Rome Wasn’t Destroyed In A Day

Automatic drawing with pastels, done during therapy. Somehow a lot of the blues in the original drawing got lost in the phone camera snapshot, but really, it’s not important because none of it in this case was intentional. Talk, make lines, talk, put down colors. Triangles. I think one of the offices they use there is bugged, but not the one we were in that day.

Sandwiched in between AmeriKKKa burning and a holiday that means nothing to me—certainly not a maudlin inventory of “gratitiude”, not when there are fleeting glimmers to appreciate in every day of the year, even the ones bogged down with the acrid fog of depression or anxiety. Sandwiched between a day of religious fundamentalists and genocide and the real life Hunger Games called “Black Friday” when a blood sacrifice or two will be made to the Gods of Commerce. And thinking tomorrow of making yams for Abuelita, and she’ll likely ask again for me to play my violin for her and once again I’ll literally fiddle while my culture’s corpse burns.

Poking My Cultural Malaise With A Stick

I reject your definitions formed from ignorance

I reject your explanations that “Latina women love” your boundary violations, that it’s our “culture”,  that “freaky chicks will” that “crazy girls are”

Your solipsism, your reassurance to yourself that we know you’re right, we disagree out of “fear” but you don’t live with the guardedness that people like yourself create in your plunder

I reject being told I shouldn’t mind something because you don’t mind it

I reject being told I should be outraged or frightened by something because that’s how you feel about it

I reject ignoring intersectionality. I  reject your SWERF and TERF special. I reject “social justice warriors” who come with 21st century fire and brimstone sermons of academia, rather than social justice

I reject “culture warriors” fighting to uphold a culture that is empty, repressive and anti-intellectual

I reject where this is all headed

Tomorrow Night – Kama Rupa


Eric is playing tomorrow night with Erik Proft’s project Kama Rupa at The Acheron in Brooklyn. Kama Rupa gigs don’t happen often, so try and catch this one if you can.

The event is also a record release for Vorde, and other acts are Drowning The Virgin Silence and Haethen.

Last night was the release party for the new Cult Of Youth album, “Final Days”. While not all the contributing musicians were there, those who were, (and that includes Eric) were called up on stage at the end of the set for a champaign toast. I was so proud of him. :)

Art On A Holiday Show

I promise not to put anything holiday themed in! Well…unless it’s Krampus cuz he’s fly like that. Or maybe some misfit toys.

So anyway, I’m flipping out in a there-may-be-new-blood-art-before-the-night-is-done way because I only just now saw James Sturm’s comic “The Sponsor”. That it could elicit such a reaction should only be taken as complimentary…it means the piece succeeds as art in a way that Kickstarters can’t measure. Some people are reading sexism into the work, because it’s two male artists discussing the success of a younger female artist. I don’t really go to that because the mediocrity who bought her way into a brief flurry of hype in the past and gloated to me about it regularly was also a woman. So while I’ll discuss gender politics in lots of things, this isn’t one of them. It’s also, on my part, old stuff, Qlipphotic bad tapes running on dross-stained, dirty felt heads. Because I’m not in that place really anymore, I’ve got enough to do creatively, and a lot of it doesn’t even center around basic survival! But a one-page comic story that evokes those emotions can put me right back into that place of hardship. Now THAT’S art.

Also, Pitchfork has put out an advance stream of Cult Of Youth’s forthcoming album, “Final Days” which Eric and other guest musicians have contributed to, in a very intense recording session.

There will also be a release party coming up this Thursday at Tres Pecos, for more info check out the event page:

5/31/11 La La Land – Postal At The Post Office

My beliefs about a culture of fear and passivity have increased about 10-fold since the events in this comic, sad to say. My goal is to conquer my personal fears and phobias both rational and irrational. A highly ambitious goal for a human, I know, particularly one with anxiety disorders. But doing so would be for the better. There’s too many people, from abusive personalities one might interact with to media, government, and the like that are depending on fear to control us.

Anatomy Of A…

collage on paper.
  I’m lost on the spectrum of socio-political ideology in this country, except for the fact that I know exactly where I am. But where that is won’t neatly fit where others would like it to be. In our last episode I outraged the “social justice warrior” (in which social justice mainly boils down to nitpicking over semantics) contingent by having the audacity to speak up and say I’ve heard the word “bossy” applied to men as well as women, and was not about to be silenced by it. (Not that I get called bossy, really. Plenty of other things, including “spicy” and “fiery” more than that. But who gives a fuck?) Going by what my stats page says, some of ‘em are still hate-reading over here. Nice to know my hiatus didn’t deter them.
  Tonight? I’ve bothered a bunch of rich white transplants, friends of a friend, or clientele, can I really say? Hear hear to the small independent shop owners. I stated that I’d most certainly experienced harassment on the street from upper class white men, so much as any other kind, while they were all trying to maintain that this is only done by poor brown people. They didn’t take kindly to hearing that yes, it happens. I noticed an interesting defense being invoked repeatedly by the rich white kids though — well, if you find projection and speculation interesting. They kept insisting that rich white men were all good and above perving on women, but other men weren’t, and kept insisting that anyone who didn’t agree was simply “afraid” to say so. Ultimately, in this very solipsistic defense, there was nobody that disagreed with their worldview. Only people who were afraid to admit it. So there you go. Racists who claim to be mind-readers. Both types, the SJW’s and the reactionaries who talk as though their racism/classism is something new and daring, are two unaware sides of the same shiny, high-market value coin. But only one side seems to need to believe that their view is the only one so badly, that they’ll try to convince us all that any dissenters are just lying out of fear.
Or maybe they just know that fear is such a powerful control mechanism for so many people, it’s hard to imagine life without it?
Pencil drawing of a plague doctor mask done today in art therapy group. Would like to do a whole art series revolving around modern plagues, Eric is thinking possibly as an Astral Knife project.

Hallucination vs. Vision (I Really Don’t Care)

 Today I was finally able to get a scanner that is compatible with Linux, and configure it in just two hours. I don’t know why it looks soft focus though. I scanned this at 1200 resolution. I’m sure you’re riveted to know that. So here you have it, another “hallucination”/vision-based image, another pandrogyne figure, but so much more than that. On the other hand, “hallucination” implies things aren’t really real because they’re not perceived by everyone in Assiah-level, hard world reality. Ultimately though, I just like the way “hallucination” sounds, a roller coaster word that makes me think of “imagination” “hallowed” “lucere” “lux” “luz” “lucious” “sin”.

Mailer Daemon

#inktober, plus trying to get the idea flow going for this piece…it’ll be mixed media, ad it’s for a book cover…but I want the piece strong, overall. No, those postage-stamp sized Gunter Brus images aren’t part of it. I just glued them in my journal.

I try to be productive. I try to be productive. I try to be productive.

Is the sin wasting time or the shame tied in

with this incessant need for self-validation

in proving I got something done, not

a couch potato mouth breather

fallen back into fugue state

depression hours days

weeks lost before you

know it self care stacked

against programmed disdain?

I know in part I’m compulsively making up for lost time, due to my mother/stepfather’s non-artistically-oriented life decision making processes when I was a child, and later in my life, my own self-sabotaging self-medicating self-destructive dysfunction. Which is only an “artistic temperament” when it’s backed up with talent and vision.

I sank into a pit of despair, a sense of failure the other day when I didn’t hear back either way from a gallery I’d gotten an open submission call message from. Beating myself up that because I need to wait for my next check to get a scanner that works with this new Linux thing, I sent my submission as a digital snapshot, it was that or nothing, so unprofessional. such unprofessionalism didn’t merit a simple yes or no answer. About 2:30 in the morning after the registration deadline, I got one of those “mailer deamon” emails saying the thing had bounced back from their system, never even been seen. I really need to chill the fuck out. Take a pill. No really I do need to take a pill, it’s time for my nightly medication. Here’s something I saw today:



(howls of rage at moon’s reflective



(a dogcatcher swathed in velvet and



(whore in white starch knifes whore

in stilettoes; )


(she’s buried somewhere near the

edge of page 11. an 8 lined



(just the ones in the streets who are self-

aware; the rest all think the game brings

them theirs.)(someday.)


(the dogs lap at poisoned meat in the alley,

the crustaceans yearn to crawl back to

the sea.)


(dogcatcher licks hisher lips in anticipation

clutching a blinding veil a snare)


(or even if they are, the populus too

ensnared can’t remember how to see

it. )


(Dogcatcher-saboteur to memories of this


Cult Of Youth interview

Here is a Vice interview with Sean Ragon of Cult Of Youth about their forthcoming album “Final Days”, which will be released stateside in November. Eric is one of an additional ritualistic percussion ensemble that created sounds on the record.

Eric and Sean have also played together in Future Blondes and Missing Foundation.


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