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MOTION THOUGHTS
Saturday, September 08, 2007sinking into the sweet lavendarof my mama’s purple pillow it’s the best place in the house to stare at the back of your eyelids the soothing singing of the shower head floats through the closed door next door i know mama is inside preparing for her favorite part of the day, almost time to sleep, to prepare her body and soul for the chore of tomorrow’s striking resemblance to today my mother loves her bath time “kill me kill me kill me kill me” loud, tinkling voice bounces off the white tiles it’s true that i can’t help but smile “I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU” it’s true, i always knew the faucet turns, the water stops i lift a heavy body from bed steam rushes through the opening door but just before my glasses fog i glimpse the mirror, my own face flinching in surprise, next to my mother’s, warm and washed and well i am her distorted echo, broke up and kicking back same thoughts “i’m goinna bed” she gives herself to the sheets, the comfort or the night i flip the light Labels: family, mother, poetry, sleep, water, writing Saturday, August 25, 2007Porcelina of the Oceans.I be-wigged her and painted her, then took her photos. Isn't she lovely. From a few years ago.  Labels: water Friday, August 03, 2007Under the Sea.I have a veritable mountain of art just exploding to be seen, so I begin my quest. Slowly but surely I will group together my doodles and exhibit them in sets according to theme. One reoccuring fascination of mine is the merperson. It will be subject of my first group. Enjoy or ignore. ^I think I did this mer-couple about ... 4 or 5 years ago.   The ears of this melancholy mermaid remind me of a selkie, but she is a mermaid, nonetheless. Again, from several years ago.  Now this warrior merman is much more recent. From spring 2007. Next we have a closer view of his fin and tail, of which I am proud. I like the details.  This mermaid shedding her skin by moonlight was created in Autumn 2005, I think. I really like her alot, and keep her in my nice three ring binder :).  The next one is one more of the earlier mermaids. Early in a relative sense, because I've been drawing mermaids since I was about 2.. She's from about 4 years ago. I like the way she's stretched out...  She has some friends to keep her company on a page of tattoo ideas from my nice three ring binder. Well, that's it! I do love a good merthing, as you can see. So I hope you do too! Labels: water Thursday, August 02, 2007Testing the waters... Get ready; this is my first post. I have no idea how this is all supposed to look, work, or um... function in general. So, with sincere hopes that I'm not fucking anything up, here's a painting I did last semester on a sunny day. Thursday, April 26, 2007the little piece of driftwoodby Lydia Hendersona piece of driftwood is tugged along by the current. water wears it thin and soggy. rocks scrape its belly. the sun warms it through gaps in the clouds. sandy banks open their arms for it to rest. but the current always calls it back to drift. the driftwood lets go of the sandy banks. it drifts and drifts. the banks are turning to stone and rigid glass. the water dumps into the mouth of the ocean. the driftwood ducks under the surface, wishing for the arms of the sandy banks that are so far away. the ocean is a lonely and solitary place. one day, just as the little piece of driftwood was losing hope, it heard the sound of a small boat's sails flapping in the wind. suddenly the piece of driftwood was plucked from the sea by the most delicate of fingers. the color of her skin was just as soft and pale as the color of the warm sandy banks and her eyes were dark and wet, just as the ocean had been on moonless nights. she turned the piece of driftwood over, running fingertips over the cracks and imperfections. instead of tossing it aside, she placed it on the floor of the boat. just as the sun was reaching the peak of the sky, the little boat and the piece of driftwood pulled into port. the girl tied the boat off and disappeared. not much longer she returned with a small can of ocean-blue paint and a small bundle of thin rope. with a brush she began to paint on the piece of driftwood. she tied the rope to it as well, so that it could hang from the dock. "home.." she read aloud with tears welling up in her eyes. "one day i may come home." she touched the sign and smiled lightly, climbing into the boat again. the piece of driftwood gazed at the boat as it got smaller and smaller. maybe one day she'd come home. every day and all through the night the little piece of driftwood gazed at the sea, watching for the little boat to return. sometimes the sea splashed up on the driftwood, or the wind would toss it about. if there was ever a time the driftwood thought it could no longer hang on, something or someone would come along to hold it up. sometimes the sun would come out and say, "don't cry. i'll dry up your rope so that it becomes strong again. i'll always shine down my warm rays upon you." other times a pair of fish would poke their heads out of the water and say, "we'll protect you of the tide, little driftwood. you'll never be a burden." all of these things brought hope to the little piece of driftwood. but with time the cracks in the driftwood seemed to deepen and it began to split. the little piece of driftwood had grown even more fragile and brittle than it had been before. when it was splashed by the ocean it wished to turn into sea foam. when the wind shook it against the dock it hoped to plunge to the water below. the little piece of driftwood cried out for the little sailboat, unable to keep silent any longer. the ocean calmed. the world grew quiet. it felt as though time itself was coming to a halt. all of a sudden the wind came drifting past the little piece of driftwood and whispered, "patience says the little sailboat." and with that the breeze swept across the weary little piece of driftwood, kissing the wounds and somehow brought strength back to its heart. Labels: oil paint, prose, water, writing Tuesday, April 24, 2007the summer comes caked with blue jewel pools.your garden hose spills for days until the yard is a bowl where you hang, supine and planet-faced, weighing less than in space. The summer rises runed, taroted, charted in the humming still of June rooms: I say we go away. Where's the fresh water in this place? Our cards are played, our fortunes made until the sky glows orange-white from plaza lights and the neighbors are Byzantines and Gypsies. Memphis spreads out slow from its winter clench. Arms unfold, the benches creak and crow in fronts, new-mowed grass tells its headless story. I'm picking up once the moon is limestone. I'm leaving for the quarry. Sorry, white legs. Sorry, coat pegs, The days are hot for the taking. The black spade of rot iron doesn't shape so menacing. I need these calluses for climbing, goat curses for skirt lining, chicken magic for my mancala eyes, shining. Monday, April 02, 2007Ode to One of UsAs I Sit in my Bright Room;Listening to the components that make me thinking of you, reflecting your eclectic personality. Everybody tries to catch you, But you always manage to escape, giving them the jailed fate instead. As you move along my hands, that feeling freely runs, Like a horse in the prairie, along my naked body. Thraumatized, Changed, There you keep moving, Following your route and eating smaller water creatures, as if their lives were not important enough to you and not worth of living for that. And they probably are ultimately not. If she wants me, we'll be the sleepyheads, but i will choose to be the craziest clock (that)Likes to float around the galaxy that (she) is, playing with the marbles she owns, and thinking about what such whole universe means to me: Spring, Infinite stacks of stars, Floating lonely space cowboys, On one side. We, On the Other side. To You, Labels: it might be you indeed, space, water, what do you think(?) Wednesday, March 28, 2007Stream of consciousness whimsical lyrically liberal narration of a morning in the life of me complete with spelling errorsi wrote this after i woke up because my roomate was practicing piano and the internet didnt work. im not emo i swear.The vector at which his shoulder met his torso ached with pain. He thought to himself about stretching before exiting his warm nest and venturing forth onto the ten steps of icy hardwood that comprised the very genesis of all of his days, but instead chose to roll out of bed like a sloth falling from a fig tree. Stumbling to the bathroom and choosing not to illuminate it via the tiny rectangular console he had grown as familiar with as he had most members of his immediate family over the course of his lifetime, he stripped to the nude and adjusted the faucets so that he would shortly be stationed beneath a warm torrent of water. Washing his face and body with soaps that appealed to him more on basis of color than anything else, he began mumbling a Beatles song quietly and closed his eyes. Washing his hair was a toss-up typically. He would graze his palm across the crown of his head repeatedly until he had decided that it contained either too much or too little of his bodily oils and make his decision accordingly. When the warm porcelain rectangle had inevitably lost its charm for the day being, he turned the faucets once more and began to dry himself off. As he stepped out of the shower, frantically equating the lyrics of the song he had been singing to the circumstances of his own life, he began to realize the behavior he was encouraging and attempted to subdue the unproductive turn of logic before it festered into something more capable of imminently depressing him beyond salvation. He spit the toothpaste out of his mouth and looked his body up and down a few times, making countless judgements of it and himself, coming to the conclusion that he would be happier without one (or at least, without a mirror). "I'm soooo tired, I don't know what to do/ I'm sooo tired, my mind is stuck on you/ I wonder should I call you..." It seems that this tune had wormed its way further into his head that he had thought. Why did it always sound like Lennon was singing about him? Perhaps it was a consequence of his latent egotism, he thought. Believing that every song was relatable to such a mundane existence. Laughable, he reiterated. It was often the case that he would force himself to shed thought patterns he believed unsavory by demeaning himself for ever arriving at them. It was the only discipline that seemed to habituate itself in his behavior. If he found himself in a situation in which he was suddenly or aptly aware of thoughts he considered unproductive, unappealing, or retroactive, he would cease them by silently crucifying himself. "The waay things are going/ They're gonna' crucify me." Fuck. Labels: water Thursday, March 15, 2007A song (with lyrics and beats)This ones pretty simple, i wanted something i could just write some easy lyrics to. it started out as an exercise in polyrhythms but i dont think i really captured the percussion sound i wanted in the end.Seas Of Violet Saturday, March 10, 2007Hands so Little, Depression so GreatRosasharn and Dewey Dell skippin’ down the laneO’ those two’d skip to Timbuktu to undo all the pain Of a blooming, pink baby’s veins in her veins Of a cold, blue baby washed away by the rain. Take me in the secret shade, take me in the truck He took me for a pretty whore ripe to be plucked And that was swell, but truth to tell-- I was fucked Left me inside out, and -- out of luck, O’ You put your arms around me, but it wasn’t any good Now, I’m naked in the wilderness beneath a red hood, And I don’t need a man; I can chop my own wood, But you could do so much for me if you just would The buzzards are cawing, the men are squatin’ On their hams watchin’ hundreds of peaches go rotten If it kills me, I’ll pick til the sack froths with cotton Til it’s full like I was of one to be begotten. One beautiful mornin’ the road unfurled, Sticky, we were kissing in the heat like syrup. One mornin’ he went missin’, my hair uncurled, Wide-mouth frog, hair of the dog, I am a stupid girl So unlike my tight-lipped mother, Body thrown down now in the swollen river This is hell, my belly swell, pop and burst all over Hold my hand, momma, cause it hurts all over Sweat glued my matronly thighs to the seat Sweat stained my dress; too tight, it bound me And God wouldn’t tell me what your name should be Or why he gave us fruit if we’re not suppose to eat Still, I’m clinging tightly to the ballad’s last lilt Hold tight, hold tight, to the basket hilt, Though I have been spat, sucked, and split. I am full of guts. I am full of milk. I tried to slam the door, but you stopped it with your foot, And ran your dusty fingers down my cheek caked in soot, And put your arms around me. But it wasn’t any good. And you could do so much for me if you just would. writ by Cadet Morgan Rose Labels: poetry, water, women, writing Tuesday, February 27, 2007Triple Trash as Cadet Craig sees it. This is Cadet Craig's. I posted it without his permission. I don't think he minds. The scanner isn't big enough, it cut off a beautiful little rocketship and some more grass. And a halo. And some rain. And some trash. Piece of shit. He let me color some :) Labels: TRASH TRASH TRASH, water Thursday, February 15, 2007A New SongI play everything on this. I 'm debating whether or not i should add lyrics, be they my own or someone else's. The title is completely meaningless.Ocean Bullet Monday, February 05, 2007Idea!The orange street light is blistering in my eye,shining as a broken sun through the purple grass everything's brown, dark, seemingly still, as if the hand of Death is upon my head, while I sit back and relax letting my mind flow, as a river full of little shiny fishes flows underneath the bridge of life. They're such a multitude, electric thunders in the black water, such white and blinking vibrations, perceptions of my neutrons. Hard to distinguish, as hard it is to separate a child from his or her mother. But I made it, and came out of the dark tunnell, out of that bed made of muddy dirt of my conscience, and realized that I caught one of those fishes, that I separed the proton from its natural atom, and it weighs about a ton: an idea, that is! Labels: water Sunday, January 28, 2007A Path of Good IntentionsThe Actor and Actress lusted after each other for pretend. And then they lusted after each other for real, running circles in my mind as I sat on my hands and sounded my frustration with lips on vibrato. There was no camera rolling. They were brother and sister, for pretend. But aren't we all? Jesus spoke to me in a dream: I will burn the weeds with the chaff, and you my brother are more chaff than crop. Quit smoking weed, and live your life. That's all he said, then he turned into a lawn chair and I had a nice relaxing evening watching the stars plummet to earth. The Actor was there, but not the Actress, and we shared a cigar made of un-Canonized papyrus--the apocalypse of Peter I believe, or maybe the youth of Jesus where he killed a boy with his almighty powers. Either way, the Actress was not there, and this saddened me, so we smoked a cigar and talked about writing, the art of, which I know nothing of, since my best stuff writes itself in my dreams and leaves me a dull life in the morning.Anyway, while they were lusting after each other, I was searching for a camera to take things down, or a pen, at least a pen, so that I might remember my place in society, which is as a set of training wheels I never got rid of or used to. I took a few anxiety pills and a soft pink lithium, and felt better about the situation, though there was nothing I could really do. When I approached the lusting I received strange glares, and yet when I stood far off they seemed to beckon me with their subliminal doublespeak. I lost the English language, or they did, and reverted to babbling. Finally, someone brought me water and I was satisfied. But this is not about "water" or "lust" but about "Jesus," if we can all keep these nouns straight for a minute (though they seem to elide), who spoke to me then not as a lawn chair, since I was awake, or mostly awake for that matter, but as a golden chain around my neck, pulling my head down in reverence. I had not smoked marijuana in four days, and so when he spoke I listened. He said, Do it. Previously I had been contemplating dumping the water all over the two lovers and drinking it off of their bodies. It had come to me from a comment an ex-girlfriend had once made. While searching for my name on the internet she had found a photographer who specialized in nude models, only that he poured milk on their bodies as the photos were taken. This brought me a smile, because I am lactose intolerant, which says something about my embarrassment over sex in general in a Freudian kind of way. Though every Psychiatrist I've gone to has disregarded Freud as a nut job, I believe there is more we can learn from him than from the current overly medicine oriented researchers. If they believe they can prove behavior through a mouse it is because they are acting like mice, constantly searching for the way to the consolatory cheese. I do not eat cheese, as I have stated, but at that moment I wished that it were milk I could pour on them instead of plain water. From the urging of my Lord and Savior I moved forward and poured the water on lust, whose fire quickly fizzled, and the Actor and Actress removed themselves from the scene. Without subjects in my scene I took off my golden representation of Jesus and dangled it across my bottles of antidepressants and mood-stabilizers and photographed it with a camera I found on my back. I remarked on how I should have found the camera earlier, but life had been in a daze. John Lennon on a wall and the lyrics to "Imagine," left me wondering how I would get anything accomplished while in this bleak sobriety? I needed no signs, yet without them how would my actions amount to anything? I blocked out my childhood at an early age and did not realize it until much later, watching Edward Scissor Hands with an old friend and her dog. The television mocked my artistic mindset, something I save only for boredom now. Both the television and my artistic mindset I mean. I emptied my bottles onto the floor, it was a hardwood floor, and photographed them in their somber-still state, and, realizing that I did not truly know where I was, I tried to frame the whole scene in front of me. There were the hard wood floors, but seemingly no walls besides a stage-like wall in the very middle, with a doorway in the middle, and if there were other walls they were of a perfect whiteness so that they seemed to stretch out into eternity. Very much it was like an empty mind waiting to be filled. I missed my Actor and Actress, both of whom had left through the stage wall, and I missed my Jesus, who no longer spoke since there was no more action for me to do. Above spun a fan, counting off seconds with each turn. No clocks. No windows. No time. Much like a casino. I hated the spinning, like I hated conversation with a dull person, or sex with an unattractive person for that matter, for its monotony. Simple circles which lead to no end, at least not quickly, and I was reminded of Eliot, reciting to my self the beginning of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," just the first stanza, for that's all I really ever cared for. I flung my pill bottles at the uninteresting, unattractive and otherwise unlovable fan, but they did nothing. So then I flung my Jesus. And a voice rang out, and it said loudly as if from a Wal-Mart overhead speaker--and then I saw the florescent lights and determined I had arrived to hell--Why do you discard me at this your most desperate moment? Do you not realize the world has left you completely? That not even may you watch it still? Children giggle over your enlightened failure, and you will never see them again. And you discard your last hope? The fan stopped then, and it seemed time stopped then. I am not enlightened at all am? I thought, noting my lack of effort, my utter apathy in all situations since the beginning of time. And just as I thought it the lights dimmed to a nothingness. The voice this time was less powerful, but much darker. It was a defeated voice, a voice that asked for punishment. It became smaller and smaller and then darker and darker. It grew and shrieked when it spoke, as if utterly terrified. It was my voice. I will not tell you what it said, for it would haunt you every night of your life as it haunts me every moment of this black existence. Labels: dreams, religion, sex, water Wednesday, January 03, 2007It was drizzling rain on a cold winters night.All the houses were frosted with colorful lights. Everybody was toasty and cuddled up close. All around them were people that mattered the most. But one little boy who had never been sadder, Went to the shed and got out his ladder. He climbed up on the roof and waited in the cold, for a man dressed in red, who was jolly and old. He waited up on the roof for most of the night, When out of his doze he awoke to a great sight. There were eight glistening reindeer, an old wooden sleigh, and a chubby old man whose hair was far past grey. The boy jumped up and ran, over to the old man. He stumbled and mumbled and grasped the man’s hand. and said, "Sir, I know you give presents all over the land, But I just have one request and I think you’ll understand." "What is it you wish for?" the old man replied. "Love" the boy said, with a tear in his eye. The man was so startled; he didn't know what to say. So picked up the boy and sat him in his sleigh. "You have all the love you need, but its wrapped up inside, You have all the love you need just by being alive, You have all the love you need and you can never run out, You just have to learn how to give your love out." Then the cold little boy, who had never been sadder bid the old man goodbye and climbed down his ladder. The next day he went out with a smile that could shatter. He gave out his love, and he couldn't be gladder. Labels: water Thursday, December 14, 2006CoffeePhilip awoke with a purpose: he would be the best salesman FAO Swartz had ever seen! He had only held the job thus far for a week and a half, but he knew that selling a product to the children of rich managers' and executives' wives would springboard him to the heights of ladders he had only admired from afar. To him there existed no ceilings, only up and up. But first things first, he would perform his sacred routine: left sock, right sock, left shoe, right shoe, seven minutes in the bathroom. There was no need to take a shower, not in the morning. To only take one shower a day meant either going to bed with wet hair or dirtying the bed with a day's squalor. He chose wet hair, because at least it was clean wet hair.At the door of the coffee shop everything was still flowing smoothly, but upon entering he came face to face with a brown great dane standing wobbly on hind legs and wearing a pinstripe suit. In one paw he held a briefcase down by his thigh, and in the other a cell phone he was actively searching through. Of course, thought Philip, this must be a dream. "Well, might as well get in line," he concluded. He shoved past the great dane, and took his place behind a poodle. She wore a leopard-print dress and flirted obnoxiously with the basset hound in front of her, making every bit of her sex life uncomfortably public. No one seemed to mind however. What would have been icy stares normally were in this dog-run world warm smiling gazes. "Oh to be her age again," he thought he heard an elderly shitsu who chain-smoked near the back of the shop. All kinds of dogs, smiling to each other, laughing and tossing their purses their hats their files all around and barking with merriment. He didn't know what to do, where to turn from all this excitement. Finally he fixed his eyes on the menu, but the words at first were all misspelled, all jumbled and incoherent, and then they cleared up instantly. "Espresso, Americano, Cafe con Leche," he read aloud, one after another, and began to feel normal again. Even the noise had quieted, for now when he turned back to them the dogs were sitting sedately in caps and bonnets, skirts and corduroys. Now it was his time to order. "I'll have an Americano with an extra shot of espresso," he said to the cute greyhound behind the counter. Her slender neck turned back to the menu, as if to verify, then turned back to Philip. "We don't serve coffee here, I'm sorry." "What are you talking about? I come in here every morning!" he exclaimed, then seeing the menus distorted and spinning like a fan he checked himself and began again. "What then do you serve?" "Water," she replied flatly. "Fine, I'll have a water," he decided in quiet frustration. "Oh, we don't serve the water up here, there's a fountain in the back." "If you don't serve anything up here, then what did I stand in line for!" "I guess only you know that, sir." Too drained to reply he walked toward the back. Three young stone angels stood in the middle of the fountain, pouring water from miniature buckets. Feeling defeated, Philip bent down onto his hands and knees and moved to lick from the fountain, but he felt himself pulled back from the water then by a firm paw. It was the great dane from earlier, holding a teacup in his other outstretched paw. Philip nodded, taking the cup and dipping it in the water. "Why are you dressed up like that? Why a tie and everything?" he asked the great dane. "Why are you?" came the reply. They both shrugged their shoulders and sipped from their tea cups. "Does it taste funny to you?" he asked Philip. After reflecting he took another sip and nodded, affirming the suspicion. "That's because it's a kind of weak tea that makes the world whirl around you." "Dammit," muttered Philip, who had been gazing at the angels, watching them turn softer and softer, filling with pinks and tans until they came to look like ripe peaches, but now the picture took on too fierce of a change and the water twirled away the stone until everything mixed and streaked. Inside was not much better; the spinning did not take everything over, though the ceiling shook in waves and the counter shifted back and forth like a rocking ship in a terrible storm. What stuck him though was the massive canine orgy that took place there before him. Boxer and pointer, terrier and pincher, it mattered not, what mattered only was the love of all for all. They all howled and sung their howls in a harmony, no more than that, in a unifying voice, a singular essence bellowing eternity. Now they were separating from the center, now they were giving him a path and chanting that he should take her, a beagle lying on her back in the center. He approached slowly, admiring the soft white between her hind legs. He would have gone down with her but a rush of conscience gripped him and he ran out the front door. There at his feet was a flowery basket with what looked like a baby inside. He lifted the figure out to discover it was not a baby human but a miniature pink elephant with a card wrapped around her neck. "So this is life," he said after he read it. Those were his last words that morning, for the day had already thoroughly started. Monday, November 27, 2006Straight from the Truth's lips:Seven thousand swans exploded over Stark Lake like fireworks, red light and guts splattered over our picnic blankets and parked cars. What a show. And we'll never know how else the evening could have ended. How much longer could we have choked down anecdotes and champagne, avoiding eye contact and chortling? The swans had to go; their numbers were only comparable to our hordes of children, the little bodies of entertainment only money could buy. It's fun to dress them smartly. It's fun to correct their language. It's fun to explain to them the one way arrow of time, the fact that we can't party forever, that we all must explode over Stark Lake water."My head is full of lemons!” little Nora exclaimed, grabbing an empty jelly jar from our picnic basket, and flinging her skirt's wasted bread crusts into our faces. Little Nora proceeded to gather select pieces of the defunct birds, a collection of the best bits in her empty jelly jar. The top half of a black beak, newly unwebbed feet, spinal bones, a slew of white messy feathers, and even a still beating heart. Joyfully the child bounds back to us, frozen under the protection of the poplar trees, ladybugs and aphids crawling over everything. She presents us with the jelly jar, beaming furiously and breathing heavily from the excursion. We are unimpressed. We are older – in our semicircle, in this curve where we're arranged and have sat with our asses grown onto the quilt, onto the ground, unimpressed by little girls, but that dress I put her in. Buttercup and lace. Oh, tell me true, who, when the picnic blanket was rushed to the tip of her nose, snug-bugged-bitten in a rug, who told the bedtime story that said, “Nora Blue, the entire universe is waiting for you?” We didn't have the time, so we squatted in our design, centered ‘round the half-eaten roast chicken and jam cookies. Unimpressed, white birds, beams bursting through wingspans, red birds while we partook of the deviled hams. The graceful arc, skeletal, spiraling, finally spiraling down, the collapsing messy parts. Nora's in the middle, splashing in the blood like mud. Her skinned knees, their skinned bellies, Nora's in the puddle, mixing up the gush. What is she doing? It's nibble night. Nora with her socks off, that dress is stained, daffodil is pomegranate red, positively red with that ruination from the stars, who knew? She's not my responsibility? Nora's in the gobbledygook, Nora's in the soup. Someone, hurry up and extract her from that dirty mess (Seven thousand swans exploded). It was a lonely trot back to the blood spotted Beemers, our arms empty (we left the blankets in the grass to be tossed out with the litter at dawn, or whenever). “Goodnight, Jonathan.” “Good Evening, Beatrice.” “Kisses, Harry.” Thank the good Lord for satellite radio, filling our empty retreats with international sports talk. I've never seen a game of Jai-Alai. Sounds nuts. We faked interest in the interest of ignoring potential interest in our starless sky and the giggling Nora and Norman in the back seat world. No more swan light distraction. No more thick splatter. I've never been so disgusted with the dim cleanliness of our doorstep. “Nancy, put the kids to bed.” New schedule. 7:30: Dig through garage piles for house paint. 7:45: Spread white primer in even zigzags across the lawn. 7:52: Create Jackson Pollock mimicry on stoop with dark brown muck paint. 7:55: Throw on some garden dirt for texture. 7:56: Pick best flower, sandwich it between left ear and skull. 7:59: “Put yourself to bed, Nancy.” 8:03: Roll around the garden bed, particularly mashing suit jacket into ground. 8:05: Smoke my last cigar, extinguish butt in lawn gnome's eye. That was satisfying. Upstairs, the wife and kids were probably in bed, staring at the ceiling, or maybe televisions. Bored. I went for a walk. But, God damn it! The beauty and terror of a streetlight! The inescapable uniformity of images, the unchanging look and texture of an electrical socket. Scents float by me as I walk – trash receptacle, flower bed, dog shit, apple pie cooling on a windowsill. All of them predictable, even similar, the bullshit you can count on, and remain disgusted with for as long as you're required to put up with it, until the day your body or your brain finally says, “I've had it with this world of pills and keys and advertisements for remote controls that operate the white AND the multicolored lights!” But for now you just breathe in the unbearability and move through space with a new knowledge of devastation, the carnage of a fleet of swans and the delight it gave a child. The constant and overwhelming everything pushes in, almost crushing us as we strain to just be. But, God damn it, that's just one more thought to fold up and put away and hide in my desk drawer like a letter from a lover, and one day Nancy will find it and say, “What's this?”, her eyes splattered bugs on glass. It didn't mean anything, honey. That was just that night. I was thinking about straining about being. Do you believe it? I love my daughter. I love my son. I love beneath me, the rugged receding sidewalk because it's like my face in the early mornin' on this late night's salacious escapade, having affairs with all the streetlights, and I feel their arms winding around my ribs, stone-cold wrapped around my waist. From here I see a pretty girl with an eager set of lips – young, the youngest – lean to the windowsill. I want to swoop in, knock the crust out of the way, grab her, let the lights grab her, and Nora, and Norman, and illuminate the atmosphere when they're lifting us up, saying “This is what the swans see.” Do you feel the bones growing, cells extending, the web between your toes, and atoms split, our bodies multiply. The stitches of Nora's buttercup of a dress have finally been severed, and I'm sorry, sweetie, but now I see your wide, white wings unfold in the cloth falling from you, down there. We're all over. We pool on the elastic surface of a cloud, making a V which is quickly ruined, shaping, reshaping, our flock, my kids, there's seven thousand of us, we got away. Watch us go. Explode. Redistribute. Assimilate. Devolution to singular particles free of family ties. Beautiful. But, God damn it. I'd rather be light. I'd rather be sound. I'd rather be a fleeting moment with no evidence of existence beyond a one sense observation. The stoop is beautiful. A muck explosion. Let's redecorate the known universe, break apart the ordered randomness, the clinical patterns. I don't want to be inside. I don't want to be outdoors. All that's left to hope for is morning reports of the world's entire collection of birds amassing in one open field, ready to burst. This story was written in a round by Cadets Ledet, Alanna, and Morgan Rose. Thanksgiving Day 2006 Labels: birds, feet, fireworks, water Sunday, November 26, 2006The Night the Sun RoseJune 15thThis is Jim Bradcliff reporting. What a wacky night we had last night. Huh, Connie? That's right, Jim. For those of you who didn't catch the sunset yesterday evening, it sure was beautiful. Though, as many of you may know, the darn thing just rose again on the other side instants later. Not even enough time for it to get dark out. And apparently this is a worldwide problem. That is, if you can call too much sunshine a problem. Scientists and weathermen around the globe are baffled by this anomaly, but few have come out with any statement about what could have triggered this triple sunrise. One speculation is that the sun's light slowed down and then sped up again so that it hit us in two waves, one during the day, and then again during the night. Another is that the world is actually flat after all. But neither conclusion can be founded on any level of proof; we're still in the theory stages at this moment. But, scientists and scholars have been working on this around the clock and are going to get to the bottom of it. Since this appears to be a one time break in the pattern, most believe that the sun will set tonight and stay down until morning. Connie? In other news, crime rates plummet worldwide as everyone can see what everyone else is doing around the clock. June 18th Thanks for joining us again this morning. We're here with Professor Thompson from John Hopkins University to talk about the sun which continues to set and then rise again each night and morning. Now Professor, you specialize in Reason if I understand correctly. You are correct. What could be the possible Reasoning behind these illuminated nights we've been having? Well Jim, there is a concept in philosophy of absolute truth, that is, things we know for certain because of their consistency. One absolute truth can be found in gravity. You know the saying, "What goes up must come down." That's what I'm talking about when I say "absolute," because it has always happened that way. Another, until this week, was that night will follow day, and day in turn will follow night. The fact that this has been so obviously disproven casts doubt on all that we thought we did know about the world. For example, is the world still a globe? We don't know for certain, because what we can measure and understand through scientific means is no longer irrefutable. Centuries of records and discoveries are now being replaced with question marks. It's a very exciting time. I hear, Professor, that as we speak NASA is planning a series of probes to be sent out to take new measurement and photographs. It won't prove productive, I'm afraid. You see, this is a matter of how we interpret the world, not a matter of its position in terms of the solar system. For, the solar system itself may or may not exist, at least in the sense that we conceive it to exist. I'm not sure I follow. We sent astronauts to the moon. They believed, truly believed that they would arrive there and so they did. We sent probes to Mars, believing that they would send back images of red dirt and craters and so they did. Are you claiming that reality is a matter of belief and not really something concrete? That is what it would appear under the current circumstances. And how are you sleeping these days, Professor? Not too well, Jim, not too well. It's a wonder if we even need to sleep what with the absence of night now. It makes you wonder what all we really need to do at all. Well, I sure haven't been sleeping well either. Thank you again for joining us today. Hopefully, we'll be hearing from you again. Sometime Later And we're back. Lovely commercial, Connie, though I'm not sure what the hell they were selling. Looked like a damned freak show really. Though it's a lovely morning, or evening. I'm not really sure anymore. Today, we're going to be talking about clocks. Why aren't they working anymore? Connie? Well Jim, I believe that if everyone could just stop hallucinating for a minute someone might be able to sit down and read one. You might have something there. Numerous claims of the second coming of Christ from various individuals, surprisingly not all men, not even all Christians. Religious leaders are calling it the end of times, and mental hospitals are overflowing. Though I can't see how they'll help since the doctors themselves are going a bit nutty. A bit nutty, indeed, Jim. On a lighter note, a personalized soundtrack has begun following me around where ever I go. Right now it's bringing me "Good Vibrations" from the Beach Boys if anyone else can hear it. If I could just get some sleep...damnedest thing is I'm not even tired. You sleep any this week, Connie? Sure haven't. I tried to take a nap today, or yesterday, but my Grandmother woke me up. She'd baked me some heavenly oatmeal raisin cookies. Yum. She's been dead fourteen years. I don't know what's going on. But let me tell you, she can sure still cook. How about those animals in the zoo this week? The zoo was alive with dialogue yesterday, or today, and not just from the visitors. If you don't have a dog or a goldfish, you might not know it, but animals have come out of their taciturn nature and are speaking, that's right, speaking to humans. You're just hallucinating, Jim, you might say, but this appears to be universal. Pandas are protesting in China, bald eagles are giving long orations in the Capitol, and in Antarctica, well I suppose the penguins are content speaking with each other. Tomorrow, in fact, we'll be holding an interview with a sea otter recently released from the local zoo. So tune in. Are they even filming this? Does it matter? The Next Day, or Night So what shall we call you? Otter is fine. Do you not have some sort of name that other otters call you by? That is to say, do other otters call you by some name? This is not a time for names, nor do I believe a time for proper grammar. You're one clever otter, Otter. The cleverest. And yet, nothing special at all. So why have you chosen now to speak? Is it a common fear of what is happening these days? It is not fear of what is happening, but because of what is happening. And it is not I who has chosen to speak, but you who has chosen that I can speak. You see, with the recent abandonment of logic, people have begun to see what they had never before believed they could see. It is not that nobody has been sleeping that is causing these "hallucinations" but rather that no one seems to need sleep. Once you no longer see the world as it has always been you're free to see it in any way you can imagine it. It takes only one flaw in the nature of reality to set the world free. Do you understand, Jim? You are free. Labels: water Tuesday, November 21, 2006more old wordsI dreamed the world was ending. I was scared until I found you. You took me to the zoo.In reality, you are not here. I sit on my windowsill and smoke myself stupid. I tip ash over the ledge and pull fire between my teeth: to light up the cold inside. Evil smoke curls around my face and makes my eyes water. The familiarity of the action starts mental upset, learned behavior working to my disadvantage. The black cigar keeps my lips from trembling -- stay steady, breathe in. My fingers betray me while my clouded mind drifts in some other sky. Trains in the distance become whales. (Where are they coming from? There's not a railroad or a beach for miles.) The whole idea shakes me. I ask myself, "What have I done?" Over and over. No longer a magic eight ball. No magic answer floats up into truth. I only produce smoke and sickness, floating on the blue dyed pool of my shallow person. I fumble eternally, make excuses. Finally I force myself to stumble back to bed -- no longer a haven for my sleepless self, my spine too twisted to find rest. The post-tobacco taste which normally makes me happy is disgusting tonight -- a reminder of my hideousness and rejection. I burned away my heart. Held the flame over the bowl of my tears and now I'm dried up -- is it what I wanted? The prospect terrifies me. I spend two days crying in bed to recuperate and win back my human parts. I curl into a deep alone, eyes singing to the symphony outside. Monday, October 30, 2006Stevie Wonder As around the sun the earth knows she's revolving And the rosebuds know to bloom in early may Just as hate knows love's the cure You can rest your mind assure That I'll be loving you always As now can't reveal the mystery of tomorrow But in passing will grow older every day Just as all that's born is new You know what I say is true That I'll be loving you always (Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky) Always (Until the ocean covers every mountain high) Always (Until the dolphin flies and parrots live at sea) Always (Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream) Did you know that true love asks for nothing her acceptance is the way we pay Did you know that life has given love a guarantee To last through forever and another day Just as time knew to move on since the beginning And the seasons know exactly when to change Just as kindness knows no shame Know through all your joy and pain That I'll be loving you always As today I know I'm living But tomorrow could make me the past But that I mustn't fear For I'll know deep in my mind The love of me I've left behind 'Cause I'll be loving you always (Until the day is night and night becomes the day) Always (Until the trees and seas just up and fly away) Always (Until the day that eight times eight times eight is four) Always (Until the day that is the day that are no more) Did you know you're loved by somebody (Until the day the earth starts turnin' right to left) Always (Until the earth just for the sun denies itself) I'll be lovin you forever (Until dear mother nature says her work is through) Always (Until the day that you are me and I am you) Always (Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky Until the ocean severs every mountain high) Always mm mm We all know sometimes life hates and troubles Can make you wish you were born in another time and space But you can bet your lifetimes that and twice it's double That God knew exactly where he wanted you to be placed So make sure when you say you're in it, but not of it You're not helpin' to make this earth A place sometimes called hell Change your words into truths And then change that truth into love And maybe our children's grandchildren And their great grandchildren will tell I'll be loving you until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky Sunday, October 29, 2006PHOTOESSAYAfter scouting it out on the evening of Friday, September 29th, Art Party Members Brandon, Alanna, Warren, and Tom visit the Valley of Trash during the daytime for a thorough investigation. Photos do follow! Mayoral Candidate Cadet Brandon Ledet and Art Party Pioneer Warren Pope walk the path to the Valley of Trash. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren mounts the first rig quickly. It was easily conquered the night before, and is already familiar territory. (Photo Tom Macom)  The Valley of Trash is likely home to many hobos, tramps, and "lost men," some of which enjoy sitting in chairs. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren is lithe and agile on the rigs. (Photo Tom Macom)  Mayoral Candidate Brandon (AP-LA) films trash, trash, trash. This includes both actual refuse strewn on the ground, and human members of the popular New Orleans band. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren continues to pioneer. (Not shown: his covered wagon; bonnet.) (Photo Tom Macom)  Rigs lie scattered everywhere, their inverted and horizontal ladders and staircases completely irrelevant. (Photo Tom Macom)  The Emergency Shut-In apparatus on one of the rigs stands useless. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren climbs a rig deeper into the Valley. (Photo Tom Macom)  Ferries and barges pass on the Mississippi river all day long, completely missing out on all of the fun. (Photo Tom Macom)  Trash trash trash? Only a fraction of the trashscape. (Photo Tom Macom)  Mysterious oxygen canisters stand in the Valley, occasionally letting off pressure in a frightening and loud manner. This is rather scary at night when you're not expecting it. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren walks all over the 53 ton rig. Many of the pieces were labeled according to weight, including a 75 ton tube. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren takes another approach to the 53 ton. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon films trash by the oxygen tanks in the Valley, as viewed through rig grating. (Photo Tom Macom)  Barnacles cover the lower portion of some of the rigs. They crackle and pop as you walk on them, as a scent reminiscent of a sea food restaurant wafts up at you. (Photo Tom Macom)  Alanna, xylophonist-extraordniaire and Art Party founder, documents the scene at the bottom of a tube. (Photo Tom Macom)  Pioneer Warren looks on as Alanna films baby crabs. Later, they dance on one of said baby crabs. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon grins at something that's probably completely insane. His hair looks good. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren eyes Alanna quizzically. (Photo Tom Macom)  Alanna ponders whether Cadet Aldo (not shown) will survive the imminent deadly tornado attack. (Photo Tom Macom)  Alanna converses with Cadet Ledet from inside the 75-ton tube. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren swings from a rope hanging from a still-erected rig on the shore. (Photo Tom Macom)  Comrade Tom and Pioneer Warren swing from the beautiful rig of love. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Tom takes a close swing. He is utterly out of control. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Swinging from giant rigs is good for many muscle groups, including the happy muscle, and the giant clam. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  The trashscape as seen from a still-standing rig. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren captures both ropes. (Photo Tom Macom)  And poses. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren ascends stairs to the second platform of the right whilst Brandon and Alanna converse. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon and Alanna hang around the first landing, their highest point of ascent. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon and Alanna as seen from the roof grate. (Photo Tom Macom)  A defunct ITT Barton pressure gauge is one of many instruments found on the roof of the rig. (Photo Tom Macom)  A ska valve, a little known but very important component to petroleum rigs, is quickly attended to by Warren. (Photo Tom Macom)  Gauges and measuring contraptions are dispersed throughout the rig. (Photo Tom Macom)  Cadet Tom grasps a rope before taking off into outerspace. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Cadet Tom and Warren pose for the camera. Sort of. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Later at the fly, Cadet Warren rewards himself with a cold beverage which wears a shirt. (Photo Tom Macom)  Cadet Warren contentedly twists the cap off of his well-dressed drink. (Photo Tom Macom) fin Labels: black and white, New Orleans, photography, water
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