I found this crinkled as hell in my backpack and forgotten. I’m not going to finish it. I don’t see a reason to.
Eric says this is “Harmony with green hair”.
In the past few days we were accosted by an elderly European man in a yellow leisure suit and Panama hat complaining about our tattooed skin and maintaining the beauty of the white race or some bullshit like that. Flippantly I told him that I wished I came out darker like my father’s skin. (Most of the time that’s true, and other times I like being a ghosty mosca en leche). I thought it would piss him off, like those weird ranty emails my uncle (mother’s side) used to forward from far right newsgroups about miscegenation destroying America.
Instead, the fucker blocks me so my back is to the shaft of the disability elevator in the subway station. I can feel his breath on my tits. I’m lovely, he says, and I can remove my tattoos, my dreads, learn to dress and behave better. I can assimilate and be brought into better things.
I can be gracious about being hate-fucked and debased.
I miiiiiiight get rewarded. But that’s doubtful.
Eric reaches his right arm out and I take it and he sweeps me past the man and I press against my husband with kissing and smiles. And we limp off together as the old man says something else inaudible and we don’t look back, mixed chicks fucking cripples and getting matching tattoos about it to destroy white America.
I posted this track on the last night of my having insomnia… before I started a new set of meds that left me barely able to stand up, at least for the adjustment week. And some of the musicians out of Texas were coming through Brooklyn…Eric was there to let them stash some bags at our haunted coffin factory and go to lunch and Catland and visit with Sean at his record shop…meanwhile I have to take care of Abue. Today that means collapsing on her couch as she dozes of in her chair, and periodically being woken up by blaring Spanish talk shows and checking if she needs anything.
This doesn’t refresh me enough though. I meet up with everyone at Silent Barn still so drugged out I can barely stand up, especially since my knees are wobbling and buckling erratically under me. I’m actually kind of walking like Eric now! What if this medicine leaves me that way? The romantic part of me thinks it would be one more thing we would become alike and symbiotic in. The pragmatic part of me thinks we’d have to come up with a new way to get the laundry cart up and down the stairs in the building. I was also worried that people might think I was withdrawn, sullen and standoffish…and these are people I don’t feel that way toward. But everyone was understanding. Sean and Richard were nice and let me sit in a chair at the march table, and I was able to take things in that way. I congratulated them in person on being recently married.
So it was Bob Bellerue, Monica Sanchez and Dan Miñoza performing as Serpentine, Sean Matzus – A Week of Kindness, Sam McKinlay – The Rita, and Richard Ramirez. All tight sets. The next day Monica wanted to get authentic New York pizza, which we did, and then we all went to the Tom of Finland retrospective down in Soho. He was quite the draftsman.
Also I think this image shows he had a good understanding of politics and corporate capitalism.
This story is in Platform Edge Issue 0. I made a bunch for Pete’s Mini Zine Fast, and now that that’s done, I’m coloring it and putting it online, with the rest of the Platform Edge stuff at Tapastic.
Last night was devoted to work on a harsh noise concept piece about Guantanamo and torture. It’s horrific enough to drain us both to gray, to mildew, to sludge. Deep dreamless sleep follows, heavier than I’ve had in weeks.
Legendary underground filmmaker Flame Schon has done a visually meditative piece to “Lonely Metal At Dusk”, check it out:
Flame has been making films since the 1960’s. Her film “Dope” includes a super-early performance of Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd, along with appearances by Vali Myers, Geno Forman, Donovan, Caroline Thompson, and others. She also made a feature documentary on Ira Cohen, and a thoroughly enjoyable series of shorts called “Daughter of Dada”.
Some of her more current works can be watched online.
Sad for no reason and it’s like jellyfish tentacles prodding at my sternum solar plexus but at the same time something to it is very beautiful. More of a feeling of depth and beauty than a specific thing I see or hear.
Sad Satan I don’t have the attention span to get through your tedious monochromatic game for the sparse reward of creepy pictures scattered here and there that I could probably find in any number of true crime/murder zines. But I like putting this walkthrough on in the background for it’s sound collage alone. Though the Manson samples drag on a little long.
Apparently it’s surfaced that there’s a dark web version with a lotta DO NOT WANT in it.
That was my protest when Dad came by to relieve me of caring for Abuelita today. And offered his opinion of my razor blade necklace. How many years have you had to comment on this??? “I just like sharp objects and endorphins.” Also I’m an aging punk, but I left that part off. Why state the obvious?
Him: “People used to wear them to cut coke. They’d have gold ones made.”
Me: “GOLD razors? Posers.”
I recall some zine in the 90’s that, for shits and giggles, ran one of those Penthouse letters the zinester had cut out. The letter, probably typed one-handed, was about an alleged freaky sexual encounter the letter writer claimed to have with a riot-grrl who had a solid gold navel ring. What horseshit.
My “How I Quit Crack” t-shirt didn’t elicit any response, however
A knife a fork a bottle and a cork. That’s the way you spell New York.”
Thanks to Joseph Bone for shooting this. Even if Part 1 ends right as Eric is taking off his shirt. :p
Also great that night were Breathing Problem, comprised of fiances Rustey and Emilia. Apparently the night before they caused quite a controversy. Except by “caused a controversy” I mean they did a consensual BDSM performance and butt-hurt some sheltered collegiate 18 year olds, the kind who like to lecture everyone and everything on why they’re “problematic” and need a “trigger warning”.
I know I’ve talked before about my indifference to trigger warnings, despite my PTSD. But right now I’m frankly a bit pissed. And I’m not the only one. Look, it’s been acknowledged that people have different coping methods. For some of us the crystal-bath-with-the-aromatherapy-candles route doesn’t quite do the trick. (Not that I don’t still wish I had a bathtub rather than a structurally compromised shower stall. It was sacrificed in the war with the Evil Hippie Cult.)
Some of us make art. Some of us make art that might be considered extreme. Some of us sublimate pain in the service of a fulfilling game. The one where you’re fullfilled at the end of the day, according to Depeche Mode. Some of us self-medicate into oblivion. Some of us turn criminal. Some of you can’t tell the difference between turning criminal and all that other stuff I said. And so in the name of “progress” we see people embracing an almost Victorian attitude of women being wilting fragile flowers unable to handle even the slightest bit of negativity without needing safe space smelling salts. So-called allies who effectively wish to silence the survivors and sufferers they claim to advocate on behalf of. Why are trauma survivors who choose to express things outside the proper political narrative attacked while over in normie-mainstream-culture-land people like Roman Polanski , Bill Cosby, and the now maggot-eaten putrefied Kim Fowley get away with abuse for decades?
No no forget them. Apparently there are women out there claiming to do extreme or dark art of their own volition, AND THEY MUST BE STOPPED. Because women can’t POSSIBLY like that kind of stuff. They need “safe” spaces and positive role models at all times.
The kicker is I got into feminism because it offered an alternative to this notion that what’s between my legs means I have to be helpless and afraid. Yet in the past few years I’ve come to feel like I get thrown shade in some quarters because I’m not helpless and afraid all the time. Because I was a multiracial New Yorker before I was a feminist. To the Right of me are people saying I’m “overreacting” if I refuse to be mistreated, to the Left of me are people questioning my integrity because I refuse to be afraid of the people to the Right. And you all wonder why I’m so snotty and think so much is so stupid!