Steven found a cool, old chest of drawers on the curb and we now have a place for our lovely lady and some accessories… and also clothes!

The Wytches: NPR Music Field Recordings


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No Exit

Had to document a moment Steven and I had the other day, taking the D train to Green-Wood cemetery. We sat down in the train car, our light conversation gradually taking on the weight of reflection when we started reading the advertisements posted throughout the car: A cancer research facility’s marketing campaign stating things like “There will not be one cure for Cancer, there will be millions” and “More Science, Less Fear.”

Given these cues and the fact that we were on our way straight into the heart of the biggest cemetery in the city, it seemed natural to feel a little somber. But the conversation between Steven and I about mortality, about the desparately unfair condition of being highly intelligent, sentient beings in rapidly decaying physical form and about the chasm of question and hope in each of us about an afterlife, especially where our little, vulnerable but fierce love & happy life together was concerned, left us in a wistful silence, both staring at our hands clasped together, looking like one being, I thought… one frightened being. And as he does so well, Steven made the silence & the sadness dissipate with a brilliant: “Shit gets real on the D train.” We both laughed.

As the train came to a stop at 36th St, where the subway tunnel was literally flush with the cemetery’s belly, I said: “That was strange, though. Maybe we’re one of thousands of couples who have experienced acute existential angst or panic on the D train. Maybe this is a phenomenon to do with all the residual energy of the people buried here! ….. But yea. That was very Sartre-esque.”

"Yea, *very* Sartre." Steven agreed. We stepped off onto the platform. I looked one way… "That says 3rd ave," I said "What does the other side say?"

We looked behind us. The sign said “No Exit.” … Perfect. Too good.

We looked at each other and laughed, standing far too long in the middle of the platform before ascending the stairs into the afternoon light.

No Exit indeed.

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John Waters and David Lynch meet outside a Bob’s Big Boy, LA c.1979 
via Paraphilia Magazine

Taj Bourgeois
Ghost Of Frozen Foods, 2013You can now order prints of any piece on my page!5x7 $58x12 $1011x14 $1512x18 $2016x20 $3020x30 $4024x36 $50All pieces printed out on lustre paper, signed front or back,and come with a one-of-a-kind spontaneous poem.My Paypal is humanshmuman@gmail.comMessage me on here or at if you have any questions.

Oh I can’t wait for Halloween.
Punchdrunk and the Politics of Spectatorship

Steven and I experienced Sleep No More last week. I found it enthralling, very dark (dizzying for the visually impaired, but not totally unsafe) and addictive— I’d love to go again, choose a different path, spend more time on details, bring my reading glasses, be brave enough to stand alone and look an actor in the eye for a chance to be pulled into a wardrobe or spare room…

But some unsettling thoughts or non-thoughts …. sensations, maybe, were spinning for me as I tried to sleep that night. It wasn’t the imagery or the soundtrack or even the haunted house elements of the piece that made me ‘sleep no more’ that night… It was the strange feeling that lingered after being a part of this particular audience. I felt a little lonely after a long night as a masked ghoul lurking over actor’s shoulders. Steven and I grumbled a little at each other as we started the long journey home to Brooklyn.

It felt not unlike leaving a strip club, in that I’d been give very strict rules, but touched multiple times by sweetly sweaty smelling, naked or nearly naked gorgeous women, been stared straight into and through by a performer as if I weren’t really there, been disoriented by the ambience (perhaps having nothing to do with my blindness at all) and in the end had dazedly bought a couple very, very expensive cocktails on top of my very pricey entrance fee just to take the edge off, leaving into the damp night broke and a little bewildered.

I loved it. Really. And I’d do it again. It’s pretty genius. But I wanted to research this SNM spectator guilt/glumness/weirdness phenomenon, and sure enough, I found this article.

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Daphne du Maurier
(author of Rebecca, The Birds, Jamaica Inn & Don’t Look Now)
Just watched Hitchcock’s Rebecca. Like Hitchcock, so intrigued by du Maurier… in researching her a little, I’m finding her biography and work ties into other artists, writers and other obsessions I’ve jumped down internet rabbit holes after before but somehow I looked over her… It’s a nice feeling to discover each connection and bring it all together, even late in the game. Who knew! This lady bird was badass.
Minimalist Film Reviews: Nymphomaniac Vol. I & II - ANIMAL

This isn’t really my style of film review, but I liked the treatment for this film. Because I’m a little perturbed. And that’s what Lars Von Trier would have. But, certainly, I’m not calling rape culture here and, sure as hell, I’m not brimming moralistic guilt rage. In fact, I expected to relate to this protagonist’s struggles of identity and feelings of otherness more than I did. What I’m angry about is this: No matter how much Lars Von Trier demands you engage with his work, he will never, ever, ever blink or think twice about murdering all sentiment or empathy you’ve warily built up over the hours and hours you’ve invested for any character that seems like a fairly kind, good, humanistic version of a conscious being and— I have to posit, for the sake of shock— force them against their grain eventually, sadistically robbing his audience of any emotional peace by the end of the film. And I knew of Von Trier the obsession with shock value, but dedicated a whole day anyway. Was I truly disappointed? No. Quite the opposite. I really enjoyed this film, in chapters, filled with literary & art culture references, religious analysis and general philosophy … But god damn it, I just wanted one character to not be stretched to the very edges of human behavior. Can someone not just be a normal level of disturbed, repressed or broken? Could it just have ended with a sweet ‘Goodnight’?? Sigh. Despite this almost motherly frustration, I have to admit, you can feel the LVT’s pleasure in orchestrating viewer experience in this offering. I almost wonder if he relates to “K” a little bit when it comes to his relationship with his audience … Please do walk willingly into this dark alley of human behavior with Von Trier and then give me your impressions. I’m curious: Did anyone else feel a little played?

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Henry DargerThe Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion1910-1934
Palo santo, aventurine, amethyst and moss agate from Catland today.