Painting in progress – Sweet Cavity Resonance

24 04 2014

Painting in progress - Sweet Cavity Resonance

This is oil and pencil on a 24″ x 36″ canvas, just getting underway. I use layers of paint and gloss. This one will take a couple of weeks. It came to me from a fever dream. I was/am ill. I’ll be using some birds, fade the face, tether the kites, make it weird.

Plutarch said the mind was not something to be filled, but a fire to be kindled. That’s awesome. I set this character’s brain on fire. He looks like he really digs it.

Why Banana, Because Banana – Health Secrets of the banana

23 04 2014

Apples and Oranges Hate Him. What the government doesn’t want you to know bout banana.

After reading this, you’ll never look at a banana in the same way again – See more at:

Why banana? Because banana.


Tobacco – Streaker [MATURE, duh, streakers] The Higgs Boson of Weird Music

23 04 2014

This is the freakiest video I’ve ever seen.  I laughed my ugly butt off. Tobacco is Thomas Fec, frontman for Black Moth Super Rainbow out of Pittsburgh. I don’t need drugs anymore because my head just melted and then froze and then melted again. Bizarre to all walls. I wanted to dance, laugh and hide at the same time. It’s like a tsunami, a weird, dangerous naked tsunami and I like it.

LP –  Ultima Massage II drops soon

Directed by Eric Wareheim
Produced by Hillary Calhoun
Edited by Bill Benz
Costumes by Amanny Ahmad and Liz Lee

Happy Earth Day – Presenting Anima Mundi (movie) and Universal Declaration of Rights of Mother Earth

22 04 2014

From Wikipedia-
Anima Mundi is a 1992 short documentary film directed by Godfrey Reggio. The film focuses on the world of nature and wildlife, particularly jungles, sealife, and insects. The movie was commissioned by Italian jewellers Bulgari for use by the World Wide Fund for Nature in their Biological Diversity Program.
The film was scored by Philip Glass, who also worked with Reggio on Koyaanisqatsi, Powaqqatsi, and Naqoyqatsi. Anima Mundi features many of the techniques from the Qatsi trilogy, and was produced in between the release of Powaqqatsi and Naqoyqatsi, but is not considered to be directly related to the series.


Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth


We, the peoples and nations of Earth:

considering that we are all part of Mother Earth, an indivisible, living community of interrelated and interdependent beings with a common destiny;

gratefully acknowledging that Mother Earth is the source of life, nourishment and learning and provides everything we need to live well;

recognizing that the capitalist system and all forms of depredation, exploitation, abuse and contamination have caused great destruction, degradation and disruption of Mother Earth, putting life as we know it today at risk through phenomena such as climate change;

convinced that in an interdependent living community it is not possible to recognize the rights of only human beings without causing an imbalance within Mother Earth;

affirming that to guarantee human rights it is necessary to recognize and defend the rights of Mother Earth and all beings in her and that there are existing cultures, practices and laws that do so;

conscious of the urgency of taking decisive, collective action to transform structures and systems that cause climate change and other threats to Mother Earth;

proclaim this Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth, and call on the General Assembly of the United Nation to adopt it, as a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations of the world, and to the end that every individual and institution takes responsibility for promoting through teaching, education, and consciousness raising, respect for the rights recognized in this Declaration and ensure through prompt and progressive measures and mechanisms, national and international, their universal and effective recognition and observance among all peoples and States in the world.

Article 1. Mother Earth

(1) Mother Earth is a living being.

(2) Mother Earth is a unique, indivisible, self-regulating community of interrelated beings that sustains, contains and reproduces all beings.

(3) Each being is defined by its relationships as an integral part of Mother Earth.

(4) The inherent rights of Mother Earth are inalienable in that they arise from the same source as existence.

(5) Mother Earth and all beings are entitled to all the inherent rights recognized in this Declaration without distinction of any kind, such as may be made between organic and inorganic beings, species, origin, use to human beings, or any other status.

(6) Just as human beings have human rights, all other beings also have rights which are specific to their species or kind and appropriate for their role and function within the communities within which they exist.

(7) The rights of each being are limited by the rights of other beings and any conflict between their rights must be resolved in a way that maintains the integrity, balance and health of Mother Earth.

Article 2. Inherent Rights of Mother Earth

(1) Mother Earth and all beings of which she is composed have the following inherent rights:

(a) the right to life and to exist;

(b) the right to be respected;

(c) the right to regenerate its bio-capacity and to continue its vital cycles and processes free from human disruptions;

(d) the right to maintain its identity and integrity as a distinct, self-regulating and interrelated being;

(e) the right to water as a source of life;

(f) the right to clean air;

(g) the right to integral health;

(h) the right to be free from contamination, pollution and toxic or radioactive waste;

(i) the right to not have its genetic structure modified or disrupted in a manner that threatens it integrity or vital and healthy functioning;

(j) the right to full and prompt restoration the violation of the rights recognized in this Declaration caused by human activities;

(2) Each being has the right to a place and to play its role in Mother Earth for her harmonious functioning.

(3) Every being has the right to wellbeing and to live free from torture or cruel treatment by human beings.

Article 3. Obligations of human beings to Mother Earth

(1) Every human being is responsible for respecting and living in harmony with Mother Earth.

(2) Human beings, all States, and all public and private institutions must:

(a) act in accordance with the rights and obligations recognized in this Declaration;

(b) recognize and promote the full implementation and enforcement of the rights and obligations recognized in this Declaration;

(c) promote and participate in learning, analysis, interpretation and communication about how to live in harmony with Mother Earth in accordance with this Declaration;

(d) ensure that the pursuit of human wellbeing contributes to the wellbeing of Mother Earth, now and in the future;

(e) establish and apply effective norms and laws for the defence, protection and conservation of the rights of Mother Earth;

(f) respect, protect, conserve and where necessary, restore the integrity, of the vital ecological cycles, processes and balances of Mother Earth;

(g) guarantee that the damages caused by human violations of the inherent rights recognized in this Declaration are rectified and that those responsible are held accountable for restoring the integrity and health of Mother Earth;

(h) empower human beings and institutions to defend the rights of Mother Earth and of all beings;

(i) establish precautionary and restrictive measures to prevent human activities from causing species extinction, the destruction of ecosystems or the disruption of ecological cycles;

(j) guarantee peace and eliminate nuclear, chemical and biological weapons;

(k) promote and support practices of respect for Mother Earth and all beings, in accordance with their own cultures, traditions and customs;

(l) promote economic systems that are in harmony with Mother Earth and in accordance with the rights recognized in this Declaration.

Article 4. Definitions

(1) The term “being” includes ecosystems, natural communities, species and all other natural entities which exist as part of Mother Earth.

(2) Nothing in this Declaration restricts the recognition of other inherent rights of all beings or specified beings.


Introduction to awareness of ecocide: Conversation between Charles Eisenstein, philosopher, and Polly Higgins, Earth’s lawyer


Vinyl Terror and Horror

19 04 2014

Mad scientist gets a few record players and records and…does things…to them.

Weirderer than creepy. Now with more ghosts and scary. I would play this in traffic. Loud.

Dream – Horse Dollars and Macerated Onions

17 04 2014

I had a dream that dollars were replaced with actual horses.

A professor wearing a burlap blazer pointed to a large screen with a laser pointer.  When value is placed upon the ability to make an abstracted value-exchange, then surplus, abstracted wealth becomes a necessity in order to maintain continuity in the system. When a value cannot be derived from a surplus of exchanges, then negative monetization holds the system in check. Fiat money doesn’t work. If people traded horses instead of dollars, then the Koch brothers would have 10 billion horses. The staggering costs of caring for and distributing the horses (for very limited use, riding or eating) would outweigh their value.
When horses are spread out, there is less of a stress on resources needed to support horses.
Likewise, if the debt-generating capacity of banks was eradicated, then decentralized systems of wealth would always remain distributed among the commons. Imagine investor groups driving giant herds of horses into mergers. Lightweight, pocket-sized horses would become status symbols.

I operated a Metashet Mart. We no longer specialized in uber-small, workplace horses, horses that could carry your purse or laptop. A viral outbreak had wiped out stock, and my centralized distribution/husbandry company had been broken up and spread to franchises in different states. Although still attractive, metashets no longer commanded the trading power they once possessed. Tiny saddles, tiny little brushes, tiny shoes the size of thumbnails applied with curved staplers, those had likewise faded into the general landscape.

I stayed in business by marinating onions in vodka. Drunken metashets could be goaded into combative situations. Bets could be wagered upon drunken metashet horse wrestling matches. The funny thing was, the smaller the horse, the bigger the draw. One single horse in Vermont last year fetched a trade of six million acres somewhere in Nova Scotia by an anchovy baron, a rumored Freesaddler. The horse was three inches tall and blind, but it could walk.

I heated the onions with large mirrors out in a field. I slathered the onions with vegetable oil, stirred in suet and herbs, caramelizing them in giant troughs half-filled with vodka. Days were long. I often got headaches. But the spiced vodka kept me in saddles, which I could trade for medicine and books, seed and nice leather products from Arizona where the old drives still filled the canyons.

Tomorrow I would harvest another large haul of onions, replanting as I went. Gonna be a long, wet autumn according to the leaves in my old chicory cup. No one knew about my apple orchard, nor why my onions tasted so sweet, and why the horses drank my booze. I cut the vodka reduction with apple cider I kept hidden in clay jugs in the fields, buried below the maceration tables. I ran a tube into their stoppers and pumped the liquid up into the troughs. Not even my kids knew why the horses drank my onion liquor.

Apples were illegal.

The sweet brown schnapps flowed day and night. At night, my kids in bed with their diapered Pokehorses, I sat on the porch and listened to the wind. Sometimes I could almost hear the thunder of hooves, and I would close my eyes and remember the hay days of my metashet youth.

Finally, A Scientific Explanation of Why Babies Are So Dumb

16 04 2014

BAHFest 2013 – Zach Weinersmith: Weinersmith’s Infantapaulting Hypothesis

Life is short, …

14 04 2014

Life is short, art long, opportunity fleeting, experience deceptive, judgment difficult. – Hippocrates

from Hippocrates, from the Wikipedia entry on aphorism. Aphorisms sort of converge upon basic grounds when it is that the thoughts are invigorated by a struggling population against some sort of calamity. In short, these are “inspirational” ideas that lie low like the superflousness of pessimists in times of great insouciance, when it is possible to accept moral cowardice, when the chains of the poor and the declasse intellectuals rattle in our dreams, when we die the little death each comfortable day.

The middle class is a sort of drugged household pet, one that does tricks, some quite impressive, for token reward. But, even in our little beds, wearing our little collars and piddling in the corners of our weirdly confabulated and conforming landscapes, we cry out, because these struggles will come to rest heavy in our dreams, because we are not alone. Somewhere beyond the artificial horizons of our skylines, beyond the increasingly empty quarters of our suburbs, beyond the agrideserts of GMO corn and soy, beyond our trash-choked and over-fished oceans, lies the open territory of space, black, eternal night. When we lie down and are washed out to this cosmic sea of interviduated dreams, our collective unconscious recognizes archetypes of longing, of desire and sorrow, like little stars, little bright lights, and like moths even unto death, are we drawn towards sources of illumination.

The urban poor who crowd the perimeters of street lights at night selling drugs, their bodies, each other, weapons, are only the vanguards of a greater population of the impoverished and disillusioned. Lying awake at night, when we should be dreaming, worried about food for the hungry, do we wonder what the 1% are worried about? Do we care how they suffer? Is their cowardice and callous indifference to the suffering of the great majority of people going to change how they act tomorrow, when they wake up and slavishly bend their minds upon the anvil of greed, forging sharp weapons of their thoughts to cut away the chaff of the working poor, to enjoy minimalism, the emptying of our shanty towns with all their incongruent lives living so shabbily upon the shores of Cash Island.

Do we tell our children there is no hope in changing the system? It is the rare species of artist, of intellectual, of theologian, of scientist who, inside the furnace of this great devouring beast of Western civilization that finds a way to reject the pallid trophies handed down by the crapitalist masters, to look at this decoupage we are encouraged to call a value-system, to call a “civilization” and say, I’ve been robbed. What I have is shit. The trappings of conspicuous consumption, the fear of the lash. The proud business deal, the iron bars upon the minorities, locking down who cannot be locked out. It’s the same thing if one cause the other. If, by excluding the majority of people from access to good food, clean water and air, shelter and education to create technological advances in civil engineering and medicine, in art and culture, if we trade these zones of happiness for the chance to have a swipe at these pinatas of bullshit, then we have for prizes to share the mendacity of our own retreating courage to share.

We are encouraged to deceive our children. It is a tradition. We feed them ideas of imaginary, gift-bearing creatures that come to sweep us away in a pageantry of joy and sense of belonging. And, behind each holiday, we have an industrial-scale system of slave wage workers pumping out the goods that we can share for these brief respites from the crushing, endless road of struggle we face. We know things are not going to get better. We know the banks aren’t going to return the possibility of interest to our savings accounts.

The grain silos are bought, the land built and bought-out. There are no more corners of the globe to explore that we haven’t already been, haven’t covered with commentary and given substance to the shadows of our vacations. In the light of day we all hide in the open, waiting, waiting for what? I feel like I’m watching a lumbering beast lying before an advancing forest fire, aware it’s in danger, but not willing to stir from its cool shady mud bath until the oxygen is sucked from the air, the mud dries, until it is trapped in the mire that once served as refuge from the mosquitoes that feasted upon its immobility, its great bulk of comfort, congealed like glue, holding it fast forever, the vice of comfort.

When I was young, I threw away my life. I threw away most of my acquaintances, slipped from my identity as if it were some sort of robe, and decided to travel, if but to struggle alongside the people who made my blue jeans, who harvested the food flown in to my city that I might enjoy “a night out”, who toiled in the gardens under the threat of deportation, who didn’t have places in which to gather and protect themselves with legislative representation. I wanted to do black market agricultural labor, to find a window for refugees to at least find egress from collapsing city-state and nation-state. Having lived in the jungle in Malaysia as an exchange student in high school, I had learned that there is no safer quarter for the heart than in poverty. Poverty is honest. Where the masters have taken away nearly everything, you still have song, you have heart, you have a love of your compatriot that you can’t get when packed like sardines in the corporate matrix. I went to greece to work. I thought i would fill my pockets and move on. As luck would have it, Ii was robbed of my possessions, my camping gear, and in the course of some work for free room and board I landed a job as a youth hostel manager. Suddenly, I realized, my job would be the geography of discovery, and not the land itself. The world was going to come to ME.

I wanted to ride the ragged edge of struggle. I’m just glad i never entered any violent enclaves of war. I don’t know if I would’ve made it out. When I ran a youth hostel in Sitia,Crete in 1992,, I watched the walls of jingoism and ignorance fall away. I encouraged artists and poets to write upon the old plaster, to draw pictures, to dream themselves anew. The place was a crossroads. I met tourists, refugees, criminals, the insane, the truly lost, even a couple of ghosts, and when I left, I had become a kind of chimera, a less-than-me individual full of more-of-you. I had become the crossroads I sought, a fertile ground for ideas, very fragile, very pure, and when I returned to America, about two minutes inside the airport, I felt myself fall apart. The immensity of the culture shock took me nearly a decade to internalize to the point that I could function within my community well enough to try to volunteer and help others again. It took a decade for my broken heart to heal, my body to overcome the self-destructive invitation to consume the lies that would allow me to wallow in the refreshing filth of an uncritical lifestyle, to have the strength and courage to abandon self-pity.

Life is short, art is long, opportunity fleeting, experience deceptive, judgement difficult, said Hippocrates. But, with better tools, these things become easier.

We have acces to information. Democratic control of information gives rie to democratic control of life-resources, to medicine, to food, to a safe environment. I am not so blind to think that my dissidence is pitted against an unfeeling machine. There are those who worked inside the machine that is destroying the world who are waiting for the parallel infrastructure of rebellion to appear, to pick up the slack and pull just as mightily to bring down the rabid monster of unchecked power no less passionately than the minority youth who languish in prison on stupid and racist drug charges. Black urban men who wanted to get ahead and feed their families, protect their communities, build their churches, their sanctuaries, they were unfortunate to be the low men on the pole for the money-laundering, international banking cartel slave-drivers that are running the whole planet to the ground. They went down first.

The first thing people can do is stop buying garbage and putting it in their bodies. If it comes from a company traded on the NYSE, if it has an “investment class” behind it, you can be sure they’re not investing in you nor your future. If you think they’re going to wake up and say, wow, I want to relinquish my choke-hold on the planet’s resources just so I can selfishly maintain this need to sit atop this heap of misery, you’re wrong. The subaltern dissent in the technical sectors, in the outsourced management communities, they’re just waiting to vie their trades for the right reason, but too afraid to stick out their necks, to be the “no man” in the board room. This is a death cult, and it will come at a price. If it is that the declasse intellectual sitting at his desk in his cube farm stands up, declares mutiny, it would take a small amount to arrest the flow of capitalized wealth, destroy “investor confidence” and grind the machine to a halt.

Seriously, I don’t want to see the cities burn. I don’t want the paranoid masters invest more time and money to militarize the infrastructure of the police and surveillance state. It’s already ridiculously incompetent. After all, this was all done to fight the “terrorists”, and the very rich are deathly afraid of losing wealth. If you have any understanding of Karl Marx, you would know that the working poor are terrorists, that doctors and social workers are terrorists, artists are terrorists, children are terrorists. They are unknown quantities of imagination and freedom. They are making decisions to have fun, and to share good times. Crapitalism is not about sharing and preserving resources. Crapitalism is about excluding the greatest numbers of people from the greatest abstractions of wealth. We’ve been singing along, alone in the night, for so long. Can we get it together and make it right? You said follow your heart. You said to be true. You said kill your idols, you said to be the change you wanted to be, you said you would wake up and make a change. Well, honey, sing it louder.

Built To Spill, “You Were Right” 

You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright
You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright

You were right when you said all that glitters isn’t gold
You were right when you said all we are is dust in the wind
You were right when you said we’re all just bricks in the wall
And when you said manic depression’s a frustrated mess

You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright
You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright
You were wrong when you said everything’s gonna be alright

You were right when you said you can’t always get what you want
You were right when you said it’s a hard rain’s gonna fall
You were right when you said were still running against the wind
Life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone
You were right when you said this is the end

Do you ever think about it?
Do you ever think about it?
Do you ever think about it?
Do you ever think about it?


Sitting on your hands and watching the world go to ruin will eventually lead to the flash points of violent uprising that the power structure is designed to profit from.

Painting – Tropix Flower

11 04 2014

Painting - Tropix Flower

Oil and ink on canvas board [ 8" x 12" ], decor

A line about Moby-Dick; or, The Whale – just spitballing here

9 04 2014

Put the Greek classics in the Bible, put that in Shakespeare, add Kant and Hobbes, stir in some stolen salts from old Araby, tenderize with the finest skrimshanders of the six drubbing dirt heaps and their paucity of civilized barbarity, dip the fine onion of it inside a creosote sarcophagus of timeless sea lore, and let it drift across the ocean a better part of a century, ’til its cook dies and leaves it to the world, mysteriously like a tree seduced by lightning, blackened and hollow, the wind through it moaning why, why, why will you often wonder would a will so unquiet, so malcontent and furious provide such an ample promise of emptiness for us all in its scorched breath, could beg you, would plead you cozen close to the blaze of fury that lurks within the mortal agony of suffering life, that you for a spell may reflect upon the beautiful filigree of prosody woven into the whip-cracks descending upon the long backs of each chapter, yarns woven with wily cunning through it, binding the failed quietus  that roasts this epic tale, to wit, gives you respite’s own ladle to pour the black ink of the deep sea upon your brow, some for yourself, all the while demanding you as a reader ask  this enigmatic Melville who burned  with glowing, low sullen passions so steadily from the crow’s nest of Western literature, so you may ask after you’ve poured it well upon your skull – lest you keep from scorching, pour carefully, while you brown nicely, your skin becoming a tough leather – you will bear this food for the uncaring gods, come to table unchaired, a hot cask of your own lardage, until the embers pull the last red spark from your eyes and your question from your blistered lips, how do we defy the end? Or you may ask, indeed, if it ends at all?

Hast seen the white whale?

Hast seen the white whale?

Kind of bland. Like eating a night rainbow. If you wanted a literary feast, beware, this tale starts with a black hole – you are going to tangle with a turduken you never dreamed possible. This is the one that gets away, and with you in the belly of it. Now with extra hapax legomenon.

Oh god, that was the longest sentence I ever wrote. Dear grammar, I’m sorry. Please don’t be so troubled.


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