Saturday, December 25, 2010

I've Seen Better Day

(Noch, from Noch, 2009-)

A few steps closer, a few steps back, you'd be safer, a few too many, and we'll feel the wind rush by our ears. I close my eyes and say, there will be no sound, there will be no fall, there will only be...

The sad thing is they'll bury us in separate lots, that I probably won't even be in the same state, and that my ghost would have to hitchhike to come see you. The saddest thing is that you will never see me again.
A few too many, we could've had more, but it was never enough. I'm hurt, my face feels stupid, and I can't seem to get my head out of my ass. I swear, each and every time, that these are my saddest days of my life, just like every time I get sick I think I'm going to die. Just this one time, I know I think it every time, but just this one time. And puff, I disappear.

And so do you.

I awake to find my bed empty, my blood still red, and my face still stupid. Damn. Daydreamer come find yourself some breakfast, and it was the same thing I had yester. Come downstairs, put your hat on and cover those ears, it's a cold one out there, you'll lose them, as I point to my ears (a passerby looks at me talk to myself and a pauses for a moment). Step by step, without a slip, and I take to the ground like baby's first steps. I put a smile on, I like the way it feels, I jump ahead, and I hit the ice but no falling here, not today, because today I'm not going to die, and today isn't the saddest day of my life.

A few blocks down, thieves wait for an idiot. They see a Tag Heuer, it's my fathers, it doesn't matter, it's worthless, no it's not, but there's scratches, now look at your face.

Pity is something only one person in the whole goddamn world can ever understand, and right now, I feel lonely. I made friends, or rather, I made A friend, his name is my own, his height is the same, he talks slightly different, but it's all the same. I look behind and he is not there, for no shadow follows me, for the sun passes through me, it kisses each and every cell, and leaves without saying goodbye. I am the phantom as I call out to my kingdom, I would roar, but I pose no threat, I am here to stay, and will not disappear. Disappear. Disappear.


(P.S. I got my watch back, oh that, well you should see the other guy)

Thursday, December 9, 2010

To Fall, and To Hit Hard, But To Touch A Bit of Soft (Again)

(Swampthang (test shot for TOMB, of Barking Wall), 2010)

I am not alone.
I am not alone.
I am not alone.

I am not alone.

(and can I get a goddamn somewhere in there)

...alone, goddamn!

When the sherif and I arrived to my place there was nothing left, it was all gone, everything, my undies were all over my neighbor's yard, my books covered in animal pee, and bit and pieces of familiar looking things all shattered across 4 acres of land. I was homeless, and nothing, I'll tell you, nothing really hit me. I missed the shockwave of devastation, I dodged the face of terror, I lived a shotgun blast to my entitlement, and I felt nothing changed. The sherif opened my door as I just sat there, looking for a face to make it appear I was concerned, but by the time that door opened I just got up, and said thanks in the straightest voice I had and proceeded to walk with him. I gave a hotdamn, and said something funny, and heard a silent shit from the sherif, a sorrybud, and a long and quiet wellllll(sigh). He went over to his car, reached into his glove compartment, and walked back to my side, he said here, I looked down to his hand, and there it was, a 6oz flask, with the words, "GRAND MASTER FLASK" written on its side. I took a few swigs, and nothing hard could slow me now I said to myself, and with that I finished the whole damn flask. When I was done, the sherif said his goodbyes, and left me before I can return what was his.
In the summer of 89', I was homeless, and decided to travel. And so, I finally did, with a rush of goodbyes to each and every face I can grab in a day, I took off like a 30 year old fart, puffff.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


(Documentation from Barking Wall, 2010)

A little more than a month ago I started a photo-blog of everyday images from my life. Mixed in there is all the trendy things that are going on with photo-blogs, such as youtube videos, and shout-outs. Anyhoot, it's here:

Sunday, December 5, 2010

You Beast, You Burden, or I Shall Fall (again)

The end is not nigh, the end is not nigh, please, not now, not tomorrow, not in a couple of years, not ever. I kept telling myself that until I awoke to find myself naked in a field, surrounded by blood, and I could hear screaming coming from the woods. It took me a few minutes to really figure out where I was, and by the time I got on my feet I was running.
The night was like any other, the moon somewhere in the sky, and everything was lit by just the fullness of the moon. I was in my thirties then, I had developed these legs I was finally proud of, and remember thinking to myself, amongst the chaos happening all around me, that I was glad all that training I put into those legs worked out. Sure I screamed, sure I was running, and screaming like the rest, and at times I felt they were running away from me. I slowed down, and started running the opposite way, but they yelled NO!, and I yelled, WHY!?, and they yelled back, just NO!, pause, just doooON'T!. So I looped around and ran back, but just then and there on the side of my vision, I saw it.
The thing was huge, it was mightier than the mountain, it encompassed the sky, with two red circular eyes, our hearts were frozen, our faces ghostly, we were going. to. die.
I swear to God this moment froze, I moved my fingers, they wiggled, I turned my head and it turned. The world was frozen, the beast was gone, those frightened faces suspended, and my legs still attached to the ground. When I awoke, I was moist from peeing myself at some point, all was silent, and I was cold, seeing my breath materialize before me. The ground had stopped shaking, there wasn't a stir in the air, and for a moment, I felt at peace. The palm leaves hissed in the wind, the moon appearing bigger than ever, I told myself I am ready to die.
The next day, I returned to that field, I told the sherif that this was where I last saw it, the more I said IT the more I was losing him. We searched that field for hours, and found nothing more than some rotten pineapples, a dead cat, and a series of gold pebbles. We retired close to sunset, the Sherif offered me a ride, and we both looked at that sunset, knowing that there will never be one quite like that one ever again.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Photorama III

(Black Hole, from Barking Wall, 2010)

Two things, I finally updated my website with new work, click here, and I have two pieces in Gallery TPW's annual fundraiser, Photorama, this year, which takes place this Friday (November 26) and will be up until December 4th. For more info, click here.

That's it.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

girls shake it.

This sky used to be full of white, I used to be high up there. I've asked myself what happened so many times it's a response to salutation, meaningless. A box of used memories keeps me company, and my door is firmly shut. Today, I tell myself, will fade into the next, and when it happens I won't be so surprised. I started to take care of far too many plants, and I often forget to water them all. I started to think I'd be better off in the desert, but I'm not as tough anymore. Where my arms used to reach to but never came close enough to touch has become smeared and finger-greased all-too-familiar, I know this place too well, I can feel and smell all I want to but I won't. I put my foot down along time ago, my boots are cool now, and I feel a fire roast in my stomach. I don't have indigestion, everything is fine. I'll dive when the ship hits the bottom of the ocean, I'll see the world burn but not by my hands. I'll be the voice that was left silent for so long it has become a thought, a ponder, and a wonder of where and how, who this be, and what can't be said is what is spoken in words as text, and a stranger to all. Kissing goodbyes, these days, kissing high-fives like smacks and kicks to the groin for my big month. I think I forgot how to lie, and all I have to say is that today is your today, with one kick, yelling this is very much sparta. Into a pit, I hope there are spikes to meet you, I hope it hurts. To my enemies I flash pistols, to my friends I pour forty oh-zee's, so girls shake those thangs, make every rotation count, and if you cry you cry, just carry on, singing that song, in full so this chorus sounds heavy and phat, for anything else can sleep like dirt naps, and I don't sleep, because sleep is the cousin of death. (and I say, ain't that right, and I wait for Nas to respond, right-right-right-one-mic-aight.)

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I have full-scale work in the Whodunnit Live Auction this year, come see, it will be firing up the night tonight starting at eight.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

I.O.P.W. (In Other People's Words) pt.II

Brooke. You arrived first. No big deal. Sit and write and wait, but please don't drink too much coffee. It will only make you jittery and your guts will hurt and those jives will be mistaken for nerves and it is better to just sit and write and wait, patiently, unnerved and full of boiled truth. Be so truthful. Order gin because you like it. Order what you want. You have been dating people. You have been going on frequent dates. This is a new thing for you but it isn't really hard at all, if you just stick to being yourself. The most difficult part of the whole thing is going home, insomniac'd and wondering how they have just viewed you. That part is a little tricky, especially because it is easy to confuse talking with spouting. People'd, you talk. Alone, you spout. So going home, alone, and thinking about the whole event, knowing you will never really come close to answering the question of how you were just viewed, can lead you to a kick in the gut for even wondering towards something that could potentially be self-defeating. You don't have the answers to questions like this but yet you still ask yourself questions like this. This is your number one downfall of self. Try not to do this when you get home. It will make you feel lousy. Okay. Take this time to go to the washroom and read the back of a stall before they arrive. Close your eyes when you pee and tell yourself that the first phrase you see when you open will be a reflection of the evening's coming events. "Sagan is my nightmare". (Jesus!). Think of making a book about bathroom stall confessions. Wash your hands and stare at your pupils reflect. Wonder what age you look like tonight. Wonder if they will think you look twenty-six or younger or like Brooke, tonight. Catch yourself worrying about it a little and then wonder why you are worrying about it at all. Understand that it is because you hate looking like a 17 year old. Consider maybe upgrading your World Famous backpack to a purse. Wonder if men like backpacks. Wonder if men like purses. Wonder if men really even give a shit about the things women carry around all the time. Love your backpack again. Sit and drink your gin. Don't worry about drinking it slowly, you are very good at maintaining mind and conversation regardless of gin and it's effects. Similarly, order doubles if you want to, don't apologize, order sweet potato fries, don't eat like a girl, if you are hungry just order whatever it is you are hungry for. You will start this correctly and honestly. Don't agree with them for the sake of agreeing. Let your laugh be rifled if it gets there. You won't lie, or stretch truths, though they will think you are because of how you speak about things. Be an open book. Answer every question in earnest and expect earnest answers. Trust that they will give you earnest answers but try, if you remember, to test them and make sure. Actually, maybe don't trust so fully at first, like you always do. Yes, perhaps that's it; Don't come off as incredibly naive. Make them feel at ease. You adore your friends but forget their advice right now and listen to your mothers: Be yourself/You are not charming/You are not a charmer/Look into their eyes and beyond them/Search their soul and ask them what they are not saying/Force honesty/Force it out of them because you deserve it, but mostly because they do too. See if they trust their Mother. Be gentle. Let them know you are wild but also gentle and very good. Try and let them know this upon first glance, without even talking. Before the hello's and creature comforts, before your skull begins awkwardly cracking open towards them in a way they are probably not used to, before you blink, before they do, let them know with your eyes that you do not play games at all. Let them know you respect them simply because they are a body with feelings attached. Let them know you respect yourself too. Try not to apologize so much. You say sorry a lot for things that don't warrant it. Actually, you probably say sorry more than anyone you know. Stop doing that. Please express, somehow, that you are not intimidating. (You really aren't at all. You are… well… all shades of awkward silver and you like it that way. That girl in that booth over there is though. She is what that word looks like. She emits intimidation. Holy fuck she is really fucking beautiful). Okay. Look into their eyes. Do not be afraid to do so, but if they are afraid then revert, because you don't really want to scare them. Try and let them see your mind first. Let them know your heart is as big as Jupiter's or something equivalent and it needs hands the size of the milky way to cradle it's love but you do not expect them to have Jupiter-sized hard-working hands with involved webs of nebula veins and unearthly lifelines able to visit other galaxies. Let them know that you don't really expect anyone to, not even yourself. Say all of these things without actually saying them, just make it known that you have no expectations from this. Give them a hug when they arrive if only because hugging is way better than shaking hands and your hands are always clammy anyhow. Don't feel weird about hugging or say sorry in your mind because you are just being honest, and yourself, and that is just what you do. You know yourself and your tendencies. Yes. And you have absolutely no expectations of this and have trouble thinking about what will even happen at all.

Please try and do all of this within the first 5 minutes, so that you can just only feel again.

-Brooke Manning

Monday, November 8, 2010

I.O.P.W. (In Other People's Words) pt.I

An Introduction:
A good friend of mine asked to place words on here, and I never thought of having features of other writers and thoughtful minds contribute here until his approach. With that said, here is something on the lines of Learning To Love Yourself (More), by Christopher Heller.

grow a beard. definitely. chicks dig it. its masculine not overtly butch. attractive, definitely. wear boots. steel toed. brown, worn leather. dress well. not flashy. keep it simple but high quality. speak softly. with economy. say words as if you have a limited supply. make eye contact. HARD. be first in everything. first to grin. first to touch. but don't let her notice. its all flowing, you're winning. be funny. not laugh at loud funny. make a joke and move on. you've done it before. you've scored a touchdown, now return the ball to the ref and go about your business. Treat her as her. never reveal anything about what you do. go with the flow. most definitely. don't force anything. as in never let your thoughts of 'the future' get in the way of right here, right now. Be instinctual but smart. Never overwhelm. she shouldn't see it coming BUT she shouldn't be knocked back on her heels either. You laugh too. laugh at anything meant to be funny, don't worry, you will see it coming a mile away. Communicate. make faces - expressions that are short-handed for 'had a bad day' - 'we need milk' - that last one might be tough. make negatives into cute. go out with the boys and never say a bad word about her. the will want to date her. she becomes more desirable, but she is all yours. make her know that.

-Christopher Heller, November 7th, 2010

Sunday, October 31, 2010


Janis, what shall I call you. Like some men are called Tall, Drinks, of Water, I still haven't really learned the meaning of that saying, nor am I applicable for such high remarks, I will call you a tower too high to climb. And Janis, even though your name isn't Janis, and even though these words will come short of your ears, as lovely as they are, I will call you that Tower.
From here, I stand and say from here, and with my feet together I look over the edge and throw pennies down. I see people walking, alive I see them, and I know of the consequences, I know if one of these pennies were to hit just one of them I'd go to jail for manslaughter, but this isn't just any day, and these aren't just any kind of pennies. Today is my day, it is the day I reached the top, where I scaled to a height where I can finally admire the city we live in. Wow!, there's a park over there, and holy moly!, there's diner there, an actual oldschool grease-till-you-stop diner, no way, yes way! Above, high, and mounted with my crotch to the back of your head, with my legs resting over your breasts, and your arms wrapped around my ankles, I see a new world, I am high, yes, I am so out of my mind, yes, and I am in the right place (yes). I think: can't you see how amazing this is, she thinks: can't he feel how heavy he is for something so small. I feel empowered, she feels overwhelmed. I don't ever want to leave, and she is waiting for my decent from the Heavens.
The weight of the world is on our shoulders I whisper into your ear, and you smile, laugh, and lose your balance. We fall, not just from our feet, but we fall off the earth, we float while falling at frightenly-fast speeds into space, there are no stars, just void, and I reach to you, and for some reason, I am fine. You're screaming, and I let your screams fill my ears until I hear the threshold of a piercing pitch. In a violent reflex I grab you by your shoulders, I shake you once, I shake you twice, and I hold you deep and dearly, and with my muscles I tell you, everything is going to be alright.


The truth is, even though your feet are on solid earth right now, we're still falling. We will never be safe. But at least we'll be safer with each other.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 16

(For Alex K (the picture, well maybe the words, but it's really meant for everyone, unlike the picture, it's really only for him, sorry, I'm not being an ass, he just really likes cows, and I think he's really great, in fact, you should check him out, not that it will ever substitute him, I'm just saying), 2010)

Sooner or Later

In time, even the devil gets tired. Imagine working day and night (though I think hell only has nights, and those nights are probably pretty well-lit by fires and stuff, which would appear like day), torturing souls, without end, I mean, that's a lot of work, even with a dark army of spiky red minions. Eventually, even the devil has to take a break, and when that happens, God only knows, but what probably happens is; he half-assly asks of his slaves of eternity to torture themselves for the day, week, maybe but not very likely, month. And at this point, the devil isn't this really scary dude you read about in the bible (or maybe you never read the bible, but you definitely heard a few good stories about some evil shit going down). The devil eventually turns into the worst boss ever, and he seems more human everyday. You start to notice he's also balding, and how he occasionally smiles when he gets your blood in his month, or how he is always looking off through his window to the Aboveworld, holding his head by his palm, endless staring and blowing smoky sighs. Hey, you tell yourself, he's not soo bad after all, and then he beats you with a fiery stick covered in bees, and you go, ouch!, but you live since you're immortal, no matter how hard he beats you, and you live long enough to even forget the devil is the devil.
There will be a day that this world isn't so hard, that sure you're still getting beaten down by demons, but it's not so bad, as you pick yourself up, and continue to live. And in all of this mess you call your life, you reach a point where there is hope, to spite all the darkness and blood-sweating walls that surround your everyday, you are relieved for a moment, and you remember something you forgot all about, you can taste it, and this taste sparks a charge of memory, that's it, you think, that is it, oh yes my boy (or girl), that this is what it feels to be in the good, to feel relieved, and just maybe, you are happy. Filled with jellybeans and honey, with powdered sugar lips that concave to all the stress and torment drooling out of your mouth. You are smiling now, donut feel good? and you tell yourself, yes, it does.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Ghostly About You

(The Genius of Solitude (1836), 2010)

You walked out that door. I left you before you did me. It was nice meeting you too. Walk away. I think I had my hands in my pockets, I was probably looking down, yes, there's my shoes, they're moving now. The carpet looks like it always does, the Rorschach stain tells me I'm always safe, and then the wooden floor panels tell me I am alone again. The music is mute, the phone is ringing, and I can hear fans running air through a machine. I sit down, without words, I look back. Without thoughts, I look back. You're still there.
There is a calm in the wind, it isn't cold. I think of metal twisting in a hot Australian summer, I think of the faces of millions, melting, with wavy heat waves in the air. I think of a time that doesn't exist, where the people are wearing suits and hats, sunglasses with wings, and studded edges. I think of the world moving by me slow, and slowly, with smoke and smog, flashes lasting longer than frictions, and the buzz and vibration of a mechanical monster. They call this home, they call this place haven.
One by one the steel folds back like banana skin, the core is revealed, and inside there are little ant-size people scurrying appliances and papers into holes. I think madness, I think of it all as chaos. I stand farther back, and I see the shapes of things, and what I see first is not what I see last. A face emerges, made of countless people in movement, beams of metal, of cars and trucks passing by, and concrete and shadow. I looked closer without moving my feet towards this odyssey, and what did I see.
The door closes, a couple of leaves enter, and I don't even notice. The sun is right, there is a sudden gust, and a man trips across the street. You are gone.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

You, Creatures of Diars

(Monument, 2009)

A tree will stand where my body once laid. The grass will die and grow and die again where the mount protrudes. The worms will eat, and I will watch the endless changing of the seasons. The ground will freeze and become the harshest wall there ever was, with dirt sharp teeth, cold and icy stings. I can hear the earthdwellers sing, I can hear the marching of feet. They are going somewhere far, and my eyes can't reach. Someone bring me flowers, someone say my name before I forget. Where are those boys, tricksters and thieves, luring girls to kiss upon a field of stones and twisted oak. I want to be robbed, I want to be disturbed. I want those teenagers to jam those rocks songs that curse their world. Saying hell, hell, hell, and bitches be slayed. All this quiet is rotting me tired, all this peace is making me restless. Where are my arms, where are my feet, I want to kick, I want to scream, let me in or let me out! Take me far, burn me good. Spread me dry and send me deep. Say a few words, and spit me out. Burn me memories, and haunt the house I call home. Tell stories of me, twist them with time. Call me nasty, call me dirty. Summon my bones, and tickle my feet. I am disappearing, I am floating to others, within the walls, in transparency, you can't yet see me, but you can't quite forget. When there is chilly, think of me, when there are bumps, call to me and say to fuck off. Just please, just don't forget me dying here under the trees.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

I'm With Stupid

(The Van, from The Road to Montreal, 2010)

Fuck what you've heard. When all of this shit clears out, when all of our troubles are done (if they could ever be undone), then what? This world, this us, these moments, all will fail, all will fall, and where we stand will longer be the point where two points meet to form a bridge, to form an arch, to form a gateway to lands of unforgivable, beautiful, ridiculous moments. Our skin is peeling back, our eyes are red, and our fingernails are black. Don't smell my feet, don't look at me too close, because I won't smell your breath, and I won't taste your hair. You, your disguise is my lust, for ugly is the new beauty, and where perfection comes short, or is never at all, you stand in all your inglory. I hold these fragments high, so that the sun can bath them, and over time they will fade to the bleaching radiation. All of our memories are being forgotten, and the only thing that remains are feelings; detached and faceless. Waking up next to a stranger, who are you. All I know is that I want to be stupid with you ->.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Something I'm Used Ta

We used to call times together infinite moments, nowadays we're lucky to spend any time together. The joy, the thrill, what made it so isolating is now gone, and we're casuals to each other, I know the hide of your back you know the pride of my neck, and that's that. I can dig a hole to China, but what do I do once I get there (don't even know chinese)? I can bike for days and days but eventually I'm going to need a destination. This place makes me feel old, I'm young for God's sake, but I feel old like time. And these times are telling me, it's time for new. The nomad in me says go, the people I see say go, my feet, well, they're gone, so what is left (my heart). I don't know anymore, an apartment full of stuff I leave for months on end and forget about. It is fear, a fear like no other, it is the fear all adults have, it is the settling down, it is the regulation of life, and creating an everyday. There are some folks that are doing what they've been doing their whole life: adventuring (those Joyce's, those Kerouac bums). And what's the real difference between those folks and you and I (unless you're living adventure all the time, but where do you find the time to read obscure blogs) and those go-getters-fo-realzies? Back again to this fear that is faceless, a fear that is undefined and yet we know what it is, a fear that has worked its way into the fabric of our lives, and is the reason why we are planning out our weeks, keeping a regular job, and working full-time to buy things that we can easily forget once we are separated from it.
I'm going to put my foot down, I'm going to say I can embrace change, and I will, and I will take on this fear, alone, naked, confused, and blindly walking forward with no thought and no concern, for the future. And perhaps that is what the fear is, our future, for what ever the hell it is going to be, it is uncertain whether you stay or you go, lose it all, or gain a winning lotto, it's all the same, the difference is nothing, between sitting and standing, moving and chilling out. We all gotta go, we all gotta live, we all have our stories, so why not add some more spice to our next dish of getthefuckoutofhere (and live the rest of your life).

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Monday, September 13, 2010

(documentation of new mask, 2010)

These days my ideas are getting stranger and wilder and wilder the more I seem to get away with. I think it is exciting.

Friday, September 10, 2010

(Untitled Occult image, from Barking Wall, 2010)

My words have been absent, for how long, I am uncertain. For now, there are images.

Monday, August 23, 2010


(Mirror-Mirror (test), from That's So Fantastic, 2010)

Looking from high above, two figures look towards the city that glows with a pulse, the one figure reaches closer to the other figure:
We used to rule this town. Damnit, it was ours. These moments were ours as well. My hand in your hand, that was ours too. And fuck it, my soul, your soul, was once ours.
An airplane crosses the sky, there is a banner attached to the tail of the vessel, and if it weren't too dark to see:
What happened?
A rock the size of Texas is traveling 537 mph towards Earth, it has about two decades to come close enough to Earth for it to be a threat:
(boy sees a falling star and wishes) I hope I find my way, I hope we find our way again.
A light turns off somewhere in the city, someone is crying, and her neighbor is watching her; helplessly, wanting to help out, the watchful neighbor is trying to fit together why the girl from across the street is crying:
It must be her dumb boyfriend, he's a dickhead! It could be a death, I don't really know how to approach people about that, hopefully it's just the boyfriend.
Somewhere far away:
A wave will turn larger, and it will ripple pass a young lad in his father's fishing boat, and it will rush to shore, and turn into a perfect wave. This wave will be ridden by a nobody, he will feel a supreme moment of bliss, perhaps it is the surf bug, maybe he will spend his entire life time searching for that wave, he has an ok job, he has ok friends, he is good at a few things, not great at anything, but that doesn't matter, right now he is riding that wave, that wave thinks it is taking him but he is taking it. And if it weren't for this perfect wave in this perfect weather we've been having, than perhaps this would all fall apart. If we don't have our happiness, we have our end, if we don't have our perfect wave, we have a lifetime of potential encounters. If we pretend we are already halfway there:
The wave dies, the water calms itself again, and the nobody surfs back to shore, walks to his car, brushes off the sand from his board, puts a towel around his waist, get a shirt on, gets in his car, checks his mirrors, looks behind his seat as he starts the ignition, and returns his eyes to the road ahead of him. He tells himself:
It is going to be a good day, and it is going to be a good life. (i just know it)(repeat)
The young man drives off, and the sunset now fills the beachside, couples are walking the boardwalk, they are holding hands, and if there was a camera there would be many pictures taken, but right now, everyone and everything is just enjoying the absolute moment.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 15

(A View Looking Down That Mountain, from YOU BETTER WASH BEHIND YOUR EARS!, 2010)


There can only be one for a few things, but let's not start on that lonely road right now. When there are flat circular stones to be thrown, and you have perfectly calm water that stretches on and on, then one must think if a stone could be so perfect, if your arm's strength to be so perfect, and the wind, and also the pitch of the throw, in a perfect universe. Imagine with me, if only for a moment of your time, if this said stone and your strength, and all other elements came together on something, and that something was put forth, and it passed all the trials, and it just kept going on and on, and on and on, on that journey through a perfect universe. The skies are always clear or overcast, or stormy, if you like things that way, and you can see for miles on end? And what if falling meant you floated softly back to earth, only when you wanted to return. What if the world and the many destinations that you dreamed of were at your finger tips (literally, you hand would close down and shallow the earth whole)? In a world so perfect, what if we all shared something so profound that we no longer fought, that we would listen into the stories of other people's lives and totally dig what they were saying, and that we were just one, one giant blob of flesh and endless connectivity. Being is believing, and knowing is not good enough. We need more, we need our hands to walk for us, we need our imaginations to be reality, and we need to fly, without planes, but with our minds, and jet-packs. We can still get hurt, we can still cry, but we will always smile, not forcefully, nor creepily always smiling, but genuinely and joyfully smiling. Why? Because we are so damn happy, we are good, you are good, we are great, we are grand, we are the world, and so-so-so much more. Can I get an Amen, can we get an Amen!


I Used To Rap

(THE KILLEGAL: A Morbidal View, 2004)

Sometime in July 04' I moved to Canada, and stayed at my cousin's house in Richmond Hill for a month. I'd been writing lyrics for a solo album for two years, and finally had the time to lay it all down. For 16 days straight, I lived half my days in the cold cellar rapping when everyone was asleep in the house, or when no one was home. When I emerged I sat at my computer for hours and hours making beats and putting things together. I was in fiery passion; my work of two years was being completed. Six years later here it is, from the underground, yes, from somewhere deep down inside.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

(i bet you think this story is about you) DON'T YOU pt.II

(Lancaster Trailer Park, from The Road to Montreal, 2010)

In the realm where Pyramid Song plays endlessly -the night fades, the day is melted behind curtains, and there is nothing left to fear. You, your face is faceless, plain and formless, with no expression and memory. I would call you by your name but I am afraid you are a monster now.

I called homies to go out and play. We'd skate the night away, with cuts and bruises, making fun of each other, and stealing our folks booze. Walls would fall that night and the stars seemed that much brighter to my stupid little eyes. I swore I could see the heavens fall.

Mary, that name, calling me back, piercing me in ways only deli meat could be consumed. I wish I never saw you, like so many others. I remember all-night rollerskating and our clothes glowing under black lights. There was Jeanelle, borrowing my "DJ" vest, it was orange, and she made it smell like her for countless days. I wouldn't want to see you now. I still hold the memories we made, higher than you can reach. What age has done to us, you probably have kids now.

Treasure maps of my youth, of Jurassic Park and K2, of snowy adventures and basement stories. How to kill a burglars, how to stop the invasion happening in your house from shady figures. Late night, and seeing the morning light fill my basement window. I remember all the hauntings that went on down in there and yet I decided to move where sounds can't be explained, where books fall, and memories are revisited with musings of fantastic.

Do leprechauns not exist, I was pretty sure they did. They lived far from here, in the fields, in the woods, in the alleys of forgotten streets, in a place that is so old creatures of myth still roam. Holding high my viking sword, I strike once, and another for jollies, I cursed those demons that put rage in my heart, and pity in my spit. I will sleep soundly tonight, I will sleep soundly tonight.

Too much for tomorrow, fall before you stand, can't you see it is all breaking apart. There are moments left and you have yet to finished your dinner, you sit and wait. I can hear it coming, I can smell it too. If you dig deep enough you may hide from it, I buried myself already. Come on, feel the noise, the rumble and shake that gets you going, that dance of savage, the girls are rocking the boys, the girls are rocking the boys. And in a minute we will see what this all means, what it is all for, and in a minute we will all not care anymore. It is going to be wonderful, I can already feel it.

Monday, August 2, 2010

i bet you think this story is about you (Don't You) pt.1

(a title that needed to be illustrated, and a page from my current portfolio, images of The Abandoned Island, 2009)


After they found his remains, they took his house apart, chair by chair, dresser by shelf, and book by book. The cops walked with their eyes down, as they carried away all that remains of my uncle. Eventually that house would be burned down, they'd say it was faulty wiring, but we all knew the only thing keeping his curse at bay was him dealing with it, in that house, and now that he's gone, that house is too.
I went searching for him. I waited twenty years before I was ready enough, and spent years looking. I wasn't always on the road, I ended up staying in a few places along the way for a few years too. I thought by the time I get a clue, it will be too late, I'll be an old man myself. Will my uncle even be anymore alive than he has been after his disappearance? One life will be worth two. And two as one. And one plus one is the loneliest number there ever was.


In the summer, I'll come find you, I will know you and that will be that. I'll talk to you like I spent a lifetime at your side, and that will be fine, because you're talking the same way to me, which only makes it true, we did spend a lifetime together, doing God knows what, in places I can barely imagine.
But right now I see a grand open field, sunk in-between two mountains, and a bay with a sea breeze that blows all the sycamores. I think I'll call you Sycamore, it's a good song too.


I can't remember what I wanted to be when I was younger, I can't imagine what I will be now. Perhaps I'm too afraid, because I'm close enough to something that if I didn't pursue it, then I'll only be giving up. I am not saying it is too hard, I am not giving up, I am simply being, exactly and always, in a center, in an orbit, around the world, in one place, at a time, for a moment, until then, and only until then I will say I am being there, and I am being here, for a while, now, I can say, I have.


It feels like years since I've last seen Thomas, I think these days are thinning out, like alcohol in my blood, I roll with a strange crowd these days, where friends are strangers, and the crimes I do are legal. I wonder if my kid self would be unimpressed at how normal I turned out, I wanted to rob banks and throw it all away, now I'm saving and working full time, I cry to myself, what does it all mean. In a world of double rainbows, I ponder the thought myself, and I am blown away at the portion. Against the grandness of grand, where limit is just a word, and an ever-changing and evergrowing landscape makes the strongest and biggest of men and women feel like single grains of salt. We're all part of one thing, one really big thing, that encompasses everything, and things we will never know. We can reach to the edge, but that edge doesn't exist in the real world, only in our minds.


Lastly, whoever you are, tomorrow you'll see, Sycamore, that this will all fade, that all this is meaningless, and when you see, I hope you understand, it has been years, it has been long since you've last been here, and all that remains is the shadow of where a house once stood. Where memories were made, and where memories were are forgotten, but since you're here, I want to tell you something, I want you to know that those memories, those moments, and that everything that was in the air, in our eyes, and in our words, will be great, or will never happen. What we have here, and what we are left with is a brim thought, on the edge just before falling, and just before flying, and that this moment, right now, is no longer. By then, it will be a sunset that has faded, and now the stars are all that remains, with dreams, with possibilities, and reflections upon a calm sea.

(and if you look close enough you can see the stars in your eyes, I know I have)

Technocolor Magic

(Mammoth, from Work-In-Progress, 2010)

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 14

(untitled, 2010)

The Opposite of Falling

It is what we are once all these layers we carry peel apart and we are left in our flesh, and in the thickest of all, in our bloody truths. It's whether we stay the same once we know, whether the change of being clear and naked, if we see each other as something greater or flawed beyond our ability to repair. Perhaps that is too vague. When you see me with my true flesh, will you remain, and when you bare yourself of the colors and shades of who you really are, will I still remain. There is no answer to that, we either stay or leave, and both have their merit, I mean, after all, everything here is being spoken and done, truthfully. Sometimes the truth about someone can be so severe you become alienated by the once-familar and what lies before you. There is no passage to return to how things were, when things such as love vanish they tend to form into another. This other, is not the same, it is where an end, or death, means there is new life being born. With its first steps, its first sights; everything is new, and the old, that good ole feeling, that person who once was the barer of love is replaced by someone that much more truer. It is in failure we learn the truth. It is in pain we learn pleasure. And it is in forgetting we learn new ways to see our lives.

Where we once fallen, we are soaring, no, we are flying high above, no, it is something that can only come after great grief, pain, and suffering, it is earned, it is real, and it is the truth. It is the opposite of falling.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


(Burrito Bandits (after Content Aware), 2010)

Freddy and I used to smash 40 oz'r on the curb, only after we poured some over for those we once knew, some we loved, some we loved like family, and then we'd take a drink, and throw. Times seemed simplier then, I was younger, and all we did is carelessly move through life. Money was easy, school was bullshit, and it wasn't really hard getting booze or weed. It was when you got the word that this person died, this person you'll never see again, it was only then when you realized how fragile this world is, and it was also the moment you realize that your life up until that moment was not real.
Fast forward a decade later, and the word, REAL, for real, be real, aren't mottos you used to sling around the curb, those philos you throw in rhymes, and say to your homies. Nah, this real is real, it is knowing that you're old enough to buy booze now but you have to pay for it, that you can get weed now, but you have to work for that money. These days aren't necessarily harder than back in the day, because being a kid is hard, there was all types of shit going on, I'm just saying, these days are something else, with a hand flying over my head (nearly crashing into a black sea of hair with the occasionally white beacon). I think these days you have less viable options, and too many choices. It is harder to move, it is harder to imagine and do, it is harder to maintain and control. Life seems to get more chaotic the older you get.
I guess what I'm trying to get out here is that a few years ago I was struck by lightning, it went right through my body and into the ground. It was probably the most anti-climatic moment of my life, and only because I expect to win the lottery right then and there, with my body all stiff and shaken. In a sea, I expected a great white to swallow me whole, but it did not happen. When I took ride across this fine country, I expected to find some purpose to my life, but I didn't. All I learned was how far I can go, and by the time I realized how far exactly I have gone, I realized I can probably go a lot further.
These days I drink too much, and I stopped smoking. Everyday, I get more awkward and I would like to think it is because I'm learning the truth about myself. And as I reach my hand down to crazy kid I once was, and try to hold his hand, to give him a wicked handshake, and tell him FO REALz, he just looks at me like I'm a complete idiot. I think to myself, my job here is done, I'm a grown-up.

I used mumble as a child, and even now I try to speak more clearly, only to fail. I used to lie to my mother when I was young, I lied to her to keep her away from the bad things I'd do. I am trying to be a more honest person, with one word at a time, with each day a new way to speak my mind. That child I once wasn't lost, and he wasn't taken away from all alcohol, drugs, fooling around, and crime, he just was hidden from me until I was old enough to realize how young I still am. And everyday, I grow, only to shrink, and everyday I learn, only to forget. And everyday, is everyday, and everyday is just a part of everyday, and that this day, and that day, and yesterday, and tomorrow will be the day, that is like everyday, but different in every way.


Friday, July 2, 2010

Black Bird Zen

(Light of Divine, from the Road to Montreal, 2010)

What makes me sad is we used to be friends. That there was life between us, in us, with sparks and explosions, and everything was just so damn great. I am full of regret, you are still the one that aches my very soul.
Now-a-days we laugh at failures; people falling face first into danger, or at younglings doing adult things and making it cute and innocent. We've seen it on youtube. I watch about twenty minutes of television a day, and half the time I'm watching ads. I wonder if I'll really be satisfied at anything, or from anyone.
We took this trip years ago to Monument Valley, Jim, Rico, and I think Phil even joined us, but had to meet us there. It took us four days, and we camped along the way. We got so drunk that by the time we got there we were missing our beds, our friends, and wives or girlfriends. Staring at that endless desert made me feel a feeling like we've gone too far, like a bad idea that was taken too far, and that the miles and days between us now and us then, there was no running back, we were already too deep; our hands were dirty with regret. In the mess of mix feelings seeing those red giants just sticking there in the middle of no where and for first time seeing it without a frame, at life scale, breathing there, it was the difference between playing with yourself and being with a woman. It was, for a lack of words, mon-u-mental.
So here was three, four, half-drunk amigos, in the same clothes we have been wearing for four days, feeling dusty and confused, and in absolute awe. Finding a spot we all sat on Rico's bronco and just hit back beers in the dark with the headlights pointing towards those sandy giants. It was fine to be stupid, it was fine to be homeless and smelly, it also fine to say sick and messed up jokes, even if you were the only one laughing. I guess we all reach a point in our lives that we witness a moment that feels like a dream, and this right now as unmonumental as it was, was a fog-glass moment.
Now I'm sure Philip was there, because he brought his rifle and let off a few rounds towards the monuments and barked like a dog until we were all howling to the moonless sky. One of us had some sort of drug and we must've all taken it because I can't remember much after the howling, just waking up in the early morning smelling rough, and having a swell on my forehead.
On the road, there is an endless stretch that goes on and on, where the ground beside you goes so fast that it might as well not be there at all. Everywhere around you, the landscape just seems to frozen. There again, regret, knowing of the days before us, of our journey, and we can either look mindlessly forward, or get lost in thought and escape the daunting nature of traveling the sacred way.
In times like these, I remember a book my friend Thomas gave me back in Dallas. It was a book on Zen and travel, of motorcycles, and about losing it and ultimately finding one's self . I tried reading that book three times before I actually did, and when I did, when that book hook me by my eyelids and skull, it was religion to me. I followed those words in that little book, I still do to this day. A good lesson is never lost, and so on that open road, I thought of my own journey as the same as the journey in that book, I saw my own life as the narrator's, and my own struggles, as well as... ah, you got the point. It is through struggle we become relative strangers, that we can relate to the struggles of others because quite simply, we all suffer, and if you're still standing, then we all struggle. I could understand calling our time a brotherhood, a sisterhood, I could understand how when you see a person fall face first into danger, and how you can laugh, because you're laughing at yourself, and where you've been, and what you've been through, so why not laugh since we weren't laughing when it happened to ourselves. In movies where janitors are secretly geniuses, where they had a hard up-bringing and that Robert Williams character tell him it is ok, that it isn't his fault, it's ok for you and I to cry, because no one is perfect, and no one can handle the weight of this world, let alone their own world on their own. In someway, we all need each other, because we were not born to be alone, we are born alone, yes, I know Nietzsche, but let's not us die alone.
In that book I tried to read so many times, I learned one thing that could well be the key to my own survival. I learned there are things greater than me, you, and everything happening right now, that we, the individual, are small to the big picture, like four drunk men standing before Monument Valley, appearing to be ants to the ant hill, but that hill will remain much longer than us, and it has existed well before us, and that our troubles today are not important to it because it does not effect it. It simply exists, through time it has seen so much that it knows that it will pass, like all time, it is constantly moving, belong our feet the ground moves, and I see a yellow banner blink over and over, I see a black bird fly, and I see what could be a beautiful day just beyond the horizon. What I don't see, for now, and hopefully for a long time, are my troubles, I know they are all around me, but they only exist in a troubled mind.
Now that I think of it, Phil was definitely there, and it was definitely his peyote that we all took that night in the valley.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010


(untitled, from NÖCH, 2010)

Sometimes it's no wonder why my friends seem to disappear. My legs are tight, not the good type of tight you tend to describe an attractive member of the opposite sex or the sex you prefer, but rather the tight that is unhealthy, not good, and really stressing and painful to walk on. I've felt moments in my life where I felt I was going to collapse, and though no one around me knows any better of how fatigued I was, I felt it in every bone and muscle, and cell in my body. I'm tired. I am weak. And I am willing to do anything for something I'm not quite sure is. It was an image, for years it was, now it is more defined, more realistic, less imaginative, and grounded by experience, but it just makes it harder to bare, waking up with a sigh and wondering if this is the day (the day you meet something absolute and everything).
I like getting out in the country because you can see the stars, and you have time to take them all in. I like the sound of nothing but animals in the distant, and the sound of water splashing against rocks. Most of all, I like the sound of waves coming to shore, and the fuzzy noise of salt water bottling up and popping down.
There are things I miss the most, things that come to me when I am sitting, lonely and alone at the edge of my bed, what used to be the edge of my work chair, and before a city that never sleeps until that night, like tonight, where everything is chill. I hold on to these memories, to past loves, to good times, to faces I haven't seen in more than a decade, to all those I put in my best friends list, and to all those I loved, liked, and broken, or had broken me. Age and aging suck, or at least I blame the two for my diminishing memory. The other day I was talking to a friend, and today I talked to another about how the older I get the more awkward I am, and all I have to say is God, help me. Help me be a better person, help me be stronger, help me find someone nice so my folks at home can be happy for me, and for me to be happy.

I would like to say that there is more than just companionship, that there is more to desire than finding this definitive other, but not for me. I am single-minded, putting reponsibility on an imaginary person, a shadow of doubt, and my only hope that one day things will make sense, or at least I'll be fallen enough for them that they could lie me to a calm and comfortable delusion of itsallgood.
At the end of the day, it comes down to living with yourself, however possible in whatever way possible. To grow, to gain strength, and to see as many days, as many good days, possible. It is easier seeing the solution in a singular answer, and easiest to reach for something that doesn't exist but is representional as the answer to all, the ark of convenant, where everything melts down until it is in its rawest form. Back to square-one, our happiest moments, the simplest of times, when each step was giant, and every discovery was fresh.

I look up to a quiet sky and all I see is little dipper and big milky boobs.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

A Little Bit More

(Prince, 2009)

I had enough. So I kicked the kid hugging my left leg with a force that threw him across the floor and into the next room. I washed my foot of urine and left. Two days in the country was enough for me, I was on the fence about the whole thing, Uncle Henri is a crazy fool, and smells, and it comes to no wonder why no one visits him from my side of the family.
With children running a muck in the yard I slammed that screen door like there was no screen door, I stepped down the stairs to the drive way, walked right up to my bike and realized I left the keys in the house. I took off my shoes and tied the laces together and left them on the seat of my bike, and ran towards the woods. The children ran after me with fireworks. Smoke and loud ruckus surrounded me, and the forrest soon laid upon my foot step. Darker and darker I went, louder and louder their menace came. I screamed, and they screamed louder. Pop, POP, POP! Schhhhhhhhrrrrrr...POP! I hated every child at the moment, even the one I used to be. I cut the softness of my feet off on stone and pebble, I ran like the rest of them, and I cried and danced like the rest of them. I cursed everything I knew, I cursed with every curse word I knew, I wasn't going to have it. And soon even the children were cursing, cursing with words I never knew existed, words worse than my own, and when I looked towards them speeding through the trees all around me, they were no longer children but foxes, wolves, and eagles, all with red burning eyes and black fur and feathers. I told myself it was the way shadows form in the woods, that they were still human, they were related to me, but fear would raise and it would consume me.
A gun shot fired into the sky, and I could hear nothing following its sound. The beast children had stopped, and when I looked down to my feet and saw that they had stopped too. I saw the urine run down my leg, and wondered nothing. I hadn't a thought in my mind, as if the piper had spoken with his seductive tone and had taken me with the children. It was my time, as I floated back to the house.
That night I smoked blunts with Henri, the kids would dance around the fire, in masks of their favorite animals, and I would grow to know this place for its magic. Every year, on that weekend, I would return, and lose a little bit more, and every year, on that weekend, I would return, and gain a little bit more. A little bit more.

Monday, June 7, 2010

An Ode to Strangers and Strange Things Doing

(James, Landfill of Maui county, 2009)

Ralph, a friend of mine, had this really good trick where he's accidentally fall on the street, and just lay there for a few minutes saying jokes. The people passing by would first just look at him, and longer he stayed there on the ground the closer they came until they were close enough to ask him if he was alright, but by the time they got there they soon realized he was talking. Since Ralph had their extra attention in this awkward situation they were surprised to hear humor, and when he got up he'd hug them, tell them they were good people, and his father would roll up with the car and Ralph would jump into the car and they peeled off.
I once offered a wrestling match to a homeless person for a few dollars, nothing like bum fights or anything because I have a home, but just to give a man money that was well earned. He just looked at me with his crazy eyes, and stayed frozen for a few minutes. I said I only weigh one-fifty.
Thomas tried that jumping out of the bushes thing once to a really pretty girl, she actually kicked him in the balls, it was awful.
Did I ever tell you the story about my days at sea. I just finished school and I wanted to let loose, change the landscape a bit, and what better way to do all of that than to be out in the open sea. So I signed up to work in a cargo ship, running the rounds to make sure all the freights were at the right temperature, and I'd get to just stand by the starport and watch the endless ocean roll by. It was pretty romantic, but it was also really real, I mean I was watching out for pirates most of the time, but the good sea breeze running through my hair and in my ears brought on a profound sense of being free. I lasted for two trips, the trip to Sidney and back, and that was it, my sea legs turned to land legs again, and I often forget my time at sea since it seems so oddly placed in a live life in a very normal way.
I'm often fascinated at how vast this world is, at the same time I'm also afraid of how small I am. I have friends that go off to all these exotic places, and I'm sure a few of them don't find it exotic anymore since they go all the time. I share a bed between here and Hawai'i, I don't really like mentioning my Hawai'ian connection because I don't like bragging. But most of all, I don't think of it as paradise, it's just a place I go to hang out, to escape the big city, and chill out. If you ask me why don't I live there, well I just say, I'm afraid to. There's some scary dudes there that don't like people like me, picking their nose on their land, I'm not even really sure if it's even close to their land, but they live there, and they seem to know what's up. I don't know what's up, I'm the type of person that once said clouds and blue sky when asked, what's up, nowadays I'd probably say satellites and blackholes.
We're going in circles here, you, me, we gotta get out of this place, we set a time, we were suppose to be gone a long time ago, we lived through quite a lot, and yet we're still young. Some days I feel younger, some days older, I often forget how old I am, who I am, and where I am, as I try to find a place to go pee. Everyday I get older, everyday I have more questions, and everyday I forget more and more. A wiseman once said that in order to learn anything you have to forget. That same wiseman said that it is journey that is value of all travel, not the destination. It's the thing you don't really expected, I mean, you're going that way but you often just focus on where you're going, instead of how you're going. So I say, in a Martin Gaye-ian way, what's going on. Where are we in relation to the stars, and have we really changed from the dreamers we were as children? If the heart becomes a cold and dark place, are you still alive, I'd say wisdom is not to know what not to do but to do it anyways because you know the language of your heart, and if your heart is foolish then be foolish, to be brave is to step first than see what happens, to be wise, yes, to be wise is to know what you feel and touch, but you first have to step forward and do the deed. Are you doing the deed. Let's leave it at that.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Artist Dialogue

(I'm Not There Yet. (Jorge's Last Words), Reminiscence, 2008 - 2010)

I don't write a whole lot about my work, but if you really want to hear it, you'll have to go else where, recently, a nice fellow named, Fabiano Busdraghi, on his lovely blog. Check it out! LINK!

Monday, May 31, 2010

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Fool of a Foolish Thomas Foolery

(Untitled, 2010)

Thomas was a fool, sure of that, he ran around with his pants down, tripped here and there, but took it like a man. He was the bravest person I ever met, and I called him the bear. He ran in circles of friends, he was quite popular, and when he told me he was leaving this rock I had no clue what he meant until the following day.
Two weeks later I received a call from him, he said he needed to be picked up, he was at some gas station, naked and lost. He had been on the news, or at least his face from his mother's photo album, and was reported missing. I never told anyone else that he had the intentions of leaving or rather, disappearing, I felt he wanted mystery, I think I gave him that. I finished my coffee, got in the truck with a flash light and shovel and took off to Nevada in search of my dear friend.
The road was quite, it was moments from dawn but it seemed to take forever. My headlights trailed on and on with a sea of little paired spheres of lights appearing all around the road. It was a little dreamy in the morning fog, the coolness hitting my windows and fogging the frame of my windows. It felt like I was on my way to something great in the American landscape, like Monument valley; a sight never taken for granted, and a place commonly seen as photographs but never quite make it as grand as being there and seeing how ridiculous it is.
The gas station was exactly where Thomas told me it was, with two giant billboards advertising a Indian casino in the opposite way I was travelling. There in the first light was a spark of human glowing in red and orange, lost and wet like a newborn, and cupping his junk. That Thomas I knew too well, he must've been the craziest person at that moment, as I pulled up, killed the engine and steadily approached with my hands waving the side of my hips as if I was about to draw some real western shit. I was confused at the sight, and throughout the whole time I was wondering, what the fuck happened to this fool.
Thomas screamed upon touch, he had pissed himself earlier, and then calmed down a bit after, and screamed again. I laughed and then realized he was serious, and so I just started talking to him in a way a stranger talks to another stranger when one of the strangers is in need of help and the other stranger doesn't exact know how to help so they need some help on how to give help.
In the car, with an extra small work coat on an extra large dude, Thomas stayed silent for the whole way back. The morning light was now settled into a white light scatter and everything that once was spectacular was now gone, it was a normal day. Every once in a while Thomas would turn his head towards me, and stare. I'd look over, and just say what, and he would just look beyond my face and smile. I was getting tired of wondering if Thomas was joking or now at this point, he was the type to get seriously messed up and be serious about it for a moment, and then fade into this foolish character again without anyone noticing and just fool you in a new way. Damn! I got ya again, dickhead.
But that never happened, he just stared out the window, with his cold flesh slowly turning the familiar orangish pink of his former self. We stayed silent for the rest of the trip, seeing the roads interrupted with the occasional driver, and then open and quiet again. Was Thomas really that fargone that he couldn't at least let a fart out and keep a straight face? At points I wanted to kick him out of the truck, he was a hitchhiker, but I had to take care of him. What happened to the Thomas that called me on the phone, did he go out in the desert and do some messed up drugs? The car started smelling like shit so I rolled the windows. I had to get my head right in Thomas' lap to roll his since clearly he wasn't doing anything for the next little while.
Bumps would be hit, the sun would rise, and the stops will be made; for gas, for food, and for pissing and shittin'. The desert rolled by and it was looking like a nice day in Tucson when we arrived to my place. With abandonment we find ourselves with a tool in hand, from a stick to a knife, and the clothes on our bodies potentially the last thing we'll ever wear. Our teeth clinch together, and we let out a good ole GRRRRR! and we become wild. We piss and shit anywhere, and we'll eat anything. I've been in this situation, and you've been in that situation, between you and me we've seen it all; small islands in the Pacific to which haven't been seen since the days of wooden pirates, to lost in the high desert to which folk songs were inspired by. With each time you think to yourself this day and the next are not good days to die, you have to get all the final arrangements just right, and by the time you do that, while surviving in the mean time, you get out of that situation, and soon those thoughts of how to die pass you by, forgetting them to the everyday grim. Back in and back out, it all seems the same sometimes. I haven't lost a lot of hair on my head, but I certainly have a fair share of whites. The ghost of our past is catching up, it will haunt us, say a yes-yes-yall and a boo-who, and who? But never will that ghost harm us, it can kick over that book, turn off and on that light really fast and strobe-like, but it can't touch us. These days I'm beginning to think I'm a wondering in circles, from a desert to an island, to a marriage, to a divorce, I keep doing the same thing, in different situations, over and over, until I'm at the point...


(more elaborate: each time is a further attempt at something not yet perfected not yet realized, upon the moment, with each situation to read the air with a tongue, to taste the uncertain future.)

Momentary Pause

(The Tree, Maui, 2009)

I think sometimes I'm going nowhere but I end up at the intersection without realizing that I fell asleep at the wheel.
This thing keeps going because you keep going, this is a moment I would like to thank you, the viewers, for all your careful eyeing. I'll have some good stuff for ya soon, please bear with me.

Thursday, May 20, 2010


(November 25th, Sphere, Nocturne, 2009-2010)

About a year in the works by now, the folder on my computer called, CONTACT 10, featuring some of my favorite classmates in photo thesis, is now an exhibition on the break from opening.

With a collaborative effort from a fine young and talented curator and recent grad (ocad), Shelby Richardson, we were able to wrangle up an exhibition on the theme of nature.

Works by
Sherri Dawson

This exhibition is also the official release of my newest installation-based work, Before I Die, featuring the completed version of, The Man Who Disappeared, a speaking display case which narrates the last accounts of a nameless explorer before his disappearance.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

To Each Their Own

(Lost In The Fog, 2009)

With stars crashing all around, I wonder how we survived. At first, I wonder how I survived, with a beating heart, and a hand in my hand. I felt lost, yes, buried under the ashes, buried under the rumble. I've become a mole, pale and blind, dirty and homely. An arm attached to a body, a face extends from there, and grows on me. I call it first light. To tell of wonders and such, to speak of things of imagination and dreams is to reach as far as your eyes could. But dreams reach as far as eye lids I tell myself. In the realm of Ifonly, where lingering thoughts dwell, and chance is enchantment. I dare not follow too deep, until I fall, break bone, and struggle to breathe again at the bottom of my well.
In a dark place I call my home, it is easier to live here, it is easier to conform to change, because it is easier to close my eyes and dream. And in time, the rocks and the slim form blankets to my comfort, I forget how to see, and believe there are stars beyond my well. For such things cannot exist, such as her hand still with mine, or sinking ships full of Aztec gold. It is an illusion, with shine and flicker, dancing before desire, I am drunk with my dreams I tell this demon.
I awake cold, and count the bricks that climb to the top. Counting each strain of muscle I see what I cannot, but do anyways. Brick by brick, I ascend. With slips of minor, and slipping a mind, I am sinking already but I push to stop such thoughts as I carry on. Each brick. In that dark-dark, it becomes a lighter shade of black, and detail starts to form before my eyes. I had forgotten my struggle to delusion, I am happy as I climb and climb.
Days pass, my arms are like sticks tapping against iron, my legs like old men doing the hammer dance, and I am surprised at my body, and perhaps my will. And in a moment, and in a scene, I hear a voice which sounds like me, but isn't me who fell down a well. No, it's the me that is still holding on, as he sings, line for line, starting with, and ending with, it is, it is the eye of the tiger; the will to survive.


I tell this story to my grandkids all the time, they used to like it but now they're older, driving cars, and listening to rap music. I try not to scare them away, or lose their attention, I try harder to get them to visit, but I would be lost without my son, my daughter, and my other son, Fredrick. I guess, I guess it is, after all, to each, their own, after all. Can't touch this! (as the author goes off to do the hammer dance)