Pooltime Surprises

This is the sport of choice to soothe the fractured souls of contemporary man and woman. Expressive as well as athletic, it requires heavy make-up for proper execution of stunts. Style is important. Life experience also comes into play, as well as emotion. High scores are awarded when feelings that heretofore may have lain dormant, awaken in the hearts of the judges. It is time to bear witness to the synchronous underwater gestures, the doubling in unison. It is time to study the violent wet ways of twin swimmers.

Kitty

Oh kitty kitty your breasts are so in need of support structures. Oh kitty I can see you and your boots are tres mad at me, what have I done? Please help me redeem myself and reinforce you with toddler-love. I love you! Why so angry? Please teeter totter over here and have a snack of kissers. I want to help, I do. There is danger where there is plenitude, this cannot be helped. I send you pats and snugs through the ether. Please help me to help you kitty kitty.

Roots of the Pull

Mixing the undernation twine-twirling squad of the morning disaster portion. All images are busted into brown danglers. Forget reality, forget personality, forget morals. It is time to dip downward in the faux-random haze.

In the kitchen I browned some meats in a greasy pan. I looked at my stomach in a mirror shard. I poked it. It bounced back.

I have no romantic tragedies to iterate, only fortress-like malabsorption of wrongness. I am sitting in my toast tower trying to imagine what might be of interest to someone who is

1. not addicted to methadone
2. not in a frenzy of split personality
3. not narcoleptic

I cannot think of anything. I am at the end of my creative tether.

I pray for a zenith of self-confidence and ideas to hit me like a basketball in the face. Night night my darling doodads.

Paper Airplanes

I woke up in the night, then slept late. All night paper airplanes circled around my unfortunate pimple-ridden head. I am avoiding phone calls. My hair is like string cheese. I go to the studio and fall asleep due to the heavy air. I am not asking for sympathy - this is merely a chronicle. Kibbles and bits are my breakfast this morning - dry dog food in a dirty bowl. I will hold my hands behind my back, get on my knees and chomp them miserably up like a pet. I hope these kibbles smell bad and incite gag reflex riots in the back of my throat. Today I am going to purge myself with backscratchers. Shoving and curdling will occur. All of this is in hope of getting some work accomplished. Paintings!!!! FINISH YOURSELVES FINALLY!!!!!!!! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? Maybe it's the closing down of possibility - as the paintings reach their obvious terminus and only slave-type work is needed to finish, they become oppressive and dreary. Maybe I should start something else to give me a sense that possibilities are opening up again...but maybe that's a waste of time and what I really need to do is FINISH. Four large poopers stare at me, day after day. They say hi. They say ha ha on you. They ask me if they are good enough then they taunt me with "probably not." Foo. MM. Make your calls this morning, then go to the studio armed with lasers and sabers. Go with the intent to finish up, you louse. (Yes I do have lice).

Sorry for the obnoxious post. I will replace it later with something more fantastical, I promise.

Tablets of Wisdom

Tremors begin. Vibrations of the head. It is lovely and disgusting at the same time. There is boiling, there is leftover silt. There is flickering. Skeleton death masks appear, books on witchcraft and alien invasions. Black felt spiders crawl in yarn webs. White chalky tablets fall from the sky into your palms. You insert them in mouth and ingest, according to the accompanying pamphlet. Your cat meows from behind the door - tap tap tap with his paws. He wants to come in but you prefer the sound of his insistent wants to his actual presence. You are alone in the fish fry, the new world philosophy that you have been adhering to for the past six months. No one else is on board. The tablets help you gain insight that you cannot express onto the world, they unleash gutteral machinations on your soiled interior. It is messy; there is no clean-up.

Playtime Hospital Indemnity Blow-up

Dear poodles of the summertime, I am concerned about the lack of mashing and mix-up, the lack of brain cells and research in the frontal and basal portions of the uber-real cortex. Where are the unifying concepts of mechanization? The branches are stretching and multiplying at their ends, extending outwards in a frenzied plexus. There are Mythraic wanderers combing the dunes for clues and portions of wisdom. There is a pink oozing plenitude in the weeping cracks of synthetic hardness, there are boneless thieves in the godless cuddle nation. We are always backwards, always paying the price for tomorrow today with rashes and gaping sores and scabs. It is visceral, this pre-punishment payment option. There are bands of naked bloody tribal renegades running past me with weapons of the cut and insertion. I am a fright in the dark and sing harbinger melodies to myself as comfort. I have love for the puppets of playtime, I invite them to play bash and forensic analysis with me in the wee hours of my attic. Your attendance is requested.

Good night to the sleepless for they are without blame. We are all junk-bears in a furry romance analogy.

Signing off,

Yours truly,

Today is tomorrow,

MM

Blart Show #2

Broken Overpass

The overpass is made of wood, it gleams silvery in some transpositional lights, but it is withering from the outside in. People traverse it and their feet get caught in the rot. It is a sinking bridge, a sad and beautiful monstrosity that makes crossing easier and harder simultaneously. I wish I could fix you, bridge, with a newfangled spray or coating but you resist this. I will wait and see. A new invention may be within my clawing grasp. No sinking, no troubles, no sadness, no worms. Just reinforcement and goodness in the chiming free-form woods. Good luck.

The Scoots

Group shows perused in Chelsea yesterday. Much of it produced wanting to nap feelings. Half dead feelings. Why feelings. Like Idols of Perversity at Bellwether. Clotted, overhung, an overarticulated vision...usually I am interested in this. I get it - it's fun! Over the top! Wow! Salon style! Tacky is great! Big wide-eyed feelings swirling into tiny dangling decorative flourishes. Romanticism and angst, kitschy bad painting, all mixed up in the dreamy, sexy-time languid bed hours. But it was too much somehow. As though all of the forbidden pleasures of kitsch, the kind of excited embarrassment that used to be associated with it have now been subsumed and swallowed by the very fact of its emphatic promotion by a Chelsea gallery. Like when a little-known band you used to covertly love now has a song on a car commercial - all of a sudden they are everywhere and all the reasons you had for liking them evaporate...I don't know. There were things to love, little moments here and there, but mostly I felt crowded out, as though there was no room to breathe or think or have any kind of independent reaction or private discovery.

However, I was moved beyond expectation at the group show at Feature that opened yesterday. As you walk into the gallery on your left, there is a small shelf of Tantric drawings made in India. They are simple, anonymous and gorgeous. Tiny, centrally-focused abstractions - magical geometric shapes and bits of colored patterning that hover on sheets of paper. I have just started learning about them - there was a show of them this past winter at the Drawing Center's Drawing Room. They are generated as objects of meditation, that is their main purpose. Their modesty and purity somehow provided me everything I lacked at Bellwether. It is an unfair comparison, for sure, as the intentions behind both the work and the curation of the shows could not be more opposite. But I think I just get more pleasure out of finding something to love that's small, out-of-the-way, something not obviously on display.

Alternate Versions

Striated grooves dug into thighs, hands pressed in waffle iron, syrup poured on flesh, no eating, just waiting. There is a Cosmic Chicken that rules all events which are pre-destined. This Chicken has no will, no body, but is a pattern of chicken, a pattern of accumulation of vibrations and waves. We will share speech, fuse with each other, and find intervals that belong to neither you or me. The verbs come, and one action is replaced immediately by another. This is our link to the world, although we are hiding.

Yay for Painting

I thought it would be fun to curate an imaginary show. I heart painting deeply and these are the ones I would like to look at tonight. Thank you for indulging me.

More New Friends

Tonight I bantered with a lovely inflatable family. I got to finagle with them and smile broadly over flaky foodstuffs. It was the time of inversions and puffs, of potent angels of the spirit in the core of everything.

The relicshack/hotbox/mousetrap has rendered trees to me tonight. I am becoming old-fashioned and woods-oriented - except that all landscape elements are animated with the swells and fissures of skin, the clotting of arterial networks. I think of portly hussies with dripping folds and realize much satisfaction with bumpy terrain. Yes to texture and cheez-wiz style flesh that bounces back upon touch and poke.

Reality recedes, I am becoming synthetic to myself, the hairs of head and body turn to skyward holes. Sense is leaving me. Negation is stewing in the upright back. I will try to find true content in the frisbee of tomorrow. Night night.

Rinsing

A rinsing is occuring as I have become oversaturated with rickets and yellow fat. It is busy, spinning. I will be back soon. I am missing of tricks and smoothness, the girth is mellowing. There are brain liquidation issues. Tomorrow, things should improve. Apologies for gutlessness.

The Unsleeping Comes

Listen. There is a bucket into which I release my salient juice extractions. This bucket tends towards hell-raising. In the end, what has to happen will happen.

There is a blank hollow mess that dispirits the outward-turning face - a ravage comes fast through bland events. The inward-turning face is a glacial jumble, a bee of misapprehension - feature-free and manic. This is the better face. Here are its mirages:

1. A patch of cow-print on a sloping lawn, sub-divided into squares (Sloth, these squares are uneven too - blades of grass poke through the cracks).

2. Amoral glass stems in the ubiquitous tube shape - shooting upward, a vertical thrusting.

3. Implements of cut: the shears, the kid scissors, the butter knife, the saw, the sword. They dance a cut dance, protruding in unison out of a single spinning unit.

4. Several weedy, black-cloaked thieves. With hunched shoulders and frizzy grey hair, they tip-toe about the periphery - they scheme and are foiled.

This is another progression, not unwelcome, that unfolds without warning. It is dead of sound.

The True Cave

Today I am leading myself by a leash into the true cave. There are many types of caves in each earth-strata - the cave I am entering today is the true sensory shut-out/enhancement cave. It is the cave of pagans and proto-assemblers. I will wear my light blue sweatsuit for this occasion (Fairy prefers lavender). On the front of this sweatsuit I have stenciled in glitter the word "MAMA" to let everyone know I have special needs. On the back is stenciled "HARM" so you will know I am also a miscreant with numb intentions. My crown will be imaginary and my transitions will be rough, as always. Please understand that this cave immersion is necessary to my research and gathering, it is necessary to my ebbing manhoods, my intestinal fortitude, my preparations of lack and luster. Worry and misapprehension will depart in favor of bridal appearances of woods, bogs and modulations.

Goon communion is good communion. This is my new aphorism.

Birdworks

I am digging with trowels and shovels into the dirts to make way for replicas of prehistoric birds. I want a zig-zag pile-up of stone dino-birds in witchcraft type formations. Ham Paw is helping me, he is conjuring from the clouds - they open like curtains to allow the airdropping of several stone birds (watch out!). After the correct formation is achieved, the chicken nuggets and fingers will be scattered over the birds as a sort of symbolic, cyborgian collision of old and new. We will not be allowed to eat any of these fingers/nuggets (Ham will not want to but I will have a hard time not aching for them). The we will mill about amidst the lumps and rows, wondering about the future and past simultaneously, and consecrate the event with sips from the wineskin. The true purpose of this ritual remains opaque.

Cave-Worn

Mistakes were made in the darkest hours with rockets flying and delight leaking out of the boat into the water to mix with fishes. Murder came with misdirections. Antlers grew from small bumps in the forehead and clashed with other sets. Leaky boats, everywhere. There was misuse of oars, splashing of dirty water, staining our legs. I found a cave beneath the earth to put my skin bag for a while. The time to emerge will be later, with powder. Now is the time to bake in the mysterious ovens, deep in the caves. What I will bake, I have no idea.

I cannot seem to post a picture today. Other than that, it is time to finish relics. The relics are static in their semi-finished state and have been for ages. I am seeking forward-movement and ultra fast marks to make themselves today. Large format painted relics take many months longer than I expect. The date of finish keeps receding further into the future. Better luck next time.

Hi everyone. It was nice seeing you at the tent meeting yesterday. Fairy, you were a most exciting host.

The Time of the Pigs

The time of the pigs is now. The pigs hop on all fours and are coming to you, down the streets and into the doors of your homes. They can hop up steps too, don't think they can't. These pigs are blind, they hone in on details through sonar. They have "amore" on their minds, so please be aware of that and take the necessary precautions (or not). This is the Independence Day Pig Notification Assembly. Please note that you have been warned so any complaints of messing or fouling will be ignored by the greater good from here on out. Good luck with pig removal and/or welcoming strategies. It depends what type of person you are.

Happy Drunken Pig Day.

Love,

MM

the formula

Here is the formulation. The temperature of the half brain should be above normal, That is considerably hotter than the temperature of the anus and the intestinal passage. The artworks are conceived in both parts with the brain as the conductor and the anus as the brush. Here are the moments of grandeur. There is a figurative cape and wand. This is a temporary art state, which is traded in for panic in the making which is then traded for listlessness. The relic is best when beyond reach, not falling into repetitive pile. The common pile is biggest. Listlessness is here and the intestine is cold.