Gifted Etchings & Monoprints+

 

 Mercury is retro and no one will understand this anyway, so here goes. 

Three Fingers, Four Plaid Shorts, and Counting

A plank of wood. With a round hole cut out. And two matchy circles each side for ears. A face. The nth male to present his 2D self. From the mouth escapes a stream of toxic waste. I'm seeing it and thereby affirming it. Some contract earlier made has brought me here.

I stepped into my cheering section. Thus I now see from the most luscious plank-not plank, in my rearview mirror: Concern; nerves; more nerves. I'm a phat fish slithering through fingers. By whose carelessness or other lack? About as relevant as Rumi said. I'm talking about the field.

I slime into my shadow. Teacher said to go, and so. I am loved for this. And my fleshly housing. And my force. Thank you Don Miguel. Cheshire Cat smile too. A toothy grin lives forever, somewhere.

Once electric I turned to see. Couple more times likewise but more mellow. Surprised into my own spirit. The Great Swirl works in this way. I don't want it this way. I want more of it this way. I want whatever I have.

It's electric and sheer and regular and lite beer-style and I'm seeking. The deep, rich--no not pecuniary. The wide humble embrace that can meet and match. Receives this bunt and thereby affirms it. Happenstance at the first. Chooses it at the second. And the rest.

With thanks to my (mercury filling spilled?) sick molar

Seven Years Sober

Anniversary eve & here is a skritch based on pulled Motherpeace Tarot cards (in which the limbic system is turned on its ear):

1) Yep you're shutting him out

2) & bringing some heavy energy to bear

3) Overthinking again...drop into the heartspace, sissy

4) There's that false belief trying to horn in, the one that says You're No Good

5) Yes he's working hard. It's part of his identity, gender makeup & genetic code doy

6) & he's working for YOU

7) You've manifested some honey, little missy

8) He's digging deep!

9) That question is flawed. Drop it like it's hot

10) So is that version of it. Desist

11) You're a pressure cooker, aren't you?

12) To pester would be depressive, create misery, flatten things...

13) ...while an astral letter mightn't do the trick (what? what?? WHAT WILL?)...

14) ...the choice must be made in freedom. Trust yourself indeed

15) That goal-oriented stuff? Bosh. Sitting still & doing nothing gets the goods

& so it was a piece of garbage was befriended & the sense of accomplishment was rich. But we're prizing the paces, aren't we?

With special thanks to the pastor at The Keys Vineyard, Tara Brach, Lee, Suzanne, Hana, Lynn Nesseth, Jim, Linda, Kari, Roger & especially Joseph Driggers

Thinking of Bas Jan Ader. I just read that he began his infamous sailing voyage on my first birthday. And in response to his piece ["I'm too sad to tell you"], there are those things too horrible to tell anyone really. They might have that secondary trauma thing, besides. Uck. There is the need to share a burden so that it is lessened. But today, processing some particularly foul first-hand trauma, I was advised to experience it, release it, get some divine help.

The latter could slip into the abstract, but fortunately for me I have excellent mentorship. A wise wise lady has been teaching me the basics at last. Here's to being a late bloomer!

widdershins

Senryu

She looks sexy
and I have to break up with her





for Mary Constantina Zogzas

Here we have an archival image from over a decade ago, a performance I did at Flood Gallery. Its old incarnation in the so-called River Arts District of Asheville, North Carolina, that is. It was a long (memorized!) text-based piece entitled "Portage", later videotaped and posted on flabmag.com.

I'm looking very Frida Kahlo in this image. I have been told about 300 times that I resemble Frida, in face, form and temperament. My parents look like her parents, both sets of grandparents looked like respective grandparents. Lovers look like her lovers, even (eep!). Similar handwriting style, careers, passions, interpersonal challenges, tense relationship with sister, goofiness.

But back to this piece depicted here. I dealt with some interpersonal challenges in its subject matter. Much was vented, transformed. What more could I ask of a creative practice, truly? And I have made commitments recently to apprentice in the Pachacuti shamanic tradition, to explore my Jewish roots in a class with a local rabbi, to be mentored by an amazing singer on the island--but none of it matters much today. As I walk slowly, erratically but resolutely, on this path of I-know-not-what, I am drawn now and at last to be alone with my creativity. I thank Pope. L for clueing me in: I don't know where my creativity will take me either; it's a mystery within.