banana artaud pop art flambé
9:12 am nova burns for teens venting beat 25 for pop art ripoff lyrics, such as
This Party Is A Joke
A pretty terrible advert
a party terrible you shun't do it
I probably shouldnt shouldnt I
bananas taste so grim
eh, why?
its a shame
the funniest thing
a pleasant surprise
you havin a fling
analogue soviet sweet drum machines
this party is a joke
among other things
catching up with your collision
double take on double vision
if I just rediscovered
I might see
nostalgic things
of you minus me
I wish there was
DVDs vapor wave
or slick party clothes
or Blurays on french toast
its a shame
the funniest thing
a pleasant surprise
you havin a fling
analogue soviet sweet drum machines
this party is a joke
among other things
I'm being told off
by a bag city scare
New Order this suitably electric
occult tennis bangs
not that creep with long hair
daytripper wasteland
in hell pepper black in hellripper jeans
and a number of things
and a lotta bad books
end a lotta bad looks
floaty daisy guitar solos
chocolate moth balls
lawsuit nose jobs
oh shit just do it already
[baroque soaring guitar solo then joined by ornate patriotic flutes that melt into bongos and jazz ending with steady finger snaps x 3]
who knows what then we realize
god has melted our spleens
black bananas in soggy pajamas
readers digest magazines
this party is a joke
make the best of it
chicano borderline hairdo
failed art gallery experiment
you cant make this up
you arrived all too early
broken glass in my ass and a kumquat
candles burning on vhs video dum dum
no one here but police
cops slamming coos in the mosh pit
I'm calling the cops on the cops by the hour
hell
[guitar zzzrruup! then pause]
I did everything but shower
its a shame
the funniest thing
a pleasant surprise
you havin a fling
analogue soviet sweet drum machines
this party is a joke
among other things
Sporting Chump Silhouttes
Duchamp what
a loverly gimme gam
legs on high
creamy waist
for the summer set
sporting grains
I mean do
you have film
for the witch poses
kitsch moses
venice studios
surf sandwiches swimwear
candid camera
no hair
cutlet veal
cold springs
mattress kings
blue collar bone
chess only on nude beaches
door to door
with the automated score
shake an egg
toot suite voyeur
send congo the bongo
shave a star
museum toilet
you bought it
we drank it
now break it
[bad xylophone and bongos solo]
paris tipsy a go-go
guerilla chic bon bons
the fevers you break
cocaine curator handshake
now to the dumbwaiter
London Paris you traitor
peep hole rock n roll
nasel drift wood vaseline
the sandwich is dead
duchamp blue coffee then bed
mascara black island vamp
ancient modern postcard tramp
elegance let's make haste
cops are running this place
ping pong toodle loo
vamos!
a vamos!
a vamos!
le gone!
7:21 am and alls. well.
its 7:21.
smratch-a-day noovember doen remember like sweptember but probably 15 2025
enjoyed a lil lyric making for my fake band PAEANKS.
enjoyed doing some drawing the other morning, pencil on paper. and it was nice for me to see I havent lost my touch. my personal line. a line thats all my own. from birth to birth. yep.
throughout it all, I know in my heart n soul n everything else
I was born an artist and I will die an artist.
and that means something to me.
its meaningful to me. and perhaps that is due, in part, to how much it really meant to me to view art, experience art at a very young age . . beyond the art of comics n illustrated books, ads, graphic art & design etc, which I also admired, as those could move me too.
I'm touching upon some of this stuff lately and in turn its touching me, via my feelings n written responses to the book Understanding Comics care of the indieweb book club this month, which is fun! the comic book thing is bringing up some foundational stuff for me, which is not so much a surprise (I'm currently in the third part or final quarter of my life, depending how you look at it. so I have the gift of extra super deep reflection, overview and lookback, which is yes profound and yes a delight or sad or horrifying . . yet a healthful natural healing aid for inner wounds. that is, if I'm playing my cards right.
and I am.
I'm in the dark forest doing that shadow work of discovery visitations detours surprises revisitations reassembly disassembly reassigning or connecting the dots to responsibility plummeting or experimenting with grief (a new one for me) igniting anger rage hurts sorrow and well . . shortcircuiting quite a lot of things. but thats nuthin new. and honestly
this is what artists do in the studio, in their art practice, on paper, within themselves, thru collaborations and various media and even outside in the public realm
quietly or unquietly
all. the. time.
so
a lotta the shhhhtuff that I've mentioned above, I've been proactively engaged with for a mucho long time. since I was a kid really. and certainly as a young teen growing up in LA.
philosophical introspective reflective curious open. braving the wilds as best and creatively as I can, naked or raw, mostly willing. sometimes not, I suppose. feeling the adventure. feeling vulnerable or scared. feeling this Life! and this Life is
well
this Life is all right there within me. and yes outside of me too.
and yeah
sometimes that can suck
especially the tyranny stuff
the precarity
but hey
I'm defiant. and curious. curious about
life
loving
being loved
learning how to be loved
healing
understanding
feeling free, being free
being free
in the dark forest, at the beginning and the end, where the hero's natural journey takes place
in the Now
the journey
to being
free
its hard for me to imagine anything more important.
I carry the forest within me.
the truth of the stars within us is the love and the will to be free.
be free
be free
8:21 am and I'm kinda liking that number
nova ember 16 2025
doin some light quick editing on my lyrics. I have a number of lyrics now, well, not knowing what to do with them.
well that doesnt feel so true after writing that, so what is true? hm
it would be fun for me to hear all my lyrics sung played performed by a live band, recorded live in the studio, just a clear crisp simple production, with maybe a few false starts here n there, if there were any. some raw studio ambiance would be nice in there too. I'd like to do the artwork for the album.
I definitely have more than enuff lyrics already for an entire album. probably 2. plus a hidden or unlisted track.
dreaming dreaming of music
8:40 am I luv writing. and produced a lot of it in the last couple of year. all of it experimental. and it makes me feel real good to do it. writing is part of my art practice or studio work. its really a joy.
I'm older now, but I'm still trying to find my way.
drawing writing making art liveblogging reflection contemplation observation philosophy helps my find my way.
perhaps it is my way.
making art is my way
my way of being
just being
1:16 pm bakin a junky box mix cake, a lil out of the norm, as I usually bake a keto cake or cookies from scratch, but what the hey.
listenin to a pretty nice mix Brazil-infused jazz mix from Dig This! which I rather like. outta SF and high quality mixes up there with the NTS Jazz mixes I dig on soundcloud and clearly I'm jus shootin the breeze here.
truth is I culd use a lil break, as the challenges are great, the stress is big and yep I have some battle fatigue. so
box mix cake brazil jazz mix shootin the breeze it is!
feelin defiant tho.
would enjoy plugging into community but where? and what?
I believe there is a silent or quiet class.
but we're all seperate from each other. goin thru this journey alone or with a close partner. perhaps a friend or two. a family member. but probably not. we are willing and at times unwilling to be stoic.
we are individuals.
we have cultivated our individuality, nurtured, refined and trusted our instincts, our own moral ethical philosophical Life compass. we are aware of our flaws, our wounds, other's wounds, or trying to be.
we are aware of our strengths too.
we believe in healing.
we are creating our own kind of Hope.
and perhaps our own kind of solutions.
and maybe bridges, entries or exits to and from the world. or worlds. or
hm. who knows?
I am feral
I feel alone. and feel lonely at times
I love art and making things and connecting and communicating.
I am introspective and thoughtful.
I have Imagination.
I appreciate Nature and Wildlife.
I feel wild.
I am interested, curious and happy to encounter Wonder. The Sublime. and Surprise. and Delight.
I am educated, but mostly self educated and self directed.
I do not like being branded a slave.
I am not a slave.
I feel kindness, understanding and honesty. naturally.
I feel
trust is natural
care is natural
respect is natural
self respect is natural
I am ephemeral
I am interested in others.
I have inherent worth and value
and there is Beauty
and Truth
I Am
I Am Consciousness too
and
I feel something is out there
maybe its you
I believe You are Consciousness too
8:02 pm 11 17 2025
The Rest Of Them Earlier
one minute play
bree: early late, bring early. to bring something here.
q'theen: early late, to bring earlier, to be. to me, bring something here.
bree: so what?
g'theen: so what, what?
bree: you are so close to be somewhere shining, and
q'theen: and yeah.
bree: and to bring someone near.
q'theen: so early, too late
bree: too late?
q'theen: too late.
bree: then bring someone here.
5:37 am 11 18 2025
I dreamt I was running a very small art space that was putting on a live version of the musical HAIR. I walked in during a very good version of Aquarius. it felt like daytime. I felt the urge to record the audio with my cell. perhaps it was a rehearsal cuz next I arrive pre performance at the art space, nervous excitement energy all around as the cast is preparing, getting centered but reving up. I'm walking behind a row of various actors sitting, eatting or hanging out gabbing at long craft tables with white tablecloths. there's scattered nosh n crumbs and I think a squarish empty glass water bottle with dried flowers strewn in it and on the white tablecloth. I feel observed, unacknowledged, feared yet discernable. perhaps neglected or ignored. one of the actor dudes asks if I can open some plastic pitcher full of like Chex cereal. I do this with ease. someone snickers about that. I look forward to hearing that version of Aquarius again. off and on throughout the dream, I feel people recognize me as the gallery director, expecting I have authority regarding how the is run plus I'm the reason the play is even performing there while being the go-to who takes care of any issues, custodial stuff, the messes etc. someone spills some soda, I clean it up with a damp dirty cloth aware of the importance of tidyness AND liability concerns. I'm aware of the irony of it all, uh, King of Cleaning Up Messes? sticky germy kids are kinda running around in chaos (running the place?) causing me deep inner tension. a young gal is pushing some movable screen around. its unclear to me if she works at the gallery or is with the actors. she seems wary of me. I feel attracted to her. throughout the dream there's a push n pull tension I feel of being audience vs central character, being viewed as charismatic vs intimidating authority figure or simply unknown. the feeling is familiar.
note: last night prior to bed, I pulled a 3-card tarot reading from an online tarot site. connection to the Aquarius song? oh! I also decided not to respond to someone's bluesky post with a mention of my art space in san francisco. plus pursuing a gig to curate a new space but some unknowns and tension exists. all clearly feeding into this morning's dream.
Hammer Of A Woman Whose Painting Is Finally Red
one minute play
distantdesert: hey. the apple moves by itself but no one is listening. let alone seeing.
puppies: seeing what? that?!
distantdesert: hey drift over here, cmon, the glare, I mean full color, well yeah. you can see it.
puppies: hm not now, I'm painting.
distantdesert: you know. you could be a little more destructive when youre doing that, I mean . .
puppies: what? being. oh
distantdesert: listen. crack it in half or turn it around paint the back of it.
puppies: youre right. this all looks like croissants playing football or something.
distantdesert: keep the something. but what do I know?
puppies: no taming the blue.
7:59 am 11 1q z°zS
Comment ne pas manger un œuf au plat
à la lumière du feu d'Antonin Artaud
Petit déjeuner? Elle est toujours là. Sauf que nous regardons par-dessus le balcon, puis nous voyons par terre. Un petit doigt minuscule et cassé, couleur de saumon séché, dépéri dans l'air marin du matin. Finalement, un os dangereux en défiant la reculée de l'eau. Souhaitant qu'un orteil marche dessus. À une autre mer qui hémorragie.
Mais cet œuf. Peut-on le faire frire?
La première étape sera, tout à fait naturellement, de naître. Son front lisse brillant. Un vagin usé qui te lèche en sortant. Ne faites pas attention au panneau Interdiction de sortir. Tu sembles être un nombril parfait, un nouveau clitoris gonflé du sang du monde. Tu es à la mode. Vous partagez la couleur des aquarelles de Cézanne. Bleu sang comme une grenade. Des déversements se remplissent de seaux en bois mais l'eau a des trous, alors tu halètes. Finalement, tu ris doucement. Il y a un public captif parmi nous, et c'est certainement vous. Passe ton placenta sur le micro, serre tes lèvres contre le micro. Faites une blague existentielle grossière sur les seins. Rejetez toute esthétique. Refuse tous les mots connus. Tu as des œufs sur la tête.
Étape suivante, frappez un vide dans le vide, aspirez l'air à la livre. Façonnez votre corps en une mauvaise sculpture du buste d'une femme, puis commmettez un petit délit. Retournez dans une cuisine vide, établissez un vrai danger avec un appareil électrique pour que des étincelles bourdonnent et volent en déchaînement, tout en formant un nouveau rythme que seuls les légumes peuvent apprécier. Observez des colonnes d'œufs. Prenez du miel ou du goudron et équilibrez-les tous en une colonne dressée inutile. L'œuf qui n'est pas cassé est ta montagne. C'est laid, inspirant et pur. Il est aussi beau comme le Soleil, ne serait-ce que parce qu'il peut t'emprisonner avec sa folie, ses jets de chaleur qui te détruiront, toi et ton extase. Roulez l'œuf de votre front, jetez un miroir à travers la pièce. Le miroir s'écaille en un million de soleils. Plante un éclat dans ton nombril. Écoutez les crépitements du Soleil.
Tu as foiré ta chronique. Tu as perdu tes œufs, maintenant tu dors dans l'évier. Tu as fait exploser l'air avec la musique, la lumière et l'électricité du Soleil. Pas les étoiles. Un miroir sent ton nombril. Tu es devenu la blague aveugle et drôle d'un ovaire. Tu racontes des blagues sur les œufs dans ta cuisine. Des étincelles frappent de façon folle. Même si ça ne leur importe pas.
Tu as abandonné l'étape trois, et ce petit-déjeuner est mort. L'air est de la cuisine. Tu es en train de donner naissance au monde sans mort. Tu entends ce bruit? Espérons que ce soit un peintre qui ne soit célèbre pour rien. Je suis certain que ça fera l'affaire.
Le Quatrième Pas se trouve sous un pétale de fleur glacé cet hiver. La seule façon d'entrer ou de sortir d'ici, c'est de lui casser le nez avec un marteau. La musique de cet acte ouvre une grotte spirituelle qui engloutit la cuisine, les étincelles, la colonne brisée d'œufs. Tu ne te souviendras que de ce dernier regard rapide à ton nombril, un œil miroir qui ressemble au tien. Un rire quelque part, même si la blague était pas drôle ou brouillée ou. Silence nu. Ce regard d'un œil qui te regarde. Il y a une certaine communication, une cause commune, des lunes lointaines. Tes tétons crachent du lait. Et cela provoque de la mélancolie pour tous. Même les insectes.
Comment l'œuf a-t-il pu être grillé, puis défrimé, puis perdu dans la mer électrique? Quelqu'un, un peu de délire nous a touchés. Mauvais usage du temps réservé au petit-déjeuner. Tu te vois de l'autre côté de la cuisine, écrasant un feu d'un œuf allumé maintenant en pleine flamme de cuisine.
How Not To Eat A Fried Egg
by fire light of Antonin Artaud
Breakfast? It's still there. Only we look over the balcony, then see us on the ground. One scrawny broken pinky finger, the colour of dried salmon, wasting away in the morning sea air. Eventually a dangerous bone in defiance of receding water. Wishing a toe would step on it. To hemorrhaging another sea.
But this egg. Can it be fried?
Step One will be, quite naturally, to be born. Slick forehead shining. Worn vagina licking you on the way out. Pay no attention to the No Exit sign. You seem like a perfect navel, a new clitoris engorged with blood of the world. You are in vogue. You share the colour of watercolours of Cezanne. Blood blue as a pomegranate. Spills filling with wooden buckets but the water has holes in it, so you gasp. Eventually you giggle. There is a captive audience among us and that is certainly you. Sling your placenta over the mic, clamp your lips up to the mic. Form a crude existential joke about breasts. Reject all aesthetic. Refuse all known words. You've got egg on the brain.
Next step, punch a void into the void, suck the air by the pound. Shape your body into a bad sculpture of a woman's bust then commit a petty crime. Slink back into an empty kitchen, establish some real danger with an electrical appliance so sparks buzz and fly rampantly while forming a new beat possibly only vegetables can appreciate. Observe a columns of eggs. Take honey or tar and balance them all into a futile standing column. The egg that is not cracked is your mountain. It is ugly, inspiring and pure. It is also beautiful like the Sun, if only because it can imprison you with its madness, its jets of heat that will destroy you and your ecstasy. Roll the egg off your forehead, throw a mirror across the room. The mirror flakes into a million suns. Stick a shard into your navel. Listen to crackles of the Sun.
You have screwed up your column. Lost your eggs, now you're sleeping in the sink. You have ruptured the air with music and light and electricity of the Sun. Not the stars. A mirror smells like your navel. You have become the blind unfunny joke of an ovary. You are telling jokes about eggs in your kitchen. Sparks are clapping wildly. Though they don't care.
You have scrapped Step Three, and this breakfast is dead. The air is kitchen air. You are still-birthing the World. Hear that noise? Let's hope it's a painter not famous for anything. I'm certain this will do.
Step Four exsits beneath a flower petal iced over this Winter. The only in or out of this place is to crack its nose with a hammer. The music from this act opens a spiritual cave that swallows the kitchen, the sparks, the broken column of eggs. You will only remember that last quick glance at your navel, mirrored eye that resembles your own. A laugh somewhere, though the joke was unfunny or garbled or. Naked silence. That glance of an eye looking at you. There is some communication, a common cause, distant moons. Your nipples spout milk. And this causes melancholy for all. Even the insects.
How did the egg get fried then unfried then lost in the electrical sea? Someone, some delirium touched us. Misuse of the time set aside for breakfast. You see yourself across the kitchen floor, stamping a fire out of an egg lit up now in full kitchen flames.
