Archives for March 2014

New 3_D Art

working on this 4 x 8 foot space painting.  My next 4 x 8 will be more artistic, I hope.

IMAG1273

What goes on in the mind is unknown

For people like me and you, visual imagery

can change our worlds. Meditation relieves

stress and silences the chattering in our brains,

by emptying the remains of harmful thoughts.

 

Our subconscious removes barriers and the truth

is, we experience self-hypnosis when zoning out

by altering our brain wave states through hypnosis

and meditation that reach the same place by an alpha state

 

that opens the road to our unconscious minds where

unwanted behaviors can be changed. To get over love

or hate that we carry as freight, all we need to do is alter

our perceptions of things we can’t seem to control.

 

If we believe, we can leave our bodies behind and say farewell

and dwell in another world or place while forgetting pains and

addictions life has bestowed upon our fragile bodies that are only

avatars for our conscious minds.

 

Using bodies for pleasure is out of date and soon only spiritual minds

of all kinds will inhabit the universe and hurting and injuring others will

cease to exist on everybody’s list, because our minds will only have words

and thoughts to prove, even if we can’t move, that we’re alive.

 

 

Flash Fiction I wrote today. UFO Convention.

 

At a UFO convention in Las Vegas I couldn’t take my eyes of a rail thin girl with multi colored hair  wearing a skin tight Star Trek uniform that outlined her curves as Jeri Ryan’s costume in Voyager did hers.

The girl I eyeballed was smoking hot too, as my friends used to say about Ryan. I shuffled over to her on my size 18 web footed snow shoes I purchased to leave Bigfoot tracks in the snow, but wore now with my one piece alien costume that covered me from head to toe

in green and purple splotched latex that represented an alien from a snow covered planet.

“Are you from Earth?” I asked.

She gazed at me with her purple irises that spun and changed color every two seconds. Never knew they made contact lenses able to spin.

She smiled and filed down teeth showed. Must be fake, but they sure seemed real. Then her calming voice washed over me like an ocean wave that washed away my fears of rejection and opened a world of possibilities. Her sharpened teeth became a thing of beauty to me. I wanted her to bite my tongue. I put a hand to her waist and flew against the wall.

She smiled again and said, “You can look, but never touch.”

“Damn girl, are you electrified?” I looked for a battery pack, but nothing could be concealed under the clothes she wore. Her hair, it must be hidden there. I raised my drink as to make a toast and dumped it onto her head. Sparks flew. I knew I must have figured right when her face began to melt and metal shone through.

The Jeri Ryan look alike pointed a metal finger at me, grabbed me with her vice-like-hand, and hung me out of the window on the 25th floor. I kicked and screamed and tried to return inside, but she laughed a sweet robotic sound and said, “Never, never make a robot mad.”

“How can a robot be as beautiful as you?” I said.

Her sharpened teeth took a bite of the glass she held in one hand. I heard it crunching as she chewed it and then spit out a fine spray that cut through my latex costume and into my skin. I felt the metal fingers holding me losing their grip, so I tried to reach safety by swimming through the air. During my struggle the pieces of glass she had blown on me began to cut into my skin and blood showed.

“Look,” she said in a voice that came out robotic. She yanked me inside and shook me until blood flew like drops of water from a wet dog “I’ve found a human,” the changing voice said.

The convention goers surrounded me in a circle when she dropped me to the floor.

“I want to operate to see what makes it tick.” Came from one armpit of an alien who had six. “No fool,” came from another, “Have sex with it to see if it can conceive hybrid beings like us.”

A snakelike alien with two heads said, “Be careful, where there’s one, there’s a thousand.”

Fear lit all the aliens’ eyes because it was right. I blew the Boy-Scout whistle I wore around my neck and the Disintegrating  Swat team burst through the doors and windows with lasers blasting and soon only puddles of gore covered the dance floor.

I quit after that because all that was left of my dream was a puddle of gore and I’d never know how it would have been to have sex with Jeri Ryan, even if she was a robot look-alike.

ART!

Art

 

Never seen before in the stormy clusters

of the light of day, my paintings mirror the

dark of night and never show any snowy white

light in my world where dark generates passion

 

and fear. My wife opened the door and saw there

was no light and only night. “Stop painting and put

on your clothes,” she said, “why do you think we

were wed?”

 

She shone a flashlight in my face and saw it was

acid washed, her scream it seemed woke the dead

and zombies came knocking on my door looking for

some flesh to eat.

 

Living or dead, they raised a stink that couldn’t be

washed out in my sink. My neighbors came to complain

but became hunks of meat hanging from a rack, and they

were a tasty snack for the walking dead.

 

I stepped into the dark after they did that in my house. I

wasn’t scared as a mouse, but they never left and I didn’t

have a chance to paint with stinking dead stumbling around

until I painted their drooling faces.

 

I never understood why paintings I made of zombies were in

such demand by old men who wanted to become like them.

To live after death and eat flesh again. So when night came I

always painted in the dark to become like them through my Art.

This is a great business model and I’ll be a Tom’s Coffee drinker as soon as one opens nearby.

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/12/business/turning-coffee-into-water-to-expand-a-one-for-one-business-model.html?hp

Refurbishing an old steamer trunk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had planned on using hand painted canvas pictures to cover the flat areas of this trunk, but changed my mind to faux finish it instead.I don’t really have a plan, just keep on working on it, but it is starting to shape up. I plan on using it as a coffee table.

 

IMAG1136 IMAG1137IMAG1154 IMAG1153IMAG1197 IMAG1198

Poem from my trip yesterday

Going Down the Wrong Road

 

“Make a left instead of a right,’ I said in the

dawn’s early light to my chagrin, because

left was wrong and right was right.

 

“The moon’s up above, so it must be ahead,”

I said, “I’ve got a feeling in my gut making me

wonder and wanting to see what the map says.”

 

Sure enough the map lied and said, Beaver Creek

was straight ahead, but, “Wrong way, wrong way,”

like magic the voice on the cell phone said to the

driver who looked at me with burning eyes..

 

“There ain’t nothing shaking because of forsaking

a right turn for a left. If we hadn’t made a mistake

the beautiful carved rocks we’re looking at may as

well be stored in a box.”

 

That made it all right, and she didn’t want to fight, I

thought, until she put the gas pedal to the floor in a hurry

to get to the shore. I cried in shame for calling her by the

wrong name and for taking her so far out of the way.

Hike to Beaver Creek.

http://www.shutterfly.com/share/received/welcome.sfly?sid=2AZN2LJs1ctXNw

Look Within!

 

My Dad had a bad day and died. He believed

in God, so I prayed because he obeyed his

faith that he’d find his reward in heaven, if

there was such a place.

 

He got no compensation nor answers for his

prayers or good deeds since birth, while serving

his time on Earth.

 

Showered with evil tribulations in the image of his

wife and kids who treated him like an indentured

servant sent from above to take care of them.

 

Looking down, he must have squirmed when my Mom

chose his successor to ease her pain. An Indian Man

from Canada who slurred when he spoke because he

drank too much.

 

“Better than shit on a stick,” she’d say when asked

why she made such a choice. I never tried to see

beyond his exterior to see what made him a man.

 

He too died and left my mother alone. I helped remove

his belongings and found his manuscripts written in

script that any calligrapher would aspire to.

 

Not knowing that death waited at his door, he wrote

the language of his tribe that had never been put on

paper before in explanatory language so clear even

I understood it.

 

Was this a gift from above in the name of love, showing

me what I see and perceive isn’t what’s really there, and

to never simply rely on what I see and to look inside

for the capsule of the mind that I always left behind?

 

Honk for Peace. Prescott AZ March 7, 2014

IMAG1159