Now is not the Time to Panic

Oh, the times, they are a-changin.'
Businesses are going under, banks are closing, once rational people are speaking pre-apocalyptical fears. Or not speaking them. But when any fear, real or imagined is brought to light or implied, I see waves of panic flash into even the most typically optimistic person's eyes.

Now, I'm a funny creature. I tend to think the worst, I tend to feel the panic beating in my chest, like a thousand bats trapped in a cave-in, but maintaining a thin smile nonetheless. And this is during the "good times." But when worst comes to worst, I become a huge optimist, when things look most bleak, all I see is possibility. It's as though my house has blown down and I'm standing over it with nothing but a hammer and a pocket full of nails. And I smile because the new house will be made by me and need look nothing like the old one.

So I too, may wonder- may speak of impending apocalypse from time to time, in passing. But I don't mean to instill fear or inspire others to withdraw their life's savings and hide it under the mattress. I say live it up. Maybe I'm a secret hedonist, but the truth is our days are numbered. And they always have been, even in good times. Not one of us will live forever, so shouldn't we all strive to do something great every moment we have a chance?

Maybe, in this tough time, we should all learn to start living more simply. But that doesn't mean to stop living. I'm not ready to roll over and die, I'm ready to start having fun. And couldn't a simpler life still be grand? maybe we'll learn to appreciate the small things again, the little miracles that are usually lost in the din of our great advancements in technology and so forth.
Now is not the time to panic. Now is the time to look our reflections in the eye and realize our immense potential for creative genius.

Dear Mr. Almost Was,

I'm sorry we didn't work out. It was probably my fault, as I tend to psyche myself out, and assume that you must be so much more serious about us than I am or want to be, when I know that is just a projection of my own fear. You never suffocated me, I pulled the plastic over my own freedom. I never should have confessed my feelings if I wasn't prepared to deal with reciprocation, and I may have hurt you- I most definitely confused you quite enough- and for that I am truly sorry. I'm glad that we are still on speaking terms, even if we are distanced by our busy lives. Maybe neither of us was prepared to take the time, and maybe it wasn't meant to be because we are too much alike. Regardless, I like think we are both on the path to our own fortunes, whatever that might mean, and I wish you nothing but the best in life.
Sincerely,
Lepisma Saccharina

Hiroshi and the Sphinx

Came across some old pictures from San Fransisco I took a couple years back. I'd forgotten I'd taken them till I shot off a half a roll on my holga at my friends outer-space themed party a few monthsago, and finally processed it about a week ago.
These just feel kind of mystical to me.
Outside the Hiroshi Sugimoto exhibit:
Sugimoto-san
Sphinx sans Sugimoto-san

Girl Hero

Why is it that the girl is only the hero
when she says no?

Anxious Night

Every night, I return home late.
My ears buzzing with the humdrum of the everyday drudgery
I've just experienced.
The hive of apartments is
almost completely canvassed
by a network of large, intricate orb webs
eerily illuminated in tungsten orange
and the blue light of the full moon.

The night music washes away my sleepiness
The disgruntled growl of the old refridgerator
like an aging crooner with emphysema,
restless rodents in the ceiling, like a top hat
the whir of the box fan
a far off siren
the bass drum beat of the neighbors fucking
against my right hand wall
and I can't sleep.

The silence in my heart
disturbs me more
than all of the noise
night could ever bring

Avon Calling!

Or Mary Kay, rather... Mary Kay lady saves the day!
Is it always the door-to-door makeup ladies who step in for the lonely and misunderstood?
Straight out of a Tim Burton classic.

Secondhand Muses

So, you meet her. She fascinates you. You must draw/paint/photograph/write a song/story/poem about her. she allows you too, and this moves you, inspires you. The work is magnificent. You are further drawn to her. Time goes on, be it quickly or slowly, and through the cracks in her pedestal, you begin to see that she is human. Mundane humanity is so much less inspiring than the ethereal, and you must move on to other inspiration. What becomes of the muse?
Is she discovered by onther seeker of inspiration? Does her magic fade a little more each time, or is the well bottomless?

What does it mean to be a muse?
Is she the untouchable objet des art? A sort of madonna archetype?
On a pedestal, for certain.
What then happens when she becomes tactile... human?
Will you think less of her then, grow bored of her, or even resent her?
Resent her for her imperfections: a slip, a trip, a sin.
Resent her aspirations: that she would dare struggle and pursue and risk and fail even.
Resent her for walking on two feet, that touch the dirty ground, same as yours.

Art is Potential Life is Kinetic

Pardon me for a moment of trite, if not pretentious philosophy.

The age old question: "Does life reflect art, or does art reflect life?"
I am one who believes they are one and the same. Perhaps that is a bit fluxus? Or not. But at the very least, art and life exist simultaneously on a parallel so close that they are nearly impossible to discern from one another. If the tiniest movement: the near twitch of a smile forming, the smoothing of a stray lock of hair, if captured and pinned down on canvas or emulsion like a preserved butterfly, becomes art, who is to say that every nanosecond uncaptured by lens or brush is not? Simply put, all life is the kinetic form of art, and art is potential life.

Here's to those who eat, sleep, dream, fuck, love, drink, breath art in all it's glorious forms.