My Friend.

Ant farming

it immediately got covered in it's own thing. That's very odd isn't it?* /Enough drawing - time to write.

speaking of eyeliner. [new, waterproof, new top design -weird, pen-like nature, partly smudged.]

so, as we were saying, you can't make an two dimensional magnum opus. it just doesn't work like that [vigorously washing face], face later 'burned',  raw and red. enters cheap makeup from Target,
"putting on my makeup was a theatrical event today, it took the whole ride to the house.

Ants are cool and all but fuck, I don't want to live in an ant colony in goddamned ant farm. Two-dimensional, porous, limited professionalism, limited perforation. A 8 inch ceiling and ever so,close glass walls, tunneling, winding openings. it's not bad it's not bad it's just not what I want.

Please oh dear, don't make things to two-d.

I'm waiting, so patiently for Dragon, he's sleeping and waiting too. /in the shop for repairs we say. ha

in the meantime....

Enter no-face monsters,
sliding, slipping, creeping,

funny thing to sit across from yourself drawing yourself and someone sits in your seat. Ah, Oh what's wrong. It's okay, I was sitting across drawing myself. You kind of sat on me but its cool, it'll be fine.

The House of Sabbatical and the Musical Cats

        I fell asleep last night reading the Tao Te Ching.  Tink was curled up on my feet and behind me lay an electric guitar unplugged.  I would pluck the deepest string and feel sound travel through the bed. The sound and weight on the covers gave the comfort of someone curled up next to me, humming me to sleep.

                                                                             (Michael Parkes)

...............................

I visited a bed and breakfast in climate similar to California.  It was a small  complex, elegant but humble. The house was tranquil, but was undergoing some sort of transformation, so the owners were there, but not available.  In their stead were two cats, one grey and one cream, but they were not any ordinary cats. 

The cats were keeping the house, and they kept it well.   The grey cat walked me  through the terraced hallways lined with terracotta tiles and led me outside to the courtyard to a glass top wrought iron table and chair.  Cooling on the table was a jar of bones and honey, and a green and gold lined teapot and cup.   I turned around and the grey cat was gone and in his place sat the cream cat.  "Window" he purred.  I looked up to the window above me and back at him.  "Window" he purred again.  I stood up and pulled open the stain glass window.  I stepped back and the cream cat was gone.

The grey and cream cats were musicians, but not any ordinary musicians.  I took a spoonful of honey and heard something warm brush up against my left ear.  I brought the cup beneath my nose and inhaled the spicy mist, and felt something brush up against my right ear. I brought the tea to my lips to where I could feel the heat tingle, and I felt my whole head swell with something delirious that was floating from the open window and slipping into my ears.  Inside the house, the two cats, one on the piano and one on the violin, were deconstructing something beautiful.  The opened a portal in the courtyard; at opposite ends of a paper universe the ripped edges started to disappear  the mind's landscape dissolved into darkness, and then, in a crescendo of white hot life, the soul's entirety set aflame.  Their music was like laughter and I wanted to take it deeper inside me.  I finished my tea, smiled, left a seashell on the green and golden saucer.   It would be the seventh season before I returned again to this house.

Do you see the panther face?

Werewolf Mother of Saturn

The idea of having children strikes me as just as good an idea as giving a werewolf a litter of kittens to raise.  Waxing days of love, waning days of tender care, a dire warning for a bedtime story, and new moons shackled to the oak tree in the yard, teeth and claws gnashing and a litter of kittens huddled underneath the house trembling.                         9/10/08

Today I'm rolling in 36 deep with little pink, yellow, and purple tomato babies.  (heirloom, ooh fancy)

"Use your words."

Taking Smoke

I hoped and was happy to find a smoking room in the airport.  It was all the way at the end of the terminal, but I enjoyed the journey to and from.  Without making it obvious I smiled as I entered the smoking lounge.  I smiled because I was happy to smoke; I smiled because I thought it was funny that everyone in there was in there to smoke; I smiled because I felt at home with this group.  I decided if I had to be stuck with a group of people, or on a airplane crashing, I would prefer this group of strangers over other strangers. Smokers have a sense of reality about life and dying. They live in, even if very small, a little world of fantasy, of bodily pleasure and the aberrant pain of romance.  They realize the value of self-injury, whether used to prevent or treat, I think that smokers smoke to not get hurt  or to not hurt others.  There are exceptions, smokers whom hurt others, but they are that, exceptions: every sociopath is an exception to the rule of how human brains operate.  There were several people who wore green tops or hats, most likely none of which were sociopaths.  Finding and wearing a green article of clothing from one's wardrobe was typical for March 17, Saint Patrick's Day, in this part of America for this time in history.  There was a man who wore a green shirt and was sitting in the corner of the smoking lounge. I'm pretty sure he was there when I had come in myself.    My smile from many things tickling my mind and body might have caught his attention.  He moved twice, once across the room to the seat caddy corner to me, and once to the seat adjacent to me.  In between us was a small table in place of a chair in the row of attached chairs where passengers sit waiting to come and go.  My second cigarette was half a chance for me and half a chance for the man.  Body and mind wanted more nicotine and smoke, for the reasons it did, and he seemed like to want to talk to me, perhaps to tell or ask me something, can't be sure.  I took my ear buds out, first one, then both, giving first one ear then both, to listen.  He said nothing.  I put my phone on the plastic tabletop.  The first move across the room to the seat caddy corner could be justified by the standing ashtray that was located on the floor to my right.  The second move, yet still, could be explained through a desire for greater proximity to the designated area for ashing one's cigarette, but it seemed he had other motives, not ill intentions, good intentions, just lacking the lack of fear to be fulfilled with action. By the end of my second cigarette he still had not said a word, but by the time the last of my undirected fear faded I turned toward him and asked him if he read.  He said yes, I asked him then if he liked to read poetry, and he said yes again.  He said something positive but I can't remember what exactly. I told him I write poetry and if he is interested he could look up on Myspace the name I wrote down, my name, on a page and tore out from my journal, the same small journal am writing in now.  When I sat I smiled lightly and wished I was better writing with my left hand and that the airport terminal seats didn't interact with my shape and size and pants' fabric to make me feel as if I'm always  about to slip out or barely touching the floor.  They make me feel ungrounded, hard to write and smoke, but I didn't mind.  I didn't mind anything for those ten minutes in the smoking lounge.  I smiled lightly and enjoyed my time.  I was waiting for my flight to board. I had to run the last stretch of the terminal as I had taken my time on my journey.  In flight now, far from the ground, I enjoy my time and smile lightly.  I am not waiting to land, I am just flying.  I wrote the following while I was in the smoking lounge: "the way we are is fine and natural. testing, testing. ground check. confirmed. here we are. here we are. hello."

Goat Eyes

About five minutes into the session the psychic told me I was an alien.  I think it was a done deal regarding my "ethnic origin" when I told her about the tattoos on my inner forearms:  the symbolic geometry was there so that I would readily remember certain basic laws of nature and apply them to how complex systems operate.  As I spoke her eyes lit up and I swear her pupils were square shaped.  I laughed and told the woman that my mother had said more than once that I must have flown in from another planet because I had a completely different idea about how the world worked than everyone else.  Sometimes I want to tell my mom I have such strange understandings because her and my father had such different ideas about everything. My hybrid logic weaves together laws and facts that usually wouldn't compute for most folks. The fact I was sitting on the other side of the table from this woman is a perfect example of this: I am in my last semesters for a degree in applied behavioral neuroinformatics yet agreed with a child's curious mind to my grandmothers offer to pay for a psychic reading at the local esoteric bookstore  while I was visiting her in California). I joke that sometimes it may look like I'm slow when someone asks me a question because first I have to locate myself in the universe.   For how 'alien' I may be, I am impeccable at analyzing human behavior and interactions. When you think in code and you have a knack for understanding people it's difficult not to be constantly pursuing hidden agendas or practicing what Don Juan called the "art of stalking."  He said it sounded mysterious but it wasn't, it just had to do with human interactions. Stalking meant being able to conceal one's intentions or motives to be able to move about or accomplish what one wishes.  He said the old sorcerer's used it for dark pursuits but to modern sorcerers it was fundamental to living the life of a warrior.   The goal is not to master others but instead be the master of oneself.   I think that being able to manage your perspectives about the world in such a way that you can allow seemingly mutually exclusive realities to exist in one thought is mastering what you have learned and what you have experienced.  I wrote "multidimensionality" on the wall of the art building, followed by a lengthy definition entry.   If this world was a matrix like game it would have a lot of exciting fun things and a lot of dangers and an unending list of unknowns -continuous alternate reality role playing. It's a tiring way to operate no doubt, it's the only way I know, and is probably for the same reason that I go "mmmm" and smile, rubbing my head, and respond to my mother's honest question about my Mohawk and half head shaven saying, "It makes me feel normal."