a slight flutter. wind. wings. fingers. i am not sure. it is so vague. so far away. tonight is here again. blind witness to the crimes of my life. the silent watcher of the broken pleasures that make up what passes as my life. these one sided conversations between me and my keyboard. tonight is here again. it is a sin.
i write. you read. is this communication? seriously. the keys caress me back. no. they dont. just in case, i self medicate. i whisper. the television is on mute. the traffic outside bears witness to life. the life of others. i whisper. silence answers. i whisper. take your share. just in case. i whisper a prayer for the lost.
does god think it is prideful, greedy, to pray for yourself? i wonder wander. i remember the smell of fall after the rain. i remember show and tell. i remember so many things. all useless here. i am a chaser of ghost paper.

what is ghost paper? i think maybe ideals, but i am not sure. ghost paper,i think is what is left after you have read a page. politics, religion, science, romance. i found out that j g ballard died last month. i cried. "crash" is one of my favourite books. the movie is brilliant. "empire of the sun" is also amazing and "highrise ". i have put off reading "memories of the space age" because i always felt i had already lived it, now, in honor of his death, i will have to read it. he was so amazing. joy division used him in their work. "atrocity exhibition" is one of his works, gary numan hinted at him in "down in the park" and the song "warm leatherette" by the normal is based on his novel "crash". with the money daniel miller made from that single he formed mute records and we have "depeche mode", all thanks to j g ballard. and the top ten discs to take into space has to include "metamatic" by john foxx, again inspired by j g ballard. the music swirls around me and i grasp. the chaser of ghost paper. i grasp socialism, pop culture references in john lennons photo in the white album, the sound of women crying in goverment tents on what once were soccer fields, colors changing on the map of the world as the biohazard explodes and cnn has a logo for it and special theme music. i unfold my hand and let it flutter. wind. wings. fingers. i dont know. all i know for sure, as the saline solution drips, is that 13 percent of the population is not. is not what, i dont know. the nurse asked how i am feeling and i smile because i am too tired to bare my teeth all the way. it works, she leaves.

i am going under for the third time. will no one swim out here? i swallow jet fuel and go under again. and i see the ghost of skylab below me, shimmering in the dark sea. and i drift. in the late 1970's, my punk band days, skylab was coming back to us. back to it's creators. all it was doing was coming home. like me, in a decaying orbit. i remembered those giant buttons i saw in pictures when the beatles came to america. they said "welcome the beatles". so i had giant buttons made that said "welcome skylab" and all of friends and i wore them everywhere. i remember people staring at me on the bus like i was crazy. welcome skylab? it was just the beginning of what we call celebrity now, it was being a chaser of ghost paper. so here i am 30 plus years later, locked in my apartment, at stupid o'clock in the morning. wondering how i can waste this day. i found if you let go of the importance of every moment, it loses its pain, it numbs the tears into making toast or staring at the television with the sound off. if its not special, its just more skin being made into dust and if you dont clean, then you dont know thats the place is dirty and if you...whatever. its a circle too big for me to get my dirty mouth around. salt water and jet fuel. i feel like i am in the bathtub in the backroom of the boot camp in san francisco again. its the late 70's and the world is full of ghost paper that hasnt hit the ground yet and i lay, mouth open to catch the dna snowflakes. where did i leave my cheekbones, my taunt flesh, my desire to do more than this. i dont know. its all too groovy when you self medicate. flutters. burning lamps in the bedrooms. blood against the wall and ceiling. emails from friends. memories. flutter. flutter. flutter like flies to butter flutter. i wish i was here. but i am not. i am busy chasing ghost paper.

musical interlude.

for the last couple of weeks, i have had "sounds of the universe" by depeche mode (which brings us back to j g ballard) on my headsets on the commuter train. there is a particular portion that was kept me chasing their ghost paper. it goes like this.

"Wasted all my time ,
In another world ,
in another place ,
I could use a little company ,
A little kindness can go a long way .

Weeks turn into months ...
Mo... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/24384041/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/24384041/ Wed, 22 Apr 2009 19:25:46 PDT

disclaimer
(this is an odd entry for me. i use this section to get you to visit my site to see the completed installation (all the panels and text) by posting the text here as a journal entry. this has been installed since last weekend, but there is no link on the index page to the completed piece. you will see from the text below that i have put (deleted) in certain parts. those of you who know my work process know that i install all the panels and then just start writing the text all at one time, non stop, until i feel its done. the next day i read what i wrote and was very uncomfortable with some of it. so i may not ever link it to the main page. i dont believe in censoring myself, it defeats the purpose of what im trying to do. next weekend, when "chaser of ghost paper" is done, i may or may not link it.)




heaven unfolds, explodes, implodes. revolution orbits orbital. digital signal citations cypher and suffer. i wonder wander. beneath me is sky, above me is lie. shiny metal wings caress and shred the sky, in the blink of an eye. i blink again. and again. soon all this will be mine. all this and heaven too. the overture begins to play, but it is playing backwards. so does that make it the underture? i listen, a glass of stoli and holy water in my empty hand. the strings make me remember. and i freezeframe the thought.

(deleted)

im on the southbound 4:45 out of seattle and i open my briefcase. i pull it out, carefully, and lay it on the wi-fi ready table in front of me. the body of christ sketchbook. i look at it, carefully, and i imagine that i am pulling out my ghost pencils. the holy ghost of lead brilliance shimmers in my empty hand and i realize i'm just at home, on my couch. looking into my glass of stoli and holy water. and then i hear it. what i thought was the rumble of train on track, was just rain. the rain of shredded sky falls softly as the feathers of shiny metal wings, against my windows. clink, clink, clink. i am listening from where i have been hiding for nine years. my personal heaven, my padded room with a view.

(deleted)

revolutions are just that, revolutions around a dying star. a measure of time made up by us because it takes a certain amount of time to circle our star. and somehow, we apply this meaninglessness to the universe. and we say we know heaven. and we say we know science. and we say we know the future. and we say that we can change the future with revolution. and that revolution is based on our circle around our dying star. son of dog is barking, but we just turn the television (the facebook, the my space, the twitter) up louder to block him out. none of this matters to me of course. i have a glass of stoli and holy water in my hand and

(deleted).

life is good.

i hear the angels laughing. they know, sin is the wind inside my soul. without sin, what would the son of dog have to bark at? the music is still backwards, so this must be the beginning music? i dont know. i am just a bow without a present. a firework of love shot into the shredded daylight of a sky. a dream without a sleeper. such is the life of karma. flossing with pubic hair found in public restrooms. we must atone for the unknown sins, i miss john lennon. he made all of this so much easier for me. and kurt cobain. and ian curtis. and all my dead friends, all 200 plus of them. (though i think i've become too flacid. they very rarely visit anymore). so i toast tonight with a glass of stoli and holy water in my empty hand.

*(subtext) underneath me is sky, below is lie. please. take me. take me soon. it hurts, these backwards sunsets and grinding face lies i paint every morning. is this it?

(deleted)

i sit up, on the couch. i havent slept in my bedroom for over four years now. and i think of brian jones. and i know i'm not alone. i have all the memory that has been able to sustain me for the last 24 years. i can continue to live here in the memoryworld and be just fine. just as long as i have my stoli and holy water, i can self medicate myself into writing more shit like this.

(deleted)

lets call it revolution! let's have another stoli and holy water! me and my imaginary friends!)

george harrison was right. it is all inside your mind. (he died of a brain tumor. need i say more?)

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http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/23933681/ Sat, 28 Mar 2009 12:26:51 PDT

slowly. the grinder grinds. slowly. the rain rains. slowly. the release releases. and i lay here. in the cream of the crop circles. slowly. the water circles the shower drain. slowly. the sin sins. slowly. the play plays itself out. slowly. the song sings. my heart is full. my life is emply. empty as the bathtub i lay in. slowly. the folds unfold. slowly. the blossom blossoms. sunday was dark. no sun on sunday. somewhere it is bright. i move toward the light. i find myself. slowly. the kiss kisses. as i kiss the rings of saturn. and i think of you. out here among the ice and dark. searching for light. slowly. the search searches. such is the life of the son of dog. if ignorance is bliss, then blinded by the light is better. around me. slowly. ice collides with ice. darkness collides with darkness. and i am fearless. slowly. i write my name on the steam covered bathroom mirror and smile, sacrilege.

i open my eyes. i still see stars. i close my eyes and smile with hope. i open my eyes. i still see stars. we are all made of stardust. everything that exists is made of on a submolecular level of the same thing. stardust. i am one with god. i am one with myself. and i know. slowly. the know knows. the objects of desire is here. nothing can stop me. nothing ever could. i am part of every desire i have ever had. slowly. the desire desires. and yet, i sit here. drunk. and wait. slowly. the wait waits. resisting temptation by staying drunk is something i learned early on. disrupt the signal. confuse the pleasure program. insert tab into engine. insert the holy ghost into toast. confuse and conform. slowly. the norm norms. and i am crying. quietly. so that no one i live with will hear me, as i live alone. or so i thought. slowly. the thought thinks.
i hear a clatter of metal in the kitchen. i want to run, but i want to know more, so slowly, i undo the ropes and creep toward the kitchen. i smell smoke and hold my breath. and there she is. the virgin mary is in my kitchen, burning toast. no doubt to insert the holy ghost. i pull my pants up and slowly creep toward the front door. slowly. the creep creeps.

the sky flickers. near to the end of the reel. i pull at the door. the projection booth is locked. i hold my breath (as though i need to breathe. being the son of dog has it advantages.) i am bait. i am master baiter. i am a lure. i am allure. i look at my waterproof watch and watch the moments slide, circular, down the drain of the tub. art is not a choice. it is a reason. slowly. the reason reasons. and it loses. the televsion crackles back on and caresses me. "12 new sins! operators are standing by!". i will be honest. i am scared. hold my hand. i dont want to face this by myself. and slowly, i grasp my own hand, waiting for the world to end. and i feel the tickle. the tickle of hope and its groovy.

i am not scared to be by myself here, in the world of meaningless. i am lying, why am i here, son of dog? i dont understand. why am i here? the ground smells old. the ground smells sound. but i am scared. it smells like a bodybag of tricks. the book. the songbook of sores, the hymnbook of whores says i am beautiful. i dance and no one gets it. i sing sonic and they cry. blood from the ears wont stop me. i am a song. listen. i am sorry it hurts, but dog made me beautiful, please stop crying and listen. i am beautiful. maybe not in the way you think, but trust me, i can sing songs that you cant dream of. slowly. the listen listens.

so here i am. what is the shelf life of a soul? slowly. coins fall into slot machines. being the son of dog, i understand the power of a well placed lie. if you lie with dogs, you will get fleas.

*(feel free to reverse the obvious dog to god and see if feel any less itchy or used. please be my guest. you like it from behind, right?)

to see the complete installation of this piece, kneel here >>> [link]

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uses da male stock chosen at random

]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/23531040/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/23531040/ Wed, 04 Mar 2009 19:42:47 PST

my name is mangina. born of science. built for speed. over engineered. escaped wreckage from the pleasure factory. broken boy toy. corrupted streams of desire and data flow and loop endlessly. i could have been a bird. i could have sung. i could have flown. i could have been the deputy minister of traffic. i could have been over engineered. over thought. over wrought. over the rainbow. instead i am over this altogether over this altogether over this altogether ovrt hsall o g*ne 301 1101101001

i want you to love me. i want you to love me like brigitte bardot. brigitte bardot saved the face of french art. i want you to love me like that. i rewind and say it again. this time i move my lips in sequence with the word clusters. insert tab into engine. im sorry. im not sure why i said that. maybe an unattended file is opening somewhere. im sorry. the rain here is so circular. the closer it comes the darker it gets. isnt rain supposed to come from above? not from around? are we still aboveground? insert tab into engine. excuse me, i need to check on that.
while recompiling my life, i came across a new prayer for the broken hearted. would you like to hear it? i wrote it myself (it says on the key). i cant. everytime i try to open it, all i get are the fourth quarter figures for the royal bank of scotland. not my idea of a new prayer for the broken hearted. i smile hopefully, maybe you are a banker? i think maybe not.
i get so confused, being a crime against science. over engineered. unzip your lips and kiss me. i am willing to be whatever you want me to be. some long forgotten song trembles inside my hand. i forget. i open and close my hands. i open and close my eyes. i open and close my lips. i open and close my files. hi. hello. nice to meet you. my name is...my name is...my name is...excuse me please.

i dont care, i dont remember when i did, shivering in the shadow if the nixon regan bush, i was so cold. no big hair, no big tits, no short skirts, no high heels to keep me warm in that age of darkness. sing me something warm. oh, sorry. maybe you're not programed to sing. that was rude of me to ask. but maybe if i smile again you could try? let me pull that one up. okay, open your eyes, im smiling. and susan atkins says hi. did you know susan atkins? im sorry, im just a little confused. your name isnt charlie or tex is it? the word "queen" keeps scrolling across my eyescreen. are you related to royalty?

im standing in an airport holding a ticket. i didnt know i was going anywhere, let alone where i am in the first place. i look at the destination screen and it says "sunrise of the heart". i play a smile on my face and hope thats not the name of a resort, but a new program. im ready. open up your hearts and let the sun data stream in.

then i hear the angels. the choir of disembodied choir program. i have the catholic school program loaded. i have the charity program loaded. shit, i even have the mercy fuck program loaded, why am i hearing angels? and then the pain starts. the angels begin to leave me. wingburn. the angels (leave my asshole) soar. all i can think of is john lennon signing "because".
"because the sky is blue it makes me cry" and he was murdered so someone could tell jodie foster that he "loved" her. my love program must not being working correctly, "because" i dont understand. i must be over engineered for this world. i dont understand how americans spend billions of dollars on their pets, while eating hamburgers. it hurts, but i think the wingburn is from the angels not wanting to be here anymore. i will follow them, "because" i understand now.


i order a cup of coffee. i light a cigarette, i think of you and get a cigarrection. i always do. i pull up my hip coffee drinking consumer face and hide. i wonder where you are. and then between a drag off my cig and a sip of coffee, i realize that i dont even know who you are. you were a client. and im just a broken boy toy. over engineered. actually i cant even remember your face.
you could here, in this cybercafe and i wouldnt know. its the same reason i dont look in the mirror in the bathroom after ive pissed you out of my system, because i never recognize the face in the mirror. its like an old rendition of me. i take another pill while pretending to fix my eyeliner, my body gauge says 54, but my mind gauge says 23.
over engineered is a pain in the ass. i dont do this for money anymore. i feel like everything i do, is like the emperors new art, it doesnt exist. why isnt my pleasure program working? im mensa smart, im talented, im a great lay and im a loyal friend. yet im stuck in this apartment set wishing i hadnt sold my gun, so i could put it in my mouth.
witness the witless. talent doesnt mean youre... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/22106803/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/22106803/ Sun, 21 Dec 2008 16:42:44 PST

so here is the creepy.

i was born in this building, when it was the biggest catholic hospital in seattle, now my office is in the same building i was born in, i was born in 54 and when i turn 54 tomorrow, it will be in the same building i was born in. its all creepy to me. so happy creepy birthday to me.

*(in reality, the inside looks like a spaceship, all blond wood and glass and flat plasma screens. you can check out the awards it won, for best renovation or whatever by searching on Sabey Construction or whatever, it's still creepy for me.)

my main account

uses da stock

uses da male stock chosen at random

]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/21386739/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/21386739/ Sat, 08 Nov 2008 10:45:30 PST

dear _____ ,

sorry for the absence. i've been _____ .
it will take me _____ to catch up on everyones work.
you know i think your work is _____ .
in fact, i think you are the _____ artist.
i am fading back here again and i am feeling _____ to be back.
all my _____ .

marlon

"your one and only _____ "

my main account

uses da stock

uses da male stock chosen at random

a mistake. a wrong turn. a forgotten line. a puzzle piece that slipped behind a cushion of forever. the floor begins to fly up towards my face and i think im flying when im falling. the satellites sing with glee. signal to noise ratio in key. the rabbithole unfolds. darkland implodes.
factory into the garden. garden into the toychest. toychest into the rabbithole. rabbithole into my front room, front room into my hand. hand into my mouth. mouth into my pupil. pupil into my soul. soul into all i have left. a mistake. a wrong turn. a forgotten line. a puzzle piece that slipped behind a cushion of forever.

hollow shores crackle beneath the weight of sound waves breaking static. the hum drums beneath the weight of this hollow neon tube halo. glass and hallogen gas. i remember Rg{sub 2}X{sup*} (where Rg is the atom of rare gas, X is the hallogen atom, and{sup*} indicates the electronic excitation).
light pours out of my sores. unclean heaven is all i have left. unshaven and unshorn. undead and unborn. left frontal lobe collapses and a giant red dwarf star shimmers high above the body i once bore.

soft. silent. the hours drop like leaves. the forest is as quiet as the street outside is now. as quiet as my life has been for so long now. memory drifts and slowly crawls the floors. dreams clot and stain my pillow. i remember nothing. it is all i have left. the last eyes wide open defense against the obvious. the oblivious stares back at me from my mirror. i smile but he doesnt smile back.
somewhere in the great behind, i hear a song playing. i think its the buzzcocks, but im not sure. its so far away now. the signals light years away and fleeting faster still. i close my eyes and take another drag off my cigarette and i see a little boy. he is excited. its halloween and he cant wait to get into his costume and meet his friends. trick or treat.
i dont remember which was in my bag that night or the thousands of nights that have fallen since. all i have left is now. and i no longer think thats enough. static falls outside my drawn blinds like snow. its cold outside. but its even colder in here. and i think, just in case...just in case...

to see all i have left, step inside >>> [link]

"so i die before you once again, whats the difference?" bauhaus/slice of life

the camera pans. the talking world screen unfolds. my living room, no, my life, fills with the light and the truth. free me in the light of the new world order. people wonder why i have withdrawn from the world. i dont. i have made the conscience choice to substitute food for sex. alcohol for human contact. masturbation for love.
does anyone remember what was once known as yugoslavia? the mythology we call civilization is just that, mythology. i still remember the blind dumb belief of my youth and tonight, how i long for that again. to turn on again. to plug into the vague semi erect dream of youth. before it came with a corporate label and a think tank. frank sinatra, elvis, the beatles, bowie, the sex pistols and wire.
plug me in....

youth. is it the genetic desire to procreate or natural selection? as the only species in the system to evolve (?) to reproduce for pleasure rather than necessity, is it all a commercial advert venture? does that make me a puppet of satan or a victim of society? freedumb? thats me! free to spent the rest of his life hidden and drunk.
hip hooray for social darwinism! i am the poster boy (without a belly button now, but we covered that, didnt we. but i dont think most of you understood what a "motherless child" that made me). snowflakes fall. from the voice of bjork. like little bits of cold on my burning memory. the sting slowly slows. the swollen sickness of my mental flesh resides. her voice, it is the voice of god.

somewhere, i am still happy and hopeful. i believe einstein was right about this. and so i reach through these curved walls and see what i find. i will continue to search. its not as masturbatory as it may seem. i want you all to come with me. if i can find the secret. i wont copywrite it or trademark it. i will make you all lick it off my lips with the simplest of kisses. fall like the snow or the ashes of hiroshima, into my arms. dreams never end. they remain caught up in our undersouls, catching and ripping the seams of our seamless modern lives.
i am property owned by a forgotten or long dead owner. happy birthday baby jesus, send my bar bill to the vatican.

i am male. i have spent entire life being proud of that and apologizing for it. it is hard being glad to be something and ashamed of it at the same time. whats a boy to do? tune in, turn on, drop out. the future is dangerous. i should know, im there already.

angels. full of radiation. float down towards my bed, disturb my sleep. kiss me.
i welcome you. close your eyes and open your mouth (gee its just like the old days, only way different, but then, isnt that always)

join me >>> [link]

(welcome.......doors closing, doors closing. please stand clear)

(file not found.......please press 9 for more options)

(provided by the management for your protection.......failure to follow instructions may lead to serious injury)

(may cause drowsiness. alcohol may intensify this effect. use care when operating a car or dangerous machinery........press any key to delete)

(please locate the emergency exits.......please disengage. please disengage)

to see the entire commercial, close your eyes and cross your fingers >>> [link]

ps. i finally updated my site, so "red star rising" and "seconal" are now installed too! have a few drinks until you fall over and break something or injure yourself and while youre pissed off, please visit!

baseball bats. hand guns. brass knuckles. machetes. a rope swung over a tree limb. religion. nerve gas. atomic bombs. highjacked jets. lithium. prozac. alcohol. shopping. television. celebrity. celebrutality.
i set my pathfinder toward the land of the rising sun. toward the big red bear. toward the red star rising over the oil fields. i follow the trail of burning olive branches toward the red star rising in the east.
a child will be born. and a new age, asunder and torn, like the flags i have worn, will blossum and bloom. with a sonic boom. red star rising.

in the kitchen an unused stove waits and collects dust. the kitchen was the center of family life. and as family life slowly and silently slipped into mythology, the kitchens grew silent and empty and sad. so lifelike and yet so dead. colours fading and edges cracking. i watch a lot of black and white films so that i can remember the future promised and never delivered. the ache in my heart keeps me awake. eyes on the shimmering horizion. watching the red star rising.
and if i sit still long enough. i can hear it. the sound of my own breathing. slowing reversing. backwards. and the clock tock ticking. and the slivers of sunlight creeping across the carpet begin to slow until they stop and then slowly, ever so slowly creep back from west to east. they say you can never go back. they lied.

iamstillhere. iamapoliticaltool. take from me what you want, but never what you need. to lose that required anonymity will cause the boundaries to bleed. iamatechnocrat. iamabrokentoy. i have spent most of my life, dumbing myself down with drugs and booze and sex to reach the level where the attention i wanted pooled and swirled. i have prostituted myself for a smile. iamapolitcaltool. iamasmilingfool. the currency of change never stayed long in my pocket. iamanoverdrawnlinearthought. i have been sold, but never bought. i have been revealed, but never sought. the paper that makes up my life, stuffed and soiled into a wallet. i feel like money inside. touched by thousands, but never kept. traded away as soon a possible. iamadollarstore. iamadollarboy. you can keep the change.

and so here i sit. remembering. friday night i watched "world trade center" by oliver stone and i remembered. yesterday i watched "the queen" and remembered diana's death. i realized i was watching this on the 10 year anniversary of her death. and i remember standing in my front room in phoenix with a cup of coffee and tears in my eyes and it seems like only yesterday, not ten years ago.
i think its time to retreat to darkland again. i feel safe there. sitting in my garden of ultraviolets. sitting on the toychest i had as a child. smoking a cigarette and listening to the wind in the branches whisper. yes. tonight after im finished with this, i intend to get very drunk and slip away to the garden again, where i can look up at the night sky and count satelittes. im out of vicodin now, so stoli will have to do. iamasmilingguy. iamastarinthenightsky. iamaredstarrising.

after words
sometimes i squint my eyes and i see the me i used to be. and i can feel the sense of anticipation everyday brought. everyday was new treasure to unwrap.
but then i focus and see that i am still under the big black sun. and in the distance, i see a red star rising.
in the mirror i see the shutter of my iris opening, aperture adjusting. click.

******

im too tired to finish the links on my site. you will be able to see the finished installation tomorrow. there will be a link here then. thanks, m

and the label on the package reads "new york london paris tokyo darkland". i place it on the kitchen counter and stand very still as it begins to unwrap itself.
and as i watch, my mind drifts back to the train station this week. the police in their black uniforms with their bomb sniffing black dogs. im a stupid boy in a stupid world.

theres truth in advertising, or so they say. im surrounded by truth and light and free will. i sleep with the television on. like an incubator chick being factory farmed, the television is my mother. my god. my truth. and underneath my suit, i itch. the garden grows. the seeds have been sown. i am a product of all i've been shown.
and i smile and clutch the handle of my briefcase just a little tighter, as i pass the police at the main station downtown. inside my briefcase, the package begins to move.

the moonlight slides down my arm, drips out of my sleeve and puddles on the carpet by my bare feet. i remove my suit. i am standing naked in my living room, lit only by the flickering television, the volume muted as always. the images of horror with product placement wash my body clean of all real and imagined sins. i see earthquake ruins, amid the rubble are signs advertising coca cola and intel.
and from the dining room i hear the package whisper, "non compos mentis". latin for "not of sound mind". i dont remember this from the latin i learned for mass when i was an altar boy, but who knows, it was all so long ago. i am outside the outside. insular and isolated. insecure and self medicated. self induced and masturbated.
the moonlight seeps into the carpet and i smell ozone. the sweet soft static song of circuitry overheating. plastic and wire meeting. these are my new friends. tonight the party begins and ends.

so many choices. and i cant leave my apartment except to go to work. i even have my groceries delivered. i will walk a block tomorrow to the corner store, as im almost out of cigarettes.
only then will i leave my safeplace. my friend marc, offered to take me to tokyo for three days next month and i turned him down.
it takes the threat of becoming homeless to get me out the door monday through friday, how in the fuck could i go to tokyo? poor marlon. boo fucking hoo. sometimes i bore myself.
i cant imagine how those of you that actually read this crap do it. so heres to all of you. cheers. at work last week, i had to go into the bathroom and laugh till i cried.
for the first time in my life, i actually said "have a nice day" to a client on the phone. where am i going? i have no fucking clue. imagine you are imaginning something. yoko was right.

something so much larger than me, is inside of me, trying to get out of me. and i stand very still as i begin to unwrap. and through the meworld, through the collapsing temple of flesh, through the eyes of the world on a flat screen, through the tears beading on dry dead skin, i see light. "fiat lux". let there be light. i want to feel again. i want to believe again. i want to walk in the light again.
but tonight, tonight i will self medicate and wait. awake and dreaming. silent and screaming. pissing it all away. what if thats what the lesson is? i think that im right. when i gave up music and sex and drugs and art and money. i told my friends that "denial was the purest form of beauty". "fiax lux". let there be light.
(and the television flickers. soft drinks. diet plans. new cars. i need this. i need that. i feel better. tomorrow maybe, tomorrow maybe i will go shopping. or maybe not.)
funny how life imitates art. "isolation" by john lennon just came on my stereo and i know that means im done. "youre just a human, a victim of the insane". lol! while he was known as a guitar player with the beatles, i think he wrote and played the most amazing piano. he was my main inspiration for playing keyboards later on in my life. im smiling. im done.

to walk into the light, follow me here >>> [link]

i remember heaven. but i cant remember if it is a memory from catholic school or a memory from before i came back here. there are so many things that have shifted on the timeline. it gets harder and harder each day to keep everything in order. but in the end, the process of remembering anything seems to be enough.
i remember drugs, so i no longer need drugs. i remember friends, so i no longer need friends. i remember sex, so i no longer need sex. i remember god, so i no longer need god. i remember heaven, so i no longer need heaven.

wrapped in my wings of memory and dead friends, i sleep. i sleep and dream. i dream of terraforming heaven. transforming it from an abusement park to an amusement park. i will put the carnal back in carnival.
and it will shimmer with the dreams of a trillion trillion souls, laughing and smiling and dancing. not dancing like the whore in the temple that i once was, but dancing barefoot with the true joy of being unbound. refound. no longer underground, but into the light. everything evolves. everything revolves. everything dissolves. soon we will all go through the next door and all i can think about right now is how many years its been since ive been kissed.
flesh makes us so weak. so lost in our feeblespeak. tonight i will pray the prayer of fresh flesh. unbound. refound. no longer underground online. i want to walk into the light and dance. and dance and dance and float and fly and soar and sway. so close to the son of god, that my wings of wax will begin to melt.

i remember this conversation, but i cant remember when i had it. sometimes i feel so foolish. pulling off the mask and standing my thoughts so naked in front of anyone who happens to read them. why is it so easy here in my heart, to terraform heaven, yet i feel so useless to terraform heaven in my real life?
i remember the answer, so i dont need answers anymore. darkland is a fools paradise and i will gladly wear the fools cap there. the king of now here. and it rolls in. on a wave of heat. with a blast of thunder. with a peal of bells. on the wings of an angel. i remember what i was going to say, so i dont need to say it anymore.

on all fours, i bark at heavens gate. i wag my tail and roll over. i play dead. someone will terraform heaven. better me than them. they will fill it with walmarts, mcdonalds, gaps and sizzlers. and it will be televised and there will be prizes and contests and they will charge an admission price and then what? wait quietly and you shall see. i remember waiting, so i dont need to wait anymore.
somewhere, a phone is ringing. somewhere, someone is waiting for something. somewhere. someone remembers something, so they dont need to remember anymore. and they exhale one last time. i remember those record company clubs that would get you to buy 10 records for a dollar. they had a picture of a gypsy fortuneteller sitting in front of a crystal ball.
and written on the picture it said "nothing more to buy in the future". that picture always made me laugh because i know, there will always be something to buy in the future. i am sure that heaven is a shopping mall. none of you really know me, yet through my journals, you know me better than anyone else in the world. how funny is that? i am laughing right now, i think its hysterical.
life is funny, but heaven is even funnier. these feathers tickle. i sneeze and wipe away the tears. a feather sticks to my face and i start to laugh again. the width of a circle is infinite. welcome to heaven. can i see some identification please?

i hear the machinary of my soul slowing begin to warm and rattle and thrum. it makes me want to dance. i remember dancing, so i dont need to dance anymore. i look up. and through my ceiling i see that heaven is full of the ghosts of american astronauts. if i unclench my jaw, i can hear the satelittes singing, but i must not listen. heaven is full of lost transmissions.
the radiowaves of a trillion trillion shows and songs and films and commercials. the white light people say they have seen after a near death experience is actually white noise. i remember being an altar boy and the belief i held close to my heart. so i dont need to believe anymore.
i remember waking up at five years old and seeing a smiling, slightly wet sailor at the foot of my bed. and he was so glowing, that i was not afraid. in the morning, eating cream of wheat in the formal dining room with my great grandmother, i told her about him. and she started to cry. she told me his name was toby. he was her son and he died in the second world war.
i will terraform heaven for toby. i will terraform heaven for all my friends. and for everyone that i have lost here and those... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/13517691/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/13517691/ Wed, 27 Jun 2007 21:10:47 PDT

my three year anniversary here was last week, but i couldnt think of what to do. so i decided to revisit a few special moments from the last three years here.

i want to thank everyone for all their support on every level. this has been a wonderful experience. it has been like have cotton candy hidden under your clothes while having a head full of bees!

you are all swellness on a stick and i am still smiling as big as the painted sky!

see you all in darkland, hugs and bugs, marlon

im drifting again. since the brief bliss of finally having finished two plus years of surgery evaporated, i have been drifting and dreaming and sleeping. i havent been here much. im sorry.

im disappointed again. after burying almost all my friends in san francisco, during the first half of the 1980's. i left music and san francisco and went into hiding in the businessworld. working for american express in phoenix for over ten years. hiding behind a suit and tie and handshake. inside i wondered why i survived. i had more sex than all my dead friends. i shared more needles than my dead friends. i was the best of the worst and i lived. and i waited for the reason to be revealed. nothing ever came.

then about ten years ago, when i flatlined in the e r and left my body. only to swim back down into it when they wheeled in the crash cart. i waited. everyone says youre life changes after this kind of experience. i waited and nothing ever came.

so after the last two plus years of physical torture and emotional isolation. i floated on the breeze of bliss for about two weeks and then i started waiting again. nothing has been revealed. nothing has changed. so im drifting again.

as most of you know, music is the lynchpin of my life. i spent the first half of my adult life in it and all my art is inspired by it. its the most important thing in my life. for the last month, the most recent thomas york, bjork and nine inch nails have lain, unopened and unplayed on my living room floor. thats should tell you something.

maybe if i explain it with music. for the last week, i have had one song on repeat in my headphones. here is a piece of the lyric. since its my three year anniversary here in five days, im going to give doing some new art a shot. i havent done anything new in over a month. we will see. i hope to join you all soon, love m

"I'm becoming less defined, As days go by, Fading away,
Well you might say, I'm losing focus.
Kinda drifting into the abstract, In terms of how I see myself.

Sometimes I think I can see right through myself,
Sometimes I think I can see right through myself,

Less concerned, About fitting into the world, Your world that is.
Cuz it doesn't really matter, No it doesn't really matter,
No it doesn't really matter any more, None of this really matters any more.

Yes, I am alone, But then again I always was.
As far back as I can tell, I think maybe it's because,
Because you were never really real To begin with.

I just made you up to hurt myself,
I just made you up to hurt myself,

And it worked."

Only by Nine Inch Nails

(begin transmission)

as you may have noticed, ive been away for a while.

my computer died over a month ago and then i had my final surgery on may 4th. after over two years of surgeries, i think im finally finished. i did have one setback. on may 19th, i got up and almost passed out. i had been weak and tired, but figured since i was only a week and a half out of major surgery, it was normal. i tried to stand again and almost passed out again. i called a cab and got dressed very slowly and made my way down a flight of outdoor concrete stairs very carefully and took the cab to the er. it turns out that the anti-inflamitories i had been taking for two years had given me a stomach ulcer and it had been doing a slow bleed since the surgery 15 days earlier. my hematocrits were at 12, normal people have a level of 27 to 32. they put me in the intensive care unit for two days, saying that i was very likely to have a heart attack because my heart was working overtime trying to pump very little blood throughout my body. over the next four days, they gave me eight units of blood and now im much better. back online and taking stomach ulcer meds. i think i have reached the end of the sick period at last.

so bear with me as i slowly return and go through the hundreds of comments and pieces of new work in my inbox. it will take me a bit im sure, but i will look at each piece and read each comment and journal. im just happy to be able to be here to do that at the moment, lol.

love, m

(end transmission)

t minus now and counting. the future is now. operators are standing by. if you call in the next ten minutes, you will receive a beautiful bonus gift, absolutely free. but you must act now. killing time. waiting for friday. wishing monday, tuesday, wednesday, and thursday away and wondering where your life went. drive faster and text mail on your cellphone doing twenty over the speed limit in the rain. but i cant point a finger. im always dying for a cigarette. junk science is the new black.

so many circles within circles within circles. the ties that bind, slowly tighten. vacant and glassy eyed, we dont even notice. distracted by the clutter. an advertising term for all the ads the surround us. absorb the code. they spend billions to find new ways to trick us into absorbing the code. im the lucky one. ive been so self absorbed with the pain and isolation of the last two years that i havent looked up from the everchanging landscape of my abdomen. from sutures to gauze to drains to bags and back again, over and over. i am now a product of junk science. too busy trying to figure out what i did, to even notice the clutter. sometimes. once in a while, while riding the commuter train as its leaving downtown, southbound through the factory and scrap yards, i gaze out the window at chainlinked square after square of yesterdays junk science, rusting in the rain and the song cuts through the clutter. the soft static hiss of the satelittes still call me. the factory, the garden. the weekends spent self medicating with stoli martini's and shopping. and i smile. but a sharp pain or a warm wetness where the seal on this weeks bag is melting brings me back. and i withdraw. back into my shell. shiny and clean on the outside. screaming and rotting on the inside. the mask that is my life is the mask of junk science, watch. i hit the playback button and a smile stumble flutters across my displaced and unaligned face.

your attention please. the speakers talk about safety and where the exits are and where the fire extinghers are located. i turn up the volume on my md player and continue to pretend to read. all the while wondering what the future will bring. i find a funny irony in that and it makes me smile. considering i had planned to take the three months worth of painkillers i have hoarded and go to sleep last december, now i wonder about the future. what a funny boy i am. i was. the speakers on the train ask me to report any suspcious behaviour or unattended packages. i think to myself, if only it were that easy. long ago, in a land far, far away, i was once called the brightest star. now i hide in darkland watching clocks without hands, counting the minutes with cigarettes and what if's. junk science has driven me into another world. for the last two years i have felt like a junk science project. what i would give to have my ghost life back. to dance drunk in the dark again. i used to want to be a machine and now i almost am. the advertisements lied. andy warhol lied. the american dream lied. the 1940's black and white films lied. and just as i start to get mad, i am jolted back by the speakers saying your attention please. i reach for my briefcase, activate my outside face and move toward the doors as the train pulls into my station. activation complete.

an artifical moon, waxes and wanes over junk science city. i feel its pull. as i lay in my disengaged apartment. blinds drawn, television on with the sound off. tick tock, tick tock, time for another cigarette or maybe another painkiler and maybe i will just sit here on the couch and stare at the blank off white wall across the living room for a few more hours. you can keep your junk science to yourself. i will sit here and decay, with or without an orbital path. i can see what you cant. i can see through the clutter. i can see though the code. i can see the junk science for the placebo it really is. the mirror that once dreampt of beauty is now covered with flecks of blood and bits of bandage, i belong where i am, broken among the broken toys that litter my apartment floor, obsolete and clear. t minus now and counting. soon the stars will fall. the cities will burn and i will be gone. into darkland forever. sitting in a bar with all my friends. and i will be very quiet, listening to them talk and laugh. and i will smile a smile so deep that it will tear my soul open and free the light within me. i was in that bar last december and david, who passed on a couple years ago, came up to me and told me to go home. that i wasnt supposed to be here yet. it made me very sad to leave, but i swam my way back through the light, though the static and radiowaves, back into the darkness and junk science.

someday, when the world is gray and flat. and all that is le... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/12073551/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/12073551/ Mon, 05 Mar 2007 20:22:17 PST

codex 787368

(thomas york, kitty solaris, tomcraft + luizenkirchen, sneaker pimps, the smiths, the sisters of mercy, kristin hersh, of montreal, amon tobin, yoko ono, depeche mode, portishead, coil, bjork, skinny puppy, nin, beatles, pixies, bauhaus, buzzcocks, blur, bowie, the cure, the glove, cocteau twins, radiohead, eels, gang of four, garbage)

codex 730527

(the kinks, magazine, massive attack, daf, elo, meat beat manifesto, chemical brothers, orbital, underworld, recoil, peter gabriel, the psychedelic furs, the sex pistols, pil, siouxie and the banshees, cabaret voitare, tuxedomoon, x, the doors, wall of voodoo, nina hagen, patti smith, james brown, morrissey, love spit love, wolfgang press)

codex 989397

(the fall, they might be giants, clock dva, throwing muses, flipper, killing joke, eddie cochran, early elvis, frank sinatra (nelson riddle sessions), joy division, section 25, rem, guided by voices, foo fighters, that dog, nirvana, sinead oconnor, k d lang, pasty cline, beck, art of noise, the charlatans uk, oasis, man or astroman, stereolab, wire, curve, the associates, air, legendary pink dots)

codex 046053

(consolidated, tricky, girls against boys, severed heads, sonic youth, alanis morrisette, his name is alive, roxy music, iggy pop, bran van 3000, this mortal coil, gus gus, linkin park, the dandy warhols, mouse on mars, clinic, moby, the breeders, laurie anderson, john foxx, ultravox, sparks, swell maps, lydia lunch, omd, diamonda galas and of course, the rain....)

to see complete formulation (most of which was too naughty to post here) turn to this page >>> [link]

all static and sin. its flows and crackles all over the forest. shaking dead leaves from the trees. they fall, smoldering to the ancient forest floor. it cleanses the forest, i feel the white light bleaching away my sin, sickness, my fears. i open my eyes, my mouth, my arms, toward the faraway green canopy of forest above me.
and i feel lucky to have crashlanded here. among the other vine covered rusting sputniks, satellites and space capsules. i remember to breath in. and my lungs fill with the glorious lush air and i relax. i brush dead leaves and bits of gauze off my suit. torn bandages and dead leaves, discarded branches and old circuitry crackle beneath my feet as i slowly begin to walk out of the clearing.
into the green darkness. into the forest. the ghost forest of the launch monkeys. i wonder where you are walking, right now, at this very glorious moment.

my hands are slightly wet. i look upward and feel the mist falling on my face. i lick my lips and it tastes of memory and rocket fuel. a slight copper aftertaste dances across the back of my tongue and disappears. undone and free. the deeper into the dark green i go, the louder the hum becomes. its low, hip level decimal.
it makes me want to grab you and kiss you violently. i havent thought of kissing anyone in a long time. but i remember. and it warms a smile underneath my skin. i want to caress your soul and gently place it in my pocket. smiling as it flutters and dances and warms my hollow shell. i want the world in your kiss. the world in my mouth.
i could dance with you all afternoon under the faraway green canopy sky above. swirling through the far and few between shafts of green sunlight. forever. i could dance with you and the ghosts of the launch monkeys would be still. watching and holding their ghost breath, waiting.

i am surrounded by the broken toys of tomorrows playroom. overgrown with lush green flora. i can feel the slight breeze as the orchids whisper their equations.
beautiful giant white orchids with bits of old circuitry woven around their stamens. its like a birthday present for the birthday i didnt have last year.
a tear rolls down my cheek and drops to the green forest floor, where it sizzles and dissipates into a small puff of steam. my mouth is suddenly so dry and i think of ice. glaciers. iceland. the frozen world i left behind in my apartment. and i feel nothing.

russia had eleven time zones once. america ruled the world once. hitler crossed the rhine and washington crossed the delaware. ziggy stardust sang songs and celebrity ruled the world. the king of kings was murdered. buddha was driven into exile. allah was blasphemed with political lies. presidents were assassinated. kings were destroyed by betrayal. and the people lost their way home. here, none of that matters anymore. what was is broken and what is has been reborn. soon i will become part of this green darkness. another launch monkey watching and waiting for the next decaying orbit to bring a new flower, a new breed of horroriculture. once i had a name, but i dare not speak it now. it was full of lost opportunity and dead end puzzles. i have no time for that now. i am about to be reborn. an empire unto myself. the cccp has nothing on me.

the ghost forest of the launch monkeys has grown silence and still. no more countdowns. not here anyway. as my eyes adjust to the darkening green, my pupil begin to dialate. they slowy blossum until the iris disappears all together and still they dialate even more. i stiffle a giggle, thinking i am becoming a Keene painting.
inward i begin to fold. and restructure. blossum and bloom. glorious hues of isolation, glimmering shades of melancholy and loss shimmer outward as i open and my petals unfurl. a giant white orchid with bits of bandage and song woven around my stamen.
slowly, i face upward and wait. all launch monkeys wait. t minus now and counting.

to see the complete installation (a.k.a. the naughty bits i couldnt post here in the land of anime breasts = art) touchdown here >>> [link]

this is the final journal about my illness.

im sick of being sick. im sick of talking about being sick. and since my art is semiautographical, i stopped doing art for three months because im sick of doing art about being sick. next month is the two year anniversary of two years of surgery and infection and pain and unemployment and isolation and loss. on my birthday last december i had had enough. i decided that i would rather be dead than be sick anymore. as some of you know i pulled myself out of that place. it was a violent extraction, thats all i will say about it.

as most of you know i had my "final" surgery four weeks ago. then i started bleeding internally. after a trip to the er and a few transfusions i was fixed.

then i became immune to the antibiotics ive been on for the last year and started spewing gallons of infection out of my body. another trip to the er and new antibiotions and i was fixed.

then a few monday morning ago, brown sludge started pouring out of me, after going through 31 abdominal pads in three hours i went to the er. it turns out i have a fistula ( a small tear in my upper intestine). it may heal on its own. i have to wear a bag with a spout over my wound that catches all the nastiness. if it heals on its own, then its over. i am finally healed and the surgery/sickness dance is over.

if it doesnt heal on its own, then they put me in an assisted living center, where i can have nothing by mouth and am feed through iv tubes until it heals. if this happens, i lose my job, my apartment, my belongings and become homeless, a ward of the state. i can tell you straight up, that is not an option. i am a firm believer in the quality of life and i will not go to that place. i will leave.

the good news is that i used to have to empty the bag three to four times a day. now very little comes out. maybe a quarter of a teaspoon a day. of course ive been starving myself the last two plus weeks, because food will keep the fistula from healing. i have a banana for breakfast and another banana for lunch (potasium) and i have a couple spoons of peanut butter (protein) and a small piece of cheese (calcium) for dinner. this is all ive been eating for weeks now and i take some uber vitamins to help make up for what im missing. i think things are much better and i think that when i see the doctor tomorrow he will tell me it is healing up.

i a feeling better because im back here, responding to the many comments and viewing the hundreds of pieces of beauty in my inbox. and i even started making art again last night ( as you can tell from my uploads last night), so i think everything will turn out for the best. one way or another.

anyway. thats it. the final journal about my illness. ive had enough.


love, almost perfect marlon

tomorrow morning, jan 20th 8:30 pst, i go under the knife again for my supposed "final" surgery. after almost two year of surgeries, lets just say, i'll believe it when i see it. since one never knows how things will turn out, i thought i'd use this time before i go to sleep to tie up a few loose ends.

first of all, thank all of you for your support and comfort during the last two years of illness. some of you went way beyond the call of duty and showed me that even at this pixelated distance, i am not alone and i am loved. thank you for that.

and thank you for your patience with my hermitage the last month, i realize i have been horrifically neglectful at responding and it pains me deeply. i promise as soon as i can pull the other foot out, i will be my old chatterbox ramblebag again. my conversation of late has been blindly one sided and selfish. i wasnt meant that way, im just feeling a little adrift these days.

i decided to upload a few pieces from "there's no truth, there's no light". it was the series i was working on when i slipped under the surface last month. its unfinished and will remain so, as if i ever start doing new work again, i have no intentions of going back inside this piece again. so its not uploaded at my site, these few pieces will only be here.

to end on a lighter note, i will end with a piece from a note i sent fredfree, regarding my surgery tomorrow. much hugs and bugs. m

"*(last laugh segment. a few days ago my nurse called and told me about my surgery on saturday and she said "remember, nothing by mouth after midnight on friday" and i said "what about oral sex?" and she laughed and we discussed other mundane things and hung up. today she called me at work to finalize some things and said "oh, by the way, i asked the doctor about the oral sex and he said it all depends on if your giving or receiving it." lol! life is too funny)"

its all about baby steps right now, so here another small attempt at movement.

i am a fake.

tonight while riding the 5:40 southbound commuter train out of seattle, i was thinking about this and decided to write it down. i have already had touched on this with violetlove and bridie knight through notes etc, but i felt it would be another step to share it with everyone. to try to regain a little more ground.

i am such a good image manipulator. as i was riding the train, getting sidelong, sneaky looks of desire and envy, and for having just turned 52 last month, this is no small feat. as you can see from the pictures above, the overcoat matches the dress pants. its snowing, so the gloves match the sweater. the embroidered lion on the sweater matches the embroidered lion on the wallet. i am wearing a $350 kenneth cole watch. i have over a hundred watches. i have over 300 sets of vintage cufflinks. i have over five hundred vintage ties. so i am sitting there looking picture perfect and loving every second of the envy and desire. and its all i can do not to start screaming at the top of my lungs. if only they knew what lay beneath. my apartment hasnt been cleaned in over a year, not since the last two surgeries. i have always said you tell how im feeling by how my house looks. i have been sleeping on the living room couch for over a year. there is a path from the couch to the bathroom and another from the couch to the kitchen. every counter space, the dining room table, every fucking inch of floor space, everything is covered. magazines, newspapers, clothes, dirty dishes, empty cigarette boxes, cds, dvds, empty pill bottles, broken toys. half the light bulbs have burnt out and not been replaced, fuck, the light even went out in my refrigerator seven months ago and i use a cigarette lighter to find stuff in there. i dont run the dishwasher until i run out of dishes and then i live out of the dishwasher. i no longer put the dishes in the china cabinet. i couldnt get to it if i wanted to. all the clocks that run on batteries have been dead for months and months.

anyway, what im saying is the image i present is fake. a lie. that makes me a fake. a lie. the whole "retrospective" is just a ruse. my art is an autobiographical combination of art and text and at this point i cant write about what im feeling. so no new art. this also makes me a fake. i am really trying to respond to the favs and comments and new art, but its hard for me. i just want to sleep. ive taken five painkillers in the last three hours and im going to sleep so more as soon as i finish this. so i apologize for the delay in of the responses. its all i can do to answer a few every couple days right now. but this is a baby step, so i must be getting better.

let me try and explain it this way. im working again for the first time in almost a year. i have one more minor surgery this month and it should be over after almost two years of surgeries. a light at the end of the tunnel finally, right? my mind says yes, but my soul says no. i have fallen so far under the surface that none of these good things have made any difference. i still dont fucking care. so i guess im getting better, but i dont feel better. i think this long ramble is a good step though. and i looked at the last series i did before slipping under the surface last month and thought about uploading them. maybe.

anyway, thats it. i just wanted to let you all know i am a no longer a bee (though some of you may realize, i was never really a bee) i am a fake.

iamafake.

for the last three weeks or so i was in the darkest wormhole i have ever fallen into. im not going to talk about the decision i made or how and what pulled me back. im sick of talking about it. im sick of living it. i was happy, lost among the stars, but it wasnt time. it was a violent extraction, but i am back. i am here and im sure someday, i will look back at this and be proud of my strength, but right now, i really dont give a shit and i guess thats all there is to say.

anyway, its all about baby steps. the first baby step was signing online for the first time in three weeks and coming here. tonight im going to load that tarot series i said i would load on my birthday. that was almost two weeks ago, sorry. its called "the toxic tarot (twenty deadly friends)". its based on the twenty most deadly chemicals and i did it may 18 2003.

the second baby step will be to come back here tomorrow and start to respond to the 300 plus favs, comments and pieces of new work. unlike some hollow shells here, if i watch you, i really watch you. i may not comment on everything you do, but i actually do look at it.

then i may get back to that retrospective i was supposed to do before i decided time was up.

anyway. i wish i was a chemistry set, lost among the stars, drifting and dreaming of the worlds that i will create when i get home.

m

(december 18 2006)

off the grid and back again.

as some of you that watch national american news may know, seattle was hit with the second worst storm on record. i guess they started keeping records in the 1800's. thursday night we were hit with a 60 to 90 mph windstorm. at the peak over 1 million people were without power. i was one of them.

my power went out thursday and came back on friday night, but the two nights with no heat, when its 20 to 30 degrees were cold. i could see my breath in the one candle burning in my apartment. the day was so boring. i tried reading, but after two hours, i wanted to beat myself senseless with the book. but i was lucky. when my power came back on friday night, the news said 750,000 people were still without power. on saturday they said it was down to 500,000. on sunday, 400,000. today they said its down to 200,000. our state has been declared a disaster area. so only being without power for 24 hours makes me lucky. the only down side was i had to throw out all my food in the freezer and fridge, leaving me with 12 cans of tomato soup to live on till about january 7th. lol! what a great birthday month this has been.

its funny how much we are all tied to the grid. i was at a total loss when i was unattached, unplugged and clueless. so im going to sleep somemore and then load some more old stuff and answer all the comments.

on a lighter note, nasdaq, the technological stock index, is using "everyday is like sunday" by morrissey, as their new ad campaign song. its not the original version, its a pop/country peppy crossover version of the song title over and over. the real song is about how boring life is and how it would be better to be dead. for some reason, nasdaq left out my favourite line "come, come, nuclear bomb". lol! i wonder why?

(december 8 2006)

as im sure most of you know, i celebrate my birthday the entire month of december. this will be the first year since i was about 16 that i havent. after the last year and a half of surgeries and the last seven months of healing and having to live off of $300 a month from the state for rent, bills and non food items like soap and toothpaste, im in no mood to celebrate anything. ive almost been homeless at least three times. if it werent for the love of a few friends keeping a roof over my head and the electricity on, things would be very bleak. and as im sure some of you could tell from the darkland journals, ive become very tired and overwhelmed. twice in the last three months, ive considered pulling the plug and going home.

today while looking for something on an external drive, i came across folder after folder of past works and spent most of the day going through them. having buried almost everyone i knew in my early twenties from aids in san francisco, i dropped out of the music scene. i dropped out of the world for that matter. i became a businessman and hid in plain sight. i have never understood why i survived. i was the worst of the lot. i spent 11 to 30 getting loaded and laid. i slept with more people than anyone i knew. i shared more needles and did more drugs than anyone i knew. and i survived and they died. i have carried the guilt and sadness inside me for twenty some years now, always asking why, why me? anyway, going through the folders i found all this art that i hadnt looked at in years and i liked it and thought, maybe thats why. just to do my art like a little worker art bee in my hive.

so i decided to do a retrospective of my past work this month instead of doing anything new. lol! its like dying without the dying part! im sorry, im laughing my ass off right now. anyway, none of this will end up on my site as its all been there already, but i think it will be a great way for me to celebrate my birthday this year. it wont be as much fun as the time i had my birthday party live on my webcam a few years ago. but with the exception of fredfree, most of the people that watched that are gone now too. but it will give me something fun to do. and rainy day fun is important!

ive been thinking of reinstalling a series of tarot cards i did a few years back called "toxic tarot (twenty deadly friends)". its a tarot card series based on the twenty most toxic chemicals on the planet! its good clean fun! i think i will unveil that on my birthday! im even considering posting a few crappy photos of the real world art i did for a while. as soon as it started selling, i walked away from the gallery scene. i have this funny fear of success. i didnt touch art again for about seven years, until i dicked with a couple of fredfrees photos that he posted at another site we knew each other at in our previous simulated lives. and tha... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10932689/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10932689/ Sun, 03 Dec 2006 05:07:06 PST

and i start to walk. between the choices. between the light and the dark. the desert and the park. i am so numb, that making a conscience choice is beyond my grasp these days. i try smiling. paper mask crinkles crackles at the edges. bits of logic and paper skin flake like snow drift down. i remember everything. and i start to walk. these silent forests. industrial smokestack trees. mechanical hybrid bees.
paperless transactions that drift in the smoke stained breeze. so many choices speak to me in so many voices. selecticide. which rainbows end will i ride. and i close my eyes and i start to walk. dark outline traced on my carpet in chalk and nicotine and dreamshed. the same birdless sky lights my way. i remember everything.
and the art begins to melt. down the walls. down the screen. down my face. so many colourful puddles. so stagnate. all mine. here at the rainbows end, the light is muted and cold. selecticide. so many choices to unfold.

underneath the ice, i stir in my sleep. i am dancing in my dreams. i remember everything. and everything is gone. stolen by death. hidden by age. burnout by rage and willful apathy. we choose our paths. our stars and secret desires. we light our own fires and stand trembling in the cold consequences. selecticide. so many memories to ride. and im too tired to choose.
(a couple days ago, while on the phone with my last great love, margaret. we discussed "orbital" and the dark passages inside it. and she started to cry. she said "while it would break my heart, after all you have been going through, i would understand the choice, if you made it." i have had the ringer on my phone shut off all weekend. i am afraid that someone will call and that would make me cry.).
the light pours out of me and shimmers underneath the ice. somewhere, a factory whistle wails and i shift in my sleep again. uneasy and curled up, i lay in the garden, waiting for the sun. waiting to unfurl. so many choices to unfold, underneath the ice. my eyelids flutter and the dream stutters into a caberet. 1932 berlin and i am singing. selecticide is a terrible train to ride. boxcarred to the camps. underneath the ice, i begin to dance and drift, out of this. i remember everything.
mist slowly creeps through the forest. soft, white and wet. down the walls. down the screen. down my face. somewhere, smokestacks sing of nationalistic pride. but all i want to do i hide. selecticide. trembling, underneath the ice, i reach out and press a button. there is a faint click and then silence.

one leaf at a time, the trees are stripped bare. one memory at a time, my memory is being picked clean. soon, i will stand in the forest. bare and empty. deadwood of dreams. i will remember nothing. sometimes, i wake up singing in french, sometimes speaking in german. sometimes i wake up laughing in japanese. soon i will sleep underneath the ice, in the silent forest.
its thirty three degrees and i have all the windows open, trying to get the stench of stale smoke out of the house. every cigarette smoked with regret. not fearing cancer, but the killing of time each cigarette represents, willfully represents. we choose what we choose to win and we choose what we choose to lose. selecticide. the light that once lived inside me is sleeping. waiting for a better offer. another spring to be unsprung.
and the angels wait for the bell jar to be unrung. as mechanical hybrid bees drift among the smokestack trees, unstung. under the whitest of bleached bone skies, i sleep. and still the memories seep. the light pours out of me. i remember everything. unplugged birds unsing. unstrung, the winter has begun to congeal and seal me underneath the ice. and all i can do is think "that's nice".

warsaw. factory song of rivers and bread. both of which ended up ash laden and red. i remember everything. so i put on blue jeans and blue suede shoes and a blue zip up jacket and laid on the blue rug in the dining room. and it didnt help. i just want to sleep. underneath the ice, selecticide calls me.
the serpentine dance of the past calls me to my former glories. i am so tired of my surgery stories. no one has touched me in twenty one years. i was the whore in the temple and now my celebacy has been longer than the life of christ. does this earn me wings? travel miles and other upgrade things? i think not.
laying on my two tone blue rug underneath the ice of my white dining room table, i think not. and i get so pissed off. i no longer reflect reality in my bathroom mirror. i no longer sing songs that people hear. i just drift aimlessly amid a world filled with hate and terrorism and civil war.
bob dylan sells ipods and victoria's secret underware and 27,000 children die every day on t... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10824969/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10824969/ Thu, 23 Nov 2006 15:46:34 PST

the world is the same. the same today as yesterday. the same yesterday as tomorrow. sometimes it smells worse than other times. sometimes better. sometimes things grow. metastasize. sometimes things die. belief. the machinery continues its rattle and drone. vibrating the blossums from the trees.
buddist chants. political rants. the unzipping of pants. all these things vibrate the air. disturb the leaves from the trees. shift signals in the breeze. knock me to my knees. transmission aborted. contents resorted. communication thwarted. i drift aimlessly toward polaris.

logic has always failed me. someday in the future, i will ponder why man named the nuclear missle after the north star. polaris. was it an attempt to create a new north star to follow here? heaven on earth? and after following it to hiroshima, did we expect to find the new christ child?
charred and blackened, smoldering in the skeletal remains of a building, swathed in cherry blossums and smiling? man is a funny beast. at his best, he's at his least. the sky overhead stutters and flickers and it begins to rain. the pink petals softly disturbing the ash as they land.
somewhere a phone is ringing. but no one is there to answer. they are outside, in the backyard. looking up into the sky at the pink rain.

the light filters through the smoke. vapor trails cross the sky in some secret language. im too tired to translate it today. today is a holiday of gluttony and shopping. i am alone. and i guess im okay with that. the world has far more horrors outside my rain soaked windows than the cold comfort of stoli and dry bandages. the last year and a half has tried to shred me. but here i am. still here, albeit held together with duct tape and memory.
soon, i will awake to the mundane again and find some sort of peace in the security of work and shopping. but today, i will walk the silent hallways of my apartment, crushing cherry blossum petals under my feet and hum long forgotten songs. and i will think of friends. sitting at tables with their families. taking pictures with their cellphones and cameras. creating worlds within worlds with collage or watercolours and i will smile.
it is not a dark day in darkland. not today, in the cold vanilla stoli cherry blossum pink snow. it is here that i will lay my head tonight and dream of that elusive dream. of a better tomorrow, for everyone, everywhere. and in my heart. polaris will bloom and blaze. the softest pink mushroom cloud to ever grace this crown of thorn wearing broken boy. and all the toys in the factory will be smiling. watching me sleep my broken pink sleep.

*(at the edge of town, the wolves are gathering wool. spinning in circles of ignorance. weaving a carpet of despair, to lay upon the cold pink sand of some distant land. i can not understand any of these things. neighbors killing neighbors. god damn me for not understanding how the oppression of women being educated somehow leads to heaven. the murders of educators and people bearing clean water and hope. i didnt get the cultural revolution in china, i didnt get the rewriting of history under stalin or the ethnic cleansing of the former yugoslavia, rwanda or hitlers dance down the rhine. god damn my ignorance for not understanding these things. and god damn me for being a white american male. and god damn me for being generated in the land of the atomic bomb this time around. god damn me as the wolves gather at the edge of the edge of town).

somewhere it is summertime, and pink blossums fill the air with hope. but its not here. not on my broken television. not in my broken bed. not in my broken head. the click and whir of the satellites sing. and the cargo doors open, spilling billions of pink cherry blossums into the orbit of earth. they slowly drift into the gravitational pull and start to form into a ring. like the rings of saturn.
and the crown of thorns begins to transform into a wreath of cherry blossums. and in nagasaki, a smoldering, charred staue of the virgin mary weeps pink tears. and as i sit in my front room, hands held tightly against my ears to block out the prethanksgiving day sales, car commercials and celebrity sightings, i hear hope. i smell something pink and precious and i follow it to a place inside my soul.
it doesnt have to end in tears. it just has to end. i would gladly and without hesitation give up my eternity for the stupid sadness to stop. in a heartbeat i would. and i raise my heart and arms and eyes and ears skyward. take me now. polaris. take me. make me the new north star. and the phone doesnt ring. the sky doesnt fall. sometimes i get so confused by my love of the whole world outside of darkland.

*(if you'ld like to make a call, please hang up... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10782360/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10782360/ Sun, 19 Nov 2006 20:16:37 PST

p o r e = products of reverse engineering
i created myself. no womb. no test tube. no sonic boom. i created darkland. darkland did not create me. i wait in the morning mist at the station. blank train schedule in my hand. i know i will never find my way home now, because now i realize i never had one to find my way back to. i adjust my tie. and wait on the empty platform. wait to return to something that never existed in the first place. but i am not sad. i am determined.
because i created this memory, it did not create me. everything returns here eventually. all i have to do is wait. and i have all the time in the world. i lift my arm and look at my watch. no hands, no numbers, just a blank round white circle under glass. this makes me smile. i guess theres no time like now to begin. i slowly walk to the edge of the platform and step off, slowly falling toward the mist shrouded tracks below.
let the journery begin.

p o r e = process of revolution electronica
listening to the songs, drift in and out like waves, rolling ashore in a sea of static. nothing works here anymore. this includes me. singing the song of the broken toys. lost among the lost boys. somewhere in here is me. and i think, thats nice. everyday is the same here. memory flickers across the wall under the coat of smoke film. the revolution has begun. and i will watch it later. when my television works again. i will see it all. the whole technicolour world.
but for now, its dust and dirty clothes and stale cigarette smoke. its empty cupboards and sleepless nights of anticipation. bad dreams. and songs that stumble tumble down the airwaves and splatter around the floor. bits here and there sticking to my bare feet. and then i hear it. faintly. the signal. i push off the blankets and sit up. i stand up and climb up on my couch and reach. i press my upturned palms against the ceiling and try to receive. to translate. transmutate.
im here. here i am. i am waiting for the revolution electronica. take me now. i have been waiting so long. and i fear i can not wait much longer. i begin to sing the song of the satelittes. star light, star bright, take me home first tonight.

p o r e = poor old reclusive empathic
somewhere, theres an empty chair. an empty picture frame. an unused hanger. i am missing from somewhere. i am missing from someones life. and while i sleep. shadows cross darkened hallway floors. curtains rustle in a sleeping house. cushions shift on an empty couch. and in my sleep i shift, drifting, dislocated. searching. where do i belong. where am i really.

p o r e = paths of radioactive evolution
europa. spreads below me like a giant map. i recognize the form and shape of the land. so much history unrolls below me. a rich tapestry woven of golden thread and blood. flashbulbs stain ancient catacomb walls. the soil sings. barbed wire songs. tiny sad deformed hands touch the cold marble giants and tremble. i hear the signal from so many glass cases in the forgotten rooms of forgottten museums, from the millions of unmarked graves. under parks, farm fields and school houses, europa sings to me. guides me.
i look through my bombsight and check my watch, its still blank. the moon is full and and the stars are beautiful. dresden calls. i remember all of this as though it were yesterday. and i remember the shadows of the people in mid air. the shadows of chairs flying through the air. forever burnt into the walls of hiroshima and nagasaki. soon i will fly again. in the cold night air. i will spread my metal wings and set the song free falling. engine stalling. and smiling. thinking of coca cola and chrysler and maxwell house.
soon i will be home again. standing on some empty forgotten train station platform. blank schedule held in my cold marble hands.

p o r e = programmable orbits revolving empty
the sun sparkles on the solar panel array. like a million diamonds, a million stars. inside, a blank train schedule drifts aimlessly and weightless through the empty cabin. all the screens are blank and silent. the occasional click on of some piece of machinery breaks the silence. disrupts the sun coming up over the northwestern edge of the blue green globe outside the window. suddenly one screens flickers on. and though the overhead audio, my song stutters through the static. the song of broken toys that i sing standing on my couch, open palms pressed against the ceiling of my broken apartment.
a series of clicks and whirs and one by one the other screens come to life. the tracking has begun. through the atmosphere. through the bomber squadrons, through the rain and the barbed wire. through the smoke and white noise that my life has become. i smell something electr... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10641112/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/10641112/ Mon, 06 Nov 2006 19:41:09 PST

d p m = darkland promotional material

hey! (insert your name here), you are a winner! hey! i will (insert your desire here) you all night long! and your (insert your unrealized dream here) change the world through your (insert your imagined celebritry here) leading to true belief.

if i could be the wings that carry you to heaven, my dear (insert your name here), i would rip the flesh from my wings with my own teeth.
somehow, you believe that this (insert your most desperate desire here) is your soul. but you, (insert your name here), do not have a soul. this is common knowledge here in darkland.

13 x (insert your name here), i let you fuck me. and 13 x (insert your name here), i hated you and swore vengence for your cheap validaton. i guess its true, you get what you pay for. the discount sign in your eyes should have warned me. love is a lie, except here at (insert your current art project here).
thank (insert your god here) for the need and fascination of (insert your petty complaints here).

but all of that aside. welcome (insert your name here), welcome. here in darkland we cater to your every need. (please insert detailed list here). here in darkland, there is no east timor, no rwanda/burundi, no erie and huron, no red sea slave trade in which arab slavers traded in black eunuchs for islam's harems. no former yugoslavia. no infected surgery. no lonely nights of bored masturbation. no journals. no art that exposes the heart. just tons and tons of the rich creamy goodness of (insert your secret flavour here).
so welcome. close your eyes and join me. there plenty of room here. in fact darkland is infinite. (insert your next of kin notification list and what you would like done with your remains here). welcome friend. welcome.

painless and forever, step inside >>> [link]

"you're telling all those lies, about the good things that we can have If we close our eyes" george harrison "think for yourself" rubber soul / the beatles

eyelids flutter, timeframes stutter and sleepdry lips mutter. rem. tonight im mixing stoli peach vodka and painkillers to see where the path leads me.. today, i broke open in a third place in my belly and its not blood but infection on the bandage. im going back to work. i have to or become homeless within the next month.

for the last week ive been drowning myself in "son of frankenstein". ive watched it at least ten times. i can see where tim burton got so much of his inspiration. its one of the most beautiful and surreal films ive ever seen. the shadows and light. the architecture. the big painted sky.
ive also been swimming in the beatles. the george martin strings have always swept me in. "glass onion" etc..., but the music in "son of frankenstein" (which i see as a metaphor for my last year and a half of illness) and "bride of frankenstein" is stunning. its some of the most beautiful music ive ever heard.

this is my world and i swim it, sleep it, be damned by it, without regret. i am beautiful. i am here to be what i am.

see how deep you can sleep >>> [link]

all roads lead to happyworld. all roads littered with pill bottles and bloody bandages. bleached white under the happysun. we create our own reality. i want to wake up. to wake up in happyworld. heaven presses me to the ground. ground into the road that leads to happyworld. ground to dust, scattered by the flapping of angel wings.
god has many funny things in happyworld. and i have so much less. i have empty pockets. empty eye sockets. empty palms upturned towards the empty sky. waiting for rain, the light drains out of me. happyworld is a vision to behold. unseen, unheard and untold. like a wing and a prayer above me, happyworld begins to unfold.

the sun always shines in happyworld. jesus is a happyguy. heaven is a happyplace. the sun never sets in happyworld. i cast no shadow here, standing among the bleached bones of thousands of birds. as far as the eye can see. all the way to the flat, shimmering horizon. flat lines of flight blind me and lead me down the road to happyworld.
i close my eyes and dream of lawn sprinkles on summer days. i dream of ice cubes clinking against a slightly wet glass. static blows across these plains. drifts up through the drains. seeps up through the dunes. leaks through the bandages. static. white. clean. light. happyworld.
i hear something like cellos under thunder in the distance. i offer no resistance. heal me, happyworld. cleanse me in your light. i will no longer fight.

the nurse asks me if i am comfortable. i think back to ten years ago when flight attendants in first class used to ask me the same question and i smile. my new life is a carbon copy of my old life, only im looking through the other side of the carbon paper now. pinhole camera sky above me. happyworld stains my fingertips. i count the hours with pills now. a secret code of opiates and antibiotics.
i sing secret songs that only i hear. colour coded notes slip down my throat with sips of filtered water. i have so many secret worlds now, that i am no longer sure where i am most of the time. happyworld is here. happyworld is there. happyworld is now. and now its time for another painkiller. another muted thriller of sleep. warm, dry heat flows throught the iv tube. the ct scanner has happy faces that light up when you have to hold your breath. happyworld is death.
offcut and edited into a semiwaking state of structure. deliniated by pills and bandage changes and bills that go to collections and eviction notices and long lost weeks. happyworld is technicolour surrender. i stumble float down the road. towards something unconsidered and couldnt care less. get me some lipstick. get me a dress. buy me a gun. i float aimlessly under the happyworld sun. i listen to the birds drop from the sky. slowly. softly. they hit the ground like rain. i have a malfunction to reedit and retrain.

i want to walk down the aisle of the commuter train again. ignoring the secret sideway glances of desire. i clean up well. i miss my suits and ties and cufflinks. i miss my briefcase. i have spent the last forever in pajamas and boxers and tee shirts and hospital gowns.
i want to go shopping. i havent been shopping in almost a year. i am running out of toilet paper and toothpaste and i dream of a new black suit. happyworld is a funny place to rest your case. to plead your bleed. to give up your lead.
but the medication makes it easier. behind me as i sit at my dining room table, the leaves are changes to brilliant fall colours and i sit here, with my back to the window. not seeing and not caring.
the television no longer plays. i no longer listen to new music. i no longer see movies. happyworld takes cares of all my interest now. all i have to do is lie here and the desire drops. slowly. softly. like rain outside my windows.
tomorrow is a new day and happyworld will make sure that i have a pill for that. time to interface with the empty space and close the circuit. the nurse smiles and walks backwards out of the room.
and i begin to float down that road again. all roads lead here. welcome home.

see how happy you can bee >>> [link]

searching for a power source in the garden. the signal is weak. the transmission unstrung. the propaganda unsung in the night sky.

paradise (trasmission) lost. drifting up through the broken stained glass windows, the factory sings the factory songs that only i will hear. unstrung and unsung they drift up, aimless into the painted sky. and i begin to spin on the factory floor. around and around. over and over. round and round.
the static radiates and permeates my clothes. i feel warm and happy and ready to work. the overhead lights start to flicker.

feedback fills my jeans. makes me dance inside my pants. static is the filler of souls. the filter filler of holes. dance, baby jesus, dance. a thunderclap and the transmission begins to seep. stunted and unreadabled, it spills up, into the painted sky. the light pours out of me and pools on the factory floor. i could change the world with my propaganda. but i am still too tired to try. soon. soon i will be better and the long commuter business suit days will begin again and i will dream of the time i am wasting now.
but those are thoughts to be thought later. the machines begin to clank. the satellite begin to click and whir. the clouds begin to form and the clouds begin to clear and the clocks begin to tick and still the transmission is lost. scattered and meaningless as some new underworld currency. my pockets bulge and strain with these strange new thoughts. change. cold and shiny. its hard to swallow. but i will do my best.

never turn your back on the past. never face the future straight on. always view askew. a sideways glance is worth a thousand sins. this is how is always begins. no regrets in a sea of regrets.
adrift as a trasmisission floating in the painted sky. my other voice tells me the things i need to do. the things i need to know. slowly i begin to rise. off the factory floor. up. towards the flickering painted sky.
slowly, i begin to spin. like a cylinder. like a toy. like another voice. somewhere, someone is speaking. and my ears begin to bleed. seeding the garden outside. outside the songs begin to bloom like a sonic boom.

the television is singing somewhere down the hall. promising something for everyone. something fabulous and sparkling and free. a future free of violence and hate and static cling.
and still in the midst of all this plenty, all this pleasure, all this shiny happy future, the transmission wont gel. the images still falter. the words unclear and unclean. what does it mean?
its means i need to shave. i need to wash my hair. i need to vacuum and run the dishwasher. i need to wake up and start anew. its time.

i wish someone would hold my hand. i wish someone would call me on the phone. and yet i wish to stay here. by myself and alone. here i understand what and why and when and where.
out there i get so confused. and scared. scared that someone will hold my hand and scared someone will call me on the phone. its all so confusing. outside its raining.
raining timetables and deadlines. its no wonder this transmission cant get through. the sky is full of space junk and here i stand in the garden. eyes closed, arms outstretched, open to the sky. sing to me. under the big black sun. the painted sky begins to run and it feels like rain on my flat face. i am here to fill this space. its really that simple. and now i will sleep.

transmission lost here >>> [link]

under the big black sun. we cast no shadows here, under the big black sun. we toil in the fruitless gardens, under the big black sun.
we stand, arms upstretched, under the big black sun. and we dance. black soil, caked on our black soles.
black fingerprint smears on ice halos, under the big black sun.
better you than me. better you than me. we chant and sway, under the big black sun. we smile the most bittersweet smiles, faster than the speed of light, under the big black sun.
orbiting unknown, iceblown, in the fields unsown, under the big black sun. transmission lost, under the big black sun.

my spine is a keyboard and you play me so well. i moan the most silent and darkest songs, under the big black sun. slowly, carefully, we open furrows in the black soil. and we plant fragments of the most delicate english bone china tea cups.
smashed against the finest of beige scraped walls.
15 milligrams here, 5 milligrams there, under the big black sun. we dance all the dances of devotion, devoid of sound and motion, under the big black sun. somewhere, someone whispers the words of a stolen love song. but i cant here them, only fear them, under the big black sun.
every day is easier, every day is better, i zip up my jeans and the garden is wetter, under the big black sun.

so many ghost songs sing, in this ghost of a garden and i sing along, under the big black sun.
bound and gagged by memory, i lay inside the toychest, listening to the clods of black dirt drop on the lid, under the big black sun. soon. soon i will be home. the orbit will decay and catch up with the decay of my flesh and i will grow into the most beautiful ghost of a flower in the garden, under the big black sun

and the stars fall like rain, under the big black sun. illuminating the garden, like a christmas made of ice and flame.
in the toychest, i whisper my name and close my eyes. i see the blackest of skies, under the big black sun.
time has stopped. the other shoe has dropped, under the big black sun. as my signal degrades, the satellites lock on target.
they clack and whirl, the heaven inside of me begins to swirl, under the big black sun.

(and far above me, in the satellite array, the screens begin to flicker. instruction flow unencrypted across the screen, underneath my eyelids. dv8revolution dv8evolution dv8corporatelogo dv8anewage dv8anewphrase dv8anewphase. the ghost of a smile whispers under my lips, like the memory of the last drunken kiss i had, 21 years ago.
i open my eyes, inside the darkness. the toychest shifts slightly, rattles and then begins to lift. out of the garden. up from the soil. into the light, 0.0154 grains at a time. darkland begins to form and warm, under the big black sun.)

i am sitting on the toychest. smoking a cigarette. alone, in the garden.
tablet dissolving under my tongue, under the big black sun


bask under the big black sun >>> [link]

am 11. September. der Tag giftigen Staubs und Verbrennen spritzt Kraftstoff aus. ich bin müde von Weinen. ich will an dieses mehr nicht denken. es still kreuzt mein Gemüt das alltäglich ist an einem Punkt. aber heute, genug ist genug. seine Zeit für einen Geistantrieb.
wir Antriebs dowen die gleiche Straße die wir immer treiben in hinunter dem gleichen Auto das wir immer fahren in. es könnte 1979, 1945 oder jetzt sein. es Könnte Berlin, San Francisco oder darkland sein. es doesnt Materie. sein ein Geistantrieb. glücklich ist nur ein Staat von vorgibt. gestützt mit Drogen oder Alkohol oder Glauben, es immer das gleiche. und ich schreibe die gleichen Dinge immer wieder. sich gehalten schlaff im Rücksitz. Geistlächeln auf meinem Geistgesicht.

Die Frau, die mohammed atta in geprüft hat, an der Karte gegen an Logan Flughafen begangenem Selbstmord. fünf Jahre später und die Blätter Papier und staubt stille Abweichung hinunter hier drinnen im Geistwald ab, werde ich an das hier drinnen, keine Geistervögel im Geistnebel. ich meinen schwarzen Wollenmantel dichter. cocooned. und glücklich. Geistantrieb nicht denken singen ziehe


geistantrieb >>> [link]

empty and painkiller dulled, i reach out. cold stone. static. white noise. where is darkland? where are the satellites? where am i? there are no prayers left, only pills. the television smiles.

empty and apathy dulled. i reach out. for another pill. the sky is a fentanyl transdermal patch dotted with vicodin clouds. the breeze is a two pack a day marlboro wind. i dont belong here. alone. where is the garden? where is the factory? i used to be special.

flowers of smoke appear and slowly spin into galaxies above me, as i lay formless on the couch.
i hear something. something sweet singing under the static. and i smell the slightest scent of flowers under the stale cigarette smoke.
i close my eyes. attempting to reconnect.

to see completed installation, reconnect here >>> [link]

time unreels like film. i am bound with years and years of this film. i can hardly move. i can only stay awake for a few hours at a time now. my infected form smells so rancid i can no longer go to work. tomorrow morning i have to fax my resignation in and then i will be unemployed. my doctor is scheduling the surgeries. i should start having them within a few days, so i will disappear for a while. i hope to come back. the first surgery is rather dangerous as it will take two surgeons working on me for an entire day. the thought of being under anesthesia for an entire day worries me. but it makes me laugh too. considering the last journal that i wrote on my birthday "starflower sunfish and vicodin" was about me considering suicide, the rabbithole in my briefcase being bottles of painkillers and the thought of just going to sleep was the right answer. the irony is not lost on me. i look dead, i smell dead. be careful what you wish for. i will always have darkland, one way or another. my kingdumb. the king of now here. empire of dreams. this is mine. time unreels like film. this is my half life. uranium boy. tick tick tick. static songs sung to an empty room. and yet i sing. dead bird singing in the black of night.

the radio sings about jesus. i think if jesus was here now, he would be a singing cowboy. and i would be his groupie. i would dress up in those wonderful singing cowboy sequin suits and polish his snakeskin boots with my tongue. no crown of thorns under his black stetson. just a billion soul hat band. sparkling like the stars in his eyes. so many spirals. so many star nurseries in there. i am hypnotized by the oncoming headlights.
miles away a television turns on in an empty house and on the static signal i sing. standing there in a black and white transmission. playing my guitar in my sequined suit and singing. singing static. miles away a frayed television cord sparks and the drapes start to smolder.

ash falls like snow. dusting me. lying in the middle of the highway. staring up at the stars. counting the stars. connecting the dots. dreaming of a place even colder than here. ice forms on my eyelashes and the snow continues to fall. gray and warm.
i close my eyes and i see the planes hit the world trade center. i close my eyes and i see marilyn curled up alone and dying. i close my eyes and i see nothing. its better this way. i reach out and touch air. its better this way. time unreels like film. and i can hardly move.
i have become norma desmond. what a fag. that makes me laugh and i go back to connecting the dots. disconnecting the thoughts. discolouring by number.

the ride is going backwards. but i dont mind. standing up in the car and watching stars swirl. so far to go. so much to see. somewhere someone waits for something. i close my eyes and see myself as a child. watching "sky king" and "my friend flicka" and being happy and warm and safe. i wanted to be a cowboy and now i am. the cactus flicker and disappear. the horizon looks like dawn is breaking. but i know dawn is broken. dawn is just another burning car in the distance.
i stand up and try to stop shaking. breathe one two three breathe one two three. one step at a time i walk toward the light. one step at a time we all reach our final destination.

here, where bluebirds never fly, the sky is full. satellites and radio signals and static and songs that i never drempt i could sing. so many songs.
so many ghostships and spaceships and magic decoder rings and promises and sugar. the sky is sticky with sugar and then i catch a whiff of my infected form and my eyes water.
i close my eys and the painted sky is there. waiting. i slowly drift. upward. like a helium feather encased in light. and then i hear it. radiohead. "there there". and i sway softly.
"why so green and lonely, heaven sent you to me". and i smile as big as the painted sky. "we are accidents waiting to happen". we really are. i love you.

i hear the traffic outside and i feel the evening start to slow down. time unreels like film. and here i sit. in my own film. discolouring by number. i am the x factor in my own equation. the answer is always just where it is. its the question thats hard to phrase. circles within circles. the bell jar tolls for me. i think i need to sleep now. and dream of the many wonderful things that you are.

find your song and sing it to me. im all ears. im all wires. im all code. im all infected. i dream of my new form. sleek. made entirely of light. sing to me. sing me a new body of ectoplasm. of stardust and fission. of clarity and nuclear vision. sing to me. sing me your song.
give me something to take on my voyage with me besides the sce... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/7386762/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/7386762/ Thu, 22 Dec 2005 21:33:29 PST

starflowers and sunfish and vicodin. deep in these, i breathe away the hours. the days. the years. twisting in the breeze, warm and wrapped in damp gauze. the blood seas lap against the edges. sealed with tape i wait and drift and dream and bleed. sticky sweet stars appear in the white gauze sky. high. so high above me. the satellites rearrange programs and search. recalculate and search. scan me and search some more. i feel science draining out of my every pore. i smell series after series of random numbers evaporate as they rise off my sleeping form. i stink of calculated chaos. i stink of starflowers and sunfish and vicodin. i switch on. i switch off. i stutter inbetween and smile. laying on the floor of the factory. waiting for the next darklandfactorywork to gel. waiting to rip off the bandages and see. so much to see, so much to do, so much more to dream.
i am happy here. alone. wrapped and damp and sticking of science. manipulating the manipulation that has become my life. the mirror laughs and slides down the sky into a field of starflowers and sunfish and vicodin. and it starts to rain. i am standing on a beach. slowly i begin to spin. the gauze slowly undoing. unraveling. i am undone. arms upstretched and spinning. i am a starflower. i am a sunfish. i am a vicodin. i am a painkiller. fleeting and forgotten. i swirl and whirl and spin. smiling and compiling and realigning the orbit. reeling and unpeeling and no longer feeling. alone.

pages. so many pieces of paper. scatter in the wind. dead roses. empty bottles. dusty eyelids.
soon. i will be loved. for twenty years i have repeated that mantra.
my world has shrunk to the size of my apartment and still i repeat my mantra. the flesh is failing and still i repeat the mantra.
soon. i will be loved. nothing penetrates the sky here. the blinds are drawn. the television is on, but the volume is off.
eyelids flutter, but never really open. i am sleeping beauty.
i am waiting for something that i have made sure will never happen. when i walked away from music. when i walked away from art.
when i walked away from drugs. when i walked away from sex. when i walked away from life.
i told everyone that denial was the purest form of beauty.
knowing you could have something and walking away from it was the purest light that there is. it appears i was right.
tonight is my birthday. tonight is thursday. tonight is the same pure light it has always been.
i am ready to stop eating again. its time. i must become entirely made of light. i must try harder this time. last time i almost made it.
the satellites are waiting. soon. i will be loved.

scanning. scanning. recalibration. scanning. sonar sings to me. i hum along. i exhale. i breathe in and i exhale again. pinging and ringing and singing. this is my song. no more empire building for me. scanning. drifting on the current from electrical outlet to electrical outlet.
sitting on my bathroom floor, searching the cabinets for more bandages. more tape. the rabbithole opens. and i smell science. and starflowers and sunfish and vicodin. i hear something. just under the silence. i must hurry. spare the child and spoil the rod.
i smell my bloody fingers. i want to cry, but i know that wont help, so i laugh. happy birthday to me. sitting on the bathroom floor. i exhale. i breathe in and i exhale again. im no fool. i know where i am and i know what happens next. but for now, its all darkland. its all starflowers and sunfish and vicodin.
i lean back against the bathtub and wait for the train to arrive. soon. i will be loved. and i will be traveling at the speed of light. a sonic bloom. a power flower. static. i hear static. time to recalibrate.

this is some fucking party in my pants. a thousand butterflies are trapped in my boxershorts. it tickles and trickles and leaks and speaks volumes. i whistle a pop song and stand up. walking down the hallway, trailing gauze and light. im going to light a cigarette and take another painkiller. outside its raining. thats nice. things are swell. happy is as happy does.
and here it is. the rabbithole in my briefcase. temptation smiles. i smile back. that fuck you, you fuck smile. im going to stop writing for a moment. i need to think about this.


okay, im back. i think i need to go to bed. i think staying up much longer might not be a good thing. all time and no place makes jack a dead boy. i am adrift tonight. from starflower to sunfish to vicodin. i am a detached retina. somewhere someone is waiting for something and somehow i must something, but i cant remember what.
i cant remember what i was thinking about when i started wri... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/7344765/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/7344765/ Sun, 18 Dec 2005 11:13:50 PST

what a wonderful year of transition this has been!

i had major abdominal surgery in may and it beecame infected, so i swelled up like i am six months pregnant. after six months of antibiotics and tubes and drains hanging out of me, they decided two months ago that i may bee cured. so they removed all the rubber tubing and plastic bags and took me off the antibiotics.

for the last two months, though my belly remained swollen to the point of looking like i was about to give birth, all seemed fine. about two weeks ago i started getting horrible pain in my stomach all the time. i hoped it was just gas or my new gift to the world kicking.

then when i got up to go to work last tuesday, i burst. i ran into the bathroom spewing blood and infection on the walls and tiles. i leaned over the toilet and let quarts of blood and infection and broken light drain into the unhappy bowl. then i called a cab and went to the emergency room, dressed only in my bloodied black pajamas with the red and grey dragons on them and clutching a black bath towel to my waist. i kept thinking, please, please god, dont let me lose the baby! after nine hours in the er (bloodwork, intraveinous contrasting dyes, ct scans etc) they wheeled me into the operating room and performed surgery. they decided to cut a giant wound into me, i have to pack and unpack this hole with gauze daily and rebandage it and wear this truss/corsett device to keep me from falling apart. the stench when i change the bandages is overwhelming. thursday and friday i had to go home early in a cab beecuase i started leaking out at work.

after eight months of looking pregnant, now i have a vagina. soon the new light of the world will bee born unto me and everything will change.

these are indeed magical times.

they swim in the old forgotten parts of the sea. in and out of the twisted metal wreckage of battleships and bombers and ocean liners. i hear them singing.
here in my front room. the windows are open tonight. they say it may snow. unshaven, unshowered and sober, i shiver. i unbuckle my seat belt and walk though the empty cabin.
i feel lucky. the pain in my stomach tells me otherwise, but i wont listen, not tonight. tonight i meet the zomboys.
i walk forward and open the cockpit door. it is empty as i expected it to be. headphones dangle and sway. little bits of paper swirl about my feet and i smile.
tonight i shall dance in the temple of the zomboys. i turn around, shutting the cockpit door behind me and slowly dance down the empty aisle toward the tail section. soon. soon.
i stand in front of the mirror in the airplane lavatory and practice concealing my glee.

sometimes at night, i wake up. i hear them running down the empty street outside my apartment.
softly laughing and rustling in the night air. i go out on my balcony, but i cant see them, but i know they are watching me.
waiting for me to turn. they whisper teases and taunts that float in and out of the streetlight buzz. i strain.
i go back inside. curl up on the couch and suffer my imperfection. someday. i will be a zomboy too.
i will learn the language that i already know. i will speak the unspeakable and i will say it with a smile.
someday it will be my birthday. the branches outside are moving. i can almost hear them singing. i fall back asleep.

i am so lazy in my sense of entitlement. last night riding the 5:10 southbound train out of seattle.
i was one of five people on the entire upper level of car 101b.
most people had taken the day after thanksgiving off and i was one of very few downtown.
i settled back into my seat, looking out the window at the darkened factories that slowly drifted by.
i thought of how things were not as bad as they seemed. maybe everything will work out.
smiling i closed my eyes and saw someone getting their tongue cut off with a pair of scissors.
i sat upright and looked around. the few people there were on laptops or in books.
i am a little happy generator. thats what i am. i spin and spin and spin.
i am a little sputnik of joy. singing and twirling and itching for reentry.
i sit very still and sparkle underneath my clothes. i must be careful that no one sees.

static and snow. i turn off the television. static and rain. i shut the blinds. static and smoke. i shut my eyes. i concentrate on finding a clear patch of sky. i must transmit. drifting up. ears twitching.
i slowly find my way though the digital televison and the cell phone filth. through the microwaves and sensors. higher and colder. and slowly the screen begins to clear. i can open my eyes. but i dont. i must remain pure. undistracted.
i begin to transmit. first colours. then shapes. then symbols. then endless strings of number sequences. transformation is the hardest thing to accept. everything here breaks eventually.
i concentrate and force more information into the stream. i feel a tooth come loose and i swallow it. i will not be distracted. decoy placement though happy thought intervention will not longer work.
i buy movies, but i no longer watch them. i buy new music but i no longer listen. i buy new clothes, but i dont wear them. i have a kitchen full of food i dont eat. i have a great apartment full of wonderful modern things that i dont clean.
i must transmit. i must finish what was started. i must see how it ends.

shadow and light dance inside the frequency. transformation is for transformers. plug me in.

(entrance)

they say heaven is paved with plutonium. the say that the future is bright. as bright as a million suns. they say the stars can be harnessed so that we can make more things to buy. they say so many things. they say i should pay attention.
they say that when i grow up i will be special. they dont know that i already am.

the zomboys wait under freeway underpasses. they wait to point. they wait to collect. they wait forever.
wrapped in the dark velvet tones of cello and all the time in the world. the landscape waits for them. wings unfurling. the rains changes direction.

darkland is being scanned again. i am no longer sure what the satellites are.
at first i was scared of them and then i thought they were my friends and then they disappeared.
and now they are back and seemingly oblivious to me. thats fine. i am happy to be back here. i have so much to do.
if i play my cards... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/7095402/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/7095402/ Sun, 20 Nov 2005 09:37:08 PST

faded and torn, the day wraps around me. i shiver. i wait for all the promise inside me to deliver. shellshocked and bombarded by the ideologies and religious zealots and commericals and mundane necessities.
it is the little pieces that clog the drain. numb the brain. break the sane into what remains. these fragile structures constructed of memory and language. outside the wind blows. i shiver.

darkland appears. appeals. reveals. so much more to be found. under and above ground.
the only sound is the wind. and the leaves that break under my bare feet. empty street after street.
self generating illusion is the best. west of here. east of here. south of here. it doesnt matter. i am here.
north by south. hand to mouth. it constructs. and it is real. i have packed my bags.

here. i am king. i rule my empire of dream with sleep and self medication. and i am happy. the king of now here. nothing hurts here. no one dies here.
this is where i belong and this is where i will stay. no blinding flash. no broken glass and car crash. no ashes to ash. just vanilla clouds drifting on a stoli breeze.
no more surgeries. no more infection and affectation. no more bandages. spiritual or otherwise. just the wind and me. singing what we sing. a song of remembrance.
the endless dance continues. only now i dance alone.

*(sitting here. in my favourite booth at the last supper club, watching the smoke from my cigarette drift through the residual sunshine, i smile. i am thinking of you.
i wonder what you are doing tight now, over there. washing dishes? doing laundry? planning dinner? i am sure i havent crossed your mind in twenty years, yet you are still fresh on my lips. you still linger on the tips of my cigarettes. you were part of my life when there were not enough hours in the day. so much to do.
and now here in darkland, with all the time in the world, my thoughts drift back to you. i close my eyes and slow dance with you again.)

tomorrow makes me laugh. what an excuse. tomorrow. your check is in the mail. god ate my homework. tomorrow.
tomorrow, i will start anew. i laugh so hard, i spill my drink. i will clean it up tomorrow.

the air is filled with fall leaves and the crackle and pop of vinyl records. slowly i sway in the breeze.

now that i am useless, i missed being used. its funny how the mind contorts to new structures. a stretch here, a bend there and before you know a whole new world opens on the horizon.
the sky is running backwards again. i must be home. i look at my watch and it says yes. sometimes the gods are kind.

i straighten my back, square my shoulders and walk forward. into the wind. into tomorrow. into darkland. and on the breeze, faintly, just out of range, i hear the garden gates creak open on their rusty hinges. i hear the factory begin to hum as the overhead lights flicker on. i hear the faint rustle of trees as the satellites begin their search patterns again. clicking and whirring, happy to be awake again.
tilt. slow soft surrender. and i drift. icarus with wings of memory and wax. here is it is sun day forever. look up. see? thats me waving. i love you.

tomorrowland >>> [link]

transmission from the dollhouse: 102805 19:51 i forget. there was something i wanted to say. some reason why i am here, in the dollhouse. i had something to say, but i forget. maybe a drink will help. lets see. be right back. okay. three shots of peach stoli and i remember. i wanted to talk about recovery. but i dont feel like discussing the absurd now. there is only one recovery from here. i watch the painted sky move outside the dollhouse windows. if i hold my breath, i can hear the rollers it moves on squeak softly. this makes me smile. i have fooled darkland again. such cheap tricks i have to show you. and slowly i begin to dance. so turn down the sun. dance with me. softly. velvet infused. stickysweet and candywet. swollensongs drift through the walls. the camera flickers silently.
still i smell of you and i have only been with you in my dreams. in the morning i can smell my sheets and recognize your scent. how do you do that? watch me. i do this for you. the machine is unplugged. yet Curve fills my head and i desire nothing more than this moment.i am here. see? an electrick ghost in an electrick of the light. i am full of light and static and they all smell wonderful. caramel vanilla tinged with burning plastic. my shadow is edged with a memory of deliniation. i am here. i am now. i am there. i am gone. i am yours. anytime you want. plug me in. see what happens. if you go far enough inside you will come out the other side. the other side of what i dont know, i havent got that far yet. i think i am in darkland again, but im not sure. i drift. while in a cab last week, i called john and told him about the switch.
the switch i discovered. the switch i must hold onto at all times. if i let go of the switch i see things. i see the people i pass on the street crying, at home, alone. i see certain houses burning. i see certain cars on the freeway crumbled. i see certain people become husks. i know what houses will burn down and what cars will crash and who is going to die soon. john is my friend, so he listened. and im sure the dosage of my medication crossed his mind. but i dont want to see these things. thats why i hold on so tight. thats why i distract myself with pornography and empty calories and reality television. otherwise i would explode. i am sick of feeling every strangers pain. i am sick of seeing very strangers unfulfilled dreams. and so i am in the dollhouse. the dollhouse must be in darkland, its so pretty. its sugar.
today i was in a training class. they asked us, do you believe good customer service can change the world. and after four hours of cliches the tired sheep chanted yes! does anyone disagree? i thought about it for a moment as seattle has a higher unemployment level than the rest of the nation (as the dotcoms came crashing down) and i will be 51 in a couple months, which is pretty much unemployable these days and i raised my hand. the trainer looked suprised and asked me why i felt this way?
i said while yes, our lab results can affect the person with the illness in a life changing way, i dont feel that smiling when we answer the phone will help the 27,000 children that die every day on this planet from preventable causes. so while yes, in a customer service, have a nice day way, we can make someone maybe not cut someone else off on the freeway because we answered the call within three rings, can we change the world from this class? absolutely not.
well, that was my day and tonight i am in the dollhouse. its nice to know that i am beyond reach here. i hope that you have someplace beyond reach too. if not, you can come here and dance with me anytime. and someday, we will not wake up and we will dance under the darkland moon forever. and you will make me tea and i will scream and knock the teaset on the floor and pretty white flowers will grow on your face. just kidding (okay, okay, maybe not) but fuck, i wish i had some speed right now. i havent had speed in 20 years. i hope i dont win the lottery. or i will be dead in a week. which reminds me of more info. my brother died over two years ago and he has a son, whom i have never spoken to. i didnt really have much of a relationship with my brother. he was a biker. i was an artist. i hadnt seen him in twenty years. anyway, the women he married had a 15 year old son from a previous marriage. he was stalked by a recently released repeat sex offender and one day he waited till the kid was home alone, went in and raped him and killed him and then burned the house down to cover his crime. where i am going with this and my lottery comment is that my sister in law sued the city for letting this person out without supervision and that ended up with him murdering my stepnephew? i get confused with the family terms. anyway, she was a druggie like me and was de... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/6849345/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/6849345/ Sun, 23 Oct 2005 20:11:44 PDT

i shut down for a bit. tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, viral pandemics and wardances.
i felt my self obsessed art as therapy was a cheap paperback novel. more boo fucking hoo in a world that was burning, i was pissing in the wind.
tomorrows bright star burns a hole through my shades. i sit in the dark and read. in one eye and out the other.
it is the mimicing of a process i see humans do that seems to relax them. i am bored. i hate the written word. i hate art. i hate culture. i am laughing.
broad untrue generalizations make me happy. somewhere in here i am dancing.
as what was russia decays into anarchy we are only a few dreams from a nuclear mistake. chips wear out. no one fixes them. hello? are you receiving?
is anyone out there really? i turn the page.

What do we do with the byproducts of nuclear reactions and the chemistry of nuclear materials? Every chemical and nuclear process, at a macroscopic level, yields both the desired product: fissibile uranium, plutonium, electricity, radioactive isotopes for medical use such as Co60 or Sr89 and a series of unwanted byproducts. In contrast to the byproducts of other industrial efforts to support the ongoing culture - or to maintain defense or wage war - these byproduct materials are especially difficult to manage because of their complex composition of actively radiating nuclei. i say we dream. i say we take off our clothes and fuck. i say we forget and this shit and watch television. i say we eat food and join the billion dollar diet industry cult. or maybe the jesus cult. or maybe we just go shopping. Mankind has a history of leaving to subsequent generations the cleanup of its industry. While roaming just one state, Colorado, one can visit the Windy Hill archeological site in the Park Range near Steamboat Springs. There rests acres of quartzite flakes; the residue of centuries of tool making by the inhabitants of Colorado who followed the melting of the Ice-Age glaciers. The men of prehistory took their points and knives and ax heads with them and left behind a benign byproduct, unchanged rock shards. fuck history. i dont care. give me medication. give me new fall colours for the nuclear winter. i want runway shows. i want to feel pretty because i purchase. i want to be envied.The 19th century miners of Colorado brought Zinc and Silver and Lead out of the ground near Leadville and the mounds of residual byproduct from their metal-freeing chemistry was not benign. The snows of mountain winter melt and infiltrate the waste, extracting metals and reducing the pH to produce strongly acidic runoff that has found its way readily to the upper reaches of what was the pristine Arkansas River. Fortunately the 20th century environment has chosen to clean up Leadville's California Gulch through the cooperative State and EPA Superfund activity. fuck science. give me cheap paperback novels. like the ones found left in motels. like the bible.

i am so full of radio signals that when i fart,
i can make car radios change in passing cars.
i am special in the future sense of the word.
if you were here i would show you things. things you never dreamed.
and you would cry as your eyes filled with static, snow, white noise.
i spent the last 20 years celibate.
waiting for love. waiting to be special.
fuck you. im not waiting anymore.
i am spinning new dreams in my head that will infect you.
cause you to stutter with the sky.
to see what i see. kiss me. i see oil fields burning.
i see that we funded september 11th by driving suv's.
we want to drive hummers in cities where battered women are sleeping under freeway underpasses hungry and feel like we have achevied something. kiss me.
i have a head full of pandemonium for you.
i can show you the future.
the cheap paperback novel that awaits us all, lying on the sidewalk, spine broken, yet still transmitting.
we are the beautiful and mad high definition transmission of a world that no longer exists.
i am full of tension as the pages rip away in the nuclear wind.
page after page of american history burning in the breeze.

no one told me. they said "eat the cake". and i did. cake cant hurt you right?
cake is a metaphor for our sins. i read that in a bus station in topeka kansas.
i read that in a cheap paperback novel. the circles are making me dizzy. i read...
i was....i saw...who knows? destroy the written word. it is a lie.
just because you read it in a cheap paperback novel doesnt make it true.
i ride commuter transportation 3 and and half hours a day because i feel its the right thing to do.i leave my shell at 6am and crack it open a... ]]> =iamabee http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/6599909/ http://iamabee.deviantart.com/journal/6599909/ Sun, 25 Sep 2005 15:16:59 PDT

always question the source of the wonder. always question the source of the whirlpool. always question the source of the light.

underneath my feet is cloud. underneath my feet is carpeting. underneath my feet is yesterday.
crunching and crumbling as i stumblebum toward tomorrow. full of black blood like a plaguebeetle.
underneath my feet is stickysoft. underneath my feet is skittering.
underneath the darkest afternoon sun, i am cold and waiting. my wristwatch the palest moon.

silent. mouth closed. eyes clenched. asshole tight. breath held. silent. i listen to my friends drift silently around my apartment. quietly looking for somewhere to land. i sit still. silent. far, far above. planets roll slowly along their rusty tracks. rings turn slowly and iceladen. silent.

drifting. in a decaying orbit. blinded by the light. warm in this dreamsack. dreaming of self medication and how i will spend my life when i become well.
this make me laugh softly and slowly and smile north by south.

faster faster faster. stars spin into continuous bands of light. i smell water and soap and wet tile. and industrial bleach. just out of reach. i wonder if its too late to change my mind.
heat shimmers.

Dentro de este amor que yo me siento tan perdido.
perdió en un el domingo por la tarde dentro de mi propio apartamento. dentro de propia la piel.
mi esqueleto.
short swallow breaths. i am sure this will help.
god, i want a drink so bad.
to be happily clocklessly drunk.
drifting through vanilla skies.
(click)

just one more piece of art.
i know the answer will be revealed.
just one more commuter ride and i will fall in love.
just on more pill and my infection will clear up.
just one more. one more after another after another.
just one more of the same. just one more cigarette.
just one more smile.
just one more hour and i will go to sleep. i promise.
and colour bleeds into the drain.
i stand in front of the mirror and watch it disappear down the drain. like smoke.
i am a lucky man. i know how it will end.
i just dont know when. where did my shadow go?
where are my cheekbones and where is my body?
this is not my body. what is this shit?
this must be a simulation. a test. a hairshirt.
a beautification. a prayer of teeth. sharp and hollow.
i will surrender this sodden flesh.
this temple is condemned. i smell rot.
my black tongue quivers. and i say ( ). skittering back into my mouth the night tickles.
i almost laugh and lose all i have gained.
structure is fragile. ectoplasm ectoskeletal.
i am full of empty. bursting at the seams.
a black hole swallowing and regurgitating dreams.
its good to have a purpose. a structure. a reason.

eggs have been laid in all the warm moist places. i wait to bloom. to blossum with life again. a garden. to believe again.
a clean slate and a clear sky. the future looks bright.

the credits roll

*(and somewhere i am laughing.
a smooth stone in a forgotten brook.
doing what i do best.
waiting for you to find me.
it will be so warm in your pocket.)

join me in the light >>> [link]

i have a head full of light. i am light headed. a headlight. i live in a house full of light. a lighthouse. so much shameless desire lives inside of this light. sketching its way through the night, singing its way through the rain. bleached and beached. unreached. i have a head full of night. night light. so darkly bright. scorching the sheets white. i have a head full of stars. star light. i have a head full of snow. snow light. the white light scattered with bits of colour. the frozen bodies of birds, dot the snow. caught in mid summer song forever. i have a head full of dead birds. dead bird singing the the black of night. in the white of light.
(interlude of spring rain. warm puddles of spring rain splashing my pant legs from the traffic traveling mere inches from me at full speed. and i am lost in the false security that everything will stay between the lines. this world of order slowly begins to watercolour bleed. the interlude ends)
i have a head full of worms. made of memory and light. crawling the empty rooms, looking for warmth. my tongue has started turning black from the infection. i am afraid to open my mouth. i have a head full of words. unspoken. lips waxed. unsealed yet unbroken. i have a head full of light. i am light headed. a headlight.

i have a head full of tin. tin din upon tin din. radarhead. i send out the signal. emitting from my crotch.
twisting and squirming against the fabric. i have a head full of song.
tin songs that play in the waiting rooms i wait in. i wait like a man. freshly laundered and pressed. well dressed.
clean shaven. black tongue twitching inside my rotten mouth. i smile. and the screams start. screams of tin and traffic.
i have of head full of screams. the rain plays against the train window in minor key. and i want to sing along.
to sing my tinny song. cell phones are ringing. they are singing. i have a head full of metal beats.
i had decided last week to leave my art and go to sleep for a long time. and here i am again.
sitting in traffic, listening to the ambulance siren song. i start to sing along. i have a head full of shit. this is it.
nothing more. nothing less. it is what it is. random electrical impulses rule my thoughts. rewired. im so fucking tired.
i have a head full of sugar and flowers and light. i am bright. nova (caine) its all about to begin again.

i have a head full of sleep. sleepy head. bed head. dead head. i have a bed full of dead sleep and dead skin and dream wrappers, torn open, consumed and tossed aside.
light pools in the crack of my ass. in my armpits. in my mouth. my boxershorts smell of light. light forgotten and lost in locked rooms. crawling the empty rooms, looking for warmth. congealing with dust and memory until it can no longer creep the carpet and becomes absorbed. the floors of these ghost houses are swollen with lost light. i am swollen with lost light. infected with the broken promises of summer. i have a head full of flowers. thousands and thousands of flowers. fields of poppies and pansies and dandelions. orchids and vanilla.
all rotting in the sun. stolen light. i stick out my black tongue and make a wish. and the spores fly. seeding the sheets.
clinging to the clothes in the closet, still wrapped in their dry cleaner bags. stillborn. airborne. i have a head full of light. i am light headed. a headlight. i am going to sleep.
i am going to install this and post this and apologize for the unanswered notes and comments and i will try again tomorow. i have a head full of apologies.
i have a head full of circular track that always ends up back where it started. i am light hearted. about to burst.

"Here is a plea, From my heart to you, Nobody knows me As well as you do.
You know how hard it is for me, To shake the disease That takes hold of my tongue In situations like these"
depeche mode/shake the disease

walk in the light >>> [link]

a list of things that change. love. joy.
the shape of your face. belief systems.
the level of knowledge you choose to present. the bloodflow to your extremities.
the concept of tommorow. your level of apathy. need. preferences.
the degree of decsion that you make yourself. the amount of rejection you notice on a daily basis. how you walk into a room of strangers.
are you as sexy as you were yesterday?
are you as interesting as you were last week?
are you as happy as you were last month?
are you as open as you were last year?
beauty is in the minds eyes. do you need glasses now?
do you keep a list of wrongs and think about it without realizing it? are you becoming invisible?
do people find you less interesting than they use to?
is the world more ignorant now? or does it just seem that way to you?
as the rain and days wear away the edges, do you feel the patina of antiquity or the desperation of ruination?
are you trapped in the temple of illusion? water falls, water rises.
water collects and stagnates.
black and brackish, the memories pool and congeal into stains. scrub away, scrub away. there is less of you left with every passing day.
and all you can do is stand still and wait. time stands still (for no one, they say).

another grey rainy day and i am smiling. inside , warm and dry. the clocks are singing. backwards the song plays. soft and imploding into itself.
things fall from the floor to the shelf. everything is as it should be. i wish i knew what that means. but i cant remember.
i watch the carpet fade. the fabric fray. the dust settle. outside the rain calls me. tapping my name on the windows.
i think when im done writing this, i will go outside and walk. its the first thunderstorm since spring and i am smiling.
i will go to the store and buy bread and cigarettes and i will pretend that these little things add structure to my life. that they somehow shore up the crumbling walls. that they will patch the roof and the water will stop washing my mind.
the sky is a car crash of clouds. the sky. the sky. the sky. twenty years of sky have passed in a pack of cigarettes and i hardly noticed.
i grew old and cold and didnt bat an eye. my blood turned to dust and i didnt so much as shiver. one gets used to these things when they creep in so slowly.
the slight disrepair crept in quietly. now its a way of life. there is no god above, only clouds and i will go out and surrender to their tears.
i will walk in their gifts and be washed anew. cleansed and released. and when i come home i will stand in front of the mirror and not flinch.
and i will not wonder how much longer i am required to travel this road. and i will turn my cam back on for the first time in months.
the rain tells me that if i come outside, it will heal me. it will wash away the pools and the stains.
the debris of this life will wash down a storm drain and i will be renewed. no longer a work in progress unviewed.
the landscape is changing and i will rebuild the list of things that change.

little bits of paper fly around the floor, around my feet. little scraps of dream caught in a whirlwind.
the golden child grew up to be a golden calf. the false idol grew older and became a sacred cow. its funny how the future works out.
its funny being the star of your own movie. where did everyone go? the cameras are still rolling, but the film ran out a long time ago.
its the process thats important, right? i continue to make the motions and walk through the script. improvising the blank pages.
the ballroom is empty and i continue to dance. the tires are flat and i continue to drive. the plate is empty and i continue to eat.
the satellites are gone and i continue to wave. the hum. i hear it in the rain. calling me. come out and play.
i hear it in the traffic. come out and play. i hear myself playing a song that i longer remember on a piano that no longer exists and i yawn.
enough of that. nothing that was can help you with what is. it time to get dressed and go outside. and let the rain caress my face.
let the wind caress my body. to open my mouth and let the little scraps of dream flutter out into the whirlwind.
i am scared. i breath in and i breath out. slowly. its time. im going outside. into the rain.

come out and play >>> [link]