Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
YOU'RE IN MY LIGHT
Monday, April 16, 2007
JOURNEYING YOUR WAY
"I saw a scrap of omelette on the kitchen floor, and I thought to myself, "If I have guests they are damn sloppy. I'll cut their throats and throw the lot of 'em out." But when I bent to pick it up I groant; it was not a piece of hard egg, but a piece of stuffing. Something had delaminated and it wasn't the linoleum. It wasn't the subfloor and it wasn't the atmosphere in the crawlspace. It was the inner meaninglessness of my house, and by extension my time there and my act. Then it turned out I did have guests after all and that their throats were already cut, and their bodies were already pitched out into the yard, and the birds had already eaten them, and collectors had already carried away the bones. So the distraction was already gone, but I still had to act. The house was already becoming sterile."
Saturday, April 14, 2007
TWO MORE CRUDE MOLESKINE POPUPS
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Ted Miller is dead. I can hardly believe it. He and I had known each other since before the cradle; his parents and mine used to go out on the town together before either of us were born.
Ted had a greater positive effect on my life and character than anyone I've ever known except my wife. He introduced me to most of the art and literature that was my greatest solace during the hell of my adolescence: R. Crumb, Boris Artzybasheff, George Herriman, Carl Barks, Arthur Rimbaud, Henry Miller, Alfred Jarry, Howlin' Wolf, Fats Waller, Billie Holiday, John Lee Hooker, Wallace Stevens, Vachel Lindsay... get the picture? I shudder to think what my life would have been without his influence.
He had genius and charisma, style and grace, a good heart and an old soul. He plunged into life and explored it with intelligence and enthusiasm while I stood blinking on the shore, and he was eager to share his discoveries.
Our friendship was tumultuous and there were gaps of years when we did not talk; my fault entirely. O well. After the most recent gap of 20 years we re-established contact a year and a half ago, and our friendship was renewed. You have no idea how glad I am about that.
When we were teenagers we had a little ritual: when one of us would phone the other the caller would sing the opening line of a Buster Brown Shoes commercial jingle. The answerer would sing the next line, and in this way we would sing the entire stupid thing. For the past year I kept meaning to call him and surprise him with that opening line, but I never did.
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SAND
Due to the highly confidential nature of the projects to which I have been giving my time for the past few weeks I am not able to share any of the "material" which has been generated. From time to time I will, in the hope of keeping this endeavor alive, post sketchbook excerpts and whatever leftover detritus I feel may have some interest... such as the picture above. It's a great feeling to have powerful friends; thank you.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
BURIED CARCASS ACT
Well, I got married again, six years ago, to a Guatamalan lemur; not the animal, of course. We have a cell in the mountains. Her father's the chief, and I'm the main gunner, bottle-washer and general factotum. We're in hiding 1900% of the time. You wouldn't believe how tough it is. No hot water, no coffee, no light after sundown, no heat. During the day we operate a workbench; two rows of men with iron pipes, turning everything in the world into flat entropic mush. Our women are exhausted, constantly pregnant. But look at you, sitting in the lap of luxury. No, I don't want to explore. I'm not interested in seeing what a brightly-polished tunnel you've grubbed for yourself. Stop it, I don't want to hear what you think about anything.