The magic of grey days || New Art: October 4th 2013

About to leave the house after sparking up an old hard drive and pulling some old music off it. Gathering my things, army jacket, bike helmet, wallet, keys, etc… I stop and look at the wall at a drawing I made for someone. Pausing, I went and got it and put it between the pages of my sketchbook.
Rescuing old musicScreenshot from 2013-10-06 03:39:09

Outside, it’s a grey autumn afternoon. Dry, cool air and smooth sheets of clouds mottling the sun out to shades of lavender and rose. I’m walking contentedly along, with the bike beside me so as not to enrage the local police who enjoy chicken-hawking commuters who ride on the sidewalks. I begin daydreaming: “Huh, maybe she’ll be at the shop. Or maybe I’ll just run into her again. She’d come walking down this road, headed the other way, and we’d stop and talk and I’d be all hyped with the synchronicity of it. “Ohhh that’s SPOOKY!” I would say… Yeah…”
And before I could drift on to some other thought… I look ahead at a neat female shape, letterboxes of dark hair framing her face, big luminous eyes. No fucking way

Down to the detail of me remarking on how spooky it was, utterly wacky. Although, I guess that I can think of other moments when the same thing happened. The time that I was walking down Vine St and I was broke and fantasized some chunk of currency that I discovered peeking out of the magazine rack at the 7-11. Or waiting for Ray Ray at the bus stop outside of his apartment building and knowing that Dani would soon appear and lo, around she came around the corner. (No ESP was needed to know that, to be fair.)

At least that drawing didn’t go to waste. What’s astonishing is the detail of the premonition. I mean, of course, it’s hoopy coincidence or maybe some subconscious knowledge that she’d be going that way. For a while afterwards I was afraid to contemplate other detailed scenarios, for the fear that they’d come true! Like Dan Akroyd at the end of Ghostbusters, y’know? Stay-puft Marshmallow whozits.

Meanwhile, not far away…

Auto Tagger (ink, pencil)Bizarre Fishlike Intruder (ink, pencil)dementia pugilistica (pencil, watercolour, ink) smackybean (ink, pencil)
If it's so fucking funny then start laughing!!!sadako girl (watercolour, pencil, ink, pencil crayon)Motor Snail <3's Superstore Girls(coloured pencil, ink, watercolour)Nausea of World Ending (detail of larger drawing - pencil, ink, pencil crayon, watercolour)
bizarre fishlike intruder

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Dream night of 24-25th june // photos

I’ve had this dream before. But, it wasn’t fresh to me until I was in the process of having the dream. The lead up to the body of it was different. I receive a piece of mail in my mailbox that says I am now a contestant of some kind on a Hero-esque TV show. There’s even a very tight t-shirt wearing guy who is the host that does all of the asides to camera and cut-aways and in-betweens. A chauffeur arrives seconds after I open the envelope and kneels over. Evidently he will carry me to the TV studio. Turns out to be the airport. We’re going somewhere tropical.

At this point the dream is familiar. Myself and five other people are around a table with the “host” character, python biceps straining his shirt’s sleeves. There’s an issue, and he’s trying to get the full story from us. I know that there were: “two phone-calls on someone’s mobile”. And I say so. This hushes the room. He leaves, with his assistant, to pace on an attached balcony. We left in the room chatter about what this means…
Before we can talk much he comes back into the room, produces a gun, and shoots each of us as many times as needed to kill us. I’m last, being the last one seated in his clockwise progression around the room, although I am now on the floor under the table in the fetal position. My hands clapped to the sides of my head. He shoots me in the abdomen, a painful non-fatal wound. And an instant later in my head. [Dream ends]  I’ve had the dream before, the interview shooter dream. Why didn’t I change it if I knew what was about to happen?

The power went out at work the other day while I was organizing the cooler, so, in a second, I was now plunged into complete darkness. One second, well lit, the next nothing. Total darkness. I’m glad that I experienced that. I know what that’s like now.
Myself and Mobar went on a roadtrip to Abbotsford to make contact with a contact. A shady contact. Bills change hands and I’ve purchased a new monitor. My narrow little office draws a lot of power double piggybacked from the wall outlets.
Interestingly, listening to Dr. Phil seems to stimulate the production process. Daytime trailer-park Maury Povich bloodsport on YouTube seems to make the world around me gross enough that all I want to do is draw/paint, etc…

Bathroom stall graffiti
positive to negative to ground

Whatcom road tripMahound and Mobar

Current Battlestation

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New shack \\ Mother’s day.

I’ve moved to a new part of town. The move makes it feel like I’ve moved to a new city completely. A place that I don’t recognize at all. Tremblings of doubt when I’m riding home after work. “Is this the right way?” The surroundings remind me of Victoria, as it was two summers ago, that hot city with thick wet air slinking along through two-storey Edwardian streets. Like a gilded dream of your imagination of a U2 – Beautiful Day. There’s more than a pinch of a Surrey-style seediness to this place, which I appreciate myself but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

Five Corners #1

Five Corners Parking Lot

Downtown park

Because I have to pull down a larger amount of money this month to put down the 1st and 2nd month’s rent at once. I have been working a lot. Now comfortable to survive in a more overt bachelor frog sort of way. Worry less, steady as she goes. Pay the rent and have $50 left to last two weeks. Solid. Totally doable.
In any case, I haven’t found anyone here that I’m really motivated to pursue or invite into my life. And I’m too emotionally sickened and numbed to care. I would rather just concentrate on creativity. In the metropolitan environment of Vancouver  I could be an appealing oddity. Here, I’m just an oddity among other oddities. Salt-of-the-earth characters, but, still. But, I don’t care. I’ve shut off the machines, thrown dropcloths over everything, turned the lights out, locked the doors- deadbolt, double lock, hoisted the bar over it, and thrown the key into the ocean.  The heart migrates south through the body to a final exit. Fuck love forever. Fuck it inside out until it’s a doughnut.  Romantic love anyway. It’s for others to experiment with. People with less spleen to squeeze, people with more chips to sit down with, people with motion.

The whole place seems to be shedding off an earlier outer layer in order to convert itself into a viable place to live for economic refugees from further west, into the city, or rich people and their families who want to buy a house or a contract farm or a cottage out here and use it in the summers.

Working with a tremendous layer cake of different types of oddballs. Like I’ve been assigned to my appropriate place to live with the other misfits. Half the department is High-School kids so I’m enduring childish discussions about sex. Sniggering chatter about the beautiful ladies working in the Beauty department. (Aptly named, since they are all fugitives from planet gorgeous.) Very tiresome. There are a few truly interesting returnees, though. Among them:

Mr. Canada
This is a man who appears from time to time in a very smart tweedy blazer and beige turtleneck. He’s in his mid-50’s at least, with an impressive muttonchop beard isthmus, and always wears a tiny pin on his lapel of a Canadian maple leaf. His voice is the rich baritone of an old-time radio voice actor, re: Orson Welles. I cannot hear his voice without thinking about a man on the CBC reading some kind of folksy tale about Toronto in the 30’s.

The Liverpudlian
This man has a powerful need for oranges. Mandarins he digs foremost, but we have a lot of them.  However, his luck is very bad. As a result I doubt that he has ever once managed to talk away with even one mandarin orange. His Merseyside accent seems to skitter along, like kicking a can along the pavement. Flashbacks to Dave Lister from the British Sci-Fi Sit-Com soap Red Dwarf. My spiritual hero.

Green Goodness
An enchanting Asian woman, in her late 30’s, speaks very very fast and seems to be of the sort that develops a connection with anyone that she’ll be talking to for any length of time. Voice like a grade school teacher on speed, soft, youthful and friendly. Constantly upbeat and inquisitive. She sometimes reserves large amounts of organic food, like apples and bottled smoothies.

Bacon au Jardin

This is a Mother’s Day sketch I did for my mom, who is an accomplished gourmet.

Torturing narrative concepts are swirling around me all the time these days. The idea of Time Travel has lodged itself pretty deeply. But not any usable form of time travel, more likely a form that is uncontrollable but also irresistible. If time travel were possible, it would not be a controllable experience at all. It would be an involuntary, invasive experience. You would exist in several co-valid timelines at the same time and would have no way of knowing which of your actions will have an effect in which timeline. A horrible mixture of total disorientation and total surrender. This time, you really don’t have any control. Time twists ahead and back, finalities fade- and reoccur…


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Final Assembly

New tower machine: Ubuntu 12.04.2 LTS \\ 1 TB Western Digital HDD \\ Radeon 5870 \\ MSI Z77A-G43 Mobo \\ 4Gb DDR3 1333mhz \\ CD/DVD-RW \\ Cooler Master HAF 912 w/ 4 120mm case fans.

Finished boxgutsRear I/O of Radeon 5870DSC00386

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Collages, DVDASA podcast


"Guilty" collage"Candy" collage










I’ve been listening to these podcasts for days now, they’re exactly what I need to be hearing during the day. Not the rise and fall tumult of a shuffled playlist, but a gang of fascinating people yacking away on microphones. I cannot reccomend it to anyone more. Except possibly those squeamish with masturbation and anal sex.

DVDASA Episode 5 – Tattoo artist Mister Cartoon and photographer Estevan Oriol from DVDASA on Vimeo.

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Found #00012 Mammal Skull

Alongside the rez road, my eyes were focusing on the rocks and brush ahead, until I saw an odd looking rock in a round muddy hole.

Bear Skull Profile (light)Bear skull (Front)

Bear skull (int. low light filter)







Bear skull (night light)  I don’t know what animal this was. Possibly a small bear. I didn’t find any other bones at all. Just the skull. It was bleached dry with no remains at all. So, probably over a year old. I came back to take some more shots and take the skull back with me. I carried it away with paper bag I had brought for this purpose. I’ll clean it and keep it around on a shelf or something.

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A map of 3 deaths and one birth: Sid, Nancy, and Joan Vollmer, and I.

A map of three public deaths with circumstances that teeter on the edge of being lost to time. Retained only by the recollections and investigations of third-parties.

John Simon Ritchie (a.k.a Sid Vicious) dies in 63 Bank Street, Lower Manhattan, in bed with Michelle Robinson. Heroin overdose. His mother is also in the apartment. Nancy dies in room 100 of the Chelsea hotel, from a single stab wound administered by someone. Sid was under a 1000 ton weight of 30 Tuinals. Six people’s fingerprints were found in the room and were named in the police report as persons of interest. Those names were erased after Sid, the prime suspect, died. The case was closed. Joan Vollmer was killed by a single .380 ACP bullet to the forehead. She died at the Cruz Rojas down the street from the apartment above the Bounty Bar at 122 Monterrey in Mexico City, D.F. where it had happened in the presence of William S. Burroughs, Eddie Woods, Jr, and Lewis Adelbert Marker. Various other people were there within the short time that The William Tell Routine, as it’s called, took place.

982 Bute street, Dec 4th to 11th of 1985. Vancouver BC in the eighties. Hairspray and Escobar Coke. The Lotus, a club passed down through one generation of hipsters to another. Rene Mahound is conceived in the upstairs rear bedroom adjacent to Jim Deva’s bedroom. In the basement, an illiterate man slumbers without any furniture. This house now has an abhorrent swedish-flag paintjob.


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