...

grey is my favorite color

2010-10-27T00:41:00.000-07:00

I had planned on getting up early taking a bath, with tea maybe.

Waking up gently.

Instead I slept in and walked to work with an apple, milky Earl Grey in a thermos,
shivering, hurrying jerkily through the misty cold.
Later, an old man leaned in as I gave him his coffee, said
"Today should be canceled on account of the greyness."

Finished!!

2010-05-09T16:35:00.000-07:00

I have a new room and I love it so much!

2010-04-01T23:03:00.000-07:00

Yay!! I finally moved out of the basement room, and into the back room. Upstairs. That has
windows. Two windows! I feel much better in this room.

From just inside the door...I have lots of wall to paint on.

The other side of the window. I have even more art space!

Loft! Under the loft there are two desks covered in piles of....of.....god, I don't even know. Stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. Someday, I will bring order to the chaos and then I will have a space for jewelry and a space for sewing. Or so I keep saying.

From the loft. Yes, that is paint all over the hardwood floor. It was there when I ripped up the carpet. It makes me feel less bad about making a mess.

The view from where I am sitting. :) That dog is Panda, our new wolf dog. She loves mirrors.

...and couches.

Art in Progress

2010-04-01T21:02:00.000-07:00

Before Medusa was a Greek girl who offended the goddess Athena, she was the third aspect of the Libyan goddess Athene (also called Neith, Metis, Anath or Ath-enna). Medusa was regarded as the seat of (female) wisdom. She is spiritual kin to Kali: both a life giver and death bringer. She is the storm, the calm, the destruction and the redemption.In Africa her face was said the be shrouded, because to view it was to gain the knowledge of your own death. And she has much bigger problems than snakes in her hair...

This started off as an exercise in how to make two different faces into one. I'm sure that I'll finish it soon...

This painting has been consuming a lot of my time lately...

This painting is an experiment in "stream of consciousness" painting. I've only just started to go back in and develop the image. It was interesting to see how even when I disengaged and stopped paying attention to what forms I was painting with what colors, I still came up with a working sketch.

Quit smoking and got a job.

2009-11-22T17:03:00.001-08:00

Tired from waking.
Tired by the ritual of coffee, pills   that I always forget to take.
Tired of preparing food and eating cotton.
Tired of bones full of buckshot,   lead weighting limp wrists.
Tried from walking on legs that hate to stand.
            [too tired to care]
Tired from breathing.
Tired of my brain   dripping gasoline -mercury smooth.
Tired of grabbing at thoughts that just slide off, down to my lungs.
And Tired     of coughing them out, sounding like that old, old man.
           [down by the liquor store? who can't hold his cigarettes?]

Dear Valued Customer,

2009-11-20T16:48:00.001-08:00

Every day that I have to wake up and go to work I hate the idea of my job more and more. I hate working for a corporation. There is so much waste involved with the relative financial stability of large companies: small amounts of milk are poured down the drain every few minutes; trashcans have to be double bagged, and emptied when they are 2/3 full; all the boxes shipped to us involve ridiculous amounts of packing and packaging material (true story: we were once shipped a 2'x3'x1' box containing nothing but one large plastic bag and a roll of packing tape). I hate the blatant consumerism: the up-selling of mediocre food and the ridiculous prices attached to it; the thousands of cups that pass through our hands daily. I hate just saying "Yes," to people who force me to fill the (two) sugar shakers at least every hour. I hate the tone I take when I dislike a customer, but can't say anything. I especially hate getting up early to serve people who forget what a job like this is like.
The problem is - I really love doing my job. At least, when I'm actually being a barista. Things like perfect cappuccino milk - airy, but still velvety smooth and rich - thrill me so much that I can ignore the rest of it (at least until I have to get up the next morning).
So why then, do I get up every day, knowing that I'll come home in eight hours with sore feet and a backache, stinking of sour milk and strong coffee, burned, sticky and exhausted? Because I (speaking completely apart from my company and coworkers) want to make you the best cup of coffee that I possibly can. Which sounds, aloud, so...well, kiss-ass that you will actually never know this, because even if I told you, you wouldn't fully believe me. So, if I promise not to make you question how little I care about my menial job, will you occasionally pretend that I'm human?

Thanks! Have a nice day.

Recently seen in my room...

2009-11-19T20:33:00.000-08:00

this is why you glow

2009-07-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

slumped: head hanging, shaking.

And Still the laughter bubbles, Breaking!    against your teeth,
jumping UP    orange.    fizzy.    confused.

Seeking    a way out.
Seeping    through tight pressed lips.

And still, you try not to spill
                                 one drop.
while it runs down lines, webs
across wrinkles,    soaking back into your skin.

Look what I found!

2009-07-01T00:21:00.001-07:00

Isn't she fabulous?

I finally did it!

2009-06-13T16:47:00.000-07:00

After months of sitting around and talking about what I wanted to do with The Dungeon (as we've nicknamed my studio), I finally woke up this morning and did it! Take a look! To the left is my painting area, and moving towards the right end are my sewing, jewelry and glass tables. Fantastic, no?

Process

2009-06-12T00:29:00.001-07:00

sleepless ravings

2009-04-23T19:24:00.000-07:00

How many nights, how many hours have I spent sitting in bed watching smoke swirl and mingle over the lamp, rising from the incense on the table, the pipe in my hand? How many pages have I filled with bored, illegible scribbles? How long have I spent staring blankly at books I don't want to read, clothes I don't want to put away? By three am I intensely dislike everything around me.

When you can't sleep, it's always three am.

Some nights I lie in bed with the lights off, singing long, slow songs in my head. Every so often I'll stop to guess the time. I'm usually right.

Mr. Durden has already explained to us how insomnia makes everything a copy of a copy of a copy. And while I do agree with him, I wish to emphasize the "everything" part. As the night wears on you go from one tired copy of yourself to the next: a copy of a copy of a copy.

Are you there god, or do you just suck at your job?

2009-04-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

I have a theory. No, not even a theory. A passing thought, just an interesting tidbit...I think (passingly, you understand) that we have disproved the existence of God. Or, at least, that we've proved the god that most "major" religions worship has not been hanging around our universe lately. According to these various peoples there is a kind, forgiving, rather grandfatherly god who just loves to watch out for us, right? However, most people don't realize that they basically believe in the same things, so they continually fight over whose god is better. Okay, so, here's what I don't quite understand: how does god feel about all this? Cause, see, if I was god, and I was as awesome as we seem to think he is, I don't believe I'd want anyone fighting in my name. I'd like to know what kind of god allows (him/her/it)self to be used as an excuse for so much violence. Just, you know, a thought...

For all of you photographically inclined folks...

2009-03-04T22:31:00.000-08:00

I did a shoot last week with one Ryan Chahanovich, a sweet, enthusiastic hippie from Austin. I think you should go take a look at his blog. Not only because there is a glow-in-the-dark picture of my arm on it, but because I really like his work. And because he got me a decent bottle of wine when he could have bought a three dollar bottle of shit.

Peace y'all.

long lost riding hood

2009-02-22T19:25:00.000-08:00

This is a super old version of Little Red Riding Hood from France. Notice that the girl does not actually have a red riding hood of any sort.

There was once a woman who had some bread, and she said to her daughter: take this hot loaf and a bottle of milk to your granny. So the little girl set off. At the crossroads she met a bzou (werewolf).

“where are you going?” he asked of the girl.

“I’m taking a hot loaf and a bottle of milk to my granny.”

“Which path are you taking, little girl? The path of needles, or the path of pins?”

“The path of needles,” she replied.

“well, then,” says the bzou, “I’ll take the path of pins.”

They set off, the girl amusing herself by collecting needles, while the bzou raced ahead. He arrived at the grandmother’s, killed her, put some of her flesh in the pantry and a bottle of blood on the shelf. The girl arrived and knocked on the door.

“Push the door,” said the bzou. “It’s just closed with wet straw.”

“Hello granny. I have a hot loaf and some milk for you.”

“Put them in the pantry. Eat the meat that’s there, and drink the wine.”

As the girl ate a small cat said: “She is slut who eats the flesh and drinks the blood of her granny.”

“Undress, child,” said the bzou, “and come into bed.”

“What shall I do with my clothes, granny?”

“Throw them into the fire my child, you won’t be needing them anymore.”

“Oh granny, how hairy you are!”

“It’s to keep me warmer child.”

“Oh granny, those long nails you have!”

“To scratch me better, child.”

“Oh granny, what big shoulders you have!”

“The better to carry firewood with my child.”

“Oh granny, what bug ears you have!”

“All the better to hear you with my child.”

“Oh granny, what big teeth you have!”

“All the better to eat you with, child!”

“Oh granny! I have to go badly! Let me outside!:

“Do it in bed, my child.”

“No, granny. I want to do it outside.”

“All right, but be quick.”

The bzou tied a woolen string to her foot and let her out. When the little girl got out the door she tied the end of the string to a big plum tree in the yard. The bzou became impatient and said: “Are you making a load out there? Are you shitting a load?” When he realized that no one answered him, he jumped out of bed and saw that the little girl had escaped. He followed her, but he arrived at her house just at the moment she was safely inside.

peanuts/sweet potato fries/guys

2009-02-21T21:31:00.000-08:00

on peanuts and lifelong hatred
It seems that I've been a little behind the times for the last nineteen years. Have you ever figured something out, only to find that 3,567,224 people know about it already? Well, I have just made a fascinating discovery: peanut butter is really good! I've spent my entire life being repulsed by the smell, taste, even thought, of peanuts and their butter. If, when I was little, my mother had given me a choice between "green things" (which must be said with a proper six year old sneer) and a PB&J for lunch, I would have eaten the vegetables. Maybe if she had done that I wouldn't have hidden my veggies under my booster seat. I hated peanut butter that much.
I remember working at a smoothie shop, gagging every time I made a peanut butter smoothie. On Halloween I would trade all of my Reese's Cups for candy the other kids didn't want. I could never pin down what it was about peanut butter that was so repulsive. Macadamia butter, almond butter, cashew butter, hell- even vegan butter, were all okay with me. But peanut butter?
Then, a few days ago, for absolutely no reason at all, I ate a spoonful of crunchy peanut butter. And I loved it.

on sweet potatoes
Take a sweet potato and peel off the earthy skin. Cut it into thick slices, then to matchsticks. Drizzle them with olive oil, dust with salt and pepper, toss them with your hands. Food is more honest when you touch it. When you don't prepare it with care you feed only half the body's hunger. Bake the sticks on a sheet pan in a 400 degree oven, turning them often so they brown evenly. Take them out when they are done, not before, and certainly not after. Be mindful when you eat them; expect to melt. They're good.

on the subject of men
I think that dating guys may be one of the stupidest things I've ever tried.

There is such a thing as too much.

2009-02-15T23:51:00.000-08:00

Finally, I stood up and taking off my earrings, stumbled into bed. Curling into a ball, I burrowed into the striped, colorful mess of blankets. The room throbbed. Some giant hand was massaging it like a failing heart. My own heart raced and thumped with it, beating wildly, erratically. I breathed slowly, carefully trying to calm the frantic heartbeats. But I was distracted by my arms. They were freezing. As the cold intensified into shocking pain, I realized that blankets wouldn't help. The cold was not coming from the air. It was inside, diffusing from my blood into my hands, my fingertips; a burning, cutting pain that felt like being rubbed down with menthol and then walking naked into the rain. I huddled into the pillows, completely fascinated by the threads of agony spreading through my ribs, into my neck and all the way to my toes.
Sometime later, I remembered my panicked heart, and raced to reassure it. But I arrived to find it thumping calmly, perfectly cool and collected.

I can't stop watching this.

2009-02-14T13:19:00.000-08:00

It's just so beautiful. Over 2,000 photos were needed to make this stop motion video. Find out more about it here.

Color #6D7B8D/Light Slate Grey

2009-02-12T00:55:00.000-08:00

It's half a hundred degrees out, and cold threads of air pry their way into the car. We drive in silence, last night's tequila still gurgling in our heads; the questions we won't ask or answer settling into the cracks between our lips, filling our ears. There's the tenseness of excitement: the promise of an adventure. Hands twined, we stare out of our separate windows at the leaping, whirling gulls. Together we watch the waves rearing towards the highway.

You grin as I shrug into your brown coat, silently saying how cute I look in it. With hands deep in our pockets we peruse the paths, rubbing elbows. Awkwardly, shyly hesitant, until our explorations took the edge off. Once, we paused in the sunlight, and I kissed your neck. The moment rocked, warm and twisting deep in our stomachs. And on the ride home I rested my head in your lap and slept, your fingers in my hair. Through the layers of unconscious, I could feel them twining, smoothing the strands.

Later, your fingers traced the dusty blue bite marks on my shoulder, whispering of fascination. Tonight, my own fingers travel the same lines, asking why I left.

A Random Sampling

2009-02-11T16:27:00.000-08:00

I have to walk around Lake Merritt to get to school, which is a wonderful way to wake up. See the tallest building all the way in the back? That's my school.

Frida!

Our pepper plant, that really needs to be put in the ground. Poor thing.

I have a tendancy to make small shrines in unused spaces.

See?

This is our bear, Iley. Seriously though, she's huge.

People in Oakland are still tense over Oscar Grant. There are signs up everywhere, Oscar themed art shows, etc.

This is where I get surprisingly good coffee before I go to class.

Home!

Our tomato plant also needs to be put down in the garden.

Is this not the coolest cathedral ever?

Just, ya know, practicing swordsmanship in the park.

All the rest are from the zoo. :)

Teal Colored Love

2009-02-07T19:25:00.000-08:00

jagged eyes, electric
racing through, kicking up dirt
keep up
probably dangerous
read the warning label
that good
that bad
that fun

reckless laugh
chilling, enticing
digging in, uninvited
laughter that holds you
owns you
too intoxicating
too violent
too loud

melts around the edges
so bright, burning up fast
taking you too
momma shoulda warned you
that girl is
scalpel kind of sharp
Kali dancing through the wind
ready to devour you
so beautiful
so toxic
so terrible

hair climbs the wind
storing static, finding sound
a million antennae
finding you
feeling you
exploring you
burrowing into your marrow
inescapable
telling her
"this one"

Goldilocks

2009-02-03T12:43:00.000-08:00

thick tongue, cracked lips, dry hands all want UP.
the mouth's roof feels gummy, smooth, not quite right,
long fingernails scrape layers of cells off, away.
sweater on, teeth brushed, up the stairs.
made coffee that was too dark, too rich, not quite right,
left it half drunk next to the cigarette, half smoked.
down the stairs, into the shower.
moaning against water that is too hot, too cold, not quite right.
sitting, wet, shivering on the tub's edge,
looking for words, finding them limp, desperate, not quite right.
dried off, made a mess looking for clothes.
useless to care,
those pants are all too big or TOO BIG, not quite right.
dressed, up the stairs.
made tea with lemon, in the grey and brown mug.
dark, light, sweet, sour, and almost right.
later, looking in a mirror for no good reason,
I see, my hair is just right.

Seriously, the rocking chair is magic.

2009-02-02T14:46:00.000-08:00

the rocking chair
on my back porch
a spindly, weather bleached thing, with a most uncomfortable seat back,
an old, blue cushion from a long forgotten couch on the seat.
it creaks.
this ugly old chair that I love,
it manipulates time.
I sat through eternity and a summer, just now.
and I thoughtlessly labeled the first breeze "cold" when it brushed past me.
and then,
"feel," no one told me.
but I did.
and I felt the molecules of my body vibrate,
and I felt the orbits of the world at the nape of my neck,
and I felt the wind puff past, lifting lightly,
gently,
so gently,
a fine mist of my cells.
and it was summer.
and the molecules pulsed,
slid,
towards the sun.
and I felt the colors that summer travels with,
as they flowed through my cheekbones,
and down,
into my body,
lending their warmth.
and it was dark,
and I was in the rocking chair,
blinded by the loss of summer.

Thoughts on Gender

2009-01-28T19:19:00.000-08:00

Accounts of prison rape, for example, provide independent confirmation of...assertions about gender, power [and], rape...One of the most descriptive of these accounts appears in Haywood Patterson's autobiographical Scottsboro Boy..."I learned that men were having men," Patterson wrote shortly after he arrived at Atmore prison. "Old guys, they called them wolves." Patterson's description of the process that defined and distinguished who was a "wolf" and who was not dramatically reveals our underlying assumptions of gender.

"Soon after I got [to Atmore] I saw how a wolf would trick a young boy. They all worked the same way. First the wolf, he gave the new guy some money and bought him what he wanted from the commissary. He told him that he was a friend. He would protect him from the tough guys. He would fight for him. He didn't tell him right off what he was leading to. After he spent
four or five dollars on the boy, he propositioned him."

In the end, however, this courtship inevitably failed to win the young prisoner over, and matters were resolved violently: "The old wolf beat him up unmerciful," initiating the boy into a new identity. "The other prisoners just looked on," writes Patterson. "They knew a young girl was being born."
-- From Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale,
by Catherine Orenstein.

...most of the dominant mainstreams of our world will only admit to one construction on gender-an inseparable conflation of "penis=male=masculine" and breasts/vagina=female=feminine." Those mainstreams insist that you like "woman (feminine)" or "male (masculine)." A few of them allow for the possibility of liking both, though they cast it as a suspect state of affairs best avoided or outgrown.
--From Genderquerulous, by Nalo Hopkinson

So I'm...involved, lets say, with a transsexual. At first, I did it for the novelty factor. I mean, come on! How many times have I wished I could sleep with a hermaphrodite? I'm attracted to gender-queer. Get over it.
Anyhow, since he is a genuinely sweet, cheerful, kind person who loves animals, nature, cooking, gardening, and is totally willing to sneak me into bars, I actually really like the guy. Which I wasn't exactly counting on. So the scene I'm building up to looks like this: the two of us are in the smoking room of a bar in the Castro. And I've gotta say, he dresses up well (cool leather shoes, nice pants, crisp shirt). But then, so do I (button down shirt that matches my teal glasses, straight jeans, strappy heels). We're waiting for his friend to bring us our drinks (whiskey sour/gin and tonic), chatting, lounging, smoking. We're talking about my height (he's short and I'm in heels), his upcoming trip to LA, where his friend was with the drinks, my friends in Miami, and suddenly "what do you see me as?" And I froze. "I see what you show me," I managed to spit out. Oh how diplomatic you idiot, I shrieked in my head. But how can I see anything else? How can I say anything else? And how could I? That's such an odd question. The energy, the person that I talk with, enjoy the company of, that presence is male. But the body? It's now neither male nor female. How can I say that I see a man, when that's what I feel, not see? But I don't see a woman either. It begs the question of why we have such rigid gender roles. Why do we have to be one or the other? Why is it only one or the other? Why aren't there three, four, five genders? And why is genitalia synonymous with gender?

It's that last question that interests me the most these days. Fourteen hours after we met, as we settled into a warm, happy, tipsy, awkward, post-sex cuddle, that question occurred to me. Resting my head on his chest, I traced his mastectomy scars (now isn't that an odd sentence!). "You seem so, I dunno, calm," I muttered. "How? I mean, why?" He made a quizzical face. "I mean," I continued, "I think I'd be angry, you know? I guess I have no idea how I'd feel, really. I just get the impression that I'd be a lot angrier about being all jumbled up. You know?" He kind of laughed and then tried to explain that the body's genitalia shouldn't determine gender. And I'm lying there going "Whaaaat? Come again?" I didn't understand that night, or even the next few. All I could think was that I was talking to a guy, and sleeping with a girl. But the more time we spend together, the more I've begun to understand. We do tend to define gender by genitalia. It's easy to do. Can you define what a woman is, or what a man is without those markers? It's so very hard to describe what makes a man a man, or a woman a woman. But its becoming increasingly obvious that it shouldn't be based on what body you live in. It just so happens that most men have a pair of testes and a penis. Just as most women have breasts, vaginae and birth babies. Getting to know this boy I've had to realize that he is a boy. Not a boi, not simply butch, but Male.

Google Meme

2009-01-27T16:47:00.000-08:00

Go see this video. These people are pretty awesome. Anyhow, the video contains instructions on how to compile this odd list....

Hannah needs some alone time.
Hannah looks like a train wreck.
Hannah says "Leave the sharks alone."
Hannah wants to give up acting.
Hannah does a sexy strip tease! (O_o)
Hannah hates when I do this, which is mostly why I'm foraging on.
Hannah asks a question. (?!)
Hannah likes lemons.
Hannah eats the world!
Hannah wears vintage. Eco-vintage!
Hannah was arrested for the brutal slaying of her step-grandfather, a California Supreme Court justice.
Hannah loves playing in the park.

*I did modify my search so that nothing related to Hannah Montana would show up. Is that cheating?

Just a few more.

2009-01-24T19:36:00.000-08:00

Here I Am!

2009-01-23T19:22:00.001-08:00

Just a random sampling of images from a shoot I participated in a few weeks ago. Most of the others are unedited (which I will work on), or will never be posted due to content (this is, after all, a public blog). But if you are a photographer, or one of my very special friends, drop me a comment and I'll send you more.

On Work

2009-01-19T18:29:00.000-08:00

Then a ploughman said, Speak to us of Work.

And he answered, saying:
You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.
For to be idle is the become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life's procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.
When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.
Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?

Always have you been told that work is a curse and labour a misfourtune.
But I say to you that when you work you fulfill a part of the earth's furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,
And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,
And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret.
But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, the I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written.
You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.
And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,
And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,
And all knowledge is in vain save when there is work,
And all work is empty save when there is love;
And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another.
And what is it to work with love?
It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead are standing about you and watching.
Often I have heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, "He who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs the soil.
And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet."
But I say, not in sleep but in the over-wakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;
And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.
Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love, but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distills a poison in the wine.
And if you sing as though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.

--Kahlil Gibran

And even more pictures!

2009-01-05T18:24:00.000-08:00

Detail of a piece I'm working on now

The full piece.

Another piece I'm working on.

This necklace is a rope of pearls hung with things I've been saving for years. Beads, pendants, etc. Things that I haven't put in other pieces, because I want to keep them.

Old buttons, coral, clay beads, freshwater pearls, tiger's eye, and more I'm sure.

Old old piece. I don't even remember what kind of stone those beads are.

Lots of sparkly found objects.

This piece is on sale at Underground Treasures in Oakland.

For your viewing pleasure...

2009-01-03T16:59:00.000-08:00

So, I took some photos today. Finally, right? This is a crazy mish-mash of things I said I would photograph, and then promptly forgot about. Enjoy.

Ignore my expression in this picture, please. I think I was squinting against the flash. Concentrate on my pretty hat! (Abby, this is the yarn you gave me)

This is my other favorite hat.
And again...

So, I've been fixing up the dungeon room. Cushions and lamps! Every bit of this is salvaged and found materials.
Table-top shrine in the dungeon.
And the other table.
This room was such a dump when I moved in. I'm really pleased with how it's shaping up.
I finally got around to painting in my main room. Pretty color, isn't it?

My wall of pictures. Send me something new for it!
Found objects necklace
Another
And another
And yet another found objects necklace. Much thanks and love to my housemate Isel for wearing them for me. All four of those pieces are currently on sale at FAVOR (shopatfavor.com) in San Francisco. AND, I found another store that may be interested in carrying my work.

Alright then. Peace.

"I don't really want to start packing for home yet."

2008-12-14T21:22:00.000-08:00

"Do you remember how we danced that first night? We were so far from this plane, this reality, dancing so fast, so intently, shaking and spinning around. Your hair flew about your face like strings of laughter, bouncing in your currents. I remember feeling infinite. And I knew that I couldn't say it that night. Not while I felt like that, not while you were so beautiful and free.
The next morning I wanted to tell you, but you were busy feeding me delight by the spoonful, and your eyes were all electric. I was enchanted by you , so I didn't ruin the moment.
And then we rented those bikes that we rode for miles along the coast. I might have said it over dinner that night, but we had mussels. You were such an adorable sight, tearing the shells apart, that I stayed silent. We had ice cream for dessert: green tea with grapefruit. You had said it sounded so strange that we had to try it. It was delicious.
So here we are and I still haven't told you, because every moment was just too perfect to change. See, the thing is, we can't go home. Don't look at me like that. I gave the cat to our neighbors, and I prank called your boss, my boss, the landlord and the police. I also sold our car and furniture. I told all our friends that we were only pretending to like them, and asked them not to call. We can never go back. We're free! So, no, I'm not going to pack."

I've felt this urge to write more, but I have no idea what to write about. So I'm going to start posting blurbs, essays, vignettes, from prompts that I come across. Enjoy.

Fresh baked bread and an argument for selfishness.

2008-12-11T13:33:00.000-08:00

My dad wasn't around much when I was little, but when he was he liked to make breakfast. I remember standing on a chair in front of the stove watching him make fried apples. That was what he taught me, fried apples and tomato sauce.
I learned how to cook intuitively from my mother. She taught me that if things smell good together they probably taste good together, that lemon is a good substitute for salt, and that baking soda and yogurt make for a really good pancake batter. But I still consider most of what I know about cooking to be self taught, through exploration, trial and error. What my mother really taught me was how to bake. She helped with cookies, cakes, muffins and quick breads. And when I was ready she walked me through making my first yeasted (is that even a word?) bread. I don't remember how old I was, probably somewhere around twelve. She taught me to poke the dough before I punched it down, not to just assume that it was done rising; showed me how to roll the edges of the dough under so that the top of the loaf would be seamless. She taught me that a thoroughly baked loaf will sound hollow when you tap it. I'm nineteen now, and not much has changed. When I decided that I wanted to try making sourdough breads I called her up. She described to me the process of making a starter, and how to maintain it. And, of course, when I pulled my first loaf of sourdough out of the oven I called her immediately. That was just a few weeks ago. I made a large loaf of sourdough rye with dill, thyme, and fresh cracked pepper in it. The bread was very sour, like any good sourdough. But I didn't care for the consistency. It was dense and didn't toast very well. It was most defiantly a beginner's loaf. So yesterday I decided to try again.
I mixed up a good sponge with whole wheat flour this time, and let it rise for almost nineteen hours (sourdough needs a longer first rising time). By the morning it was beautifully puffy and bubbly, with little wheat germ ringed holes where air bubbles had burst. After mixing in more flour, olive oil, eggs, oats, sunflower seeds and millet I realized that while I had enough dough for two loaves I only possess one loaf pan. Here were two perfectly (well, almost perfectly) formed, crunchy, multi grain loaves, and I only had one pan to put them in. All I had were muffin tins. No house needs as many muffin tins as my house has. So I ended up sliding one loaf pan and one tray of roll filled muffin tins into the oven.
And I just pulled them out. This batch of sourdough is much better than the last. Not as sour as I would have liked, but both the bread and the rolls have a good, thick, crunchy crust and they're all light and fluffy inside. And, it would seem, the Jewish mama gene is going pretty strong. As soon as the rolls were done I started calling people over to eat them. This has always been a goal of mine: cooking and giving. I don't care who eats it, only that someone does and that their day is a little brighter for it. I love feeding people good food. And knowing that it's good because I made it and there's nothing in it that I don't know about. This high I get from nourishing people, that's why I've been so careful with my money; so that I can do it forever some day. It's so beautiful, giving people comfort and happiness and nourishment from something so small. And it's so little for me to do, you know? To do something I love and that makes me happy. But that it also makes the people I touch happy? That's amazing. It is amazing that all I have to do, all anyone has to do, to make myself and other people happy is to do these things I love. Which sounds almost trite and silly. But imagine a small warm coffee shop in a rainy college town. It has all sorts of cast off, miss matched coffee tables. Some are low to the ground and have cushions around them, and others are higher up with colorful assortments of chairs. There are bookshelves along one wall, and the corners have old easy chairs. There are photos on another wall of places and people, and drawings from some of the kids who drop by. The whole place is in reds, browns, oranges and yellows. It smells like fresh bread and coffee. How happy would I be, to be making that bread and coffee? And how happy would you be, to stumble upon it one day? Maybe it's just a normal day, or maybe it's raining and you're just a little down. Maybe it's the worst day you've had in a while. In any of those cases, can you tell me that the warmth you'd find wouldn't leave you just a little happier?

Happy Eating

2008-11-27T23:17:00.000-08:00

Coffee
Yogurt and Rye Ganjacakes with Blueberry Sauce
Tea
Collard Greens
Ham
"Dressin' "
Tea
Curry Spiced French Lentil Soup
Rolls
Mashed Potatoes
String Beans
Hot Buttered Rum
Pumpkin Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream
Two Buck Chuck

...all in all a very successful Thanksgiving.

I broke my glasses, and when I fixed them the world looked different.

2008-11-11T21:53:00.000-08:00

Every person is God in disguise. Or whatever you want to call him/her/it. God, Goddess, Adonai, the Force, V.A.L.I.S., Dee, whatever. Those are a lot of words for the same thing. The point is that we all carry it within ourselves, always. I am God, you are God, every person I serve coffee to at work is God. Serving coffee becomes sacred because it is being done by God, for God. What you do is holy, because it is being done. Here. Now.

Space Cakes and Time Travel

2008-11-10T11:13:00.000-08:00

About two hours after ingesting the butter (by way of toast), I found myself downstairs in my room. I wasn't sure exactly when I had left the living room, but it didn't really matter. What mattered then was that I was sitting, cross legged, in the center of my room. The lights were off and something really trippy was playing in the background. The more I fell back into myself the more details became clear to me. I realized that I had been sitting there for about twenty minutes, which seemed like a very long time. I sat for a few minutes more, absorbing the sounds, the feeling of my muscles as a began to move them around. Then I got up, put on a coat and went out to the back porch. I sat down in the rocking chair and light a cigarette, my fingers all trembly from the cold. I rocked and smoked for about five minutes until I had to put out the cigarette. I couldn't stand to hold it any longer. As I continued to rock I realized that not only was the chair creaking, I was anticipating the creaks. Very softly I explained to myself that I needed to stop waiting, and just let those creaks happen. "Stop anticipating," I said. "Just be here, now." And I rocked. And each moment in the rocking chair turned into the first time I had experienced motion. Each moment was brand new. It was the first time I had heard wood creak, the first time I had rocked back and teetered on the edge between falling and rocking forward. I sat in that chair for eternity and experienced everything for the first time, over and over, at every moment.

That paragraph is from the first time I infused THC into butter and ate it. It wasn't unpleasant, as some people say it can be. It was very, very intense. Time and reality started doing back flips and contortionist stuff that belong only in Cirque du Soleil. It was interesting, but I wasn't sure that I'd ever try it again. Well, Saturday night my neighbor came over bearing a large plastic shopping bag. It was full of trimmings: stems, leaves, everything but bud. He gave it to us, saying that he had no use for it. We didn't really think that we'd get anything good out of the bag. Smoked it wouldn't have done anything at all. But butter....So yesterday I went to the store and bought a half pound of butter. Since we figured we were working with half-assed stuff we changed the proportions. Normally, it seems, you use an ounce of cannabis per pound of butter. So we used an ounce per half pound. After three hours of simmering water, butter and weed, the entire house smelled like pot. But we had a lovely bowl of bright green liquid. So I cooled it, skimmed the butter off the top and proceeded to make some really yummy cookies. And once again, time stopped.

Mmm, Cookies!
Basically, take your standard chocolate chip cookie recipe. Mix up your green butter, sugar and eggs. Add flour, vanilla, baking soda, whatever it calls for. But use really good chocolate chips, and add dried fruit (I used raisins and cranberries) and a lot of nuts (pecans, almonds and walnuts went into mine). Your batter will be a very light shade of green. And it might taste a bit like grass. But once baked all the other goodies in your cookies will overpower that taste. Enjoy.
But please, be careful. Eat two or three and wait a bit. You will want to munch on something, but make sure it isn't laced with THC as well. Eating too much will totally mess you up. Make sure that you really need another cookie before you eat one. I had a lot, probably around seven. I think five would have been sufficient for a good trip. So, yeah...just keep that in mind.

The Fountainhead; Section Three, Chapter 14, Pages 660 through 670*

2008-11-01T09:29:00.000-07:00

[Peter] Keating lifted his head. He sat at a littered table, bent under a squat lamp that gave poor light; he was doing a crossword puzzle...
"Hello Ellsworth," he said, smiling. He leaned forward to rise, but forgot the effort, halfway...The smile went, not quite completed. It had been an instinct of memory.
"Hello Ellsworth," he repeated helplessly.
[Ellsworth] Toohey stood before him, examining the room, the table, with curiosity.
"Not very talkative these days, are you, Peter? Not very sociable?"
"I wanted to see you Ellsworth. I wanted to talk to you."
Toohey grasped a chair by the back, swung it through the air, in a broad circle like a flourish, planted it by the table and sat down.
"Well, that's what I came here for," he said. "To hear you talk."
Keating said nothing.
"Well?"
"I'm so tired Ellsworth...I'm glad you came."
"Think you can get away with it? ...The hermit act? The great penance?"
"What do you want?"
"...I'll just tell you the truth...You make me sick. Can't you take the truth? No, you want your sugar-coating...You're a complete success, Peter, as far as I am concerned. But at times I want to turn away from the sight of my successes."
Keating stood by the dresser, his shoulders slumped, his eyes empty.
"You make me sick," said Toohey. "God, how you make me sick, all you hypocritical sentimentalists! You go along with me , you spout what I teach you, you profit by it-but you haven't the grace to admit to yourself what you're doing. You turn green when you see the truth. I suppose that's in the nature of your natures and that's precisely my chief weapon-but God! I get tired of it."
"What do you...want...Ellsworth?"
"Power, Petey."
Toohey was smiling, almost indifferently.
"You...always said..." Keating began thickly, and stopped.
"I've always said that. Clearly, precisely and openly. It's not my fault if you couldn't hear. You could, of course. You didn't want to. Which was safer than deafness-for me. I said I intended to rule...I shall rule."
"Whom...?"
"You. The world. It's only a matter of discovering the lever. If you learn how to rule a single man's soul, you can get to the rest of mankind...The soul, Peter, is that which can't be ruled. It must be broken. Drive a wedge in, get your fingers on it-and the man is yours. You won't need a whip-he'll bring it to you and ask to be whipped. Set him in reverse-and his own mechanism will do the work for you. Use him against himself. Want to know how it's done? See if I ever lied to you. See if you haven't heard all this for years, but didn't want to hear, and the fault is yours, not mine. There are many ways. Here's one. Make man feel small. Make him feel guilty. Kill his aspiration and integrity. That's difficult. The worst among you gropes for an ideal in his own twisted way. Kill integrity by internal corruption...To preserve one's integrity is a hard battle. Why preserve that which one knows to be corrupt already? His soul gives up it's self-respect. You've got him. He'll obey. He'll be glad to obey-because he can't trust himself, he feels uncertain, he feels unclean. That's one way...Here's another way. This is most important. Don't allow men to be happy. Happiness is self-contained and self-sufficient. Happy men have no time and no use for you. Happy men are free men. So kill their joy in living. Take away from them what is dear or important to them. Never let them have what they want. Make them feel that the mere fact of a personal desire is evil. Bring them to a state where saying 'I want' is no longer a natural right, but a shameful admission...Unhappy men will come to you. They'll need you. They'll come for consolation, for support, for escape...Empty man's soul-and the space is yours to fill. I don't see why you should look so shocked, Peter. This is the oldest one of all. Look back at history. Look at any great system of ethics...Didn't they all preach the sacrifice of personal joy? Haven't you been able to catch their theme song-'Give up, give up, give up'?...We've tied happiness to guilt...Of course, you must dress it up. You must tell people that they'll achieve a superior kind of happiness by giving up everything that makes them happy. You don't have to be too clear about it. Use big words...Internal corruption, Peter. That's the oldest one of all. The farce has been going on for centuries and men still fall for it. Yet the test should be so simple: just listen to any prophet and if you hear him speak of sacrifice-run...It stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting sacrificial offerings...The man who speaks of sacrifice speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master."
...Keating had sat down on the floor, by the side of the dresser; he had felt tired and simply folded his legs.
"Peter, you've heard all this. You've seen me practicing it...You have no right to sit there and stare at me with the virtuous superiority of being shocked. You're in on it."
"Ellsworth...you're..."
"Insane? Afraid to say it? There you sit and the word's written all over you, your last hope. Insane?...Can't you see past the guff?...Give up your soul...give it up, give it up, give it up...My technique, Peter. Offer poison as food and poison as antidote. Go fancy on the trimmings, but hang on to the main objective...Kill the individual. Kill man's soul. The rest will follow automatically."
Keating sat on the floor, his legs spread out. He listed one hand and studied his finger tips, then put it to his mouth and bit off a hangnail. But the movement was deceptive; the man was reduced to a single sense, the sense of hearing, and Toohey knew that no answer could be expected.
Keating waited obediently; it seemed to make no difference...
Toohey put his hands on the arms of the chair, then lifted his palms, from the wrists, and clasped the wood again, a little slap of resigned finality. He pushed himself to his feet.
Keating lifted his head. His voice had the quality of a down payment on terror; it was not frightened, but held the advance echoes of the next hour to come:
"Don't go Ellsworth."
Toohey stood over him, and laughed softly.
"That's the answer, Peter. That's my proof. You know me for what I am, you know what I've done to you, you have no illusions of virtue left. But you can't leave me and you'll never be able to leave me. You've obeyed me in the name of ideals. You'll go on obeying me without ideals. Because that's all you're good for now....Good night, Peter."

*vastly edited.

Wendi's Mini Blackbottom Birthday Cheesecakes

2008-10-23T20:14:00.000-07:00

Try saying that ten times fast!
So...I've been on quite the baking binge this week. Tomorrow is my co-worker Wendi's birthday, but I'm working at my other job tomorrow. So I decided to bake something and bring it to work with me today. I've never made cheesecake before, which was kind of bothering me. So I decided to give it a shot. I looked through a bunch of yummy looking recipes, but didn't find anything that I really wanted to make. So I did a little brainstorming and came up with these. They were really yummy. The mascarpone insured that they weren't too sweet and the chocolate crust was complimented nicely by the raspberry sauce on top.

This recipe makes about 24 little cakes.

Crust
6-8 oz chocolate graham crackers, crushed
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, cubed
mini chocolate chips

Filling
16 oz cream cheese
8 oz mascarpone
3 eggs
3 tbsp flour
3/4 cup sugar (I think I used slightly less)
splash of vanilla

Raspberry Sauce
10 oz frozen raspberries
2 tbsp water
2 tbsp sugar

Here goes...
Heat oven to 350
Prepare muffin tins by adding those silly little paper cups. I kinda hate these things, but it makes getting the cakes out in one piece much easier.
Mix crushed grahams with butter. Do it with your hands the way you would mix pastry dough. Once it's all clumpy and mixed up, press mixture into the bottoms of the prepared muffin tins. Just the bottom, not the sides! Bake these for about five minutes and set aside to cool.
In an electric mixer (or by hand, if you prefer) mix cream cheese, mascarpone, flour, sugar and vanilla until smooth. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each addition.
Sprinkle the mini chocolate chips into the cooled muffin tins. Not too many! Just enough that you have a thin layer. Spoon the filling on top. You should have enough to fill each tin just about to the top.
Bake for 15-20 minutes. I recommend checking them every five minutes or so. They're ready to come out of the oven when the centers are still a bit jiggly. Place them (still in the tins) in the fridge to cool for at least an hour.
Meanwhile you can make your raspberry sauce.
Combine raspberries, water and sugar in a small saucepan and simmer until the mixture becomes slightly jelly-like. Remember to stir it every minute or so. Cool this in the fridge as well.

Once your cakes are cooled you can take them out of the tins and (carefully) peel the paper cups off. Put a spoonful of your raspberry sauce on top and they are ready to eat!

Mmm, Carrot Cake Muffins!

2008-10-21T21:12:00.000-07:00

I passed a construction site on my way home a few minutes ago, and as I watched sparks fall from a few stories above I couldn't help but think of Kira Argounova.
"Jagged walls of red brick, new and raw, checkered by a net of fresh, white cement, rose to a gray sky darkening slowly in an early twilight. High against the clouds, workers knelt on the walls and iron hammers knocked, ringing sonorously over the street, and engines roared hoarsely, and steam whistled somewhere in a tangled forest of planks, beams, scaffoldings splattered with lime. She stood watching, her eyes wide, her lips smiling."

Anyway, I didn't start this post to discuss Ayn Rand. The real point is to share a recipe for Carrot Cake Muffins. I had a urge to cook last night, but there was nothing in the fridge to bake with aside from some carrots, applesauce and yogurt. I borrowed some flour from my roommate and found some walnuts in the cabinet, and with a bit of thinking came up with the following recipe.

Carrot Cake Muffins
Makes 12-ish

1 1/2 cups flour
1 (slightly heaping) tsp baking soda
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1 heaping tsp cinnamon
1 heaping tsp allspice
1/2 tsp ground ginger
2 grated carrots
1 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/2 cup yogurt
1/2 cup walnuts (I think I used something closer to 2/3 cup, but I'm not sure.)

Preheat oven to 350 (I found that 400 worked better on my gas oven)
Mix applesauce, yogurt and carrots.
Mix flour, sugar, salt, spices and baking soda, and add slowly to applesauce mix.
Stir in walnuts, and rasins, if you happen to have some.
Spoon into greased muffin tins and bake for 15-20 minutes.

That's it! These were super good, and my roommates and I ate them all, still fresh and warm from the oven with chai spiced whipped cream on top.

The Other Hallucinogen

2008-10-17T20:49:00.000-07:00

I just found this in one of my old notebooks. I think I wrote it in March ('08). Anyhow, its what I wrote during my last acid trip.

The color yellow. I don't really have a follow up to that sentence. Just yellow. Its such a forgiving color. When the sun shines and hits the yellow just right...its like hearing bells, or feeling a smile: a warm glow spreading everywhere. Yellow is such a happy color. It's like a reward. A reward for living. Every time I noticed something pretty today the sun came out and made the yellow a bit brighter for me. Although it did get carried away with itself sometimes. But, oh well! It's the sun, right? I guess it's allowed.
I felt so bad about walking on the poor earth earlier. I could feel it springing back and breathing under my feet. I walked on so much ground today. Is it all resigned to it's job, or does it aspire to be more than the dirt under our feet? It does feel good to dig your toes into the grass. Especially when the grass is that pretty yellow-green color that the sun gives it sometimes.
Today was only for the cuckoo birds. I had to scare the others away. I wasn't very good at it. I mostly just yelled at them in my head.
I hope that everything is okay...

I don't remember why I stopped writing at that point, and I have no clue what that last sentence means. I wasn't seeing things at the time that I wrote this, but I was nowhere near sober. I had spent the day walking around Miami talking to the sun. Yep, talking to it. It was my personal friend that day. I remember that I was scolding (probably out loud) it for getting carried away with itself. But I kept talkin to it because it was doing beautiful things to all the yellow objects around me.
I've noticed that when I do LSD I develop a fixation with the color yellow. Every time I trip I become completely obsessed with it. Example (mom, you may remember this!): my mother's kitchen used to be a beautiful sunflower yellow. Sometime in the last few years she painted it a brickish shade of red. I was tripping at her house one day (I believe I was still living there) and happened to walk into the kitchen. Looking around I realized that although I knew the walls were red, I could see the yellow paint underneath. I sat on the floor and stared at the yellow/red walls until my mother came in and rightly asked me what the hell I was doing. "Well mom," I answered, "it's always Christmas in your kitchen." It made sense to me, since my altered mind thinks of the color yellow as a gift or "reward for living" as I put it in the above passage. She just shook her head and walked off. Point is, even the memory of yellow is enough to enthrall me when I'm tripping.
As for the cuckoo birds...I don't know. The next page in my notebook says "What does a cuckoo bird look like?" The page facing that claims that "It has big eyes! And it loves to put its toes in the grass." The sketch that goes along with it is of a man with a bird's head, sporting a blue mohawk. Make of that what you will.

Forget scrambled eggs! THIS is your brain on drugs.

2008-10-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has seen the movie Children of Men will recognize this scene: We're walking down a shadowy path. Many people move around us as we walk towards the bright spotlights up ahead. I can see people and trees trapped behind the chainlink fence to my right. Under the lights a few people are rudly directing the members of the crowd one way or the other. I suddenly realize that if we get sent to the right we will be entering what is essentially a death camp. We got to the crossing, and were sorted to the right. "I'm going to die," I thought. I knew it was true. There was no way to make it out of here alive. My mind caved in. "I'm going to die." The path we were on got darker and darker. The farther we went the more terrified I became. When it became so dark that I could no longer see the rest of my body the fear seemed to swallow me. In the moment before I broke down completely something occured to me. I could, I realized, accept that I was going to die. I could accept that there was no way out, and I could resolve to do it gracefully. Kicking and screaming never helped anyone, I reasoned. This thought made so much sense that I calmed down. Why spend the last minutes of my life terrified beyond reason? If I could not enjoy them then I could at least live them fearlessly. And if there was actually some sort of afterlife I would be able to be proud of the way I died.

That ten minutes on the path was the most pivotal part of my shroom trip. I realized the next day how much I had managed to learn. I realized that if I had not accepted that I was going to die my trip would have turned very bad. I truely thought that I was going to die. It never crossed my mind that I would not. That I was able to find the strength to accept this fact was amazing to me. I now know that I have the potential to react this way when I finally am dying.
It was also very interesting to me that I could control the outcome of my trip as much as I did. Some part of me knew that I needed to calm myself before things got ugly. The trip itself had started really well, with no indications that I would later be facing death.

Yesterday afternoon my roomate Jen, her dog Frida and I ventured into San Fransisco for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival in Golden Gate Park. At the park we met up with a friend of Jen's (who's name I cannot remember), and many friends of this friend. After introducing ourselves we kicked off our shoes and sat down on the large threadbare blanket that had been spread on the ground. Almost immediately people began to produce bowls and pipes, and we broke up into many "getting to know each other" conversations.

The words "shroom chocolates" were all I managed to pick out of the conversation going on next to me. I had been talking to a few of the blanket people about my art, but suddenly the concept of shroom laced chocolate had my full attention. Jen's friend had pulled out a round, foil wrapped object that was presumably the chocolate in question. Seeing that I was interested she told me that one of the guys on the other end of the blanket was selling them. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

For a long time now I've been meaning to try mushrooms. My experiences with LSD have been wonderful, but there is something to be said for the fact that shrooms are natural, while acid is synthetic. I wanted to see if that made a difference. So I bought some chocolate. I ate half of it to start with, feeling very glad that I had declined to smoke any pot when a bowl was passed in my direction. I didn't want to mix the two drugs just yet. I don't really remember what happened for a while right after I ate the chocolate. I just know that when I finally looked up I realized that I had been drawing on my hands for some time. I got up to watch the band that was playing and the effects seemed to hit me at that moment. The sun was beginning to set and the strips of pink clouds weren't behaving quite right. They seemed to be staying still, but at the same time gave the impression that they were itching to scurry off across the sky. As I was watching them I absentmindedly raised myself up on my tip toes. I gasped and looked around, and then stumbled. For a moment it had felt as if I was flying. But I was still on the ground. I shook my head, trying to reconcile being in the air on on the ground at the same time. The sensation was unsettling, but interesting enough that I did it over and over in order to have that feeling of grounded flight.

At this point I hadn't had any strong visual hallucinations, and I never ended up having any. What happened was more than a visual hallucination. It was a total sensory hallucination. It was as if I had created another reality for myself to exist in, where my senses acted differently. Listening to the music gave me the feeling of being in water, or being filled with it. Sound was translated into a tactile sensation. The sounds of the large crowd and of the music combined made me feel very full, as if every last bit of space in my body had been filled with some sort of jelly-like substance. As the sounds waned, so did the feeling. Some visual stimulus also translated into tactile hallucination. A person in the crowd was playing with a green laser, and every time I saw the light skitter past I felt someone grab my head and shake it, jarring my brain.
I felt at this point that I could safely experiment with a little pot, so I packed a bowl and took a few hits. It was almost dark and the band was playing a beautiful song, so I got up and danced. Jen, the nameless friend and I danced barefoot in the grass until the last song. And then we kept dancing to the music in our heads.

During the walk out of the park I slipped from my audio/tactile reality into the CoM reality. When I finally made it into a new reality I found that there was new music in my head. And I danced to it.

Happy Birthday To Me!

2008-10-05T23:08:00.000-07:00

My father doesn't know it yet, but he got me this tattoo for my birthday. Thanks dad!

The House on Oakland Ave

2008-09-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

So I finally took pictures of my house...

Back Porch

We call this our back yard. One day it will be more than a patch of dirt. We swear.

Frida!

Livingroom Windowsill

We have a fireplace, and beanbag chairs!
Our narrow little kitchen.

I LOVE the back porch.
No, I never make my bed.

Tibetan Prayer Flags!
Our living room finally has furniture!
...and a piano!

As we continue to fix up the house I'll post more pictures. We're planning on fixing up the yard and growing vegetables in it. We're hanging up photos and art in the common areas, and one of these days we might even paint!

The Setting

2008-09-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

It's a little too early for the light to be coming through the window exactly the way I wish it would. The sun is still too high in the sky. Come 3 o'clock it will look perfect. I want the sun to shine through the window this way because of the scarves hanging next to it. The scarves are arranged on three hooks. One hook holds all of the red, brown and orange scarves. The next holds all of those that are predominantly green. From the last hang the scarves that are grey, blue and white. The streaming, late-afternoon type of light makes that corner glow as it plays off all of the colors around it. But that moment is still three hours off. This bright, glowing, high noon type light is perfect to illuminate the window itself. The wall it's in is painted white, as is the deep sill. A drooping rose sits on the sill, in a bottle whose label matches its pink petals exactly. A devil-esque mask rests beside the bottle, tounge lolling, staring up at the Tibetan Prayer flags that hang above it. The bright light makes this little scene look like a photo you would find in one of those magazines that showcase cottage interiors.
The bedside table and bed look like they belong in a college dorm room. The bed is a rumpled mess of blues, greens, pinks and browns, polka dots and stripes, stylized flowers, and emroidered hearts. The table is littered with crumpled wrappers, paper and pens. There are stacks of books and a dirty bowl. A large paper bag on the floor collects trash. Only two elements ruin this setting: a photograph over the bed, and two bowls under the bedside table. The photograph is from my stepfather, and is of mailboxes all in a row. The bowls are Moroccan; painted with intricate designs and filled with many balls of yarn.
I am sitting at another small table at the foot of the bed. It is a low table, so I am sitting on the floor, surrounded by cushions. The two walls that make this corner boast a line of objects: masks, a small mirror, necklaces that are art on or off the body, a handwoven basket, a very old purse. These are all the things I've picked up along the way. I like looking at these three walls. The fourth is not quite as pleasing. It has all my practical items like clothes, toiletries and books arranged along it. There is a folded stack of cloth on the floor that I keep meaning to put away.

The light has shifted slightly, and no longer shines through the yellow flag. The scene at the window is not interesting without that shock of yellow in the corner. I think this is my cue to walk down to the lake. I can draw there until 3 o'clock, when the light in the window will be just where I want it.

Perspective

2008-08-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

"I seen some shit in my life, but I ain't never seen shit like that!" says the bum after close examination of my arms.
"Really? Thanks," I smile. "That's the point."

You Had Not Always Been...You First Had To Grow To Be.

2008-08-21T11:14:00.000-07:00

“Your figures are not what men are, but what men could be—and should be. You have gone beyond the probable and made us see what is possible, but possible only through you. Because your figures are more devoid of contempt for humanity than any work I’ve ever seen. Because you have a magnificent respect for the human being. Because your figures are the heroic in man."
-Howard Roark speaking to Steven Mallory in The Fountainhead

I've started to speak more about my work in the last few days, trying to verbalize to those around me. I've always known what it was about on a gut level. You know how you can understand something, and know all the nuances of it, but never have to actually think about it or explain it to yourself? Well, its been like that. What I keep coming back to is the above quote about Mallory's work. Its not that I feel like my figures are the heroic in man, or that I want them to express that. But if I was given the chance to create mankind in my own image of what is ideal I would create them as I draw them. My work captures the two most beautiful forms that I've found in the world around me. I form the essential, sacred elements of both into something that is, in my view, perfect. To have a human form, rooted into the ground, in perfect synergy with everything around it, melting and becoming part of the earth...no, its not heroic, but it is my ideal.

Last night I was looking through my sketchbook and I found a drawing that I did while I was tripping. I compared it to the sketch I'm working on now and realized that there is no difference. If anything, the work I do sober is more trippy than any work I do high. Max proceeded to ask what the difference really was. "What is the difference between tripping and not tripping?" he wanted to know. In terms of my art I have discovered that there isn't really a line. The experiences I have while on acid have influenced my work more than anything. The connection that I feel to the earth around me; the melding and mixing of my consciousness with the soul of the world; these are the experiences that I pull on when I draw. Plants have always fascinated me, so I tend to spend a lot of time communicating with them. I connect with them and become them, especially grass. When I come down I miss being a plant, and I feel that this contributes a lot to my morphing of the human figure into plants.

I feel like my work is evolving to a different level, as art is prone to do at times. It has become very illustrative. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, but it seems to be working. People around me are beginning to get the point very fast. So maybe this is the tangent I need to continue upon: illustrating a perfect world for those around me.

Oh, and the title is from one of the pages of my sketchbook, which is actually a very old 'how you were made' book for little kids.

By The Way

2008-08-20T10:36:00.000-07:00

"...I did not do this for anyone but myself. I did it because I thought it would be beautiful, and it is. I did it to be provoking, and shocking. And it seems to be. "

I feel like that sentence (the italicized one) is slightly misleading, and that I should clarify. I did look forward to the shock value of what I was doing. I always do. But I did it for the satisfaction I get from twisting people's assumptions. I get a lot of pleasure out of knowing that I have jolted someone's perceptions a bit. In a way its hard to admit that. I feel like people might begin to think that I only do things for their shock value. But that is only a secondary reward. I would never do anything that I didn't truly want to do anyway. If it does end up being provocative and makes people think, along with making me happy, well, that is a wonderful thing in my book. So, just to clear things up, yes, I enjoy being the weirdo. Yes, I like being noticed because I'm offbeat. But not at the expense of what I desire.

"Get Your Fucking Hands Off Of Me!"

2008-08-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

It seems that when you make your body into a piece of art the people around you begin to feel that they own you. You become public property. Others think that they can invade your space, interrupt conversations, grab and prod at you. They feel that they deserve answers to questions that they don't always have the right to ask. I've always made it a point to fight against what is seen as normal; always tried to break the molds. But I've never felt that I was on display, or that I had to justify myself to those around me. Now strangers are asking me to justify my actions and all I want to know is why I should explain myself to them. Why justify my actions to people I don't know or care about? In the midst of writing this I had a man walk up and grab my face. He was trying to tell me, in very bad English, that I should not have covered my arms in tattoos. What is it that makes people like him think they have the right to actions like that? Do they feel that I have no regard for my body, and that they don't need to either? I feel that using my skin as a canvas is one of the highest regards I can pay to my body. It almost feels like playing God: I'm making a beautiful thing even more pleasing to look at. If I believed in Creationism I would say that this is why our bodies look the way they do. We were given beautiful templates, shown what was possible, and then left to improve upon what we had. I don't, however, believe in Creationism.
There are, of course, those who understand. They are the people who walk up just to say that they think my arms are beautiful. They don't poke at them, or demand to know why. They treat my tattoos as they would any work of art they enjoy: with respect. Ultimately , these are the people who understand that I did not do this for anyone but myself. I did it because I thought it would be beautiful, and it is. I did it to be provoking, and shocking. And it seems to be. I did it because I feel that successful art, like a successful life takes a little bit of pain at times. I haven't been disappointed on any of these counts. I did not do it to become public property. So if you are one of those people who feels that someone who throws themselves into life and lives it how they want to must answer to you for their actions and desires, all I have to say is, "back off."

Hannah Got A New Tattoo And Ashley Took Pictures!

2008-08-17T11:31:00.000-07:00

The title pretty much says it all, I think. I got a new tattoo, or, depending on how you look at it, 16 new tattoos. I have the phases of the moon running up both arms now. Take a look.

Bare Arms

This is Nicole, my wonderful tattoo artist. We sang Tegan and Sara together while she worked.

The first stencil is in place...

Nicole worked really fast. Those three only took about ten minutes.

The upper arm was much less painful than the lower.

First arm done! It took about half an hour to do.

Setting up the other arm.

Yum. A close up of all the drippy blood and ink!

About half done with my second arm...

Last moon!!!

All done!

Cleaning up.

Admiring the work. She did a damn good job on all those circles.

See what I mean?

Getting bandaged.
"I feel like the fucking Michelin Man!"
:D

Liberty City Elementary School

2008-08-15T07:58:00.000-07:00

The last week has been fairly hectic for me. In the midst of trying to get my things in order to move, cajoling my boss into helping me transfer stores, working, and making jewelry (technically that falls under working, since I got paid for it), I have been putting in eight hours a day at Liberty City Elementary. In the last five days we have transformed the school's Parent Resource Center from a boring classroom into a beautiful, welcoming oasis for the school's parents. Inner city schools don't always have the luxury of paying attention to things like this, as they are trying so hard just to get through their day to day needs. We hope that this room will make an impression on the parents; show them that if we all work together we can create beauty where there was none.

Parent Outreach Center

Birds and Clouds!

We made a Liberty City Elem. Family Tree (although it is still missing the teacher's pictures). More clouds and birds. :D

This is False Solomon's Seal. Very cool plant.

Welcome!

Vines

Okay, so I'm obviously not as good at cutting out flowers as I am at painting them.

I love the leaves though.

:)

Tree. This was totally freehand. All the plants were actually...

Pea Pods!

Ooooh! We love weeds.

That's me.

More vines.

More F. Solomon's Seal.

And more. I really like this plant.

Full tree.

That's pretty much it folks.

They Said That There Would Be A Meteor Shower Last Night, So We Went To The Beach...

2008-08-12T13:24:00.000-07:00

So here's how it is (was):
It's sometime in the early hours of the morning and I am half crouching, half floating in the ocean. It is so beautifully dark that I can't quite tell where the ocean ends and the sky begins until the lightning in the distance illuminates everything for me. The lightning is behind a huge cloudbank and when it flashes the light diffuses through the clouds and shines out in rays across the sky. The play of light and dark draws me in, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I can feel the water lapping around me and I allow it to sway me where it will. The sound that it makes as it moves against the beach is overpowering, but fades too quickly from my mind. Eventually I am able to pin down the sound and concentrate on it. At this point it seems that all of these sensations merge and become one. My mind bends and suddenly I am tripping.*
Looking down into the water I see that some tiny green creatures have come to join me, and I make them dance by moving my hands through the water. They follow my fingers, making beautiful patterns on the dark waves. I call Laura over so she can see them, but they seem to be invisible to everyone else. Eventually they dissapear, only to resurface in the sky. Throwing my head back to wach them I realize that I have become the ocean. I ebb and flow around the curve of the world, trying to reach the sky. The sky, at this moment, seems like the most inviting blanket one could hope for, and I take a moment to thank it for its continued presence above me.
Slowly I begin to condense into the form of a crab. The ocean suddenly seems very large around me, and I scuttle sideways towards the shore, where it is less open. Ahead of me is a tall, well light building. Next to the building is nothing but blackness. That is when I begin to understand that I have found the edge of the world. Looking to the right I see that everything becomes progressivly darker. I know that behind me is a void, and as much as I want to look at it I am terrified to see what that expanse of blank space really looks like. The thought of so much emptiness there makes me tremble, and I scuttle faster to the beach.

I am saved from the nothing-ness by someone's desire to leave. Every step I take off the beach is a struggle between me and it. "I'm sorry," I say over and over as I drag myself over its surface. The beach finally releases me and we get in the car.
Speeding down the highway I stick my head out of the window and find that I can feel the universe vibrating. "This," I whisper, "is what the creation of the universe sounded like." I begin to vibrate along with it. I am simultaniously sitting in Andrew's car and standing in front of the universe. It continues to pulse and throws itself at me. I stand there and breathe it in, mixing its particles with mine, helping it to create the world. The whipping winds become more violent. I begin to speak to the energy of the universe, explaining that it cannot harm me just as I cannot harm it, because we are of each other. I continue on this tangent until we have finished creating the world and the winds have died down. I open my eyes and watch the new world fly by. Even with all of its imperfections it seems utterly perfect.

*I did not, for the record, take any sort of hallucinogen last night. This was totally random.

California, I'm Coming Home

2008-08-08T07:07:00.000-07:00

Joni Mitchell is totally stuck in my head.

And, California, I am coming home. As soon as I can get transferred to a store in Oakland I'm hopping a plane. Living in Miami feels like trying to walk across quicksand. As long as I keep up an inhuman pace I can survive, but if I want to relax for a moment I start sinking. And for some reason I'm just running in circles around this pool of Non-Neutonian goop. So fuck it. I'm getting off.

Musing at Such Great Heights

2008-08-06T08:51:00.000-07:00

I got drunk last night. I went out with some girls that I work with, said that I would not get trashed, and then promptly proceeded to. We shared our horror stories, and laughed over the stupid things we've pulled recently. We skinned our elbows on icky bar tables, and sang bad songs really loudly.

What is it about alcohol that makes us want to pour our hearts and souls out onto some beer soaked table? We talk about things that are normally kept quiet, we allow ourselves to examine thoughts that are normally kept buried. We finally are able to confess things to ourselves that we would never, ever dream of during "normal" hours. And then in the morning we hate ourselves for thinking, feeling, saying the things that we did. Why not just own up to being a human, with all the thoughts, desires, drama and pain that comes with it? Why does it seem to take the influence of some substance or other to make us fully human, even as it is making us slightly less so?

Maybe when I'm thinking straight I'll have all the answers. Stay tuned. I may decide to share them.

ART

2008-08-03T07:30:00.000-07:00

I love making art. In theory. In reality it makes me angry. I spend a lot of time thinking about the things I want to sculpt/draw/paint/knit/sew. I plan, make patterns, gather materials...and then I sit down to actually work on the piece. That's when it all goes to hell. I spend the rest of the time in a frusturated funk, yelling at my work and throwing objects that offend me. I'm angry at the work for presenting problems; at myself for thinking I can make art; at the fact that I would be even angrier if I wasn't creating at that moment.

But that's all just part of the way I make art. When I really think about it I realize that I can't be calm while I'm making art, seeing as it is frustration that drives me to be creative in the first place. There is a quote from The Fountainhead that sums everything up for me. It is part of a scene where Howard Roark is asked when he decided to be an architect. He says, "...when I was ten years old...I didn't know it then but it's because I never believed in God...I don't like the shape of things on this earth so I want to change them." (Forgive me if that isn't totally correct. I'm quoting from memory here.) I don't like the shapes of things I see around me. So I change them. Most of my work now involves the two most beautiful forms I see around me: the human figure and trees. By selectivly merging these figures I can create the things I want to see in my world. I like when people see me working and ask to look at my sketches. When I hand them over the reaction I enjoy the most is the fearful one. "If you can't understand something than it's best to be afraid," (Bright Eyes). I've had parents scoop up their children and rush off, afraid that the child will be traumatized by the sight of a human rooted to the earth. I hope to never become famous, because if I do my work will cease to become controversial (for the most part), and that is part of what I enjoy about the way I wish to recreate my world.

hraphael.deviantart.com