out. Sometimes, he would be crude and insulting, a Jekell/Hyde snide and sly. But, I often took his advice saltily if not affectionately, trusting his sharp criticisms. He loved trains, paid attention to details, schooled me in loving clanking beasts, and drew letters for me to copy. He was the most sarcastic fucker I have ever known. When I heard the news I sat down and my heart beat a rabbit drum, snatched breaths, and I was pissed.
The last few times I saw him in person was last summer, all humid TN June filtered lemon light in my memory. I wore a polka dot dress to have him retouch my tattoo. He was pleased, flattered that I'd dress nicely to have him work on me. We had always shared a sense of decorum so he lifted his hat and gave me a little bow across the dusty parking lot. He told me my shoulder blades were sticking out as the gun buzzed across the points of bone, and delicately wiped the seeping ink away.
We went to Strawberry Plains quarry, pushed through water thick with alge, and saw a coyote. We talked about ornamentals and line qualities, Chinue Achebe and Amy Hempel books. After I left to come out west he moved to Virgina, Boston, then back to Knoxville in my father's adandoned airstream trailer. His dog ran away. He called me last week crying on ecstacy while driving too fast on Henley Street. His self destruction shimmered all around. He told me he'd always love me, we were family. He died yesterday morning. May he finally rest in peace.
We went to Strawberry Plains quarry, pushed through water thick with alge, and saw a coyote. We talked about ornamentals and line qualities, Chinue Achebe and Amy Hempel books. After I left to come out west he moved to Virgina, Boston, then back to Knoxville in my father's adandoned airstream trailer. His dog ran away. He called me last week crying on ecstacy while driving too fast on Henley Street. His self destruction shimmered all around. He told me he'd always love me, we were family. He died yesterday morning. May he finally rest in peace.
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