Defecating Gurus

Last night in my dream I went to a very open cabin in the middle of the city to a woman who was my chiropractor. She was a voluptuous large-bodied white woman with long straight blonde hair. It looked like her name was Caroline.

Her home or office was decorated in a hippy wood nymph design. I laid on the table covered only by a sheet and waited for her to come into the room. She started to work on my back but I just kept getting distracted by everything around me. She kept asking why I couldn’t calm down, relax. I told her I just wasn’t feeling this today even though I know I needed it.

Throughout my entire time on her table I felt the need to defecate and thought I’m just not in the right situation. A friend of hers came in, another client, and she went to help them with something. I felt this would be the perfect time to use her bathroom.

The bathroom was very open plan much like her entire office or home. The door to the bathroom was wooden with windows in it and a faint loose curtain on the other side. There were windows on each side of the door, those windows did not have any curtains. I felt very vulnerable as I didn’t think it was proper to be using the toilet at my chiropractor’s office, especially if she could simply look in the window and see what I was doing.

I paced the floors waiting for her to be too busy outside that door so I could do my business. I remember repeatedly washing my hands and wondering if I could get through the day, through her session, without having to go and use the toilet.

I decided I may be able to use the toilet as she seemed pretty busy with her friend. I lifted the lid of the toilet and it was filled with clear clean water but it was right up to the brim, and there was seaweed and water lilies floating within the water. On the top of the water sat two medium sized honey bees. They were very much alive.

I was startled by the bees and at the same time I thought to myself that bees are supposed to be rather friendly. The one bee immediately lifted off into the air and flew around me. It quickly flew away from me, but the other bee slowly flew towards me. I stepped away quickly trying not to startle it and was hoping it would not sting me. I feel that it may have stung my right upper arm but I’m not sure that I noticed as I was distracted then by my ankle.

At the same time of dealing with the bee I noticed that there were some sort of small flea like bugs that were on my left foot and ankle. A smattering of them, they could have even been very tiny spiders. I felt very interrupted throughout this process. After all I had just wanted to use the toilet and now it seems that this was not going to be possible due to it looking as it did. There was too much water in it and then there was the problem with all of that seaweed.

One of the bugs on my ankle bit me and immediately drew blood. I remember exclaiming “Jesus! That could be poisonous.”

I felt as though now I was in a worse situation than when I had entered the room. I needed to finish my session and I was concerned that our time had actually run out without fixing me. I still felt like I had to defecate, but now I was bleeding at my ankle and I didn’t know what these bugs were. I continue to repeatedly wash my hands in the basin. Over and over with a heavy feeling of worry in my stomach. I can still remember how that felt right now.

The chiropractor was waiting outside of the bathroom very patiently. It seems like her next customer had already arrived and she was concerned about me. She began to look through the window to see if I was okay, I remember saying that I would be out in just a little bit.

I remember that I eventually did exit the room and lay back down on her table. Actually I laid down on top of her, I was face up so as if she was holding me but somehow manipulating my back with her fingers from behind. She claimed I just could not get comfortable, and I agreed.

She suggested that we might want to have sex and that it could get my mind off of things. However her next client was already sitting to the side waiting, watching us with a confused look on his face, and we decided there just wasn’t enough time left to do anything. I must note that the conversation and the feeling wasn’t of concern that her client would be watching us as we had sex, but simply that time had run out. Neither of us would have minded an audience. This woman possibly named Caroline was very open in her nature, just like her home was this big open airy wood nymph cabin. There was a constant breeze blowing through everything, curtains everywhere moved gently.

The last thing I recall was walking away from her home or office. I felt unfulfilled. My back still hurt and I felt like we really could have had good sex in front of her client. I remember feeling strongly that I really could have had a better session. But on the other hand I was thankful that I was able to finally get out of there and go home to take a shit.

A Recent Cookie, November 2018

A Recent Cookie, November 2018

To Sleep Perchance to Live

To have all the experiences that daily Waking Life restricts us from.

To travel to places we cannot afford and that the society will not allow us.

To love people we will never get the chance to love because they do not love us.

To rekindle friendships with friends long gone.

To have long-lasting meaningful conversations with The Dead.

To kindle friendships with the Unborn.

To sleep perchance to really live, and make life worth it.

It escapes the daily doldrums and sometimes it’s so much sweeter without the pain, without the discomfort or the embarrassment.

Perchance sleeping isn’t really sleeping at all.

For what is this Waking Life?

Wafting odors of trash that needs to be taken out, again. The pots and pans on the stove with leftover food in them rotting with more stink. The dishes that need to be washed.

The bug crawling across your chest.

The aching knees that remind you of things falling to pieces.

The Daily Grind of going to a workplace to barely afford your lifestyle no matter how much money they ever give you.

Twenty thousand, fifty thousand, 1 million, you’ll spend it all. You’ll need more. You’ll always run out! I promise.

What is daily life?

What is awake?

Is this awake?

Or is that awake?

To sleep is sometimes to be more awake than the zombies I see going about their daily lives.

They’re sleepwalking all day long.

Perchance to sleep may be better than perchance to wake. Dreams are a glory of which we are able to live through them.

You may never fly with those knees but you will soar in your dreams.

You may never love or be loved with what’s in the daily mirror, but you can have it all in Dream Land.

He’ll find you attractive there.

She’ll think you’re irresistible there.

You’ll never fall short in the sack while dreaming in your sack.

You get what you want, you experience pleasures and pain that you never would get the opportunity to otherwise.

You can soar and you can sink in dreams.

Perchance we’ll see you there when you’re done sleepwalking all damned day.

The Artist D, August 2018

The Artist D, August 2018

The Damnable Hum

And I hear the sounds of silence. That which is not silent at all. The rustle of the trees, dry and crisp in true Summer. The birds and creatures making little noises. But no hum. No damnable city-like hum. Only the sound of the truth.

I’ve been driving for a little under five hours and it feels like I just left. All I can figure is that this is the sign of unwinding a very tightly coiled self. I listen to books, podcasts, and music as I go. And it really helps shake me back to who I really am. Or at least who I presume myself to be.

This time it feels like I could do with five more hours before arrival. Five more hours of podcasts and books. That’s how much coil is left within to be shaken. Either that or I’ve finally acclimated to traveling far distances, again. I had ceased distant travel many years ago and eventually became impatient with it.

It is hot, but delightfully so. I have missed this so much. This time it may take me four full days to fully explain. To rattle out the words onto the paper and into the typer.

I run into a lot of people here who have very strange conversations with me. They’re small town people and I think they can sense that I am just a little off. I’m not a tourist, but I don’t live here. They ask me if I’m from here. They ask if I live around here. I tell them every time, “No, do I look familiar?” And they say, “Nah.” Then I ask why they would ask in the first place and they add, “It’s nothin’.”

It is nothing. It’s the void that I have which most people don’t. It’s that I am so very much and I have depth, yet I’m hardly a functioning human. At least, I don’t function like most of the humans. I’m some strange observer from a distant land. It’s that extraterrestrial within me that shines to the people out here.

People stop me and have conversations about their slipped disks or their desire to be transgender. This is not with any previous introductions as to who I may be! They simply open up. I think they just know. I’m not like all the others and I’ll understand, “for some reason.”

The wind rustles through this bushy field. There are leafy trees, burnt trees, and those magical looking stocks with fuzzy things on the ends. They sway and they glisten in the sunshine like a slow motion dream. A bird with a super bright yellow belly is sitting on a twig staring at me. We may know each other from another time and place too.

I sit here like I am in a dream. My happy place. My landscape.

I was talking to my psychic this morning and she asked me what my landscape was. What geography do I connect with? I love the way that she put that. I connect with many geographies and this is one of them. The flat dry Wild West. The rolling red mountains sprouting up among all of these slow motion weeds. The empty horizon. The empty towns. The lack of people and the lack of that damned hum.

I also connect with the ocean. Raging and wet as it beats against the land, sanding it down slowly throughout forever after forever. I love the ocean. It’s safe out there. At least as safe as floating in space with no man or woman to burn horrors into your spirit.

I come here like I go there. I escape the humming city walls and go off to these places where I cannot, for some unknown reason to me, live permanently. The universe keeps me locked up in that damned city. But I come here or there or somewhere just like I drift off into another dream. In my mind I float to magical lands. In my meat suitcase I venture to them.

The Artist D

The Artist D, June 2018

 

Originally posted at Fourculture.com, August 22, 2017

Quentin Crisp and I in a Bunker

Last night I had a dream I was sharing an underground bunker with Quentin Crisp and a war was raging above us by two female armies.

One faction was a Nazi-like army of women and the other was an Amazonian type. We were in the underground bunker which was actually an underground stage floor of a dance club.

We decided there was nothing else better to do than sit around and watch the armies above. “The art of being,” Quentin chided.

I realized that I should take selfies with Quentin Crisp because in this dream I knew he was already dead. Since he was here with me and currently alive we took advantage of the situation. I took photos with my old digital camera from the nineties, a very small silver Nikon.

Eventually Michael Musto from The Village Voice showed up and then he took our picture too!

Later as the war waged on above us the shots began to fire through the windows. The bunker slowly morphed into more like a basement type of building, so there were suddenly windows up high near the ceiling. Sometimes bullets came flying through the walls at us.

Sooner than later I had to go up above ground to get some supplies. I remember climbing this long gritty stairway to a rusty basement door that swung open onto the surface. Amanda Lepore was there to greet me. She was dressed glamorously as she always is. I got the supplies and then took Amanda down into the club so we could all could take selfies with Mr. Crisp.

Quentin, Amanda, and I all understood this was a unique situation due to the dream space that suddenly had been provided. We knew we had to take advantage of this unique opportunity together.

The female armies were quickly closing in and the bullets were starting to nick our shoulders, arms, and legs. There was beginning to be nowhere to hide. Everyone in the bunker was now injured and bleeding. We knew that before long the underground would be dead.

All at the same time we looked at each other and realized the metaphor right before I woke up.

The Artist D

The Artist D, July 2018

Pulling Mother Earth’s Hair

I stayed in bed for hours pondering all of the things we ponder. None of it seems to get any clearer. Not with age or experience. It doesn’t clear up with sobriety. I can’t say that meditation does the trick. It certainly all does something, but it hasn’t done much else.

If there is one thing to be learned by any semblance of longevity it is that this has happened before and this will all happen again.

I look back into my archives of all the friends I have had. I look closely at the encounters we shared. I take the closest look at the photos of people now dead. I read their letters. To look into those eyes and remember the exchange while knowing how they ended it. To know you’ve surpassed a person’s time on Earth is like winning a very confusing race. I’m not sure if it’s actually winning, because I don’t know where they’ve gone.

Why do we do so many of the things that we do? More so, why do we spend so much time on all of this when we appear to know there’s so much better time to be spent on that. I don’t want to work on nothing. I want to work on something. I have a lot of something.

But then why do some stay up all night playing video games? Why do others spend the entire Holiday Weekend scrolling Facebook? What is with all of the “moral panic and outrage” when it accumulates to nothing more than exercises in irrelevancy? We all end up angling our lives in such bizarre directions. We seem to waste all the time we swear against ever wasting. We keep tumbling around a lifelong hamster wheel and we never seem to get it right.

I can’t tell you how many Sunday mornings I have lost to the temptation of sleep. I love sleep. I love dreams. Dreams are so delightful. As my body aches to awaken early and take brisk walks in the Summer dawn. I yearn to wake up “on time” but my body and brain have far more dreamy plans. They’d prefer to stay in the dark room and have another exciting adventurous dream.

My body and brain know all too well what awaits on the outside is nowhere near as exciting as what is to be conjured from the inside.

We keep doing it. I keep doing it. I keep plodding along looking for the path. A continuous debate regarding forks in roads. I think I know it. You seem to think you know it. There’s a reason for it. Somewhere there is a reason waiting impatiently to be unveiled.

The Artist D, May 2018

The Artist D, May 2018

Coyote Wanderlust

It’s 9 pm and no one has Liked my recent photo for the last hour.

I’ve been checking.

I’m reading a book about coyotes and I keep checking my phone between each chapter.

I didn’t know the book was about coyotes until I bought it. Now I read it uninterested yet oddly enthralled.

Some dumb author I found to be brilliant had recommended this coyote book to me. I guess he’s not that brilliant after all.

I keep reading this book. Like a badly cooked meal you’re too hungry to throw out.

This is the future. This is our 21st century.

I can’t get through a chapter or an act without checking. Feed me the Like. Like good drugs gone bad. Like drugs. The drugs of Like.

It could be worse. I’m not mainlining something that could kill me. Or am I? Likes are deadly substances.

Don’t snort too many Likes or you could OD. I learned that back in 2002.

They ruin our mental state. They take away from reading books and watching plays. About coyotes.

Back with the coyotes I go.

It turns out we’re all rummaging through the trash looking for things we Like. In cities we have no business being lost inside of.

The Artist D, May 2018

The Artist D, May 2018

Ancient Thoughts on Net Neutrality from an Original Internet Superstar

Preface  I know exactly what Net Neutrality is and the danger of living without it. I understand the difference between websites and ISPs. This article is a bitter old Net Queen’s unabashed ranting for people to get off of her lawn.

The overall reaction to the repealing of Net Neutrality has left me in confusion. People act as if it is the end of the Internet that they know today. They are posting memes on Facebook with the ridiculous spin of, “It’s been nice knowing you!”

The mass populace probably has nothing to worry about because they are already the almighty consumers of corporate crap. They’ve been eating what the mass media has been feeding them since 2004. That’s roughly the year I recall where the true Internet underground fell off the map and was replaced with a steaming pile of dog shit. It’s been down hill ever since and a look back in my blog can remind us that I’ve been saying so all of the way.

With the repealing of Net Neutrality ISP’s will be able to further control what you see. As if you’ve had a problem with that lately since all you have been looking at was Facebook, Tumblr, and Gmail. Without Net Neutrality you may have to pay to watch Netflix or Amazon Prime, kind of like we already do. To your astonishment now that Net Neutrality is possibly gone you may find some websites blocked from your view! Just like Facebook blocks you from seeing most of my posts linking you to my website or Internet live streams. Unless I pay Facebook, that is. Just like a country blocks you from content if you have a specific IP address outside of that country. Unless you pay for a VPN tunnel. Hmm, yes, it’s going to be so unfair, just like it already is.

The people it will hurt are people you haven’t cared about for years! You’ve already enabled the corporations to steamroll over the content creators and independent underground artists by allowing the Internet to become what it already is before, during, and after Net Neutrality. YouTube single-handedly put beautifully articulate content creators in a bind in favor of monetizing vanilla bullshit. Oh, but, without Net Neutrality it will allow the ISP’s to be unfair! As unfair as the corporations owning the websites already have been. It’s just another level of unfair frosting to the unfair cake.

It’s all just crushing the little guy a little bit more than we already were. But you didn’t care about him or her or them anyway! The Fourculture Magazines of the world are just going to be a little more strangulated. The underground zines and that unpopular YouTube shows will still be just as neglected, demonetized, and regulated to the corners. You have nothing to worry about because there will still be Netflix, Amazon, Facebook, and probably even Tumblr porn. You have nothing to worry about, almighty consumer, because for the Internet to exist at a profit they must continue to provide you with the bullshit you already consume! They are probably not plotting to take away your Netflix. They’re plotting to take away your indie underground artist whom may dare to turn a buck without giving a cut to The Man.

They’ve been erasing people like me from the day they found out the Internet was a profit center. That was the day it all started to burn to the ground. And that was a long time ago.

I am asked if I am upset about the changes regarding Net Neutrality and I’ll tell you that I was upset before and after! It has nothing to do with Net Neutrality making things better or worse. It already was shit before they got started. It was shit when we, the content creators, were pushed into the margins and our hits were reduced to nothing as people began to flock to the corporate cannibals. It was shit when the gates were opened and a global population logged on to make the Internet just like everything else. And worse yet, to make it a part of society!

I already pay a premium for my personal outgoing Internet speeds. I already pay extra for faster web service to bring my content to you at a decent downloadable speed. I already have to pay Facebook if I want it to share my project links with all of the people who want to see them. This all in a world of Net Neutrality! What’s so neutral about it as it currently is? Even my YouTube videos get demonetized and hidden away in favor of the corporate content, right now in a world with Net Neutrality.

Without Net Neutrality the ISP will be able to limit your access to websites. Websites that are already limiting your access to the content upon them. That sounds like another level of bullshit to me.

All I’m hearing are a lot of people complaining that they might have to pay more for their entertainment. Well, they never paid me much for mine, so I’m not particularly dismayed that they’re now screwed by The Man. You welcomed The Man into this box and you let him survive. You could have left him behind in the terrestrial world with antennae and television tubes, but you brought him into the Internet. You let him load us up with shows and incorporate all of his records and paper pileup into our circuits. You let him destroy the organic artistic freedom that once was and now you’re upset that he’s charging admission. Potentially a steep admission!

It seems there is a fear that with the repealing of Net Neutrality we may lose some people from the Internet. But if you ask old Internet Superstars like me, well, we’ve been waiting for the mass populace to get the fuck off of the Internet since 2004. It’s been a shithole since and it’ll be a shithole with or without the Neutrality. You’ve got nothing to worry about Almighty Consumer, because they need your money. They don’t need my art.

It’s funny how much you realize you can live without something once you’ve had everything that it can offer. At times like these people like me are aching to get back to our flip phones and 5 AM newspaper deliveries. I would not have ever wanted to live my life without the Internet, but now that it has become all that it is, I think I could do without it.

The Artist D, December 2017

The Artist D, December 2017

Dream Dust

Written in hypnagogia.

Transcribed by phone.

To sleep perchance to live.

To have all the experiences that daily Waking Life restricts us from.

To travel to places we cannot afford and that the society will not let us.

To love people we will never get the chance to love because they do not love us.

To hate them with lawless passion.

To rekindle friendships with friends long gone.

To have long-lasting meaningful conversations with the Dead.

To kindle friendships with the Unborn.

To sleep perchance to really live, and make life worth living.

It escapes the daily doldrums and sometimes it’s so much sweeter without the pain, without the discomfort or the embarrassment.

Perchance sleeping isn’t really sleeping at all.

For what is this Waking Life?

Stinking odors from the trash that needs to be taken out, again. The pots and pans on the stove with leftover food in them rotting with more stink. The dishes now need to be washed.

The bug crawling across your chest.

The aching knees that remind you of things falling to pieces.

The Daily Grind of going to a workplace to barely afford your lifestyle no matter how much money they ever give you.

Twenty thousand, fifty thousand, one million, you’ll spend it all. You’ll spend it on everything! You’ll need more. You’ll always run out!

What is daily life?
What is awake?
Is this awake?
Or is that awake?

To sleep is sometimes to be more awake than the zombies I see going about their daily lives.

They’re sleepwalking all day long.

Perchance to sleep may be better than perchance to wake. Dreams are a glory of which we are able to live through them.

You may never fly with those knees but you will soar in your dreams.

You may never love or be loved with what’s in the daily mirror, but you can have it all in Dream Land.

He’ll find you attractive there.
She’ll think you’re irresistible there.
You’ll never fall short in the sack while dreaming in the sack.

You get what you want, you experience pleasures and pain that you never would get the opportunity to otherwise.

You can soar and you can sink in the dreams.

Perchance we’ll see you there when you’re done sleepwalking all day.

Snapchat-2010829528

The Artist D, July 2017

Travelers Inbound

They piled out of a beaten up cliché of a wanderer’s van. He wore a short raggedy belly shirt. His skinny stomach showing off to the world. He had a vest on. Tall with dirty blonde hair. I could have eaten breakfast off of his stomach had I not been so concerned with where it had been.

She was the quintessential new age hippie. She wore a Hugh Hefner smoking jacket, booty shorts, and a pirate’s hat with cat ears on it. An old guitar, non-electric also known as acoustic, hung from around her shoulders. At times she strode down the median strumming a god awful noise.

Their third and final partner in crime was also a woman. She looked like Janis Joplin. That was it. That was all. She stood near the van. She rummaged through their junk. She even had on those round sunglasses.

They sat there aside from the traffic going by. Some people honked and others stopped to have weird conversation. I was of course most taken with the man. Remember, breakfast on his abs, if only his abs weren’t the direct correlation of gum on a park bench. You just don’t know where those abs have been.

Bell bottoms! They all wore bell bottoms! Everyone was so cliché that it was a wonder if they were truly an organic 21st century wanderer. But you can put all doubts aside as they smelled organic.

It makes you want to run away. Maybe not you. Maybe it’s just me. I want to run away. I want a beaten up guitar and abs that surely someone would eat breakfast off of no matter where I have hung my hat. I want cohorts. I want traveling companions. I want to live in a van and play music down a median while wearing cat ears. We can bum coffee and donuts every morning. I can bum it. We will bum it across the country in that beaten up van. We can play Free Bird until our ears bleed. You can pretend that Janice Joplin hasn’t been dead for six hundred and fifty three years. You and your round sunglasses.

Let’s go into work on Monday and tell them to shove it. Let’s tell them that there is bumming to be done across this great country. We don’t even have to tell them. Let’s leave now. We’ll make this country great again with your booty shorts and cat ears. My abs. My abs will make this nation great. Our van and our donuts. Eating breakfast and getting off.

Me and my abs. The random villages. The random men. With random women. The random dicks. The random pussies. With the random breakfasts served upon delicious skin. You and me and Bobby McGee.

The Artist D Meets a Man in the Woods, February 2017

The Artist D Meets a Man in the Woods, February 2017

For Immediate Release

The key is to invent ways to speak into the machine but not listening to what it has to say. That I have been learning within this immediate future.

To release our thoughts into the machine. It’s what we do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s what you have become obsessed with doing. Your sounding board. Your deafening stick. You keep preaching to your own choirs.

For immediate release. You are ready for immediate release. You should release. Doesn’t that word all by itself sound so delicious? Release. It is becoming of so many things.

Release yourself from thinking that you have to fit in. Let yourself flounder in the steamy pools of insincerity that humanity has conjured. Release yourself into the flow of the universe. Speak into the machine. Do not listen to the machine. You speak to it, it does not speak back to you. DO NOT LISTEN TO THE MACHINE.

The art of releasing yourself from the fear of them vs. you. To pull your hands away from each other just because a stranger approaches. We wouldn’t have these problems if we all talked to each other. I want to see you do more than hold hands in public. Right in front of me. In public.

To release yourself from the employ of the Barons of Normalcy. To put down your fondle pad and remove the ear buds blocking your canals. To call in and say, “I’ve decided to not come in this month.”

May your hair not look the same every day. May you eat banana cream pie with a modified paper cup because you forgot to steal a spoon. May it taste even better because you had to create a spoon.

Engulf yourself with enlightenment by taking the trail which has not been beaten. Take the turn with the sign marking, “Danger – Do Not Enter.” Do not go down their paths. Make your own damned paths. The secret is not on the paved road with all of the people crowding your view. The secret is hidden after the weeds and the trees, up the steep cliff where few have thought to climb. If you are not stabbed by a cactus while getting there then you haven’t gotten anywhere. You have to bleed on your unbeaten path to make it yours. Release yourself. The javelina must circle you in the dark.

Release yourselves to the wild. Release your wiles to the rainbows. Talk to strangers and steal a moment of release with them. Dye, cut, crimp, and straighten. Ferment in the muddy gully until you bring the hypnagogic dreamscape into the known landscape. Release yourself immediately for immediate release.

The Artist D, November 2016

The Artist D, November 2016