Tibor Monster Snack

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India Ink and brush for this one.

Last night me and Eric somehow managed to make it to two different book readings in two different boroughs. (I guess we know a lot of authors.) The first, for Ed Hamilton’s Lords Of The Schoolyard, took place at the new NYC branch of Chicago’s legendary Quimby’s , which opened in the past year out in Brooklyn. Though I’ve never actually been to Chicago, basically anyone who spent the 90’s interested in any aspect of underground comix, zine culture, post-apocalyptic independent press, ReSearch etc had heard of the place, along with Atomic Books in Baltimore.

Then there was a reading by Curt Weiss of his biography of Jerry Nolan at the Delancey. On the walk over to the J train we cut through some film shoot, it looked like it was for The Deuce or something like it–where the side of an old building was done up to look like a Times Square peepshow with pink and red neon signs glaring XXX and NUDE GIRLS INSIDE as actors dressed as bagmen with shopping carts were being positioned by the crew. An old style yellow cab drove up and into place. No one stopped us and we didn’t stick around to see what they would do next. But as someone who spent her early years walking across the real Deuce and Times Square to go visit family, the word home flashed through my brain briefly as I took in the scene.

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The Playa vs. The Witches Of Suicide Island

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“We’ve seen your kind around here before…BRAH. How do you think we ended up on Suicide Island in the first place?”

“But as long as we’re all here, what the hell. Let’s play a game (giggle teeheehee)”

I was really into experimenting with different kinds of ink pen textures, particularly colored gel pens here.

Part of me wants to buy a set of different color inks to see what I can do differently with them than watercolors, and another part that sounds like my Dad tells me that we live primarily on disability and have already been working on ways to budget better as it is. (no shit, if you could hear in my mind, you would really hear that dialog being said in a voice that sounds like my Dad. Also, you would hear white noise and sine wave)

Yesterday me and Eric & some friends caught the show up at Museo del Barrio of Belkis Ayon, a 20th century Cuban printmaker who’s work involves the mythos of a patriarchal secret society, the Abakua, and the one female figure in the mythos, who is a transgressor and rebel of sorts. So needless to say, Cuban, magickal, rebel girls, and an eerie black and white aesthetic–yeah, I’m pretty much all over her work.

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11.4.2017

 

Dementia Preacoxia topped by the window to the soul (less).

This was actually done on the first day of Inktober. Today me and Eric messed around with some noise apps, our MASF SCM, and a Crank Sturgeon Depth Change Gamelan. It was a spur of the moment thing.

 

Earlier in the evening as I was coming in from the pet store a muscular, scarily-too-clean-cut dudebro lingering outside of the building asks if he can squeeze in behind me.

“Who you looking for?” I ask, mentally calculating what the narrowest I could open the door was and shimmy in while still being able to swing a bag full of metalย  cat food cans.

“1FE. I texted and she’s not responding.”

“Did you ring the buzzer?”

“It’s not working” he said, so I pressed it and heard it buzz. Pulling my bag inside and past the lights on but silent front apartment, I reflected on the loud shouting that had woken us up earlier.Dudebro was probably someone’s stalker.

 

Rat Journals 3 – Ivanka Is A Punk Rocker

Latest vlog:
Play piercing, I Need More, clown bdsm, PISS collective

(music heard in this: Gerogerigegege, Patti Smith, Astral Knife)

Also, I’m collectively calling these vlogs Rat Journals cuz…RATS.

These days it seems that everywhere you look, some predatory sleaze are being outed, like roaches in a dirty kitchen when the light is flipped on. Today it seems to be the art world’s turn. (And I’m guessing this story isn’t going to begin and end with Artforum cuz…it doesn’t.) I wonder who remembers my complaints of the past that the art scene is heavily stacked in favor of those who can either buy the shows and the publicity or are willing to trade favors to the right people for them, while those who balk pay a price. I wonder who thinks I’m “just not being positive enough” now. But most of all I wonder if this is going to be the start of some real change in the Way Things Are Done.

Meanwhile I’m out walking the other day and get followed by a balding and oblivious 64 year old–I know his age because it was one of the things he told me while talking at me. I went down into Penn Station and used the ladies room, thinking the idiot would lose interest and move on…and the fucker is waiting for me outside the bathroom.

And resumes following me.

Until I pull out my phone to call Eric, pretending he’s around the corner. Finally the man turned and walked quickly into the nearest open shop, a Panera or something. Who cares. I just wonder if he writes for Artforum. :p

 

 

(Third) Eye In The Triangle

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A martial feeling pen-and ink Baphomet drawing from about a month ago.

Yesterday though when Iย  posted this up over on Steemit I needed a fire in the Eye for clarity. Seeking news of a friend in typhoon Japan. We only communicate in images. Meanwhile here in NYC constructing a sigil for me and Eric’s part in a massive cyber-working (Oh, there’s no “to be silent” when the news was in Spin and every other music blog/site out there). I’m the half of this conjoined-soul creature that can draw and paint after all. He’s the half that can play the drums. The scent of lavender, peppermint and eucalyptus lingers around my temples where I’ve been massaging them with a mix of essential oils to ease a migraine, having exhausted every over-the-counter medicine possibility.

Then for most of today I crashed hard. Doctor switched up my meds this week in hopes of easing this fatigue and a flare up of disorganized thoughts and depressive symptoms. Day 3 of new pill, weaning off old pill, anti-psychotic still firmly in place. But in the past hour? Wide awake, disengaged myself from the pile of husband and various cats and doing art stuff.

Lunar Consciousness

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Pen and ink drawing.

A time when that which is turned away from the brightness of day comes round into full view.

Reflected in a bottomless, shining obsidian pool.

Now all that’s left is to sort out the pieces of truth from illusion, hammer it all back into shape after the funhouse distortions that are done to both in the lunar mind.