Traitor Trash.

This is our (P’s and my) most recent big acrylic, 30x40” and enough paint so that the raw materials cost around $70. So that, we suppose, is its worth, except the materials are now used and all we have is this masterpiece. Moot: we will never sell our love-children into the bondage of another household.

The painting is, well, a lot of things, including something like a well: you can look down it and see if there is a pussy down there:–

Ding, dong, bell,
Pussy’s in the well!
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Green.
Who pulled her out?
Big Johnny Stout.

What a naughty boy was that,
To drown poor pussy-cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But killed the mice in his father's barn!

—Mother Goose. (Really!)

But we don’t kill kitties. It’s that whole Anglo-Saxon thing: Peter is boringly English with a drop of Shelty, and you can probably tell from my name what my heritage is. So, Angles all around, and a fair amount of hot and steamy Saxon. Angular but all round, everywhere always look over there see there. He as a CD called “Death—to the right of them.” In fact:–

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
  Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
  Rode the six hundred

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

That was the Crimean war, the Cossacks/Russians vs. the six hundred. A Pyrrhic victory? Depends on your perspective. You could learn a million ways of reading that poem, and still not get the whole picture. But, so vivid. So much so that light might change your point of view.

Why do we have colors? Did Locke or Berkeley or Bacon or or or have anything to say on the matter? Ahhh... not matter. A secondary quality.

That is the picture we just posted. Into the jaws of Death. If Ingmar Bergman’s Grim Reaper from The Seventh Seal had significant jaws, like gloriously square testosteronal ones (actually, we only refer to the lower jaw when we talk about the shape of jaws), then the painting is a colored version of a very, very, very miserable time.

Worse than Lars von Trier’s Medea. Just hangin’ around. And plotting a hatchery of images and quotes from that “A bishop and a knight” mov(i)e(/solution).

The Silence of Sound.

If I wrote a play, and I am actually writing one, it wouldn’t quite be in Braille, but to start with would consist of a lot of dots fairly well organized, able to be read with a little imagination or delusion. (Spot the différance.) Then I’d join the dots just as we did as kids. Next, I’d perform a Gaussian blur on the image just as we did as kids. And the figures resulting would have perspective, correct shading, take on the form of both humans doing various things and also quite clearly letters. That way I would write a play.

Or I could start of with one of my compositions, and with the fcuked up spectrum that is imposed on everything these days (new project: to trace the source of this leak, shouldn’t neither boil nor freeze me in the process), and my psychological trauma of resulting in terrible co-dependence, I must deface that and what will I find? Exactly that message. Ugh. It seems I have_ daemon written terrible_ socket things without_ resource realizing_ driver_ framework it. Every_ dae.

Convincing? Wait until my next barrage_

Chirp Chirp Marble Dressed up as Love Birds.

Can you see them? Their love is so strong that they even managed to etch, psychically, their names. That much should be obvious. And quite a few angles (well, half each) of their faces.

Oh, rotate so their signature is on the left. They in many forms are on the right.

Vandals.

Waiting for ελευθερία. Beckett. And The Lost Ones. A small world of a flattened cylinder, with a circumference of 50m and a height of 16m. And its pitiful inhabitants. Dense prose. Beckett.