The milk is spilt

Throughout my life, my dreams, the potent ones, repeat themselves. As a young boy, I would float slow-motion in a blank white room. Sometimes, I would see three symbols on one wall of the room. I have long since forgotten what those symbols are, but I know that they are scrawled into the side of my 8th grade desk. In my teens, it was superheroism. In my twenties, always self-mutilation. I have dreamt of cold for the last three days.
I've made mention of my curious fascination with Victorian Arctic Explorers. I remember being brought to a halt by a story of 4 men walking across ice towards the South Pole and slowly going insane. The lead man wrote in his journals of perceiving a 5th man. He would count and recount the members of his group, and always end on 5. This went on for days, before he could bring himself to mention it to his second-in-command, as he feared accusations of insanity, if not insanity, itself. His Lieutenant was simply relieved that someone else saw him, too. At night and in the tents, they were 4. Out on the ice shelf, him. While this could easily be interpreted or dismissed as exhausted paranoia, or Jesus leaving his footprints in the sand, I still wonder.
My dreams of the last three nights have been of freezing.
It's me and one other. We are wrapped in thin swaddling and the wind is ripping into us and driving us closer. It's not a sex dream, but it is as if we are pulling ourselves into one another. I can only concentrate on this others heartbeating in my ears. No Jungle Drums. It's the sound of an iceberg ripping itself in half. My head is swirling with nothing but a base need to get closer and keep warm. I have the sensation of being fried in oil, but I can't let go, and that is how the dream ends, with, with us, dying of cold and need and hoping for some little flickering spark to push our blood one inch farther from and closer back towards our near-still hearts.
Either that dream, or the one where Jay Leno has the body of a stripper... (tonight show video 10/4)

Marina Abramovic...

Anoushka Fisz...


Abdel Halim Hafez...



Here's some more fashion show shots. Working with a digital camera really makes me long for Chemical smells and very dark rooms.

OK, I'm sort of at a loss for what to post, mostly because I've been working incessantly. I can't hardly get motivated to keep preparing to move to Prague, much less feel the need squeeze out an enthusiastic post about the biggest unsolved ART crimes or cool PORN... OK, the porn is kinda cool.

I like to poke through the potpourri sections of sites. These MP3s were dug out of the cracks in Napster's nether regions. You remember Napster? From back in the day? This kid rocks Jad Fair hard. I wonder who he is. If you're only going to listen to 1, then I recommend "How do you stinking feel?" I smell a SQUIRM cover... either that, or something from Ginsberg's
Cosmopolitan Greetings.
On the other hand, I paraphrase Muddy Waters, in saying that this dude wants to rock in the worst way, and that's exactly how he does it.

How to cleanse the palate after that punishing round of "Rock Obviouses", that one dude totall had some hot licks, though, yo... I say go to China, Video Game Samples (Lots and Loud), Shrinking Quarters, Lightning in Glass (you can spin it!), Gertrude Stein? Listen to Funk Mix Sessions, the pitter-patter of American casualties. Stare at the sun... I don't know.


Free Grave

I got a call in my early twenties. I had already found myself in a deep funk and staring at the walls. The woman on the line was pleasant. She offered me my grave. Deal was, I go and let them tell me about funeral planning, and I get a grave spot. Curiosity piqued, I asked for more details. Totall no obligation, I sit through a lecture, I get a grave, numbered and everything. I could go to it. I would have property that would outlast me. I told her that I wasn't emotionally ready for that. I let her know I was bummed out to begin with, and it wasn't her fault, but I couldn't really say thanks. My luck, I'll end up a plastic cross and a couple of teddy bears because I just had to have that Wierd Al tape behind the passenger seat at the worst time possible. Speaking of Plastic Crosses, I bet someone has already put that Footprints poem one one of these...

While I'm feeling so cheery, This is the ceiling to a church not far from where I'm going to live. Were Jesus alive today, I think he'd be like, Fuck Yeah, and shit...

Check this lady freaking about the Dark-sided. I can relate...

If Mia Farrow on a Clorox binge is the mellow sort of vibe you're looking for, listen to this sly little bedroom DJ leaving the Mic on.

Man, I've got to shake it off. Chinese Guy Bites Head Off Snake... crnch. Chinese Guys Sing Backstreet Boys... wowobabywowo. Nothing's seeming to work. Maybe I need a Big-Assed Cup of Coffee. That, or Bill Bonds cameo from Planet of the Apes, if not Planet of the Apes, itself.


the vicissitudes of the scopic and the phanic drive

Probably not the best time for a PORN post, but I've found a few tidbits that shouldn't be left to the wayside. I've always had an affinity for the cheesecake aesthetic. Hell, I've got a cheesecake category in my LP collection... That's not saying much, because I also have a section for Radio Comedy.
I always got so much shit for pictures that I took of women during my brief internment in
ART school. "Why did I crop her head out of the frame?" Actually, they'd say that I'd cut the models head off. It was usually because it made for a better picture with a nicer line. It eventually led me to do similar work, excepting that I always made sure to give the models a baseball bat, or a chain. The Freudian implications of my little empowerment? gag didn't quite sink in until I just wrote that now, and this was years ago. I can't believe I missed that. I guess if a machete works for Jason from the friday 13th films, then I guess it suffices to make my emasculatingly little pun just a little bit funnier... to me, at least.
Don't get me wrong, it's just to accurately portray a complete spectrum of emotional content, one has to sully one nails with the unsavory. "How many of the women in this critique have ever made a blanket, dare I say sexist, statement, like ALL MEN SUCK!? Before you answer, keep in mind that I have four sisters, so I already know the answer."

I'm not getting any further into it than that right now. Here are some naked pictures of Madonna taken by one of my absolute faves, Mr. Lee Friedlander. Nude... I meant to write nude, not naked. That would be different.

If you're interested in intergender politics, like me, then check this essay out. In addition to thoughtful exigeses, it's got pictures of boobies.

Enough with the PORN. I stumbled across Tim Lane's Site. He's a cool painter, whom I had the pleasure of making an accquaintance at a busted ART opening a few weeks ago. He also hosts lots of Travis Pickard images. TP is KJP's brother. The image below is Tim's.

Lil Pink Devil, not Big Pink Devil, which looks, I imagine, something not unlike this...

Badass Nature Photos by Elsdale...

Well, let's top off a half-hearted porno post with something once and truly Phallicious... Train Vs. Semi



Here's some long overdue fashion show shots.