Sitting with an arm full of play piercing pins, eating ice cream and having a likely unwarranted artist fit. Feeling at once languid and vitriolic, a Queen Bee and a paranoid sentinel hypervigilant against saboteurs.
The lateness of the hour, the stillness of the space around me wraps me in a cocoon. Silver permeates every pore and mingles with violet, taunting melotonin. Even in insomnia the sleep of reason comes.
Acrylic on canvas, in which s/he encounters an otherworldly plague doctor.
I gifted this one to Joe Coleman for his birthday Sunday night. It was the first social thing we’ve done since Eric came home from the hospital. Not like us, or Tommy and Veronica were raising the roof exactly.
After a satyr danced a sparkler routine to the Total Coelo song “I Eat Cannibals” (which I hadn’t thought of in years but now need to hunt down an mp3 of) two burlesque girls popped out of a giant pink cake to gyrate and spank each other, after which a much tastier and stranger set of mint chocolate cakes were brought out, which Joe called “communion”.
The latest I’ve had is existential conversations with my Parisian friend. (technology is wonderful that way. I can’t get behind all the grandstanding about how social networking is Alienating Us All.) “Safety is an illusion”, she says, and I’ve always tended to think so too. “Peddled to us by people who want us to feel afraid of losing it.” I’d never thought it that far through, but I think I agree with that too. She’s walking through the locked down terror-struck city, because she does not wish to submit. To ISIL, to fear, to whatever. I’m happy to hear from her alive, and to hear these things, remotely, an ocean apart. It takes me back. To the day when it was my own city under terror siege and I roamed the desolate streets. At one point I stopped square in the middle of what would have been a busy 34th street intersection at any other time. All was still and silent and all the way south I could see the smoke pillar rising to the sky where the Towers had been. These are things we can describe with words and images but only when we’re communicating with another person who’s gone through something similar is there that feeling of “yeah…you totally know what it’s about”
Safety is an illusion. Never submit.
The week and a half prior to this I lived my life in a nightmarish Trevor Brown painting come to life. Probably due to spending most of it sleep-deprived and in a hospital. And it turns out that the terrorists, serial killing rapists, abusers, stalkers, and anyone else who has twisted me up with PTSD in this sad veil we call life has NOTHING on abject terror compared to this. At least not when you’re watching your soulmate, your psychic wedlock, being wheeled away for emergency surgery because he fell against a metal cart and broke two ribs and shattered his spleen. And he’s basically drowning from the inside. And if he’d tried to sleep off the pain just a few hours more he’d be dead.
After the doctor told me he’d pulled through the surgery he led me to the ICU unit. It was the middle of the night and dark. Not quite a section for visitors really, but I sat quiet and huddled into a chair, and holding Eric’s hand. The monitors, attached to human beings, their lives in the balance, gave off different tones that created an eerie song.
The first two nights I had to clear out at sunrise, as it was uncertain what the day staff would think of this. I didn’t want to cause trouble for those who were being so cool as to let me stay by Eric’s side as much as possible, so I did. On the third day they moved him to a semi private room, where we were able to have other visitors and I made a sort of “bunker” putting two armchairs together so I could sleep at his side. We jokingly called this “Astral Knife’s Bed-In For Social Plague”
We even made friends with our hospital bunkmates, an Italian poet/professor and his wife.
So now we’re home. There’s still a lot of wound aftercare and recuperating, and I still feel like I haven’t quite caught up on the sleep I missed. But dammit, we’re still here.
Viral video star Pizza Rat could be the most Quintessential New Yorker that ever was.
So of course s/he deserves a WHOLE comic anthology in his/her honor! What ratty-rat doesn’t? (BTW, I’m inclined to think Pizza Rat is a girl given the lack of super-obvious boy rat accessories…ask my to show ya a picture sometime.) I’ll also tell you what else I think about Pizza Rat, along with several other cartoonists and comic artists, in the this forthcoming anthology, just needing to be funded on Kickstarter here:
or by visiting whoispizzarat.com
Who all’s in this? Well, there’s me, my fellow HO12’er Cheese, and, well…here:
Who Is Pizza Rat? – The contributors
Each writer and artist was given just one page to tell their story – after all Pizza Rat only had 14 seconds of video to tell her (his?) story!
- Amy Chu (Girls Night Out)
- C.E.L. Welsh (CLUTCH)
- Eric Grissom (Dead Horse)
- Matt Little – discoverer of Pizza Rat!
- Clayton Henry (Uncanny X-Men)
- Valentine De Landro (Bitch Planet)
- Rafer Roberts (Nightmare The Rat)
- Sean Von Gorman (Toe Tag Riot, Pawn Shop)
- Kelly Williams (The Cabinet)
- Matthew Dow Smith (Dr. Who, Hellboy)
- Neogi Devaki (Curb Stomp)
- Carol Holsinger (Bardog)
- Monica Gallagher (Part Time Princesses)
- Kelly Phillips (Dirty Diamonds)
- Cheese Hasselberger (House of Twelve)
- Danny Cruz (Ghostbusters)
- Claire Folkman (Dirty Diamonds)
- Alitha Martinez (Batgirl)
- Jenny Gonzalez-Blitz (Occupy Comics)
- Christian Jacobs (The Aquabats)
Astral Knife’s latest. Something of a concept we’ll be toying more with now and again. Dementia Praecoxia is a demiurgic pandrogynous being who has gotten lost in a storm…
I might also do some visual work about this.
In the past week I may have both suicided and resurrected my career this weekend. Completely contingent on what I’ve allowed into or refused to bring forth from that bloody
crucible more anatomically known since the days of Kemet as the Holiest of Holies, the Sacred Tuat…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
I guess when a blood moon brings out the blood in a schizoaffective art devil all Hel breaks loose.
So today it finally happened. I had to get glasses.
What I’m currently re-reading is Les Chants De Maldoror and kind of laughing myself silly through the nihilistic pomp. This family is all so pleased with themselves because they’re all so wholesome and holy and perfect, and all Maldoror does is walk by their house. Doesn’t even knock, or look in the window – nothing. Just passes by, and that’s enough to get them so worked up that what if their little bubble of smug doesn’t last forever that they all end up killing each other.
Maldoror is something beyond a mere human. I’m not sure what that is, but it’s comedy gold. And he’s got a stable of sandpaper strong sharks, which has gotta be at least a notch up from David Cameron’s cold dead pig.
Les Chants de Maldoror by Jacques Houplain (1947)
P.S. THOUGH : Even when I’m finding it funny, don’t get me wrong, it’s still lovely to get lost in the verses. Writing like that is like swimming, which seems fitting since he focuses on the ocean so much.
“The Prophet of the Peacock-Quill
Hath drunk God’s Blood from out the Cup
Of Iblis and the Blessed Few
That with Eve’s brood refuse to sup.
Ye Children of fair Lilith born,
Come tread the Path of Blame and Scorn,
For you, from Hell, have fallen … Up!”
– From “Qutub” by Andrew D. Chumbley (1995)
What if I had it
What if I had the gun
In my possession
What if I had the gun
The gun my friend had
The gun she used
After the night they coerced her into the back room
With that high paying Very Important Client
the same way I had been the year before
Baby wipes and filmy gauze all angles poking through
Where did she get it? Where has it gone? That gun
After she put it in her mouth and said No More
What if I had the gun she used
To put to the face
Of every smarmy bloviator
Saying sex workers can’t be raped.
You need to be shipped to a gallery in Chi-town yet the new frame was poorly assembled and I’m transmogrifying it into a gauze and epoxy thing. Cursing myself for not finding a frame at a junk store like I usually do before art shows, remembering I went to a few and there was nothing.
We celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary this week with gear, gougers, and hookahs. It was lovely.