* collagraph, photo-transfer on paper
on view at
The Black Triangle, Los Angeles.
aug. 7 - sep. 4.
Opening Reception: sat. aug. 7, 20:00.
five bone$. live noise. rude comments.
come be seduced, stay for the spectacle.
because life is just too damn short, and you might find yourself alone inside your psychotropic mind hunched over bitter and jaded, striking a forgotten pack of matches from a vegas hotel which hasn't existed since your grandparents were chain-smoking to the tune of keno, patriarch, and america
- too cold to cry.
sometimes the best way to discover if something exists is to injure it indefinitely.
the pain that cannot be bared will annihilate outright.
legend has it Oscar Wilde suffered the world a blow and killed what would otherwise have killed him.
if the proper amount of neurotransmitter careening it's way through plasma and cerebrospinal fluid is met, i will cease to be myself, or at least my expectations.
creeping its way forward through the synapses in your optic nerve, stalking you in old towns near the sound of railroad tracks. keeping you up late at night.
influence the mind and the body will follow.
as lungs dry in a heaving, tuberculous sigh - and so the host of draining struggle and illness dies from its own inherent cure.
when Freud was finished pounding open his third eye with the ludvodican hammer of cocaine the shade was drawn aside as old men relinquished themselves to the insanity of their logic. stories were told. numbers fudged. softly fingering the warm tissue of time and recollection, bemoaning the dripping past's longing for nostalgia. dreaming up a lie whispered through centuries of cytoplasm, waking upon the death of tradition's nihilism. even Bentham and Mill couldn't resist a good old fashioned longing of the earth.
one of the few things worth attempting.
especially in the desert of unreason.
