Half the harm that is done in this world
Is due to people who want to feel important
They don't mean to do harm
But the harm does not interest them.
Or they do not see it, or they justify it
Because they are absorbed in the endless struggle
To think well of themselves.
T. S. Eliot
Nice! "But the harm does not interest them." Thanks, Narcissism 101.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Head Wound #10 is UP!
Woo hoo! Ten episodes! This one includes fancy Special Guest Star Dr. Jenny Worley, and a discussion of the scary movie "The Ring" and the pathology of human reproduction.
Get it here on iTunes!
PS: If you know how to change "artist" names on one's podcast in iTunes, please drop me a line—I've spent days trying to get our co-host Anastasia Kayiatos added to the credits with no luck!
Monday, August 24, 2009
On Spiders, Shaman-girls and Louise Bourgeois
My shaman–yes, I see spiders and shamans but no dead people as far as I know–thinks the spider was trying to tell me something. "Sure," I said. "Run! motherfucker, run like the wind!" We both laugh.
My second inspiration for my tattoo was murder: I killed way too many wolf spiders as a child. Good God Almighty, those things that cruised through my Southern childhood home were about 4 inches wide and COULD JUMP! Second only to the previously mentioned gargantuan hallucinatory beast, hairy pole-vaulting things scare the be Jesus out of me. So crush, crunch and squash I did. I wreaked karmic spider hell on myself. Thus Veronica—the name of my spider tattoo.
I should have probably named my newest skin art Louise since it was the 30-foot high spider iron sculptures of Louise Bourgeois that I used as a prototype for Veronica. I was particularly charmed by her spidey sculpture that is down by the waterfront here in San Francisco. Entitled Crouching Spider, it is the only thing that will get me to venture into the foreign territory of SF’s financial district (that and when my boyfriend begs me to pick him up for any work he may snag down there).
So there you have it. The tale of my tattoo, my shaman and the odd hallucinations I suffer from.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Buried Under a Heap of Literature
Well, I am at it again reading China Mieville. I'd stopped reading Perdido Station, but I could not get the dark brain-sucking flying things out of my head. So I found it buried beneath the easily-two-hundred unread books in my kitchen. Yes, my kitchen as I ran out of space in my hallway, my bedroom as well as in my meditation room. I also picked up Mieville's newest book The City and The City as began reading that too. I lost them book in my bed-also filled with at least twenty unread/half-read books, articles and 'zines. What is the fucking need to bury myself alive with books. Christ, I just had an ephiphany. I am buried alive. And forgot. Now I am remembering. I was in a library when it collapsed. And there I still lie. I am under the pressure of a thousand books all of various genres. I keep buying books and recreating the stress in the hopes that I will jog myself out of my daze, wake up and try to get out from under the paper tomb I am in. I suddenly feel relieved because I am merely trapped under a collapsed library. I'd prefer that to the reality that I actually have to READ all the books, newspapers and magazines I keep buying.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Legless Maniacs in Need of Couples Therapy
This week I decided I need to take my brain to couples counseling.
"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!," it screamed banging itself so hard up against my skull that I wonder if I might not have suffered a contracoup injury (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coup_contrecoup_injury).
"Sorry, we're going," I said. I affected detached attitude. I knew better than to engage with my brain. It is a resentful adolescent with a borderline personality disorder. There is no reasoning with it. You set the limit and just sit through the hell that breaks loose. It did.
"You suck," it said picking up my manuscript and heaving it across the room. I was surprised at this gesture as it is an armless thing. I think it actually hissed at me too. I refrained myself from reacting, something I've done for years. Because it always wins.
"Couples," I reiterated, picking up my manuscript.
"You don't even know what reiterated means. And anyway,I'm going to Berlin." This was a standard tactic of my brain. Threatening to leave me. Wishful thinking on my part. I wanted to say "fine go, good riddance," but I'm supposed to be a practicing Buddhist which means I'm committed to well, at least being civil. I don't roll with compassion. So rather that swear at it, I just shrugged my shoulder.
"I have the checkbook," I said looking over my chronically bent cheap-ass Walgreens wire rims. "And the debit card. And anyway you don't even have a name, much less a passport." Okay, so I barely roll with civility.
"I knew it, you hate me." It sat down in my chair (or rather squished down as it is just a brain. and it has no legs.)
"I do too," it said.
"Do what?" I was confused.
"Have legs." It started to cry which is a major feat for a disembodied brain.
Like I said. Couples therapy is clearly in order here.
"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!," it screamed banging itself so hard up against my skull that I wonder if I might not have suffered a contracoup injury (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coup_contrecoup_injury).
"Sorry, we're going," I said. I affected detached attitude. I knew better than to engage with my brain. It is a resentful adolescent with a borderline personality disorder. There is no reasoning with it. You set the limit and just sit through the hell that breaks loose. It did.
"You suck," it said picking up my manuscript and heaving it across the room. I was surprised at this gesture as it is an armless thing. I think it actually hissed at me too. I refrained myself from reacting, something I've done for years. Because it always wins.
"Couples," I reiterated, picking up my manuscript.
"You don't even know what reiterated means. And anyway,I'm going to Berlin." This was a standard tactic of my brain. Threatening to leave me. Wishful thinking on my part. I wanted to say "fine go, good riddance," but I'm supposed to be a practicing Buddhist which means I'm committed to well, at least being civil. I don't roll with compassion. So rather that swear at it, I just shrugged my shoulder.
"I have the checkbook," I said looking over my chronically bent cheap-ass Walgreens wire rims. "And the debit card. And anyway you don't even have a name, much less a passport." Okay, so I barely roll with civility.
"I knew it, you hate me." It sat down in my chair (or rather squished down as it is just a brain. and it has no legs.)
"I do too," it said.
"Do what?" I was confused.
"Have legs." It started to cry which is a major feat for a disembodied brain.
Like I said. Couples therapy is clearly in order here.
Taking my mind to couples counseling...
So I decided this week that I need to take my mind to couples counseling.
"NOOOOOOOO," it screamed shaking its grim little head so furiously I thought I end up with a contra cou
"NOOOOOOOO," it screamed shaking its grim little head so furiously I thought I end up with a contra cou
Monday, June 1, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
New Head Wound!
Hey, Head Wound episode 8 is now up on iTunes! Check out our first episode with awesome new co-host Anastasia Kayiatos. Click here to subscribe.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Head Wound Podcast #6 - Flashpoint
It's about time, but it is now up–Head Wound podcast #6. In this podcast we discuss the TV pilot episode of Flashpoint, a SWAT-team style show. Flashpoint is set and shot in Canada and stars Enrico Colantoni as the head of the Strategic Response Unit (SRU). Despite being filled with a few too many buff boys, we both agree that Flashpoint has some real surprises that make it a show to keep an eye on. We further discussed the chatter that Flashpoint, written by Canadian authors, may have emerged in response to last falls US Writers Guild strike. Given the success of this first episode (8.23 million viewers in the U.S. and 1.11 million in Canada), CBS is lurking around looking for more imported shows. Yet more outsourcing and potential union-busting tactics? For more information on Flashpoint:
Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sniper_(TV_series); IMDb: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1059475/; IMBd News: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1059475/news#ni0264599.
Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sniper_(TV_series); IMDb: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1059475/; IMBd News: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1059475/news#ni0264599.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Dislocations
I have begun to worry and thought I'd put my concerns out into the darkness of the internet. For isn't a problem shared a problem cut in half?
So here's my trouble: you know when you suddenly enter darkness or are thrown into pitch black, that, all you can see is blackness? But, if you wait, and shapes begin to appear? You begin to see the outlines of things—chairs, lamps, bookshelves or, if coutside, garbage bins or the boats by the water. This return of vision, night vision I suppose it is, calms your pounding heart. It gives you a sense of orientation, control and power that you can now negotiate your way through the area.
But lately, when I am in my own darkened rooms or other inky places, I've noticed flickers, shapes of things that are not apart of the normal landscape. They do not evolve out of the darkness into chairs, garbage cans even rats. In fact, they do not evolve at all. No matter how much I blink my eyes or command them to focus, my orbs refuse to bring me clarity. As if this wasn't fretful enough. But what I find even more worrisome is that lately even in the bright of day I am seeing flickers of forms, movements of some things dark, unclearly shapened, things that should not be there in my rooms or even in the questionable environs I find myself in.
I will be honest. I am heavily medicated. I've wondered if this visual aberration wasn't a side effect of one of the various neurological drugs I must take. But the seeing of things not there is not listed in the copious side effects on the small-print inserts that come with my prescriptions. When I mentioned my concern to Dr. Panchek, he barely glanced up from my chart. He merely snapped it shut and moved the conversation on to how I liked my new abode.
"Rats," I said. "There are rats in the alley outside my window."
"And how do you know they are there?" Dr. Panchek asked. I knew what he meant. How could I tell the difference between real and imagined was what he was getting at.
"By the bites," I said and left it at that.
to be continued...
Wickie
So here's my trouble: you know when you suddenly enter darkness or are thrown into pitch black, that, all you can see is blackness? But, if you wait, and shapes begin to appear? You begin to see the outlines of things—chairs, lamps, bookshelves or, if coutside, garbage bins or the boats by the water. This return of vision, night vision I suppose it is, calms your pounding heart. It gives you a sense of orientation, control and power that you can now negotiate your way through the area.
But lately, when I am in my own darkened rooms or other inky places, I've noticed flickers, shapes of things that are not apart of the normal landscape. They do not evolve out of the darkness into chairs, garbage cans even rats. In fact, they do not evolve at all. No matter how much I blink my eyes or command them to focus, my orbs refuse to bring me clarity. As if this wasn't fretful enough. But what I find even more worrisome is that lately even in the bright of day I am seeing flickers of forms, movements of some things dark, unclearly shapened, things that should not be there in my rooms or even in the questionable environs I find myself in.
I will be honest. I am heavily medicated. I've wondered if this visual aberration wasn't a side effect of one of the various neurological drugs I must take. But the seeing of things not there is not listed in the copious side effects on the small-print inserts that come with my prescriptions. When I mentioned my concern to Dr. Panchek, he barely glanced up from my chart. He merely snapped it shut and moved the conversation on to how I liked my new abode.
"Rats," I said. "There are rats in the alley outside my window."
"And how do you know they are there?" Dr. Panchek asked. I knew what he meant. How could I tell the difference between real and imagined was what he was getting at.
"By the bites," I said and left it at that.
to be continued...
Wickie
Monday, January 5, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Threatening artists
Insomnia. Runs in the family. As do other maladies.
Currently I am doing what artists do, trying to cover the bills. This need has lead me or rather driven me to every conceivable kind of work. I've cleaned alligator meat as well as toilets, washed dishes, cleaned toilets again, then houses, cat sat and did I mention cleaning toilets? There are all these theories of the artist as a cultural threat, a subversive. I don't know what I think about that. Perhaps I am too busy like most artists just trying to pay my bills and not get evicted. The occasional wealthy lover helps, but then that brings its own can of worms (those I've never cleaned. Not yet.) Maybe this notion of being a social threat has to do with too many of us sucking up all the food stamps, as though we were able to even get them. I got them when I was in Boston. They gave me about $40 a month. In San Francisco, I had to stand in about a block-long line, then go through a metal detector, then wait with hundreds of other indigents for about eight hours, be treated like scum by the worker and finally get rejected. Or maybe artists are a threat to society because we are draining the free health clinics (the ones that are left) of all their services. I've used them in Boulder, Colorado, Boston, Massachusetts, North of Boston and San Francisco,California. I sat for hours in crowded waiting rooms. When finally called, it was not unusual for the staff to talk to me (it always seemed incredibly loudly) right in the waiting room about very private health matters. Privacy really is a privilege. Or maybe this idea of the artist as a social threat comes from the times when they cut off my electricity (or when I couldn't pay for heating oil) and I used candles to light my room or I kept the gas jets going on my stove to stay warm. Maybe us artists have caught too many places on fire so that's why we're considered dangerous. We're pyromaniacs. So, the next time you see what looks like an artist —some broke-ass, worn-down-shoed motherfucker—slouching your way, you better run. Because we might rob you because we've just been rejected for food stamps, take a chunk out of you because we're hungry or we just might burn down your place to try to get warm.
Wickie
Currently I am doing what artists do, trying to cover the bills. This need has lead me or rather driven me to every conceivable kind of work. I've cleaned alligator meat as well as toilets, washed dishes, cleaned toilets again, then houses, cat sat and did I mention cleaning toilets? There are all these theories of the artist as a cultural threat, a subversive. I don't know what I think about that. Perhaps I am too busy like most artists just trying to pay my bills and not get evicted. The occasional wealthy lover helps, but then that brings its own can of worms (those I've never cleaned. Not yet.) Maybe this notion of being a social threat has to do with too many of us sucking up all the food stamps, as though we were able to even get them. I got them when I was in Boston. They gave me about $40 a month. In San Francisco, I had to stand in about a block-long line, then go through a metal detector, then wait with hundreds of other indigents for about eight hours, be treated like scum by the worker and finally get rejected. Or maybe artists are a threat to society because we are draining the free health clinics (the ones that are left) of all their services. I've used them in Boulder, Colorado, Boston, Massachusetts, North of Boston and San Francisco,California. I sat for hours in crowded waiting rooms. When finally called, it was not unusual for the staff to talk to me (it always seemed incredibly loudly) right in the waiting room about very private health matters. Privacy really is a privilege. Or maybe this idea of the artist as a social threat comes from the times when they cut off my electricity (or when I couldn't pay for heating oil) and I used candles to light my room or I kept the gas jets going on my stove to stay warm. Maybe us artists have caught too many places on fire so that's why we're considered dangerous. We're pyromaniacs. So, the next time you see what looks like an artist —some broke-ass, worn-down-shoed motherfucker—slouching your way, you better run. Because we might rob you because we've just been rejected for food stamps, take a chunk out of you because we're hungry or we just might burn down your place to try to get warm.
Wickie
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