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Bird Clock

Apparently the Funky Mutt of Asheville, which features my clocks, also veers into bird world. This is definitely a bird on a dog clock, but I think it worked out pretty well. I love that tatted lace. So cool.

Passion Flowers

My passion flower won't bloom. It's not a metaphor for my mental state or love relationship, as in my song, "Thinking about cutting this passion flower down", which actually wasn't a metaphor either, just a proclamation of how poorly the thing was doing at the time, I want flowers from Mars and they just won't bud! And they (the internet) say do nothing, it's a weed, it has its own propagation at the top of its to-do list, but, what? Why? Why won't it turn to flowering?

Also, if you'd like to buy anything at all, send me a comment and I'll try to figure out a way to get in touch. These are all for sale, so step right up. Also, on the topic of copywriting, everything here is copywrit. I. N 2008. Just in case.

Also, it's so nice to see that people actually look at this thing. I got a sitemeter, and it's true--I'm not just out here in the abyss, floating along.

Blueface

Just a little thing. No big deal, just a doodle, like I had some extra paper and thought I'd put it together into something, a face, but just a cartoon, just a little bit of something, just a bite, just a bit, nothing special, just a lullaby of no such thing, merely a gnat, a curio, just a little dash of sompinorother. No biggie, just a little. . . blueface.

Just Funny

Django. With a real lampshade. And a sandwich, his favorite toy.

Work in Progress

Before, and. . .

Cleopatra

And the final product.

You may be thinking that this woman, with the witchy gaze, piercing your soul, cannot be named something as feminine as Cleopatra. That is because, many times, when we think Cleopatra, we inevitably think of that 70’s remake where Cleo is adorned in gold and eyeliner and a slit in her skirt up to the crotch. But, actually Cleopatra, it is said, despite her sheer sexuality, used a snake to kill herself. She picked up a wriggling serpent, and put it’s fangs into her arm—thereby rejecting her fate. That’s not an act for the faint-hearted and I can see the subject of this piece doing the same. So, I think it’s apt. Asp.

Go USA!

Just a reminder:

The Declaration is the document from our history that sets the goal of "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" for our nation. It states in part, "When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government and to provide new guards for their future security."
And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor."

And just imagine if old Donny Trump and the tycoons and the throw-away rich mutually pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor.
SACRED HONOR?!

Silkworms

The hurt you embrace becomes joy.
Call it to your arms where it can change.

A silkworm eating leaves makes a cacoon.

Each of us weaves a chamber of leaves and sticks.

Silkworms begin to truly exist

as they disappear inside that room.

Without legs, we fly.

When I stop speaking, this poem will close,
and open it's silent wings.

Rumi

Since Feeling is First
E. E. Cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
Will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry

-- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

.

.

.

Sometimes people think I lack common sense. I simply have no use for it.

Serapha

So, possibly these Beauties are a little predictable, but I was going for continuity. This one is just really beautiful, and I wanted to say, I make dolls and sell them, so if anyone needs a gift for somethingrather, or you just want one yourself, don't be shy, I'll make you one! I made this one for a woman who wanted lush fabrics, brown hair, and a sophisticated yet funky look to her.

Honey-gold Baby

Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?
Cast your gims
On this sepia thrill:
Brown sugar lassie,
Caramel treat,
Honey-gold baby
Sweet enough to eat.
Peach-skinned girlie,
Coffee and cream,
Chocolate darling
Out of a dream.
Walnut tinted
Or cocoa brown,
Pomegranate-lipped
Pride of the town.
Rich cream-colored
To plum-tinted black,
Feminine sweetness
In Harlem’s no lack.
Glow of the quince
To blush of the rose.
Persimmon bronze
To cinnamon toes.
Blackberry cordial,
Virginia Dare wine—
All those sweet colors
Flavor Harlem of mine!
Walnut or cocoa,
Let me repeat:
Caramel, brown sugar,
A chocolate treat.
Molasses taffy,
Coffee and cream,
Licorice, clove, cinnamon
To a honey-brown dream.
Ginger, wine-gold
Persimmon, blackberry,
All through the spectrum
Harlem girls vary—
So if you want to know beauty’s
Rainbow-sweet thrill
Stroll down luscious,
Delicious, fine Sugar Hill.

-Langston Hughes

Trois

Rhino

what does American mean? I realize I have been awakening to the answer. It occurs to me that today people have so many different perceptions of what’s “significantly American,” because culture, technology, and the range of phenomena that are socially excepted have expanded, leaving citizens of this country confused, unaware, and often disheartened in a fermenting, putrid stew of wondering “who are we?”, and further, “who cares?” Sometimes, these times, America seems like nothing more than a dirty tarp all woven with plastics and sort of blowing across a parking lot. Fortunately, and without meaning to brown-nose, I found that taking American Literature this semester illuminated the past and provided me with a bit of hope that because America was born of great minds and true endeavors, all is not lost. Somehow, somewhere, that spirit lives on, or at least can be found, and by taking those ideas and being transcendent and industrious maybe we can reclaim America for Benjamin Franklin, for Henry David Thoreau, for Ralph Waldo Emerson, and for ourselves—Americans-- who are in serious danger of being swallowed whole by our own degeneration.
“America”—the place, the meaning, is one of newness. This is a common theme and one of true importance. Human beings have so much limitless energy, and each moment that we say yes to life, we say yes to all of creation. As Thoreau says in Walden, Chapter 2, “Morning is when I am awake and there is dawn in me (1855)” metaphorically expressing this newness in terms of the time of day. Later on the same page he says, “We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep (1855)”. I feel like this idea is lost to us modern-dayers, who close our curtains hoping that the dawn will never come, that sleep may save the moments and the hours from coming to us with another round of crap—toil, stress, pharmaceuticals, money, video games, school shootings and states of union addresses by the phony prez. Let us embrace the sentiment that “Every morning [is] a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself (1854).” Go right on back to nature—for there’s nothing so sweet and pure, so new and bursting with optimism than every moment in nature.
Maybe nature can save the Americans—even if the Americans cannot seem to save nature, but rather treat it as an enemy. Perhaps the state we have put nature in is corollary to the state of society—often polluted, sealed with cement, unenjoyed, becoming unenjoyable. Yet, as Emerson says in “Nature”, on page 1111 and 1112, in accordance with the resurrecting powers of nature and of newness, that “To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before and which shall never be seen again.” To see the perfection in nature, which seem to be becoming a lost art, affects a human being with spirituality, and perhaps the two are the same. As Emerson says, “The visible world and the relation of its parts, is the dial plate of the invisible”. This goes hand in hand with Thoreau’s sentiment that there is “dawn in me,”—and perhaps if people can imbibe nature, and believe in their own dawning, if they have spirituality, then maybe the rest will fall into place.
What is quintessentially American is, I believe, a mixture of the nature, the spirit, and the perseverance. Industriousness can be found in later writings, but the best example of it is in Benjamin Franklin’s “The Autobiography,” where he actually makes an account of his pursuit to attain moral perfection. His chart shows that he is human; he does not arrive at moral perfection at the end, but the point, the big point, the point that needs to be driven into the hearts of the downcast and corrupt, is that trying is necessary if one is ever to succeed. Never give up, allow ambition and imagination to coincide and bloom exponentially. Don’t be too severe with yourself; child of nature, but keep the wheels turning—try to arrive—that’s all we need to do. I suppose it really all boils down to having faith in something. Today it seems that people have no center, no belief. This dilutes them, makes them susceptible to dissipation and to laziness. We must look to the perfection of nature in providing spirituality, spirituality then makes a person self-possessed and full of hope and therefore driven to be what we hope is truly an American-- more than a leach, more than a boil on the ass of mankind, more than a belligerent mass of bigots and small-minds, bombarding other countries and killing their children, feeding our own our of the charity box at the supermarket. The Americans, I think, were the people and the progeny of people who settled here, who worked hard and prayed hard, and who had to endure. Their moral fervor was the forbearer of a very humanistic bunch of creators, industriously choosing nature, the spirit, and ultimately-- life-- in America.

If Mom & Dad's House Were Underwater

You ponder your rubber belly as the kids arrive, screaming. It’s hot inside the suit, and it still smells like Davy : a sort of a burning bottle of medicine smell, you always thought. You were next in line for this position after Davy, and now that you have it you are at once confused and proud. The eyeholes aren’t quite big enough.
You jump up. “Hey kids!” you yell, “Who likes Go-Go Gorilla’s ?”
In unison they fill the tiny restaurant with twenty-four shrill “I do!!”s. You wonder how it’s gotten to this point: you feel like an amnesiac wondering who you are and what series of events led up to this moment, and surprisingly are contented by telling yourself that life has its little twists. It seems like you were going to art school in Boston last time you checked, and now you’re here and you’re wrapped in furry rubber. You remember your last job, the one you were promoted from: human drive-through-speaker. You liked the people, but the rain and snow were a bit taxing. The standing had caused you to suffer shin splints. What in the world you’re doing in a gorilla suit sweating like a pig is actually beside the point, and also a completely unanswerable question. The tragedy of Davy’s untimely death ended in your promotion, but you don’t care too much, he stank. But then again, if only Davy were here to. . . be here. . . in the suit--specifically. Every time you gaze at the frialator you can’t help but see his face, sort of like Jack’s from the blockbuster movie “Titanic,” sinking down into the bubbling grease to the bottom of the ocean.
The kids are done with their kids-happy-time-fun-meal and it’s your cue to bring in the band. “It’s time for the happy birthday song!” You say, thoroughly irritated by having to humor children. Maybe this isn’t the job for you either. The brass band files into the “party area” squeezing the children into the room. The packets of ketchup that the children were throwing around are squirting into the air as the tuba section receives new red pinstripes on their white wooly uniforms. Angela comes in with the birthday cake, and the kids, ever screaming, run at her and throw her to the ground. They beat her with their little fists and break her glasses, and then start gnawing on her flesh. She’s screaming and there’s something eerie about the blood on the birthday boy’s face. His mother stands adoringly watching on. Why can’t parents control their kids? You are annoyed as the children dig into the band and in a barrage of red and white stripes and little tassels, and of course, brass—“damned irritating bloodbaths” you snarl, and jump into a tube to wake up.
The dream instantly pours down your spine as you open your eyes. You get to the coffee maker on your sleepy weak feet and pour the water, and grind the beans, and wait watching as it percolates. In the car on the way to the bank you pass Go-Go Gorilla’s and think ‘what a disgusting idea,” picturing a variety of dishes, all black and furry. What were the owners thinking?

Descartes' Dream

These hands; I'm watching them hop up and down on the keyboard. They seem real to me; that is, I believe in them and rely on them and would feel sorely unfortunate if I found that they had left me. I see them in my dreams as well. In my deepest sleep they appear before me, much as they are now, and I believe in them during this time. Upon waking, however, I see that they have, in fact, been snuggled under covers for hours, and not actually holding the reins of a rainbow horse. I am tricked over and over, every night. The dream world seems as real as waking life, until it's over--though I imagine the same thing can be said of waking life.
How do I know what's happening in my dream? I see it. I feel it. I hear it and sometimes I even taste and smell it. I use what I might call my senses to perceive it. And yet my senses deceive me, for surely I wake to a lack of evidence of that dream life, just as much as I come into that dream world to find no evidence of what we call "awake".
I rely on my senses to navigate me through this life. If my senses can be so misled, to think I am walking across a tundra holding a chickadee when in fact I lie here breathing, then everything-- I mean everything-- can be called into doubt. We think what we see and perceive is true, but is it only really true in our minds? Rene Descartes wondered about this over four hundred years ago. He said, "it is a mark of prudence never to trust wholly in those things which have once deceived us" (Descartes 13). How can we ever trust our senses again after such shenanigans as dreaming?!
As far as my consciousness goes, Descartes never existed at all. I know he did because I've been told, and I've read his work and seen drawings of his face. I have never encountered him with my own senses, but am compelled to disregard his absence in my perceptions. My senses are useless in proving the existence of Descartes, and thus my senses are not comprehensive.
Things are not always as they appear to be. This is a universal human idea that manifests in religion and spirituality, but how far can this idea be taken? It does seem unlikely that there is nothing outside of mind, but things, as I have said, are not always what they seem. When I put a paintbrush into a jar of water, though I believe in its essential straightness and solidity, it appears to be broken and the top half is levitating on the surface of the water while the bottom half, magnified, rests not unusually on the bottom.
What about real things that are perceived only by myself? Pain, for example, exists urgently in my shin right now, as I tripped up the stairs in the dark a few moments ago. I think it's real, but I cannot see it, touch it, or express it to anyone else accurately. Where is the pain anyway? I may think it's in my leg, but science has explained that electric signals make their way to my brain where they are decoded and register somehow as a very negative perception. The pain exists only in my mind, and if that weren't there, there would be no perception, whereas if my body didn't exist, but only my mind, I might still know pain because that is its true residence.
Descartes also discusses the fallibility of perception when it comes to insane people. I think his discourse is quite humorous. "Insane people. . . continually insist that they are kings when they are in utter poverty, or that they are wearing purple robes when they are naked, or that they have a head made of clay, or that they are gourds, or that they are made of glass". I believe in his concluding statement in this paragraph: "But they are all demented, and I would appear no less demented if I were to take their conduct as a model for myself"(Descartes 14). In other words, he cannot assume that he is sane and grounded in reality enough to draw valid conclusions when this is exactly the same reasoning and feeling that the insane have when they assert that they are gourds. Crazy people have the same amount of, and sometimes more, conviction in that which we see as their delusions.
Our minds, Descartes relates, are much more clearly and distinctly known to us than our bodies are. The concept of the evil genius allows him to disregard the world outside of his mind without the bias religious idea that a supremely good god created all that appears before him. He supposes that everything he perceives is the malicious trick of an evil genius. This part of his argument seems half baked in that he is recognizing personified evil and good. He just couldn't quite dismiss god, so he made an equal opposition to be the devil's advocate. Things are not as they seem, however, and I will take his word for it for the purposes of this argument. All things come into question except the fact that I think therefore I am. Cogito ergo sum. Whether or not anything exists is up for debate, but the fact that I am thinking, reasons Descartes, this, and this alone, not even the evil genius can negate.
The very fact that we can use this world to our advantage is incredible. This is a waking dream over which we have every power. The rules-- laws, physics, structure-- are superfluous and the only real rebellion is the individual taking place in the higher reaches of the mind.
How can we assume that our perceptions are so rock solid that we may use them as the foundation for all other knowledge? An illusive posteriori supposition is not an honorable foundation to stand on, and yet so many minds go through their whole lives blindly building up, at best, a house of cards.

Motherhood

Why would it be trendy to have babies? Is it just that I am that age and noticing? Not so much. Did you hear about the 17 girls in their teens who made a “pregnancy pact”? No? Oh well they’re 16 years old, or 15, and decided they wanted someone to love them unconditionally. What a load—no, a baby when you’re a baby will almost certainly not make your dreams come true. Who’s non-parenting these kids into thinking they don’t have to find themselves and be responsible before duplicating? I’m almost 27 and not quite there yet myself. Hence, no babies. They are mighty cute though. The outlaw says rednecks like babies and puppies, not kids and dogs.
As interesting as pregnancy is, sometimes I just want to steal a baby from some idiot who has no business rearing a child.
I might blow this up larger, it’s simple but complete somehow.
I did read somewhere that it is trendy for upper-class bitches to be having 4 and 5 kids for some reason, and tabloids seem to exalt on high such Hollywood babies as the infamous Shilo, who’s probably already started smoking, and using the occasional ambian, and I just walk by that shit and think, are we all rednecks? (A parlance of our time loosely based on farmers tans that I think has come to mean idiot, so no offense to farmers) It’s a baby, not a god. It takes babies a long time to get up to speed and they’re all permanent and stuff. They aren’t cute all the time, and whenever I get the urge, I replace the baby image in my mind with a real teenager that I have to manage. Not so cute, extremely ungrateful. Pubescently ugly, raw and insecure. That pretty much turns the urge off.

I want one. Later.

Le dejeuner sur l'herb in wonderland

Such a strange piece, I mean, this, yes, I guess it’s weird in an unliberated way, but the original—why is she not dressed? Why is he in a tux? Ooh, it was just so controversial at the time. The way the model was easily recognizable as the subject of other Manet works—highly irregular, and pssst, I heard she’s a prostitute. Only a harlot would pose for such blasphemy. I personally think, ah, those were the days when men were men and women were beauty. She looks intelligent though—piercingly so, actually. . . anyway, that was before all this feminist equalization, and all this current feminine divine stuff. Let’s go have a picnic! And, oh, I know, you can make the sandwiches and then be nude! Male ego. Geesh. Fun to recreate though.

Edge of Knife

This is only a work in progress at the moment. Having poured over the shades and shadows, I had neglected to conceive of a tableau to house this strange piercing gaze. I'm considering triangles now. TRIAN GLES.

For Your Consideration

I guess I just like it how mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy, but if you say it a little faster it sounds like marseydotedanddoseydotesanlittleamseativey, oh and a kiddleetiveeytoo, wouldn't you?

Physiology

After you cut up a few cats, anatomy becomes shapes and designs and mechanisms, not gore. I was surprised, when I had my hand mutilating accident, that I was so thoroughly disgusted. The former student of anatomy and physiology me would have touched and watched and learned, but the current me could no longer hold that appreciation. Maybe I took it too personally. This piece explores the incredibly functional and elegant structures of the body. If you don’t know what your inner ear looks like, look it up. Possibly the most valuable lesson I learned at school was that although our bodies seem to magically work, their mechanics are completely explainable. You may, if you wish, know this profound secret, and there is so much god in it your cranium nearly bursts.

j'adore le birdy francais

I asked the outlaw to say what he would about this piece at its culmination. He said, “I like the birdy.”
I like the birdy. Wow. How succinct! What an immaculate estimation of the hours I put in here. Reminds me of the esteemed comments of a certain weather man who once struggled to say, “I love lamp”. Brilliant.
There’s something about boobs. In spite of being bags of flesh sans IQ, they have a lot to say. “I’m sexy but vulnerable,” and “don’t puncture me,” both come to mind. I guess the question posed here from a critical mind is, “which one is the whore and why?” Once that is figured out, the meaning of the piece comes clear. It’s radiating meaning, it’s cloaked in metaphor, and that martini is silently begging to be consumed.
I don’t feel artistically that these are in any way indecent, and yet it makes me nervous to have the eyes of a 12 year old boy roll over it. It’s not for him. It’s just for me for now before we all become dust. And, I guess, for you at this point as well.
Mona Lisa/garden/original sin/animals and plants/vice and liquids/bound vs. not, freedom vs. incarceration/youth beauty/polarization.

A Spaghetti d'art

I am not good with acrylic paint, but I thought, once again, I’ll just pour the paint on there and smear it around. It will be completely loose, completely intuitive. And, I found out later, completely crappy. It’s good to depart from the tried and true once in a while and just squish it all around. Just squish it. Thought this piece trite in pencil anyway so, as Poppy would say, what evs.

I just wanna ride ma motor cicle

This is ancient. I just found it. I had tried to draw a lady in an evening gown and as is the habit of a pre-teen artist, I thought it didn't look right and quit. Then my dad picked it up and voila, a masterpiece!

What should I do after college

As for kitten sink’s career prospects, she should find an abbey, become a nun, and devote her attention to the ecstasy of Christ, become disillusioned by the stances of the church, write four novels and one novella, win the powerball and contend with Oprah on the topic of opening schools and setting up programs for all the people Americans speak briefly of and forget about completely in the wake of a disaster such as gas prices, make the world’s largest ball of string and be commended for her work in trying to bring all of the backwardites up to speed, once and for all. Oh, and cure diseases. And have a farm.

Crybaby

I think the black paint says it all. I was totally bummed out, and doesn’t that make for some interesting artworks? That’s my sassy little shit, Craig, she loves to scratch me. I’m forcing her to pose here and moments later she raised hell to get down. Oh cats are such independent beautiful wild crybabies.

Serious Rocking

GENE VINCENT!

Witches

This is a multimedia extravaganza of three kindly witches brewing god knows what in a big shiny black bubbling cauldron. Oh yes, there’s magic there.

Frida Bambita

These are some of the latest Fridas, they are for sale. I should probably take a shower.

First, a little shameless self promotion--Me and the bass at Riverfest, lots of fun. There is nothing not cool about playing this instrument. It destroys all monsters with mind bullets. Please see Jesse James & the Junkman's Daughter for audio.