Watercolor on paper.
I was inspired to paint this after reading that butterflies will drink blood from open wounds or pools. This is known as “puddling”.
I kill those agonizing bedbugs with relish, but I would let a butterfly drink out of one of my cuts in a heartbeat just to watch it happen. How superficial of me, I know.
This is a drawing I made shortly before we left to call attention to Iranian refugee cartoonist Eaten Fish, who is being held at Manus Island along with two other journalists and seeking asylum in Australia. It was part of the #addafish campaign on his behalf.
Eaten Fish has a diagnosis of PTSD, severe OCD which manifests in needing to wash himself to the point of bleeding, and is prone to panic attacks, making him my cousin in mad pride as well as cartooning. He has been subjected to severe human rights abuses on Manus Island. Learn more at eatenfish.com and cartoonistsrights.org. He is currently on a hunger strike.
Meanwhile right here, I read an article today about Cubans who’ve been detained and deported of late, something I knew was going to become an issue. Let me be clear, I didn’t think it was fair to have a “wet foot dry foot” policy that singled out one group for treatment that didn’t apply to others. I also wasn’t deluded enough to think the exception was made from any compassion for Cubans, so much as the U.S. government’s hatred for communism and Castro. (I’d also like to be clear, if I haven’t been ad nauseum, that mis Abuelos immigrated here before the Revolution, because Batista was the dick!) Another link someone shared contained a photo essay from immigrant detainment centers meant to jar the American public awake with their overcrowded chain-link cages, trash and waste strewn floors, lack of medical attention. The kinds of things I’d usually only see footage of on Spanish TV news when I was looking after Abuelita. (make no mistake, these conditions existed before Trump. They existed under Obama and suspect they’d have continued under HRC. It’s just that under Trump I’m fearing the high-octane version.)
Winter on the road. We stop along a wharf lined with taco trucks for what turns out to be some surprisingly delicious grilled nopales – the kind of flavor you’d expect more from an open pit grill than inside a truck. I’m not sure who “taco trucks on every corner” was meant to be a warning to…(Ok, that’s a lie. I can make an educated guess. 😉 )but I’ve gigged outside of the city enough at this point to say I’d welcome this type of thing more often over your standard “highway rest stop” type fare.
The venue we played in Western Mass was Anchor House of Artists, a space which, much like Fountain House here in New York, provides live and work opportunities for artists with mental health diagnoses. (While Pronoblem did not have such diagnosis, I and other musicians he’s worked with do.)
The urn Rachel brought in to be “bathed in noise” sat on a chair in the middle of the audience, looking like a small pagoda, especially since she’d placed a number of ferns in the box around it. It pulsated with an energy that prickled my arm, so I grabbed my bow and joined with John and Jack in a swampy churning improv before we officially began, violin grinding it’s way through a turbo rat pedal.
…to do our Dada Valentine’s Day Pronoblem tribute show in North Hampton. I know I wrote Holyoke last night, I was mixed up. But this is the part of Western Mass where the record store I like is! Who’s website says they’re closed on Tuesdays anyway. :p Like me and Eric really need to be marauding into record stores instead of working on our own tracks anyway.
I know we’re not really going anywhere rural, but I’m hoping the drive out will be something like that…those in-between stretches usually are. Deer. Ponds. Cows grazing.. Catching glimpses of these things by the roadside.
It’s occurred to me I’m not as talkative or forthcoming as I used to be when blogging. There are some different reasons for this, but there are as many reasons that it may be time to be again. Or at least use this blog as a tool to flex writing muscles. If it seems too embarrassing I can always go back to livejournal, right? I mean, who the hell reads livejournal? 😄
Tonight me and Eric went to the Acker awards, which is a ceremony honoring artists and other people who have contributed to the LES community over the years. Several people we knew were getting awards this year, and lots more had turned up to cheer them on as well. It was nice, low key, and nice for an outing, since we’re going to be on the road to perform in Holyoke on Valentine’s Day (not like we really care about Valentine’s Day, other than it originated from/to compete with Lupercalia, a pagan holiday which involved wolves and flagellation).
By the way, not only is my phone camera low res, we were all the way in the back of the St. Mark’s Theater, back wall between Frank Wood and Sur Rodney (Sur) and these were the best pictures I could get of the ones that came out. Sorry!
Today all things I draw are angels.
You don’t have to be lonely or a plague-bearer to give/receive a V-day card this spookycute. But if you are that’s cool too. And this design is available on apparel, journals, cups, and other stuff over on Redbubble.com.
I listen with relief to Amy Goodman report on Judge Robart’s against Trump’s monstrous Muslim travel ban while I wonder about ways to make myself into a better narrative fiction writer. I also wonder why I can focus on these two unrelated things at the same time while I’m sitting quietly by myself, but if two people talk to me at once I’ll get agitated as hell. But for now I am a “bad person who is very happy” 😄
Or maybe the same thing applies to this that applies to people who always tell me not to be so negative: “DON’T TELL ME HOW TO FEEL!”
Wow. I never thought I’d be doing “don’t tell me how to feel” over being happy about something! Ain’t that some shit.