Joseph Pressmane (Ukrainian/French, 1904-1967) , Le Chat [The Cat]. Oil on panel, 46 x 61 cm.
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Joseph Pressmane (Ukrainian/French, 1904-1967) , Le Chat [The Cat]. Oil on panel, 46 x 61 cm.
via thatsbutterbaby
the spider I saw in the gazebo last night has already caught many bugs. somewhat foreboding. but then I go inside and nestle into my bed. the Sun in my eye through the window, on my comforter, white, is this better than the shoulder of a man? the hanging on until Summer, but how will my Winter end? In the shadow of a look, under cover, in the absence of another? The feeling - so soft, delicate, pleasing to my skin; silent waves, vibration, or echo-location received. though my eyes are closed and warm against the dimming sky they dare not open for fear I find the Sun has set ‘til morn.
Art Blakey - Orgy In Rhythm Volume One
(hardlyartrecords)
Laurie Anderson - O Superman [Official Music Video]
jacob and i are broken up but lying in bed . chris is at the upstairs window calling down. we're moving houses. the others are sure to find the hundred grand in the old house that we forgot in a safe that is cold,open, alone. fishermen are camping out on the banks of Pringle creek . salmon run, orange tent and others. it's raining. im in bed with james too. jacob is jealous and pulls me over, under himself. too forceful. i push him away. he's bare chested. i try to downplay the rejection. there's a conflict in my heart. we must retrieve the money before the others take it.
jacob and i leave in the rain. so chris calls down to us, she remembers seeing the money still there. there are black bear tracks in the mud that jacob touches and disregards. we look around the corner to a grove of them, dirty, dusty, small and skinny. beyond them, wild boars. beyond them, more boars, spotty,dusty.
i say we'll have to wait, it's too dangerous, but he goes, singing through the line of fat boars amongst the dry, forested stone columns. it's alright just ignore them don't make eye contact. he's jolly. he gets around the corner, out of my sight. I'm calling his name and can hear that he's surrounded. they've bottlenecked behind him and his voice ends. I'm screaming and swing the river bank corner to a ledge to see his legs and torso under five snouts mucking into his ribcage, blood-slippery hands reaching in, sliding in place of tusks.
I'm completely alone and surrounded, terrified. i grab foam pool toys, giant nerf gun foams and push the boars ahead of me, stepping over them and up to the river bank behind the tents. the fishermen don't help me. the women-boars are coming after me in song, giant, fleshy, reaching, pigs. i say you're too far away as they try to cross the creek, dark and muddy. but they advance.
i try to push them but they're pulling me in. but then, the song changes: we're female together, i oblige them and their beauty, make them feel the men want them and they take a bald fishermen. each time i deflect a hoof they say stop patting me, as if i love it. they go downstream, surfing on bars of mud, a mudslide, now, as beautiful women. we sing the story. I'm finally safe but i go into shock.
i feel a second self emerging, my hands are violently shaking, looking at my phone, my inner dialogue is taken over and split, external. I'm making up music with this externalized shadow-self and laying on my back. i recognize my singing is 'good' and try to record our duet on my phone but my shadow doesn't let me. she leads the way. I'm terrified but improvising, untrusting. a new black, inky anti-figure slinks up the side of my bed as I'm paralyzed in fear. another shadow self, morphing and singing.
we're grind-dancing, her front to my back and singing stand by me. i recognize she means me no harm. she says the police will come and find jacob and tells me to say nothing. i say but, they will have to know about the boars. she agrees. i don't know if i found the money. i lean in to the shadow and whisper that chris' mitch is a good man.
winter children: cerebral, fragile, aloof. remote, as mid february. soft, nearly collision-free, molecules of a low density. it needs to be about you, but that's because i will contain you. странная сказка. strange fairytale; i don't want to be part of you but i need you to change me.
Children of Suburbia #31, pencil on paper, 88x63, 2001.
Morten Schelde (Danish, b. 1972), Ocean of Time I, 2018. Pencil on paper, 200 x 150 cm.
Manuel Orazi (French, born Italy, 1860-1934), Le lieutenant de Saint-Avit et la Mort [Lieutenant de Saint-Avit and Death], 1920-21. Gouache on paper, 113.5 x 154 cm.
Mariano Ferrante (Argentinian, b. 1974), Construcción dinámica Nº 11/11, 2011. Oil, pastel and acrylic on canvas, 190 x 408.5 cm.
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Sumacs: two stories high. bright yellow, pale dark purple, light red, orange, white, yellow-green
i was looking for a place to live in Japan with some girlfriends, trying to catch the right train. only a few would work. in the station, our breasts were nearly shaved off by a passing train. then our teacher came, evil, to get us in trouble. the girls in the bathroom caught me mixing pills. i bribed them not to tell. there were maniacs on the loose of different forms, on bikes, annoying and dangerous. i tried to fight one that patted peoples’ bums, kicking. i took off my shoes to grip better corners. he was on roller-blades. i made a swinging weapon by tying my laces together and whipping one hiking boot at him but he pulled out a gun. i was crying and he was shooting at me and missing. a black man was my protector, trying to fight him. we wrestled him to the ground, i was pinning his hand while the man took the gun from the maniac’s clawed hand and shot him in the head. i was so thankful and wanted to kiss him but he said this is as far as we can go, he cares too much for me to bring me into his world.
the one that was dark in the corner was watching the stage. we danced near him, James Dean-young and unperturbed. On the set break, the blond Britney Spears of country went to him. they embraced. after the mechanical bull riding was over, they stayed, I returned to the corner. There he was, still, with his eyes facing forward. The speaker blocked the view to the stage. the band played. A crazy girl, hyped up, did push-ups on the dirty dance floor, part of another bachelorette. The bride came over and straddled her face as she knelt staring blankly into the spandex-covered pubes. James smirked to himself. he leaned back and grew darker while the other men danced and howled.
it all comes back to being on time. I’m time-obsessed, time-possessive. fate cannot be calculated by the hands of Man. resist relationships with screens. i know you’re intelligent, but you’re different from me. we’re all still linked but we need something soft. Meditate in analog. This weather spurs in me a unique calm, that smells like my friends and sunny, icy fields and ravines tall grass and wild chives through the snow. the space between my kitchen and bedroom, i could crawl on my hands and knees to get coffee, and the sun will shine through the window, getting lower, longer and euphoric.