Meat Robes...

...Mind in Meat Robes...We have a theme.

Just so you know I am wearing my new disguise
and observing the intoxicating lameness.

One must research.
It really is gross, though.

Grab the choice illusion.
Ride the streamline.

Beyond the system is
the art of play.

You can't even read this...

a fragile airy thing inside meat robes (simple as we are) and 

toxic collaboration.  The purity hunters, basking

in the glory of being correct, aim themselves directly

at those lizardly old fucks.  And thank God.  Or whatever.

Someone has to but it seems like odious journeys for 

small change and I can't for the life of me 

believe the best road to change are the ones

you are filtered into.  Just my guess as far as power-plays probably go(the alliteration was an accident, the editorial choice of leaving it, intentional).  

To put it another way:  Make art without permission.

To put it another way:  Play life as you like it.

I'm learning as I go here, and what comes out is what comes.

Spontaneity, or something like it, stay.

I sleep strange hours.  Or, better said, I awake at strange times.

It has to be dealt with.  Perhaps I'll seek medication or 

a more balanced lifestyle.  Then I can be better and more 

effective.  It'll be great, I'm gonna be a go-getter.  Or I'll take pleasure 

in what is.  Read some Li Po.  Kerouack, "Scripture of The Golden

Eternity".   

Many translations of the name of 

Buddha.  

The Named One.  The sitter.  The Quitter.  The Ready One.  

Another paraphrased gem (watch out for paraphrasing...One

can start spinning words across words until the whole idea

is fucked into incomprehensibility, never mind locatable in form) Telling a man

to be pure is like telling water to be wet.

(I couldn't even read it, I just made it 

straight into mind activity, a swirl of

arising ideas wrap the swirl of past

ideas, none of it me, all of it mind

all of it me, none of it mind).  

Make notes. 

Surf porn.

Study castration cult mythology.

Start new art projects.  

Smoke marijuana.

It can get weird.

It is only

Isness.

The middle of the night is good.

The early morning is good.

Would you rather be alert and focussed on 

your own project at 3 am or well rested for work

at 8?

I know what I've chosen.  

There are so many issues to be dealt with. 

There is no where to go and nothing to do.

Each piece is a mysterious event.  A mystic stroke of luck.

Is Is meant to be.

Some new imagery:

The devils at the flea market.

I've started a collection of a certain 

type of Native literature.

Sunday afternoon in the yard.

Again.

It's getting slightly loony and 

finally interesting.  

Playful.

And Faster.

MindFormImage-WorksInManyWays

The landscape above.  Plan for the future.

This is a negative image of an ongoing sculpture

project called, "Rock Skull Altar".

That one is upside down.  Oh god, the shame.

...and incomprehensible by nature I might add. 

Portrait of the Artist.

Resist the culture of intoxicating lameness.

A gift.  -

Resonance

Okay, it's on.  There are horrible stories loud and clear.  You're a beauty with nothing to prove.  The goodness is out there.  I really don't know about this day job shit.

Been out a lot, investigating history and tradition, momentum, "work ethic",  making art crime and conceptual strategies.

It's good.  The next bit will get fresher and warmer.

I've got to figure out how to get imagery from my Android phone onto this blog.  All the new work is on that sucker.  

Here's a poem for you:

that one is 

a fun 

game

I can't bring a 

thought 

that 

crystalline on 

purpose 

ever

the sense making

machine 

confounds

flounders the 

flesh

boat

well, ah, 

a good

try

Make more art faster, please. 

The thinking will get more orderly as I get here more often.

The massive confusion

Working on...
as well as...
So, I'm not totally asleep at the wheel.

Also interested in letting you all know about an ongoing project
for post post-modern male self-awareness that an old friend of mine has
developed and is presenting in school districts across British Columbia.

This individual has assisted and guided me through open dialogue and
heartfelt personal nourishment on more than one occasion.  This blog will
develop over the next while into a wider exposition on gendered conceptions,
fucking, beautiful fun, the war for self in the mass age, the onwards and upwards,
philosophy of gender, music, art, masturbation, actually I don't really know.
I just know that I'll be staying on it regularly from here on in and the self promotion
shit will become far less important than the SHARING and communication
of thought.

I'll jump ship with a poem:

Ass First

Dump these thoughts without even

reading them.

Stuff my leftover flesh in the 

sweet brown clay.

Buck up some rounds

and ignite all three of us.

If anyone ever asks, kids, just tell

them, "He was born

ass first, lived with his head

up his ass, and he is

ascended yet

again." 

Returning...

...Haven' hit this shit for awhile.  Nice to see you all again.
I will put together a collection of fun links and put them all together soon.
Bundle it all up with some new art imagery and, you know, Bob's your
fucking uncle.  Hi-ya!!!!!!!!

Lately...

Scarab beetles, vertebrae,the eye is lifted from an Austin Osman
Spare sketch in a friend's book.  Can you find the
little temple guardian?

 ...I've been painting up guitar cases.  It's pretty fun for me.

This one above was done for Jodi Peck.

She's making new music.

This is the case for a six-string bass.  

I find it hard to play.  I get lost, play

the wrong string.  

Here's a dose of...

                         ...Something or other.  A little piece of writing.
                                  Older thing.  I try to just let them fall out, you know.
                                     The ugly censor raises it's spectral head often enough,
                                                               any of you who've tried it, know.

                                           Read this.  Go and bring something
                                                                             you love into
                                                                                  existence.

                                      Let the exploration to become wetter,
                                                             nastier, more full of joy.

                                                                         And good luck.

Further Manifestations of EyeAlone

The temple guardian, inverted and angry

Prayer, Evocation, Arising


And that gently cold-hearted, enormous

manifestation of the Suchness eases

in, plump lip barely moving, "this is it, this is 

what we get, naked and indechiperable 

still, hot-headed children of the sun 

such as we are, you, with your tongue 

fresh off my clit, juices still in your beard,

a face that smells rich of pussy and 

me, now certain.  The performance anxiety and 

whatever else trailing behind us like the sweet 

peace of history that it is."

"Maybe things will become that much 

more magnificent still.  I can see it because 

at this point life still contains this strange waiting. 

This strange untimely nakedness.

This uncomfortable exposure, but 

that is the nature of language and the 

nature of trying.  If you can't leave things behind then 

you can't find the future and you realize now, way too late, that your head 

isn't on straight and never was and that it is only that foolish notion, 

that such a thing is possible,

that sent you tumbling into this wet mess in the first place.

But, but you are getting out of it.  You see it for 

what it is, simply a spiral who's direction you get to control, who's 

sensitivity you are the master of, and you can embrace whatever you 

need to.  You can leave all those useless whispers of morality that 

have ruled you behind. You can shake your sweet ass in the face of 

the law because all they can do is punish you now, You've stepped beyond 

humiliation and left behind every part of that tired symphony.  You have 

turned into gold.  All it took was this.  All it took 

was the complete crushing of everything you held 

dear.  The total annihilation of your own sense of meaning.  All it took was a 

language so barbaric and open 

you had to stagger silently and empty-eyed between the useless 

void and the cosmic chatter.  For a really long time. You 

have mastered the empty ambiguity

and are now cutting the cords.  I want your cock. 

I freed you in a distant whisper, in a voice that promised you

the fucking mother of all line breaks.  I got you past every device

 you understood and now you are finally palpable.  You're lucky I like 

it rough because you have what some would call 

a rape aura but, context considered, I think it's beautiful.  I call it the perfect 

level of restraint, a contained violence in a culture

at war with itself.  I call it a sweet view of the moist hereafter, that doesn't 

exist.  I'm quite sure there is an applicable Missy Elliot quote but I 

have no idea what it is and furthermore, I don't really care."

Then she cupped my balls in her 

smooth left hand and tickled them 

with her fingernails.  Amen.  

The temple guardian (Eyeless Manifestation)

Truck Stop Erotica, coming soon
to The Deep Sick Wonderful store