Thursday, September 8, 2011


"The people who weep before my pictures," Rothko noted, "are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them."

In - sipration

it's funny how you find inspiration in the smallest of places. as a self proclaimed artists i find myself being snooty, think of my art as superior and thinking to myself that no one can teach/ tell/ show me more than what i am inspired by in my own being. my own compass that guides me, then the other day i am walking through my art class turning my nose upward and then i pass this girl. she has bangs in the front of her hair and a rat tail that has been braided in the back with everything buzzed in the middle, yet im not shocked and dont look away from her face, she has this very thoughtful peaceful sweetness about her, i look at her dark red paintings and feel a surge of being afraid, inspired and really relating to her. like we had a sameness, and then i realized that the art you seek in life is just a resonation of yourself in someone elses work. wow

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Sunday, May 29, 2011


Nothing much happened after you died. I was weary, tired of waiting for your ghost. I withdrew from society, and spent many stretched and wretched hours alone.
The security guards employed by the council to patrol the cemetary eventually became used to me. My profound sadness grew into something that I took for granted; like my left arm, for example.
There was no sign, no harbinger, but one afternoon I was standing there, watching, and the small white flowers growing on your grave shivered as your soul rose into the air.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


The Best Kind of love

I just had a truly amazing experience. I got into the shower and looked into the mirror and put my arms around myself. I whispered "I love you," and I really meant it.

Monday, May 2, 2011

RACISM defined.

1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to rule others.

2. hatred or intolerance of another race or races.

Bjork Speaks.

"I think everyone's bisexual to some degree or another; it's just a question of whether or not you choose to recognize it and embrace it. Personally, I think choosing between men and women is like choosing between cake and ice cream. You'd be daft not to try both when there are so many different flavors."



We loved each other so much that sometimes it hurt, even when we were close. I wanted to be her and she wanted to be me. Sex never felt complete, and afterwards we talked carelessly about easy subjects to avoid discussing the ache that bruised us both. So one day, in the kitchen, she cut me and I cut her; gently, slowly, too easily. It was the knife we used for onions and our tears were painful but expectant. We dripped the blood into coffee mugs, then bandaged up and went to bed. We fucked and there were stars but we saw different constellations.

The next day the blood was dry and rusty in the mugs. We scraped it diligently onto sheets of paper. We looked at each other silently and lowered our heads to snort each other's dust. Afterwards we both carried a pouch of powdered blood, and when we were low and apart we would retire to a restroom and sniff, sniff, sniff.

Oh my darling, we went on and on. Our blood was there always, red and viscous, burnt ochre and blowaway. My blood in your nasal membranes, filtering into your capillaries, finding its inexorable way to your heart. Your blood. My nose. My heart. We belonged to each other and we had made our love tangible, real; something that could be weighed and consumed, taken and enjoyed.

It wasn't a surprise when we used the scalpel to shave flesh from each other's upper arms. We dried the flesh, though it was difficult to dessicate it completely. We used the airing cupboard. The powdered flesh was better ; cocaine to blood's speed.

Did it end badly? Did we go too far? Was our love replaced or deleted by want or need? In losing ourselves in each other did we lose the essence in ourselves that the other loved? Did time simply bore us with its slow wearing-down? I have no answers to any of those questions. But now, sitting here in the kitchen, I admit I am scared of the knife, that I can't dig deeply enough to draw blood, that I will have nothing in the morning but red, raised scratches on my arm. I don't want her to cut me.

Did we kill each other, or are we living happily; but only as happily as you are?


UNISON, bjork

One hand
loves the other
so much on me

Born stubborn, me
will always be
before you count 123
I will have grown my own private branch
of this tree

You : gardener
You : discipliner
I can obey all of your rules
and still be : be

I never thought I would compromise
I never thought I would compromise
I never thought I would compromise

Let's unite tonight
we shouldn't fight
embrace you tight
let's unite tonight

I thrive best
hermit style
with a beard and a pipe
and a parrot on each side
but now I can't do this without you

One hand
loves the other
so much on me

Mary Oliver

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Thom Yorke, how do I love you let me count the ways... 10


It still seems to be a long time until I no longer need food, water or air, and here I am in the foyer of the supermarket, an empty wire trolley idling beneath my imperceptibly trembling fingers. The light is bright, and the smell is of nothing at all. My mind is blank. There is a route to be followed: straight ahead, turn right then right again, travelling aisle by aisle until (I am planning ahead) I end up in the wines, beers and spirits. My experience in these matters tells me that I will have run out of money by then, unless I am careful. I will have to be careful.
But almost immediately, things start to go wrong. Here I am, transfixed by the twitching red muscles in the meat aisle. This isn't very good. I take a deep breath and move away. Nothing to see here. There is the rattle of teeth, of fingernails, bones, in the cardboard cereal packets, sloshings of lumpy fluids in jars and tins, the muffled howls of the doomed. I jerk my head away from the cans of 'processed meats', the hanks of hair in the salad bags.
In the frozen food cabinets; plastic sacks of severed fingers, clingfilm stretched fetishistically over pale limbs, bent double and tied with white string, blood pooling darkly in the polystyrene trays.
Death warrants - signed, but with the name left blank - amongst the Sunday papers. The zone behind the translucent doors.
I can't do it. Looking determinedly straight ahead, I remove a bottle (whiskey? vodka? I am unsure) and stand in line at the checkout. Do I have a loyalty card? I stare in fear at my interrogator.
"Yes," I whimper. "I mean, no."

Notable Now.

  • Books I'm reading now: "fierce invalids home from hot climates" and SCIENCE TEXTBOOKS ee