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.
Thanks to Ruthie and Manufactured Dissent for doing this interview with me! It’s a great art site too, worth going through.
Originally posted on Manufactured Dissent:
Hometown/ Current town: NYC (Hell’s Kitchen) / NYC (Brooklyn)
Bio: I was born in Hell’s Kitchen New York, when that was a thing that could mold you…these days I feel like me, my
husband, our friends, we’re going extinct and I shrug and just keep making something out of whatever will make a mark or a sound. When I was young it was because it was there. now it’s kind of equally because it’s there and so am I.
Upcoming projects: Working on a piece for a show in Chicago in September. It will be at Sideshow Gallery and will benefit an animal rescue charity called One Tail at a time. Also some friends have told me this week about things gestating they want me or me and my husband involved in, be it film scoring, comic festivals, everything probably is too in a gestative stage to really get into much detail though.
Select links: A couple short…
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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.