The Sock-Monkey As Alone

 " A while ago, I found myself in bloody exhaust grease London again with an all-consuming urge to hunt for two rare things: back issues of NME rumored to be secretly hidden in glass casings and submerged in the fry vats of every kebab machine in the U.K. and the very-out-of-print first Raincoats LP. The NME search was a clever, saucy upstart of an attempt to be, uh, nasty. However, the Lord and Julian Cope himself know how we need, need, need the NME to embrace the unifying hands of our children across this big blue marble and NIRVANA's tarty musical career. So please bless us again - we'll forever feed off of your high-calorie boggy turbinates. In an attempt to satisfy the second part of my quest, I went to the Rough Trade shop and, of course, found no Raincoats record in the bin. I then asked the woman behind the counter about it and she said “well, it happens that I'm neighbors with Anna (member of The Raincoats) and she works at an antique shop just a few m

"The principle factor in my success has been an absolute desire to draw constantly. I never decided to be an artist. Simply, I couldn't stop myself from drawing. I drew for my own pleasure. I never wanted to know whether or not someone liked my drawings. I have never kept one of my drawings. I drew on walls, the school blackboard, odd bits of paper, the walls of barns. Today I'm still as fond of drawings as when I was a kid - and that was a long time ago - but, surprising as it may seem, I never thought about the money I would receive for my drawings. I simply drew them." - Winsor McCay    The line of Winsor Mccay is nothing short of astounding, in many ways he is my favorite visual artist. He has a confidence and fierce grasp of anatomy in his work that is more inspired then ten of his contemporaries.    While his lovably goofy dialog (often written after the comic was drawn!) let's you feel like the whimsy of the worlds he cre

 “I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven't said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.” ― Tove Jansson Moomins are the greatest children's media ever created. That was all that I needed to say, better then a Winnie the poo or the phantom tollbooth. What Tove Jansson created is a magical place only rivaled by the works of Dr. Seuss and (depending on what you think children should be allowed to read.) Edward Gorey. But the shear humanity of her work is what he fans celebrate in their hearts. The kindness and perpetual twilight of the melancholy of the heart. That brings our inner child back to moomin valley too visit the little trolls. They are simple stories about comets and floods, but t

                  I twisted from all normalcy, when sanity turned tender. I want you to stay with me while the world turn's to cinders!                   II Because this light is not mine and this faith is all that I bring. Remember me when it is time for hell's inhabitants to sing                   III "I here the sound of riot, these days I choose to reminisce. Death will not come so quiet before my inner abyss."                       Written by Drew Garner.

 “Nothing else wounds so deeply and irreparably. Nothing else robs us of hope so much as being unloved by one we love”     ― Clive Barker     Clive Barker is primarily known as a author and filmmaker but his most interesting work for me is his oil paintings. They seem to pose the question what if van gogh was obsessed with universal horror films and metaphysics as apposed to sunflowers and starry nights. The beauty of Clive Barker's paintings, is his fascination with both whimsical but grotesque personalities and creatures. Rich with texture that only extremely close up shots of the canvas do justice (if not being seen in person) to his pattern of painting pictures on top of pictures, then taking a steak knife and scratching away at some of the layers to bring out the forgotten painting beneath the layers. Revealing something about the man, I think, in that no matter how harsh he judges his works prior failures have a place in the process of growth in every human being.

In another life with you, after service in a churchyard. I say "if you win, do I lose?" as stars rip themselves apart. The teacher let's herself loose with no remorse or restraint. her gown hit's the floor as a truce, she's to modest to constrain. With no need to connect, yet so unsatisfied. she will look at the reject and say "galaxies collide!" like a stray cat ready to play with an annoying raven. My teacher smiles when I say "I assume you kiss like a pagan!"

"I would do cartwheels naked! if it would keep you alive." She said all as if brazen, with her hand between her thighs I have impure thoughts: sublime. to hear your song of life. "I belong dead, you are not mine." I see her husband's wife. The bride of Frankenstein, Marry Shelly of my soul. the torment of the crime and purpose of my goal. skinny as a tree with figs as her lips. beautiful with every thrust I give. Sara is so dutiful, Yet confined to a session that is thirty minutes long. She's in love with aggression never satisfied and wrong.

Chapter forty-eight     In which a drunk Joseph knocks on his mothers  door coming to drunk-terms with the  fact no matter how perverse, love is love.           He was drunk on a scheme of her invitation. It's the pain of a king without variation. When resolve did return he felt sad for his blood. His mother had to learn that his fate was a flood. Tomorrow will descend even graves must be dug. This marriage will not end in the joy of a hug. Using her is not rape it's what will or what wont. Cutting through birthday cake will she say “no you don't.” Knocking on a locked door from the grave death has sprung. with the screams "your a whore!" climbing down one more rung. The descent is not far to the depth of her soul. The bright and morning star spread without like a bowl. She's naked on the floor ignoring the white noise. Of her son and his chore knowing boys will be boys. She is used like a sheep the slaughter and the blame. For the sin he

The Midnight-Freak or, twice twisted rage and a representative of death I Cross Breton was a pale handsome man with ghosts in his eyes and a crucifix tattooed on his forehead. His wife Eliza Breton had died in a bad way. With finger nail's full of torn skin and blood. Cross has spent the last eleven months developing a way to resurrect his beloved with the help of Alice Apple (his maid and a part-time pataphysician). By means of a machine, that is located in his basement. Cross remembers meeting the women at his wife's funeral “I am a friend.” said Alice “and one that you will learn to treasure”. Cross had already spent a large portion of his finances on mediums and supposed “witches” who all claimed they could communicate with or raise the dead. And when they had failed, he was certain that he was ready to meet his wife on the other-side. But a new hope arose when she said all she needed was a place to build her machine and the finances to do so. He agree

"The world always seems brighter when you've just made something that wasn't there before."  - Neil Gaiman  when i was eleven, i read stardust and decided i was going to be a writer. and i find now that i am almost thirty, that one day i woke and i was one. it's a strange thing to be what you wanted to be and surprisingly satisfying. my trilogy of books titled dharma-discharge: or the chronicles and frantic raving of a manic anarchist, is almost complete and if i continue in this direction will be before i leave my twenties. the first volume is now on sale on amazon. https://www.amazon.com/Prophet-Coffin-bumming-cigarretes-judgment-ebook/dp/B015C6CAGS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1508829852&sr=8-1&keywords=the+prophet+coffin i do not know if it is good but it is something that i imagined and wrote down. and as a author would like to improve the piece here is a link so that you can read it for free http://online.fliphtml5.com/sfcn/odqs/ Sometimes th

                                 "Most of the worst things said about me, I've said myself." -Daniel Johnston I listened to my first album all the way through, in the order i had it sequenced, when i finished it. and i think i almost beat Tommy Wiseau for the title of the disaster artist. but i have a nostalgia for the self titled album i endearingly call Mason Andrew. primarily because it was a strange idea to record  the album to begin with, at least when provided with context. i had just started the long recovery from a psychosis that lasted for almost two years. deciding that i would record as much as possible. then wait till i felt comfortable with the material and sequence it. i actually almost finished my second album songs of sara, a concept album about my therapist being god by the time i felt comfortable enough with my semi sane state to organize the mess into a coherent whole. the idea in sequencing the album was based off of two of my favorite

                   " How the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the old boar suffered." - ragnar  when i was little an older boy i knew told me to lay my hand on a brick, i complied. he then picked up another brick and slammed it on my hand making a rather gruesome damage that wasn't cleaned up in a more easy fashion. the moral of the story is don't let people bully you, when you comply it only gets worse. but the difference of doing what you need to (too survive) and being a predator is very thin. the damage we fight is both cruel and fatal. with a cold fascination i look for answers and try to share if i think i have learned anything. but the irony i now use for my sincerity turns me into yet another disaster-artist. someone who is trying to express through camp and irony what is normally reserved for people like Ingmar Bergman, or Orson Well's with their fascinating deconstructions of reality through what is perceived as as sincerity by a well mea

                                            "To start with, here is a list of things I hate." -Tim Rogers.  I based my life off a lie. but the reality is their is a new mode of expression it is irony through irony as sincerity or as it used to be called sarcasm. tim rogers was my hero who i stalked. then one day after a spree of @ mentions on twitter he @ mentioned me back, with a napalm bomb of reality, just the two letter word "hi" and i was destroyed. but the important thing here isn't that tim rogers owned me (which he did!) it is that for some reason this articulate funny man brings out the inner troll in life less losers like me in a way that is embarrassing to the species. it is like he inspires children to write a letter to Santa clause and not ask for anything. his writing is rambling indirect and sometimes a blinding light to the rest of game journalism, almost as if he is high beaming on-coming traffic just to drive them off the road. but those uni

short blog, been working like crazy learning how too code c++. and working on my web comic. but there was something i wanted to share. the hardest part of the day is waking up. jumping with faith into the life the we were forced into. with the overwhelming guilt and terror of not succeeding, of offering something and the world looks you in the eye and says "i think i will pass." but what can you do if not stare down the dread and swallow it with a cup of morning coffee. admit failure and fuck with the people that fuck with you. all you can do is try to do better the next time. but the question of authority and and the debt of inflicting pain on those that refuse to die even if the demons we face are within us. sometimes you have to live life lie you are a Sasha baron Cohen character walking around inflicting internal doubt. on a unassuming world that wants nothing but to put you into a role and let you play it out no matter how weird it makes you feel. but the childish i

 so here we are another day in the grind of ambition and loneliness. all these beautiful things are going to die and here i am making jokes trying to look into gods eyes and find what i see. the fascists are in control and it's our fault for letting the ignorant control the reflection, the one that lies to our face as we stare into the mirror. how can we help people when we can barely survive? or when the interesting and beautiful people we meet justly questions out intentions? the psychosis is deep man. it makes you feel like your the limo driver for death. his diamond rings and nonchalant fascination with things he doesn't understand but still we serve him rather then the life giving water we are offered at every moment of kindness. i ask him a stupid question "why do you want me to drive you around?" and he with his empty bone socket eyes stares at me and says "this is as close as you are going to get to heaven." i laughed defensively trying to make it

  “You only find yourself when you disobey. Disobedience is the beginning of responsibility, I think.”    ― Guillermo del Toro pan's labyrinth is a fairy-tale about the choices we make. it's about the way that life wants to take away from us what little we enter this world with. and most of all it is about how we may find liberation in disobedience. Ofelia has it rough, her mother is marrying a fascist named Vidal. Vidal is insane and at the very least has a severe case of o.c.d. and has a bad tendency to kill people. ofelia follows a fairy into the woods and finds a labyrinth garden and the doors it opens are what the film is about. later when she returns to the labyrinth she meets a faun who guides her through a series of trials that will allow ofelia to reclaim her immortality. the trials are complex and the choices not always apparent but what she finds is a redemption for the rest of us through her sacrifice.  the film is savage in it's violence bo

The artist job is to frame reality, like a picture-frame frames a painting. all we can aim for, at best all we can hope for is to not distract from the inherent beauty of the subject. because by being nothing more then a frame it is also a reduction: both limiting and limited. the purpose of the frame is to communicate but the communication by being expressed kills the potential of what could have been said. a painting is given form by exclusion. by excluding things it creates for itself a identity. by saying here i am we create a negative space of saying what we are not. we as artist exclude from our work the things we don't like or identify with and so create a world that is not as rich with potential as the one we live in. at worst this creates propaganda: using media, be it literature or water-colors, to impose a frame on the viewer instead of allowing them the opportunity to add to the work some of the things we have chipped away. in co-production the meaning of a moment is