Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Rachel and Jen Have Artsy Fun


This is a drawing we passed back and forth. It was interesting how our intuitional bond developed and we could predict what the other would do next.


Our stab at exquisite corpse:

crinkly crepe bunnies with pink little noses
fleshy thighs twist in two
they're dancing purple now
i'm mourning your return-
and jumping up and down with little green crickets
fluttering, we choke on
wrinkled orange bumble bees (sing like SJP)
acid washers, green berets, glazing moonlight
blue teal BOOM!!
unicycles during their ages saw beauty, cars,
I like the orange color of bunny noses
flash bulbs a plenty with dazzling stars.

Today

On checkerboard linoleum
in the
dark

lodge,
peeking through
the evergreen's needles.

Monday, September 29, 2008

;)

so silly to see, beauty


Some News

Hola Ladies and Gents,
Sephyrus is doing a little switcheroo within the next two days so here's the scoop:

Sephyrus.com (the candle store) will now be located at www.sephyrus.etsy.com

sephyrus.com is becoming an info page directing people to my different sites on the web.

The art on sephyrus.etsy.com will move to rachelandrews.etsy.com

And rachelandrews.etsy.com will house a lot of art and other silly things.

The blog is staying the same.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

so close


_____________________________________________________________________________________
___________________________
i bleed this you know i plaster my innerds on this canvas not for you for my survival terrible fantastic pressure is building what happens when we feed from the same vein clear the same be honest not yet there is still something in the air above waiting for another strike of artifice

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Duh!

I am in the middle of a painting session (right now) but I remembered why I stopped showing! It's been at least 4 years since my last art show. (I tried to get a spot in a gallery in January for an installation and was rejected, but that doesn't count, cause that was different) Anyway! I was into all of this cool stuff, like textile portraits and painted quilts...and I was getting great feedback on my work. And I was actually involved in the arts community (well, the New Haven arts community) and I thought, "now that people are looking...and I'm a 'real' artist, I should make a statement."


dead!!!!



Well, it's four years later and I have made a whole lotta art since then, but not a show. I should have known better than to question my creative drive, but I didn't. Life lessons sometimes suck. But I have done many other cool things in the meantime. But, I think I'm back! I have just been painting for 5 hours, though, so this 'high on art' speak may just be that....



Venus Says...




Artists will takeover the world, quietly, slowly and sillily
will become a word.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Boxxetta's Busy Day

Her new role as fit model for Boxy Clothes International is a tiring job. She spent the past two days trying on the new fall sweater. I can only imagine how hot those lights are on the catwalk...


The featured fall sweater was inspired by Boxy's recent loneliness. He has felt abandoned by his original followers and sank into a deep state of depression. This spurred the 'black heart on blue fuzz' look of the fall collection. The runway show was set to the song, Folsom Prison Blues, by Johnny Cash, which truly encapsulated the dark tone of the collection. With such a brilliant talent as Boxy now designing knitwear, in addition to his more well known 90's grunge/alternative looks, the design community better watch out. Boxy is here to stay!

(below, photo of the designer wearing pieces from his first collection)

Thursday, September 25, 2008

My Heaven

we'd be happy
as peaches
swingin'
on the tree

wrapped in our sweaters
flushed with warmth
sweet, calm
embraced by the breeze

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

took a half day

I wasn't sure what to expect this evening. I did a reading as a favor to a friend last night. I didn't cry this time, which I usually do since everyone else cries. I had a hard time shaking this woman (the deceased one). She followed me home to say thank you, but i think she told a bunch of her friends where I live. I'm typing to keep myself from getting scared. I am not sure who these people are, but they are very large and filling my room, making noise on the roof and looking into the windows. I could let go and have fun with these things but I'd never make it to work tomorrow. I have to come down sometime. Joe's not home.

One is standing over the sink - maybe figuring out how to make water come out. It seems to be able to make its energy into a flat line - coming out horizontally from where the head would be. then, like a lightwave, be a body again. Fluctuating, undulating. Does it read that way?

I'm getting cold and should go to sleep. I hope they leave, they are being quiet. I should tell them to go. All the fun I miss being responsible.

No drawing for this one. Too tired. Besides, the last two really kicked this thing off.

Spoonmanpissant



I don't like the way your spoon is facing me.
Please turn it around.

"jolly pop, jam."

Learn the words please,
if you'll address me again.

"Words are no good here"

Well, where are we?

"We are where you are"

[the pencils are talking to me. my chalk is crackling. I have more pimples]

ochre, the color of the day
I'd rather smush them all together.

What's with the garden equipment?

"they are garages."

You don't get to have a shadow when you
have no clothes on.

nowords



"I can't USE my words this time. And I already messed it up."

trojan downing hours
sleep time. bridge. mail's here.
pathway, shrubbery, pond ache
distant, shelling _______.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Saturday, September 20, 2008

My favorite poem in anytime and anyspace

These drawings were made in Fall 2007 shortly after the poem appeared on Nobody in the Rain. Nothing was ever done with them, and while cleaning out the garage today they turned up in a pile of old scetch pads. I'm hoping the author of the poem won't mind if I share them.

Mallarme Died Today
by Scott Keeney

Mallarmé died today (in 1898). Spume to many sirens, we prowl the seasons to fearless solitude, salute whatever concern saddens dreams and flowers sobs. Blessed torment, deep regret, the pavement in your hair—the evening I thought sleeps down eyes, evoking soot. Pierced swimmer, denying wave, the thousand fists of the sun. Mother of skin, of water, of veils. Bored man and stones, white hair, windows on youthful ago. Warm oils, clocks, cough evening light—river cradling swans, rich memories filled with hungering, stubborn offspring. Cling to dewdrops and scorn angel art. Be previous. The still compels a way. Hold the crystal flight at the risk of beast root. Hovering storm kiss of nothingness, gnawing sterility of stone. Exhausted, haunted—tooth of alone.
—•—

Weary charm, sevenfold rose, dig the cold with pity. Ashen dawn over graveyard lands, genius reprimands delicate ecstasy—agony moon, constantly he, blue sage's evergreen paint. Signify a cloud in tranquil eyelashes. Like poet wilderness with the soul on fogs, them rags of autumn emerge through birds. Flues smoke in yellow sky. Forgetfulness of straw on which at last lying art triumphs.
—•—

To yawn in bells and springs of the fog, agony in the sky. No more birds, strange nothing. Sea nights on her swaying wilderness. Tedium fluttering, may that wind scatter the blue yellow leaves crawl in.
—•—

Shadow fingers walk back, immaculate bathing light. A kiss not by what forgotten. Distance ever in from doomed perfume, what petals welcome within. Fragments reverie, lion's gaze, shivering robes resembling manes. Nonchalant comb, bottles of roses, will you virtue. Leave me—nurse my drunken hair. Human aromatics, cruel conforming jewels, vessels, my dark enough mirror. Mirror framed by hours, memories like leaves, distant evenings, nakedness. Am I a falling tree? And that kiss that will not end, that hand: sinister day? My blood may wander into you, immortal horror, as yet I serve the silent stars. Obscure treasure of being that grows in response to destiny like breast milk, endlessly concealed like primeval sleep, melodious stone of evil times, calyx of caverns and azure veils, inviolate light of icicles and snow and lonely hearts. Last, soon, ancient calm—window's blue shutters. Waves know the sky burns to go where light sleeps. And then—what else? Goodbye flower lips. Unknown cries. Utter feels. Apart.
—•—

Clear air encumbers doubt. Woods that roses malign—fable error. Blue compare sighs through morning murmurs, wind quick to rain, nothing visible sky. Shores of sunlight—hollow gold foliage—animal born of dives. Hour wiles—musical awake— light by lips that kiss. Untouched teeth—reeds that speak—endless around. Song of contours, love of line.
—•—

Instrument of lakes, speak more of grapes to regret, empty wild night, inflate the forest of precious feet in which my gaze lingers, and let me embrace the day's shadow roses and savage thorns. Lightning kisses curves, writhes the flesh, tears color from the sky, drunken prey. Horns on passion, hum-enamored desire, ash of leaves touching the feet, the words, too, must open to you.
—•—

The sandal glittering with sand. The pouring rain glazing the angel statue. Evening's fingers stroking the shoreline. Ephemeral percussions of eternity.
—•—

That pure lie in twilight, with caged thrusts. Shivering kiss which cannot feel a corner, fold pink eves, pose fire, shadow desire beneath your wing. To writhe in the eyes in darkness like boredom in a child, a star in space. Alive of the forgotten long ago, doomed to sing when the dream inflicts its horror down the neck. From blood laughing absent shred, midnight treasure torch. Vanished hairstyles, nails fall like pillows past midnight. Many ashes, only credence. Mirror, dip of oblivion. Gold scintilla, extinct expires.
—•—

Into the known voice of the angel, the future drools.

Manet et Mallarme do Poe

My fascination with all things French brought me to this collaboration between Manet and Mallarme (sorry for the lack of accents). It turns out that both of these artists were born in Paris, which may partly explain why it is my favorite place to be in the world. The energy that lingers on the streets and in the people keep alive the salons of years past and the creative spark that ignited exceptional art. My dream for this soon to be ending summer was to stay in Paris and work on my book, but that never happened. A new project has erupted involving illustrations of some of Mallarme's poems. Who knows if it will ever get completed, but for now it is keeping me excited. :) (BTW - if anyone is interested in traslating let me know. My French isn't good enough to do so with any kind of integrity to the original form.) The following is available as a free ebook from the Gutenberg Project.


LE CORBEAU / THE RAVEN
POËME PAR EDGAR POE

TRADUCTION FRANÇAISE DE STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
AVEC ILLUSTRATIONS PAR ÉDOUARD MANET

PARIS
RICHARD LESCLIDE, ÉDITEUR, 61, RUE DE LAFAYETTE

1875

LE CORBEAU / THE RAVEN


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more."


Une fois, par un minuit lugubre, tandis que je m'appesantissais, faible et fatigué, sur maint curieux et bizarre volume de savoir oublié—tandis que je dodelinais la tête, somnolant presque: soudain se fit un heurt, comme de quelqu'un frappant doucement, frappant à la porte de ma chambre—cela seul et rien de plus.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.


Ah! distinctement je me souviens que c'était en le glacial Décembre: et chaque tison, mourant isolé, ouvrageait son spectre sur le sol. Ardemment je souhaitais le jour—vainement j'avais cherché d'emprunter à mes livres un sursis au chagrin—au chagrin de la Lénore perdue—de la rare et rayonnante jeune fille que les anges nomment Lénore:—de nom pour elle ici, non, jamais plus!

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more."


Et de la soie l'incertain et triste bruissement en chaque rideau purpural me traversait—m'emplissait de fantastiques terreurs pas senties encore: si bien que, pour calmer le battement de mon cœur, je demeurais maintenant à répéter « C'est quelque visiteur qui sollicite l'entrée, à la porte de ma chambre—quelque visiteur qui sollicite l'entrée, à la porte de ma chambre; c'est cela et rien de plus. »

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping—tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door:—
Darkness there and nothing more.


Mon âme devint subitement plus forte et, n'hésitant davantage « Monsieur, dis-je, ou Madame, j'implore véritablement votre pardon; mais le fait est que je somnolais et vous vîntes si doucement frapper, et si faiblement vous vîntes heurter, heurter à la porte de ma chambre, que j'étais à peine sûr de vous avoir entendu. »—Ici j'ouvris, grande, la porte: les ténèbres et rien de plus. »



Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—
Merely this and nothing more.


Loin dans l'ombre regardant, je me tins longtemps à douter, m'étonner et craindre, à rêver des rêves qu'aucun mortel n'avait osé rêver encore; mais le silence ne se rompit point et la quiétude ne donna de signe: et le seul mot qui se dit, fut le mot chuchoté « Lénore! » Je le chuchotai—et un écho murmura de retour le mot « Lénore! »—purement cela et rien de plus.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more."


Rentrant dans la chambre, toute mon âme en feu, j'entendis bientôt un heurt en quelque sorte plus fort qu'auparavant. « Sûrement, dis-je, sûrement c'est quelque chose à la persienne de ma fenêtre. Voyons donc ce qu'il y a et explorons ce mystère—que mon cœur se calme un moment et explore ce mystère; c'est le vent et rien de plus. »

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord and lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched and sat and nothing more.


Au large je poussai le volet; quand, avec maints enjouement et agitation d'ailes, entra un majestueux Corbeau des saints jours de jadis. Il ne fit pas la moindre révérence, il ne s'arrêta ni n'hésita un instant: mais, avec une mine de lord ou de lady, se percha au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre—se percha sur un buste de Pallas juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre—se percha, siégea et rien de plus.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


Alors cet oiseau d'ébène induisant ma triste imagination au sourire, par le grave et sévère décorum de la contenance qu'il eut: « Quoique ta crête soit chue et rase, non! dis-je, tu n'es pas pour sûr un poltron, spectral, lugubre et ancien Corbeau, errant loin du rivage de Nuit—dis-moi quel est ton nom seigneurial au rivage plutonien de Nuit. » Le Corbeau dit: « Jamais plus. »

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such a name as "Nevermore."


Je m'émerveillai fort d'entendre ce disgracieux volatile s'énoncer aussi clairement, quoique sa réponse n'eût que peu de sens et peu d'à-propos; car on ne peut s'empêcher de convenir que nul homme vivant n'eût encore l'heur de voir un oiseau au-dessus de la porte de sa chambre—un oiseau ou toute autre bête sur le buste sculpté, au-dessus de la porte de sa chambre, avec un nom tel que: « Jamais plus. »
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."


Mais le Corbeau, perché solitairement sur ce buste placide, parla ce seul mot comme si, son âme, en ce seul mot, il la répandait. Je ne proférai donc rien de plus: il n'agita donc pas de plume—jusqu'à ce que je fis à peine davantage que marmotter « D'autres amis déjà ont pris leur vol—demain il me laissera comme mes Espérances déjà ont pris leur vol. » Alors l'oiseau dit: « Jamais plus. »

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—nevermore.'"


Tressaillant au calme rompu par une réplique si bien parlée: « Sans doute dis-je, ce qu'il profère est tout son fonds et son bagage, pris à quelque malheureux maître que l'impitoyable Désastre suivit de près et de très-près suivit jusqu'à ce que ses chansons comportassent un unique refrain; jusqu'à ce que les chants funèbres de son Espérance comportassent le mélancolique refrain de « Jamais—jamais plus. »

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."


Le Corbeau induisant toute ma triste âme encore au sourire, je roulai soudain un siége à coussins en face de l'oiseau et du buste et de la porte; et m'enfonçant dans le velours, je me pris à enchaîner songerie à songerie, pensant à ce que cet augural oiseau de jadis—à ce que ce sombre, disgracieux, sinistre, maigre et augural oiseau de jadis signifiait en croassant: « Jamais plus. »

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Cela, je m'assis occupé à le conjecturer, mais n'adressant pas une syllabe à l'oiseau dont les yeux de feu brûlaient, maintenant, au fond de mon sein; cela et plus encore, je m'assis pour le deviner, ma tête reposant à l'aise sur la housse de velours des coussins que dévorait la lumière de la lampe, housse violette de velours dévoré par la lumière de la lampe qu'Elle ne pressera plus, ah! jamais plus.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


L'air, me sembla-t-il, devint alors plus dense, parfumé selon un encensoir invisible balancé par les Séraphins dont le pied, dans sa chute, tintait sur l'étoffe du parquet. « Misérable, m'écriai-je, ton Dieu t'a prêté—il t'a envoyé, par ces anges, le répit—le répit et le népenthès dans ta mémoire de Lénore! Bois! oh! bois ce bon népenthès et oublie cette Lénore perdue! » Le Corbeau dit: « Jamais plus! »



"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


« Prophète, dis-je, être de malheur! prophète, oui, oiseau ou démon! Que si le Tentateur t'envoya ou la tempête t'échoua vers ces bords, désolé et encore tout indompté, vers cette déserte terre enchantée—vers ce logis par l'horreur hanté: dis-moi véritablement, je t'implore! y a-t-il du baume en Judée?—dis-moi, je t'implore. » Le Corbeau dit: « Jamais plus! »

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a saintly maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


« Prophète, dis-je, être de malheur! prophète, oui, oiseau ou démon! Par les Cieux sur nous épars—et le Dieu que nous adorons tous deux—dis à cette âme de chagrin chargée si, dans le distant Eden, elle doit embrasser une jeune fille sanctifiée que les anges nomment Lénore—embrasser une rare et rayonnante jeune fille que les anges nomment Lénore. » Le Corbeau dit: « Jamais plus! »

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


« Que ce mot soit le signal de notre séparation, oiseau ou malin esprit, » hurlai-je, en me dressant. « Recule en la tempête et le rivage plutonien de Nuit! Ne laisse pas une plume noire ici comme un gage du mensonge qu'a proféré ton âme. Laisse inviolé mon abandon! quitte le buste au-dessus de ma porte! ôte ton bec de mon cœur et jette ta forme loin de ma porte! » Le Corbeau dit: « Jamais plus! »

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting—still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a Demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!


Et le Corbeau, sans voleter, siége encore—siége encore sur le buste pallide de Pallas, juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre, et ses yeux ont toute la semblance des yeux d'un démon qui rêve, et la lumière de la lampe, ruisselant sur lui, projette son ombre à terre: et mon âme, de cette ombre qui gît flottante à terre, ne s'élèvera—jamais plus!

Friday, September 19, 2008

Completion!



The purple center is spirit foundation, the soul, the being, the truth, etc.
The navy circle inside that is your point of reference to the outside world.
Since they are connected, you have deepened, expanded inward.
The white/cream in the middle of it all is truth, reinforced peace and honesty.
The green ring is creativity and encompasses what you know with a space for adding human translation (style).
The black is a divider, a boundary.
Those blue whisps are playful moments where you allow others' perspectives into your life for contemplation but not direct influence.

In relation to





These drawings show 3 different relationships in my life: my husband, a friend and my sister.

Daily divination

I take my
cues from
sensational

clues
provided by
my inner god.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

For Tina

I promised you mashed potatoes



The quality of this video is sub par to today's HD standards, but there is something charming about its crackles and spots. It has the same qualities of my favorite movie, Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. We do the best we can with the resources available and sometimes it doesn't come out exactly as we'd planned. There are bugdet issues, technology issues and a whole host of human issues that go into any endeavor to change the outcome into something we didn't foresee.

I wish I could sing so I could be wild and silly and release some of my craziness in a productive way. I used to paint murals on the walls of my bedroom to get out the sillies, but living in a rented house doesn't afford me that luxury anymore. I'm looking for something new, something exciting to distract me from the common obsessions in my mind right now. Until then, I suppose ranting on the blog and having dance parties in my car to the B-52's and Deelite will suffice.

A veces, este chica esta muy loca


I want to fuck the world and eat cheesecake until I puke. Discover the inner body -go tubing, naked, inside the veins of a dear friend. Scream until my throat is bloody and punch trees or throw rocks into the ocean. Miss the pipe and kill a fish (sorry fishie). I hate you, everybody. I never had tantrums, I was a perfect little kid. (Until I was nine) I want to run, fly to Paris...meet Frenchies and pretend I come from England. I only want to speak Spanish. I want to tell this life's story and every other life's story to everyone. I want you to know how I feel all the time. I only want to be called -supercilious. I don't want to go back to work. I don't want to wake up. I don't want to be anything but me all the time and everywhere I go. And sometimes I can't figure out who that is because it is always changing.

synopsis: I cannot relax until you know it all.

para mas detalles escribes a raquelle - lo siento, hago una chiste, pero soy realmente fucking tuercas!

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Here, we'll meet again.


The signpost sits on a sunspot. The upward stream carries you there when you die. Manhattan appears just like when you cross the river into the Bronx from 95 in New Jersey. When you do reach the sun, what happens? Are you able to get off the escalator of water and float around happy to be home? Or do you just drop back down again, to earth, to start all over again?

Astrally speaking...


That was not love - the line of violence, you wouldn't kiss me. Against the living room wall, I could see the blue and white pattern of the couch cover. The little one trying to speak, but lacking the vocabulary of what he was witnessing. Dusk indoors, saliva glistening on my shoulder. It excited me, but not enough. There was an absence too great to pretend I would ever do it again.

What did you say? (hehehe)

Just thought of a way to explain telepathy! You know how in a dream, many things are understood? You feel the words perhaps instead of having to say them, you see images that describe a detail, but the detail is not visible from your perspective? In a dream you can come into a situation without having experienced the backstory, but yet you already know it because you feel it. It has been created. And also - in a dream you know people and maybe you have not met them in real life, but you know their names, where they are from, etc. If you try to capture that feeling of understanding...that is what telepathy is like. It's a calm, allowing state where you are fed images/impressions that you can translate into words if you need to. :) Everyone is telepathic..I think people just don't realize it.

Remnant of a dream...

I'm at an informal dinner party, we've already eaten and I'm standing outside with a friend and his mother. For some reason I need to induce vommiting in this woman (maybe the food was bad?) She understands what I need to do and she says, "it ain't thatched roof so hand over the vodka."

Monday, September 15, 2008

Sunday, September 14, 2008

I don't want to go to sleep yet



It could have been a hat, but it looked like she had green hair.
Listened to some good advice over and over and over.
Made some funny noises while dancing to the stove.
Grapefruit body wash put aside for the mud soap.
Cleaned the chalk dust from the kitchen table.
Drank some arnica flower essence in water.
Turned myself on once buying a bra.
My collar bone really freaks me out.
I was definitely a man before.
Grey's anatomy is on tv.
Not tired, yet.
Wet hair.
Shhh.

Sunday Funnies

I am watching a movie about Coco Chanel on Lifetime right now and started feeling really serious...Lifetime movies usually bring out the teenage girl in me. I don't enjoy feeling serious and I remembered this drawing I did yesterday that I didn't post. Here's the story:

I'm in the middle of making this drawing and I'm really into it...hunching over the table...in a trance of circular movement...
i scan, i re-size...and it's a nipple. Not my intention...I made it because the blog started looking like a store, with picture links and newsletter sign-up, so I wanted to draw an apology. So here's the drawing:





A Quick funnie:

I'm sitting at my computer, eating a twix candy bar. I take a bite and look at the oozing caramel and notice that there is energy, white streams, shooting out the top! I've never seen a candy bar with such an excited aura before...and then realize that i just put my hot tea cup down. It was steam from my tea...silly Rachel. Now that's better :)

Universe













I am the universe
You are my held out hand








Look into my eyes
And tell me we have never loved

Peeking



I'm peeking out from behind the clouds. Are you there?
I see you, but do you know who you are?
I found out alone and still there I sleep.
Waiting for the understanding
In which I keep.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Tantrum




Diggin' on Hay(na)ku

To a Man

Your
marshmallow cocoon
is quite intoxicating


======================

From Real

The cancer you
feed in
dreams

Wakes
and grows
within you strong

Forwarding causes you
deny like
candy

======================

Desperate

I'd eat my
chalk for
you

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Sappho Does Hay(na)ku


Sappho Does Hay(na)ku, by Scott Keeney is now available on Amazon.com. Each book is signed by the author and is beautifully hand-bound. The first release from Sephyrus Press and a better choice could not have been made!

Best horoscope ever!

ARIES (March 21-April 19): Some people would like the world better if
it didn't have oddballs, freaks, black sheep, misfits, and crackpots.
Personally, I'm very much in favor of these types, and celebrate the
entertaining diversity they add to the world. I hope you share my
attitude, Aries, because you're going to have to be in intimate
relationship with your own inner weirdo in the coming week. If you're
prejudiced against people who don't act normal, you'll have trouble
dealing with the unusual urges and needs that will be welling up in
you. But if you've developed an appreciation for anomalous behavior, you'll
be able to love yourself just right.

for your sign check out Rob Brezny's Website Free Will Astrology.

I can freely embrace my inner wierdo. Maybe this means that I'll get fired and shave off most of my hair and dye just the little bit that's left over green. And only wear garbage bags but fasten them with a big bumble bee pin. ? That'd be awesome :) And I do love all of you! Everyone - even those who don't share their oddness with us. We all have something in us that is special.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Bjork - Human Behaviour



Living on earth can be challenging and dealing with different levels of awareness doesn't make it any easier. Most people are aware of when their egos are active and when they are behaving illogically. But what about self-indulgence? Being wierd or strange because you are that or just because you can? When does self exploration become a bad thing? An artist (or anyone) can become so involved in a project or research that the whole outside world becomes a blurry noise. Does it matter what the outcome of that project/research is to determine the 'worth' of the time 'lost' leading up to the point of completion? If a man spends 2 years of his life completely entangled in making a book that he barely notices the seasons go by and the book is disregarded by society, does that make him a loser? What if that same man's book is published to high acclaim and he makes millions, then he didn't waste his time, right? I guess it comes down to personal choice and obligations. If you set up your life to include others, like a husband, wife, kids or friends, then you either have to honor those choices or make it really clear who you are and how you work before entering into those relationships. I bring this up because, while watching and listening to Bjork today, I noticed how supremely strange she is. She is dazzling, light-filled brilliance and i love to watch her face as she sings and I love to hear her talk about her work. She has such a connection to what she does, she pours herself into the cd and what she wants is what we hear. She completely honors her perspective and seems to ignore anything outside her own blinders. So should we be aware of our earthly personalities as being just that - personalities and not our eternal selves, or do we consider that our own personal gift to the world? Is our humble take on things really that important to devote our whole lives to sharing it, honing the delivery and spreading the word about it? I guess that is why artists are born artists. The creative urge just needs to be expressed, no matter what form it takes and what needs to happen for it to come to fruition. Judging any step of that process just might halt the entire thing. And who knows? Maybe that was the whole reason for this lifetime.

Bjork Interview

Monday, September 8, 2008

Flesh Piston + Images





My original drawings for this song are lost (somewhere in the garage) or have been thrown away. I'm too impatient to dig for them - so here is a rough cut of what I had intended. The images started popping into my head while listening one day and it evolved into a story. The song is Flesh Piston by Cancer Dance, my favorite song by him.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Destination


"Nice map."











"Where does it go?"








"Let's find out."






"Ahh,
to your mountain."