Sunday, April 25, 2010

Angel Assemblages

The Entourage...OR: What Was Harry Patch Guarding?
mixed media with plastic army men and found objects

The Angel of Death...OR: The Million Dollar Bet Part 1...OR: Harry Patch Had Fear
mixed media with plastic army men and found objects

Athena Above...OR: The Million Dollar Bet Part 2...OR: Carrying Them Off to Safety
mixed media with plastic army men and found objects

Angel of the Aftermath...OR What Lies Beneath the Lupine
mixed media with found objects

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Defensive Methods part 2: Parrot

What are you crazy
When your summer blackbird's gone
Chicken soup is good

Defensive Methods part 1: Blackbird

Something opened me
Won't you try to catch it up
Winter needs planning

Saturday, April 10, 2010

stretching reality...

Everything here is true. At least, it is how I have seen it happen. At some point in time, according to my perspective these things happened. The reality of “what is” is often a very fuzzy set of objects.
As I child I was supposed to water the animals. In the heat of the summer, the sun would bake the water droplet apart and scatter them in the air making it humid as a well as hot. The water trough in the horse field was an old stoppered up bathtub. Every morning it needed to have some of the menky water scooped out- that water that didn’t get baked because it hid in the shade-so that fresh cool water could be added.
One morning I filled the horse troughs as well as the ones for the sheep. I even cleaned out the horse stall. Then my father yelled for me to wake up and water the animals.
“I already did,” I told him.
“When? You have been asleep,” he growled back at me.
Ah, when confusion sets in sometimes it is like a kick in the head and sometimes it is like living on Saturn. Slowly, I realized that I had dreamed doing all my chores. In my dream I had been very efficient and thorough. All of the animals were lovingly tended, the sun was shining and the birds were singing. This was my reality. Well, reality until my father woke me up and told me that NONE of my chores had been done.
I would love to say that my tendency to dream that I have done things was limited to only that time. Conversely, I have often forgotten completely things that I have done. And to clarify, I have often forgotten good things only to be reminded by some record or other person’s memory. I have rarely forgotten the bad things. The bad, sour tasting events stick around and threaten to make everything go rotten. Sometimes with age, those rotten bad things get composted enough to be used as fertilizer. Sometimes, they are just too toxic and we never go back there. However, if everything is toxic, then you have no choice but to build your house on that dump.
Ah, that I have been charmed thus far…most of the rot has gone into the compost and come out as useful shit.
Reality is a rabbit that often runs and hides. When danger comes, reality remembers the location of that memory… sometimes. The smart rabbit jigs and jags and finds safe dens that she has placed with forethought. I believe that those dreaming states where we get things done even though we’ve really done nothing beyond the dream-world are really safe dens. Or perhaps they are our rabbit legs practicing the dancing and jigging toward safety.
Or maybe we really have no idea how far reality stretches.

Zombie Counting Song

One little zombie chasing after me:
I wacked off its head.
Now, we can flee.

Two little zombies trying to eat us:
If they bite you,
They'll be nothin' to discuss.

Three little zombies moaning for brains:
Plug up your ears,
It'll drive you insane!

Four little zombies eating up brains:
Just chop 'em into bits and
Let 'em dissolve in the rains.

Five little zombies climbing up the stairs:
Put holes in their heads
Don't send up flares.

Six little zombies burning in the sun:
Got no ammo,
Use the butt of that gun.

Seven little zombies with decomposing flesh:
If you hack off its limb,
the blood won’t be fresh.

Eight little zombies with brains that are mush:
You’re undead if they get you.
Don’t hide in a bush.

Nine little zombies closing in fast:
You’re lifetime depends
On how long you can last.

Ten little zombies at the end of it all:
Just swing that bat,
Come on: that head is a ball!

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

What happens when cows decide to wander.

When I was a child we had sheep and horses and sometimes goats and cows. The sheep and the horses generally stayed put. They tended not to wander beyond their pastures. They seemed to be content in their fields as long as there was grass, grain, hay and treats. And attention.
The cows and goats wandered. Goats climbed the fences. They burrowed under the fence. Goats were able to teleport to the other side of the pasture fence. They usually wanted only to be in the garden to eat the rhubarb stalks or else to steal clothes from off the line. Goats it seems like to be fashionable and often wear dresses in the wild.
The cows on the other hand wanted no part of the farm. They would select one cow to lay down on the fence, making it level to the ground so that all the other cows could walk out of the field, march down the road and head for parts unknown. Maybe they were going to Canada.
My grandmother had cows, too. They also didn't fix on staying in the field. One night when I was four they all got out and started walking down Quakerneck Road on the other side of Alloway. It was very dark that night and the cows were black. Their journey down the road ended when a truck hit one of their comrades. Cows are loyal creatures. When the cow was struck and downed by the car, the other cows stopped and waited with their fallen friend.
The accident was a mess. The owner of the truck was yelling at my grandmother. My grandmother was sorry for her cow. Finally the police were called in.
I was staying with my grandmother that evening waiting for my father to pick me up after his classes were over for the day. My mother was at work in the ER.
When my father arrived the scene to my four year old eyes was bedlam. It had been decided that the cow was too injured to save. Her legs were crushed and she was in serious pain. They were discussing putting her down as my father arrived on the scene.
The officer drew his hand gun and shot the cow in the eye. She bellowed and didn't die. The officer said he thought that would be the quickest way into the brain. It seemed to me that he was just afraid to get too close to the cow.
My father sucked in his breath as he bit his tongue. My father was a first or second year veterinary student, had shaggy hair and the biggest heart when it came to animal suffering. (He still is a very compassionate man although he covers it sometimes with a crispy coating) He asked the police officer for his gun stating that if the cow keeps on getting shot in the eye the cow will only suffer longer. The police officer handed his gun to my father. My father walked up to the cow, said sorry, and shot her in the head point blank. The bellowing stopped. The pain stopped. The cow slumped.
My father handed the gun back to the officer, hugged his mother and took me home.
We didn't have cows for a very long time after that.

Sunday, April 4, 2010


Influenza A/H1N1

Heliobacter pylori

Bacillus anthracis

Escherichia coli