Sunday, November 29, 2015

I'll Leave You My Car Keys, In Case You Want to Leave

Ghosts emerge this time of year.

It is not quite Halloween.

It is, sometimes, All Saints Day.

It is, sometimes, the Day of the Dead.

It is not quite the tales of the ghost of Christmas Past.

All of this, and none of this at once.

Perhaps it has to do with the turning of seasons.  Perhaps it has to do with the change of the moons.

Who knows.

What I know is that people's ghosts come out and around them.  Haunting, taunting, reminding, pulling. And it ends up impacting the choices that some make.  For worse.  For better.

Tell me: How have you been sleeping these nights?

Be well; be loved,


(image: To Repel Ghosts by Jean-Michel Basquiat)
(title: lyric from Damien Jurado's song Rachel and Cali listen to it, here. It is worth the description of love and friendship.  And crowds. And everything. Trust me on this one.)

Friday, November 27, 2015

"We're Not Sluts...We Listen To Bauhaus!": Thanksgiving Edition

Good morning. It's roughly ten in the morning the day after a national holiday. I can hear a few cars on the street outside my house, but not many. 

As much as some may have strong feelings about the holiday season- for, against- I'm into it simply for the feeling of apocalypse:  Empty sidewalks, people gathered inside of their homes having shut their doors to the world, odd stretches of available parking in parts of the city in which that is unheard of.


Today, I sip coffee. 

With whipping cream in it because I am feeling indulgent. 

Five feet away from me, I see the blanket atop a loved one rise and fall with their breath.

Orphan holidays, indeed. 


I have come to enjoy the solitude and indulgence of these days. Strange how brilliantly things may shine once you invent, and eventually live, a narrative true and earnest enough to counter the mainstream story.

Be loved; be well,


(photo credit: I believe I grabbed it from lecollecteur tumblr)

Monday, November 23, 2015

Open That Pea Coat and Show Me What Will Get You Arrested

Here I am: Reporting live from underneath a light bulb with my tongue slightly scalded by hot chocolate.  I've been painting most of the evening.  I'm not sure what all of this is about.  It's not my usual medium, but I'm going to go with it.

(I painted my first boob tonight.  Although I have drawn many a boob in the margins of note taking in high school and into college classes, I have never painted one.  It was not from a model or anything. My imagination. So of course it is a bit unrealistic.  I don't care.  It's my first boob. It's pretty hot in that "oh this is art, I'm not suppose to say that" type way. HOT.)

Moving on.

I've been feeling pretty internal as of late.  Focusing in on art and psychic shit.  Sure, at this rate I'll end up living in the street and talking to myself but I'm fine with that. I feel like this is the month that I should be "setting goals" and things of that nature but, frankly, I'm content with watering my plants, fucking who I want, and getting way the fuck too into Jean Genet's sailor shit again.

(Pause to take in the photo, above.  Genet's sailor shit, again.)

In addition, I've been watching way too much ¿Quién mató a Patricia Soler? I can't help it. I justify it as language study (it IS!) and end up getting way too wrapped up in the plot.  I mean, can you imagine not being able to tell your children that they are your children because you've been in prison for 16 years for a murder you didn't commit? It's all totally relatable.

Okay. That's all for today.  I'm a bit obsessed with paint and with grape flavored gum.

Obviously I need to exorcise these demons out of me.

Be well; Be loved,


(photo credit: I can't recall. I swiped it from Tumblr. I'm usually so good about this.  I was distracted by the hot faggots.)

Sunday, November 22, 2015

You Answer The Phone Before I Call; I Hug You Just Before You Arrive.

Here we are, folks.  A Sunday morning in the light, the air smelling of milk and honey because of my hand lotion and smile.

Let's talk about the healing nature of dreams and why it's so important to get enough sleep.  The rested mind is so incredible. As is the hydrated mind.

I know I may sound like a hippie, but it really is true.  Things I can't see clearly in the sleep deprived waking life come into focus with the light and sound of a well rested mind.

Insert something, here, about interconnectivity and the conversations I have with a particular, magnetic woman who is, mostly, a stranger to me.


Let's take a moment for the highlights of the transit this week:

The man with the shitty tattoo on his face asking me directions to the water park:  I feel solid in my directions and hope you got there.

A conversation with Holland about class and jobs and unions and the importance of archives.  You may look like a Hollywood handsome gangster but, well, but nothing:  You kind of are.

The woman who pointed out to me that there was a make up lesson happening in a department store glass window that evening : Well- lit and with students watching.  The participant was being painted as special effect type zombie.  It was gorgeous.  The sun had just gone down, and all eyes were on this illuminated and center-staged beautiful monster.

How could it have been any other way?


As an aside that is not an aside: The conversations with L. have been hilarious and healing and validating on all fronts.  It feels good to be falling back into our every-few-day phone date pattern.

Seasoned friends are everything.

It's where I learn the most.

Be well; be loved; be looking for what matters with that rested mind of yours,

(image: via cosmicclusters tumblr)

Saturday, November 21, 2015

The Only Thing Clean is My Underwear: An Unexpected Meditation in the Forest

It's 10 am and I am far away from home and two things are certain:  I am wearing roughly the same clothes as yesterday evening, and I am- without a doubt- the first person who ordered a pizza when Domino's opened at 10. 

These are the things that dreams and misfortune are made of: It's up to you to decide which as befallen you.


I'm in an empty and flimsy office space.  It's cold as fuck in here, but the box of pizza on my lap is doing a good job of keeping me warm.

Things have remained at that level of good/odd/good, and I'm okay with that. It's a bit more adventure than I'm used to for this time of year, but that's nothing to complain about.

Art collaborations are coming along.  My body is waking up again. 


I'm off to eat my dessert of 10:45 am peanut M&M's.

In the meantime, read this article called What We're Getting Wrong about Dissociation because it is important and on point.

be well; be loved; be warm


(photo: Robert Mapplethorpe in NYC, 1969)

Friday, November 20, 2015

Four in the Morning at Eight PM

California. Florida. Arkansas. Ohio. Michigan. Oregon. Texas. Washington. New York. Slightly Colorado.

Friends from all over the place are getting a hold of me at random, but not random at all.

I'd blame the holidays, but it's too early for that.

I'll say it's a bat signal:

Home style.


Things lately have been electric.

Strange, but electric.

I'm excited about tonight's company.  She's new to me in this capacity, but has been around for a long time.

I'll try to keep my composure, although the structure of our plan has anything but.

be well; be loved; go with it:


(image: John Baldessari via euo Tumblr)

Monday, November 16, 2015

Locked Rooms and Delayed Savorings: Sleep Edition

About to turn in for the evening.  It's been a long, fun, misunderstood, productive, enjoyable day. I'm beat.

I'll leave you with a quote from a final interview with Foucault, because I can and because I feel his point, here, on denial.

Be well; be loved,


P.S. Although I enjoyed the New York Trilogy when I read it a million years ago, I think Paul Auster is kind of a dick knob. The interviews I've heard with him are pompous and dated. He's overrated. Is this just me?  [Full disclosure: I think the majority of U.S. born cis white straight guy writers are overrated. Yes, yes: Your drugs and your travels and your deep, deep thoughts. Zzzzz.]

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Virtuous Souls

This morning, up early, I listened to an interview with Maya Angelou from a while ago while wrapped in layers of coats and sweaters and hoodies.

It has gotten cold out, and the rain sees to get down to your bones with its chill. 

Here is a transcript of something she said that resonates:

It's like the difference between facts and the truth:  Facts can obscure the truth. You can tell so many facts that you never tell the truth.

You say the places where, the people who, the times when, the reasons why, methods how, blah blah blah. 

But if I tell the human truth, if I tell it well, then a person in Bangalore, another person in Beijing, somebody else in New York City, another person in Mexico City will say "Yes. That's the truth... that's a human truth."


(end transcript) 

As I made my way through the cold to my destination, she said one more thing that made me think of so much, as of late:

"You have to have enough courage.  It's the most important of all the virtues. Because without courage, you can't practice any other virtue consistently. You can't be consistently kind, or true, or fair. Not consistently. You can be anything erratically."

be well; be warm; have enough courage.


(image: Aurora Borealis (Substorm), Chena Hotsprings, Alaska, 1989, Kikuji Kawada via isidore tumblr)

Saturday, November 14, 2015

The Divinity of Numbers

Holy amazing sleeps of the world.

I recently awoke from one of the deepest, most needed sleeps I can recall in the past few years.

For the past 3 weeks, I haven't been sleeping.  There have been 3 different situations causing stress these 3 weeks.  Although I've been trying to figure out how to contain them, it's taken me quite a long time.  Not surprisingly, it was Friday the 13th in which I managed to contain all 3 of them at the same time and, in doing so, as a reward, was given the sweetest sleep ever.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

At least 3 times are in order.

Last night before my descend into the land of dreams, I had a conversation with a beloved New Yorker-via-Detroit for just shy of 3 hours (2 hours 39 minutes).

Oh, it was what I needed.

Today will offer me more "home" in the form of visitors coming in from out of town to enjoy this rainy day.

All of the aspects of things that have been strangely skewed in the past 3 weeks are coming back into focus.


For my own sanity, I say:

THANK YOU to all of the people in my life who communicate. Who offer apologies.  Who accept apologies.  Who hug. Who love. Who are strong when someone they love is weak. Who are weak and let someone else be strong.  Who are complex and fucking beautiful beings.

The whole 9.

May these numbers never stop haunting me.  I know their curses as much as their magic.

Be well; be loved; be enjoying a slow Saturday morning with those you love.


(image: Maison Martin Margiela Spring, 1995 via neveriaa tumblr)

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Like a Train

Sitting with a friend in high-backed, gray velour chairs facing a picture window that faces a street busy with steady traffic.

The floors here are a blondish wood.

I miss wood floors.

Carpet is not my thing.

While I'm at it:

I miss basements.


The past few weeks have been odd and bad and odd and good. It just depends on which day and which interaction you are referring to. I've been spending time trying to contain the emotional vomit wheel of someone else, whom I care about.  That's always rough. If you can imagine a room full of dandelion puffs floating around in the air and your job is to get them out of the air.  Of course some sort of water would be involved.  Wet them so that the weight of the water pulls them down to the ground.  Flattens them. Mats them to the ground.


It's certainly a strange and imperfect art form.


I've been listening to interviews with various authors, lately.  One that I was excited to listen to was one with Javier Marías about his book A Heart So White. It was beautiful to hear him discuss it in his own words, albeit not in his own language. Although he comes across as a pompous ass at times, his relationship to language and translation will always keep me sewn to him.

Be well; be loved,


[If you're interested to listen to the interview mentioned, here is an online version of it. The comment the moderator makes about the argument she overhears in Spanish is fucking ridiculous and ignorant, and I appreciated and laughed at how Marías shut it down. #monolingualbullshit]