Kitaro, The Dead, and Queequeg Walk Into a Bar
Peak moments. Lucid moments. Insight. Understanding. Clarity. Enlightened moments. What fun.
Peak moments. Lucid moments. Insight. Understanding. Clarity. Enlightened moments. What fun.
There may be nothing new under the sun, but there are always new ways to let it shine.
Who of them will come to be? How many of them are you and me?
If you have been living with CPTSD, you will probably get this. If not, it is simply designed to make you go, "huh?"
The idea that all of us adults have an inner child is silly. Which is the point.
fuck art make noise
I am not a disciplined writer. I don't even like to call myself a writer. I don't get writer's block. I get writer's fright. I've said this before. Why does writing frighten me? Because when writing, I can't lie. I can't hide.
i used to buy opium from a guy who wore renfaire clothing and always made me listen to him sing 'shelter from the storm' i just cut ties with a grifter poet who'd been grooming me for a few months, i don't know what
Part 1 of 2
I'm on a short bridge, standing on a milk crate for a better view. A tribe of gorillas inhabits the creek-side below. The creek is known as Blood River, but nobody knows why. There is a beat up old suitcase somewhere near... well, somewhere, anyway. There is
I. the two boys the garden snake the sun dried wood the long stretch the measure II. I remember on my back my skin warmth above and below fading into suchness the sun III. the one boy the opened jack knife the silver blade (the cutting the blood) the dying
Godot will always be coming, but certain never to arrive. Be like Lucky, the wise fool.
writing
glorious baklava, ex libras, hep hey, ad infinitum
writing
Write a story in six words...
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The purpose of making art is making art. It will never be enough. It is all there is.
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Pardon my outrage, but there's a greater point if you read to the end.
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I was shopping for shoes when I saw the shirt. It was by itself on a torso mannequin and it whispered to me as I passed it. “I am for you!”
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Lies they still tell me…
writing
from the sacrilege series
writing
to be alone with myself
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FUCK ART MAKE NOISE
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paranoia is terrifying, petrifying, but also seductive. it's an attempt to make sense of a world in which almost everything is illusory
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I make photos and other visual art. Mostly digital. Some analog. Some both.