Thought Delay

2011-09-29T18:18:00.000-07:00

There is nothing better than finding loving homes for the drawings you love so much. The top two pieces just found wonderful homes where they will be cared for.
The bottom one has no home. If you think you can be a loving caretaker of this piece, please email me at kevindunfey@gmail.com and let me know. Maybe we can work something out.

2011-08-26T21:19:00.001-07:00

Some day, when you are not you,
You will have written what you wrote with meaning
And the both of us will be the same.

That day, when we both have brown hair,
Will be the feeling of you meaning every word
You ever wrote, except it would have all felt like me.
We might drink coffee all night, and/or stay up late
Reminiscing about the childhood we never had together
Sharing our brown hair, and the exact same experiences
With altogether different and separate genitalia.

One day, when the feeling of being in the moment with me
Is truly a microcosm of how our lives will always be together,
And your face is a solitary unit of the fractal that will be
Each and every second left in my life,
You won't have to tell me shit and I won't ever have to read your writing again.

2011-07-30T19:22:00.001-07:00

Cody came by today. We did a trading of sorts. His end was supplying these wonderful pictures of some of my recent finished pieces. I've supplied a screen-shot of the pre-production Adobe Illustrator file for each corresponding photo of it's finished piece below.

(art size 22" x 30")

(art size 22" x 30")

(art size 18" x 24.75")

Bonus photo: It's my cat's 10th birthday this month. I'm so proud of her. This was milli-seconds before she chomped down right on my nose for getting a little too lovey-dovey with her. Lol.

2011-07-23T06:59:00.000-07:00

Someone in Russia was directed to my blog via a Google search of ".000000000000000000000000000000000001 b."
Hells yes.

2011-07-10T16:46:00.000-07:00

Yes. So I haven't posted in a long, long time. I haven't been writing. But I have been extremely productive in art making. Everything I have been working on has been art whose finished product is non-digital, therefor posting such work on this blog requires professional photography. I am too lazy and stingy for that. I know a guy who knows a guy who does that sort of thing for $25 an image. Sounds decent, I guess, since he touches them up and light balances and all that stuff but I would have way too much shit for that and it would be ridiculously expensive.

So in the interest of sharing I will be posting a large amount of screenshots of the template of each new image I have been working on. The screenshots represent the beginning of the midway step of a very very lengthy, multi-tiered process needed to complete each piece. Each of these screenshots is a screenshot of an Illustrator file composed completely of vectors. The design time alone is very long. The next step from here is to export them to a shiny, flashy, new 24" vinyl cutter that I acquired sometime in February. The vinyl cutter reads vector information to, typically, score adhesive vinyl using a very small, very thin razor. This is what is used to procure most adhesive graphics you see on windows of businesses, car windows, etc. What I do is remove the razor from it's cradle and, with some modification, insert ink pens and markers. Instead of vinyl, I substitute the substrate for 100% cotton, archival paper. At this point, the machine essentially becomes able to "draw" my drawings for me. If you look further back in this blog, you can see examples of my hand-drawn, black ink, highly intricate, pattern/fractal-like drawings. If you look below, you will see that I have taken great efforts to continue this aesthetic. The "draw" time for a typical piece ranges from 1 - 5 hours. The hand drawn time for my older drawings was typically 1 - 5 months. For the time being, I have still mostly used .2 Micron black ink pens, but I have also done a significant amount of experimentation with other colored Micron pens, markers and a large variety of other pens/drawing utensils. After the drawing is finished, the second half of the process is begun. Here I go back into/onto the drawing with a variety of medium: colored inks, acrylic paint and markers.

Basically, this machine has freed me to experiment with color and medium in a meaningful way. Previously, after spending 5 months on a drawing, I would always be too scared to risk ruining it with further experimentation. I have ruined many 5 hour drawings that this machine has helped me produce and have felt great about it. The following is a compilation of about 85% of the designs that I have come up with in the past half year. They have all been exported at one point or another and I have attempted to progress each one of them at one point or another. At the present, I only have a handful that I feel are in the process of success. A few have been finished to pleasant satisfaction. Two of them are above average. Of those two, one of them, which is very close to finish at this point, will be a Masterpiece (please feel free to email me if you had a strong reaction, of any kind, to that last word and wish to engage in meaningful conversation about the idea of a "Masterpiece" and it's place in current and past art history: kevindunfey@gmail.com.)
Hope you guys like!

2010-12-05T16:57:00.000-08:00

Writing exercises:

1. Write about the last time you cared.

2. Explain the human condition.

3. In a single page, push the limit of raw aesthetics using at least a little bit of every technique that you can. Make sure to craft the page into a finished, cohesive whole.

4. Defend your position as a subjective human being. Do not use personal examples from your life. You may cite circumstances of your physicality/body image.

5. Explain failure. Be as specific as possible.

6. Write about girls. Never use the word "love."

7. Write a prayer to yourself.

8. Explore your raw imagination/creativity in a masturbatorial piece that you suspect only you could appreciate.

9. Express yourself using only the word "the."

10. Achieve .0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001.

2010-10-28T18:48:00.000-07:00

2010-10-26T20:44:00.001-07:00

2010-10-26T20:33:00.000-07:00

I cast cloudkill.
You get speckled with the black dot dust of daydream's doldrums
dudes yelling at buildings. Shorter than usual.
Let's make out with pink and yellow.
Short paper. Lined bursts. Catching a cold tank for days.
Believe in open source code. The bubble burst believability oh behave.
You block with fireball freefall.
You catch pneumonia and watch your teeth fall out wash your hands
hotmail for days.
Someone is a lead balloon hands god swipe babelfish barking up the wrong tree.
Barcode your great big boxing hands.
This summer face smacks of honey dew drops sex dip.

I clear whole levels.
You get addicted to sorries, wait and we eat wasabi say word.
Berries. Fluid with the bardspeak, hardcore. Fuck rando shambling sentry ball breakers
not spells. I feel like a weird person worst idea ever.
Own some option for grown-ups wandering ids always.
Chain mail with letters I owe. I love flesh fall see saw.
Exclusive remorse sentence to death description definition.

2010-09-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

Titles:

My head is a giant poem
-Next Poem-
A poem inside a writing inside a meta-metaphor self referencing outwardly
"Quote Unquote"

o͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀m͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜/̥̣̩̠̪̦͔͚͒͌po͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕em͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜/̥̣̩̠̪̦͔͚͒͌z̡͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕o͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀m͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜/̥̣̩̠̪̦͔͚͒͌po͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕em͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜/̥̣̩̠̪̦͔͚͒͌z̡͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕o͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀m͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜/̥̣̩̠̪̦͔͚͒͌po͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕em͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜/̥̣̩̠̪̦͔͚͒͌z̡͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕
̹̻

Utility Untitled - (Someon'es conversation : definition of)
o͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕em͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜
list of tramadol. Wait - list of tramadol. Wait - list of tramadol. Fuck. (secret level)

begin.

somewhere in the narrow, other
somewhere out in the ether, ever
someone captures a delete scene in self made adjective
someone endures each warmth as if it were the first full body goosebumps
some morning after is every in body
something feels the way it always did
some uber-conception of always

Adventure Utility - show me something new

-Next Poem- (it's raining)

narrow ether (colon):wanderfuck:(colon) Paint thinner

*orgasm inside the ether of her*
sniff breath next to pillow hair smello͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕em͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜
hum hum hum... either the next second is her or me
and eyes (laughing now)
atmospheric noise always -Next Poem- (and in key with our voices)
and smile sunshine

(either/or (slash) Elliott Smith - stabbed
[possibly Blood, Microphones])

and/or lined paper font typeface

and what am I really?
(a bit of cold air through the window)

measure i am dot.fl.uid in each
mea.sure half of me i am
make sure measure dot of me.
make sure measurements are not of me
.i wake up feeling invincible
.i wake up feeling immeasurable
half of me. surely doesn't describe
make sure i'm n.otpo͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕e
dot ha.lf_of everything is everything me
make sure having is enough -Next Poem-
mea,sure each paper half makes sensepo͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕e
mak.e sure, sure each film mends mea.surably
mak.e sure I am and that you a.r.e
.half of me. measured in the morning
,are feelings invincible(?) and make-shift

sup? .......... Questions: (in (onversation)
Is this in the ever to be used as writing?
(or other(?)) -Next Poem-
white match [women and men involved] the airplane

(((((inside the uber-meta with cold sweats lying on dirt) there is no exit or come-uppance from these "colons"))))
make your own meaning : why does me keep happening to me
made up of... which paper to use… others made up of (note to clouds)

Exception - Utility
-Next Poem-
Intwine them with meaning, make them undeniable. Note to self. Way to be invincible.

Br.e.akd.own of experience_consolidated (then inverted)
separation/organization of idea (obvious) (beyond obvious)_ ....and then

No. Seriously. Seriously... seriously... seriously.. seriously.

No, seriously. No. Seriously.

2010-09-10T17:00:00.000-07:00

girls

girls

girls

2010-08-24T19:22:00.000-07:00

Just finished this drawing.
This is probably the best drawing I have ever done.
I want to give it away.
Email me and I will send it to you absolutely free : kevindunfey@gmail.com.
I don't care if you are international, I will cover all of the sending costs.
It is approximately 14" by 17" (36cm by 43cm for you metric folk) so it is a modest size and would fit well on any wall or in any closet/dusty storage area.
Any late-comers/runners-up (if there be any) will have sent to them a free copy of a small art book that Aaron Bouvier and I collaborated on a few years back (while supplies last.)

2010-08-21T20:33:00.000-07:00

landlocked summer. lightning skies.

full time capsule (in the park) (for one day to take a date to) (a mix tape for you)

Pumped the limp torso out of bed
chain the piano bell ring to the street dancer.
Upon my curb perched,
and this knowledge to incur with certainty,
I smoked the summer air where I sleep on the street corner
for today never aware of it's own opposable digits inverted.

My dentist gave me something that made my soul disappear for a few hours.
My porn collection under the bed in my mind
at the 99 cent store.

§

Me, my heart in this girl, it seems,
our breaths echo each other,
in which she cries every last pain inside
out in every stain on me.

I'm not able to tell the difference anymore
in which there's that hollow place where,
like a soul out of time or has none left,
she is the most beautiful girl in this city.

My heart, it seems,
would wreck it all to be close,
for that door to be notable blown closed,
in exchange for brown hair, brown eyes
and smile.

§

Console daughters spaced out in bewilderment
kept in their rooms all night.

- Know as much as everyday life
- to walk with increasing bravado amongst boys.
- There is no public embarrassment, no
- mirror's empty space big enough to lose faces in
- or timeless behavior immune to forgiveness.
- Or at least any way out of hopeless laughter,
- self-flagellating exceptionalism or an endless story
- that just seems to disappear.

And whisper into her ear
"Night night."
Then kiss her forehead.

2010-08-14T11:57:00.000-07:00

2010-07-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

RC Miller exists as a real human being.

I know this because I have had a multitude of email exchanges with him and because his new chapbook GORE is existing in my hands right now.

However, if you have ever read any of his work, you might get the feeling that he tries very hard to defy any sense of tangible existing self.

His poems, to me, start from the perspective of a presence observing memories in a room, recording.

Words are assembled with the purpose of diluting the obviousness of things.

A nebulous persona is formed to speak from the mind of the void, making simplistic observational statements of abstractness.

The poems, formally and visually, have a great sense of hard-earned integrity which help fuse these intentions:

Each line is so ambiguous or nonsensical that it calls into question the entire purpose of the poem.

No line in any poem is gibberish.

Each line is carefully crafted and grammatically correct.

The collection of lines that comprise each poem always seem to be mathematically perfect. Balanced in number of both words and letters.

Each poem is a consolidated piece of value.

Each poem is a segment of your last unrecognized thought.

Each poem is a perfectly organized clutter of words.

Each poem is a complete aesthetic structure of words.

Calliope Nerve Media had the balls and good sense to publish this hurling shrapnel of cauterized hope. You can buy it here and also, for only a week or two more, download a free pdf of it. I downloaded the pdf while waiting for the hardcopy to arrive just so I could start digging in. Believe me, it is well worth it to drop the $5.75 on the hardcopy. It feels like an electric blue, sterilized zine-compilation of religious pamphlets on steroids that you are watching on TV. A very well produced large collection of quality poetry. Go grab it.

2010-07-05T19:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog World and Writing,

You make every moment an attempt. You are presenting every original content with a failure and try for the sake of a blind moment and shamelessness for the world to see. Every earnest effort and who gives a fuck snowballs into literature for human character and text skin. Thank you for being the lightning bolt in the face of snobby cliques and circle jerk politics by shucking fragments and splinters of pure self across the blackboard of ignorant eyes and uncaring anonymity. Thank you for being heedless when all of the criticism and uninspired name calling flops tenderly at your doorstep.

Yours is a singular purpose.
You collect sidewalk cracks and their gutter treasure neighbors. (Bottlecaps, examples of seeming uselessness, UPC symbols, clumps of cut hair, tangents, etc.)
You are a heart stone hemmorhaging kool aid and peanut butter summer afternoons.
You gather pulses of brain chemistry to weather the indomitable barrage of life's grains of immortality.

And yet sometimes it does not seem enough.
There is no more index of coffee buzzed frenetic outpourings that ties arms together more so than your full chest exasperated forgettings. All of this is an ammunition dump of second hand clothing and autumn scrap book dried leaves, crumpled business cards, narcissistic self-portraits, graphical meandering facts, mathematical exactings and campfire stories.
You are there to kick, stab, bake and lock up in your closet.
You are an unvideotaped birthing. A beach boardwalk.

Please continue to carve an x into your skin for every time you smell something you have not smelled in decades.
For every time you go to a corner store and black out.
For every photograph of negative space that you carry in your back pocket.
For every breeding of confusion for the human spirit.
For every endearing mixed emotion too muddled to call home.

When you twist styles and tactics, wrapping them into a ball of effort, throwing it towards the summit of mediocrity, you achieve a disregard for greatness.
When you sacrifice every forgotten memory that encapsulates a month long era, you become a cleverly concealed knife wielding culture artifact.

Thank you for being the unedited freefall of associations and incorrect english. The death of things we should not have tried. The yes to every collaborative starving lonesomeness.
Thank you for raking your twig head into excitement and fruited capitalizations.
Have a warm, moist towelette.
Say things just to say them: you've earned it.

Take care,

Kevin

2010-07-03T13:54:00.000-07:00

XXXXX,

Got my theremin cerebral cortex tuned a couple days ago.
I whistled it while sitting in the painting of this girl.
I'm seeing about automating harmonies for the exhuming moment this weekend.
I enclosed new spaces, read the first vibration "Most of All" aloud and when I trembled she had the biggest smile on her face. She said "I've done this before."
We both really dug into.

Wistfully, it has notable differences from everything else in the world. Some fireworks,
awesome elements and ties in with every poem ever written.
I feel like every number that ever was condensed.
Some people don't know what to do with beautiful things and drums.
Of hums, you should feel. Personally, I really dug how almost everything had a positivity to it that didn't at all feel contrived or forced or whatever.
I had that blinding gut, bright face approach when that song came on. Really would love to write to the void sometime.

Pumped for you but jealous that you're going on the cross country trip.
Definitely daydreamed of the rhythm of tires.

Have a blast.

Keep me updated.

Kevin

XXXXX,

Got undone a couple times over now.
I exalted while sitting qualms were dispersed of this girl.
I'm wide open this weekend.
I unfurled fast chest and gasped "Ribbon Basket" aloud and when I finished I looked up and she had the biggest eyes.
She had a markered heart shape on her hand.
We both really dug our graves on not making this happen.

Definitely.

Has the form from everything else of itself and it's good. Some skin diseases never recur, while memorized scars become a map.
Some torsos will peel away and leave only segmented parts of a whole.
Most people are at least just a little bit of this at all times.
Looking back, all I remember is clawing into her body at night, with my body, while my face was not at all revealing or obvious or whatever. Had that sincere, personal feel that you only get out of starvation and striving. Really, would love to blend into the void and keep writing.

Pumped for you but jealous that you're changing your breath.
Certainly daydreamed of winter.

Keep working on that .

Keep me from exploding and degrading.

Kevin

XXXXX,

Got a new wound a couple days ago.
I sat in a hotel lobby staring at it in wonderment.
Painted a new feeling of vacations and getting lost for the upcoming weekend.
I read to myself on the carpet. Most of all, I looked aloud and when I glanced up there was a girl who had the biggest smile on her face.
She said "I really liked that."
We both really had no idea.

I definitely remember having a body and skin and breath that had notable differences from everything else. Every stop on the trip tied into every moment for the first time in my life.
Like a serious body of connected work. Congratulations self, you should feel proud.
I forcefully gutted a full notebook of positivity and splayed the contents in front of her like a flower or pelted fur or whatever. There was that flash when thought delay set in. Reality became a random reassembling pixel mesh of the unknown slowed to a crispness.

Pumped the contents of my superstition through every chance of contact I had with her.
Definitely a daydream bundled into life currency pouring out from my mouth.

Have an epiphany.

Keep me from updating too much.

Kevin

2010-06-10T20:01:00.000-07:00

-1. (girl)

He started with pink and quickly moved onto the heavier stuff. Slammed purple straight into his arm. Convulsed the brown extract. Beige hit his heart. His calf muscles tighten. Last pump to milk all the blues out.

-2. (sunday)

Spitting the dirt, effusing from his mouth. The charcoal hits the wood floor like an everything. When the blue soaks in it pulverizes. Eyes roll back. Dust on the bookshelf. Streams of everything onyx the stretched template before him. A yellow sparks. He will impose answers with his will if need be. Smearing, dark gray scrubbing the wasted June day. The air is full of itself, bursting. The heat curls from the blacktop outside the window. Through omniscient glass. Transparent concavity soaks all colors. Speaking is absorbed in the dander air. It didn't happen. At least I'm saying it out loud, he thought.

-3. (.000000001)

Posts and limbs. Pivoting pulls. Handfuls of pills.

-4. (blankets)

Regal blue all over again. Oral topaz. Topical anesthetic. When he was twelve a boy from down the street slammed his head into the curb and he slept for two days. Yellow teeth dull the mirror's reflection. Orange rinds litter the tile. Scars rest. Cold smoothness deflects ivory from the bare foot palm. Church on the toilet. Praying for every last blood that will and does course through his brain. Blue on the inside and blood all over the ground. Gums smacking savory the moment of a clean face. Tampons for the first time. Peeing like it matters. Memories disappear.

-5. (tv)

Mahogany. Emulsifier. Congealing liquid. Fertilizer. Broken finger nails. Brown dried blood. Wishes he were dead. Forces another thought. Coating organs. Wintery melon taste in the back of his brain. Brown organisms under bedsheets. The snow used to settle in the shape of a U around his bedroom window pane. Nosebleeds while sleeping. Pain is a memory. Wishes sail.

-6. (grass)

And then pen blue everywhere. The curtains were destroyed. The television split, tube shattered; knobs, antenna, frame and all electrified. Passed out on the couch again.

-7. (medicine cabinet)

30 ml of Kevin rushed straight to his face. Primary fluids. Yawning eyelids. He says something, hears his own voice and realizes that that is why he is not everything. There is god again, for leftovers. 30 ml of Kevin stop in his arms right before the hands. There is god in the fingertips, tingling. God says something in the stretching brightness of the window's sunshine. All blues rush in, filling the room, stopping before the therapist's chair. He burns a small piece of every type of wood and paper in the room to try to get that smell back.

2010-05-10T20:15:00.000-07:00

Kevin,

even the town has swallowed me now.
normal people are walking around talking about wanting to kill themselves.
i'm at the window. i'm at work and somewhere else in the third person.
really this temper is good for one thing only and that's woods.
well, two things, if you count rooms.
but bed first and foremost.

this town is beginning to feel too small.
or i'm just the mood of these bricks.

i am going to start a new piece of paper soon, i swear. at this desk.
it's difficult to get things done when you're under the covers all the time.

i think about you, so you know.

-way down here XXXXX

Kevin,

even the town has collapsed in on itself now.
completely rational people are walking around talking about impossible situations.
there is breath. there is aging and sometimes there are resolutions.
really this anger is only effective through bramble filled paths.
well, possibly, if you count the moon.
but you don't even know where it begins.

this dirt lies.
or i'm not a citizen of this place anymore.

i am going to swim. i swear. I will break through the brush.
it doesn't seem like a good idea to be in your head all day.

i will find an end, so you know.

-way down here XXXXX

Kevin,

even your lumbar extends impossibly now.
healthy people are walking around hemorrhaging everything of meaning .
you are nauseous. your arm breaks and somewhere there is a family settling in to eat dinner.
really this clavicle tightens and stares out into the world expectantly.
well, at least the pair of shoes at the door warm the room.
but every week has to feel different.

this body is beginning to feel too small.
or i'm just last night's snack on the floor now.

i am going to start anew and cover the world with my skin, i swear.
it's difficult to move forward leaning on everything in front of you.

i won't forget, you know.

-way down here XXXXX

2010-04-22T20:51:00.000-07:00

(MULTIPLICATION:REPETITION)

2010-04-22T20:50:00.000-07:00

(INVERSION)

2010-04-22T20:49:00.001-07:00

(SINGULARITY:SOLIDARITY)

2010-04-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

(BASIC MATH)

2010-04-13T21:25:00.000-07:00

shatter each moment
interred in obvious

am I earnest?

I like porno
(.....) (.....) (.....)
cold fucking shower
hand covers eyes
it's just sky

2010-04-05T20:14:00.001-07:00

winding up in an empty place
a girl's heart words wanding
in every bad way
flooded faces exactly the same
for every different reason in the world
waiting to be full of the space between

2010-04-05T20:02:00.000-07:00

cracked glass black moonlit
somewhen in boston backyards.

the roof chair's blonde girl blue eyes
carved in air blowing.

backwards hum inside the unknown friend.
someone's new way to stay up all night,

no one worries about sunshine.

the blonde girl blocks moonbeam's
breaking of grass shards,

and me in between, blinds my face.

2010-03-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

Hospital Philosophical Comprehensive

1.The diary harms itself

1.Of a subcategory everything subject and objected

2.The multi-polar anagram self referencing

3.Counting colors, really, in manifest reality introductory illusions

4.Clouded form memory from moment

-Hyphenate the

-Truncated representative, all syntax error omnipotent

-Emasculate the all the time

1.Hiding in rain

-Whose words dash to scratch knob and gods?

-Turning the his hand hyperventilating

-The typewriting at 11:33 PM, turn out the lights

2010-03-27T22:43:00.001-07:00

Can't stop not the white of stomach color punch

Belly the bit lip
Biting lip the afterthought
Belly the dug earth below it
Lips biting the flesh
Fleshing lips the animal nature
Before burnt lips below
Lips lie, flesh language bites
Teething flesh soothes
Soothing gnaws the tenderizing
nipples

Flesh works

Bites working into the belly broth
The nature broken poured into belly
The teeth, breaking into song
Singing, the flesh grew budding
Below the underbite, flesh the flame
Light the jaw
Begin the throat, open the earth
Dug with gut
Empty the tooth
Bite the neck, breath the lie
Unearth the burnt animal, biting
Into the gnaw

Fleshed against the wall
Beg the language, bite its tears
Before you dig and die
Pour the song and break
its birth

Bury into her belly.

2010-03-24T20:44:00.000-07:00

A List Of Things That Have Existed So Far This Week

Nothing seems to work with me in the shower

Cassie laughs at dumb commercials

And then this(hyperlink) happened

I have a headache in new places

I vow to have a beginning, middle and end

There are savage rules at play and I can't reach them

I eat imitation Golden Crisp Cereal

Andrew is counting on me to win the lottery

Nothing makes my face in time

I feel sinister, I am affected, I think

I'm not supposed to think about that situation

It's past my bedtime and I lie in bed staring

"This is not how the world ends"

2010-03-20T17:42:00.001-07:00

2010-03-20T17:41:00.001-07:00

2010-03-20T17:37:00.000-07:00

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

2010-03-20T16:44:00.000-07:00

2010-03-18T19:08:00.000-07:00

Where am I anymore? Crack in side. Hole inside. Hello (Oh, whole-o there!) Are you where it is? Am I there yet? Start the background it. Functioning the background. It the shadow. Over here. Closer. Upside down me now. Close the headphones, modern the touch: you're gooding again. Great. You're god. Start. On functioning it, you're doing good. Spew, chew, spit: glass, waves and pale. Waving in time. Bye bye. My head it. Call me.(why don't you fucking call me?). Weather it not in time it. Random, huh? Sorry again, safe. It balk. It chew. Stomp. It has it touch, is it? Is it me now? Over. Sorry your way out. It work. Or not. The corner doesn't happen. Videotape the corner. Make a list. It freshest smell ever. Make me feel it. Make it.

2010-03-13T12:37:00.001-08:00

He's staring at his leg, so I stare at his leg. He's got pants on but they're rolled one leg up so he can look at his calf. There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary that we are both looking at.

"Blahkah! Blahkah! Blahkah! Blahkah! Blahkah!"

I immediately regret sitting next to him.

But I'm usually pretty good at this.

"Blahkah! Blahkah! Blahkah! Blahkah! Blahkah!"

My sandwich rolls out of it's wrappings, and I begin the honest, decent work of staring out of the window while eating my lunch.

"Hey you got 1 mmphlfshx?" This is whispering in a Subway sandwich shop.
"Hey. Yo." Ignore.
"Hey you got 1 mmbbssyt?"

The rule is that after 20 seconds of ignoring a guy, if he keeps talking to you, you might as well respond because he's definitely not going to stop until he gets a reply.

"No." Don't look. Well, look because you have to but then stop looking. Look to let him know you're completely disinterested and not afraid or intimidated.

Out of the corner of my eye he is smiling.
"Did you hear what I said?"

Shit, did I? Wait. That's a trap. Of course I don't even CARE what he said. But now I'm almost kind of curious. The smile makes me think this guy is somehow on my wavelength.

"What?"
"You got 1 dollar?" Another whisper, but yeah I did hear what he said.
"No."

Some mumbling, a moment of quiet. Rapping begins.

I mean, I have nothing against rap music but it's always cliche when a guy raps to himself in public as if there is something special happening.

This guy's on fire. This guy's on some next shit.

He gets distracted, the rapping stops.

"Yo fam. Yo fam. Yo fam. Yo homie. Yo G." Like slowly dragging someone's body down a set of stairs, their head banging rhythmically on each step. "Yo fam. Yo fam."

He's breaking rules now. He's trying to enable me. He should know he can't do that. I can't say stuff like that back to him. He's definitely breaking the rules.

"Yo fam." Another 20 down.
"Yeah?"
"You got a cell phone I can use?" Whispering again.

"No." That got a chuckle out of him. "I'm trying to save money," I say.

He likes that one. Apparently it's normal for him to not have a cell phone and it's funny that I don't. So what if I'm lying. He broke the rules, why can't I lie?

"That's deep, homie, that's deep." He's chuckling his way out the front door and I'm beginning to believe this lunch break might be salvageable.

And then, fucking shit, 10 minutes later he's back in the Subway, his seat still empty for him, next to me. Still no food to give him a reason to be there.

"Yo fam. You still here? You still here? You still here?" His eyes bright, he seems genuinely excited to see me, as if we were old friends that hadn't seen each other in years. "You still here?"
This question continues after 20 seconds of him repeating it to my unmoving presence.

He is unstoppable.

I look up, a smile on my face. "Yep! I'm still here!"

Damn, this dude just won.

2010-03-11T18:31:00.000-08:00

mark made person

middle still (.......)

bottom nausea both

needs more drop

word you choose

vigor dot tremble

am I obvious

open doors closed

parallel (.......) failure

it's just sky

(.......) (.......) (.......)

2010-03-02T19:11:00.002-08:00

Damn, Noble Savage give good black hole

He suck some stellar vortex

Noble Savage grope vacuums, squeezes

Legs he part darkly, afraid of consequence

He find empty, curl up warm and safe

Fuck he find softly, with hurt and shame

He scramble for close feeling, beat in night, flail for touch spark

He harness vapidity, ride to no heartfelt horizon

He fuck empty so tight

He find voice his like growl-throat-baby-whimper-glass-breaking sigh

Skin he steal like pro, cum on pillows

He stare defeats you make out skills, He don't care, He blank out

Noble Savage vomit heart and black blood, on lap, as you hold him

2010-02-27T23:49:00.002-08:00

2010-02-27T23:23:00.000-08:00

2010-02-21T20:41:00.001-08:00

ḥ̶͉̼̣̞̩̗̹͍͋ͫ͛̐͂̈͋̕t͏̘̻̥͍͍̫͕͚̩ͥͣͨͨ̍̚͢t̤̭̬͓̤̠͖̑̆̉̃̏̄̀
́p̦͚͚̘̺̈̍͐͟:͉̮͇̲ͤͪ̓̾̑͗̍͞/̶̵̠̼͓̘͋ͯͅ/̵͚̜̺̻̼͎͌̊t̡̪̗̮̩̥̳
̺́̓́ͅę͇̹̈́́x̖̳͈͕̣̯̣̬͉̒̌͗ͮͩ͑ͦ́͞ť̝̮͋̽ͮ̈́ǫ̸͍͓̼̞̺̬ͣ̕z̶̬
̬̣̓ͩ̀ǫ͙̝͍́͐͛̆̏̓͟r̰̳̦̂ͨ̾̃ͫ̿̽̚.̹̺͙͔̥̪̺̗͌̈͑̇͛̾̏̆̆́͘c͍͓̼
͇̬̼̑ͭ͐̓́o͏̢̞̠̥̗̎ͦ̀m͍͓͍̫̹͉ͭ̓̐͜/̥̣̩̠̪̦͔͚͒͌z̡͛͏̯̩̼ͭ̓̽ͯ̕
̹̻͙a̤ͯ͂́l̨̳̪̘͙̬̾̀͠g̹̖͒̆͂̈̏͝o͏̶̳͎̱̜͌̐͒ͧ̚-̛̗̠̠̣̎̓̍̂͗͒ͪ
̉͒t̷͈̳̼̖̰̙ͫͮ̇̉̐̊ͨe̸̝̟̜͈͕̙̼ͪ͊͆̈ͩ͟x҉̷̶̫͓̖͍͍̜̙ͧͭͭ̔͗̍͌̂̀
͎t̸̸̙̞̤̅͐̅͒̑ͭͫ͠/̷̨̺͖͕͒̓̔͝

2010-02-12T19:59:00.001-08:00

(warning: what follows is a work of fiction)

****EXCLUSIVE****
Telly, From the Movie 'Kids', Interviews Casper, From the Movie 'Kids.'

(Casper and I pretty much grew up with each other. At least throughout the formative teenage years. While not losing touch, at a certain point in our early 20's we grew apart. I always kept up with what he was into, however, and I thought this interview would be a great way to get back in touch with him and see what his thoughts were on a few things that I think are important in his life.)

Telly: Good to see you, man. I feel like it's been a while.

Casper: Yeah yeah. Good to see you too. A while.

Telly: First of all, what do you think of interviews? The interviewing process? Are you comfortable in this set-up?

Casper: Oooh you're going to get me. One way or another, one me or another. You're going to get it. I don't know. Sure.

Telly: What do you think of the artist in contemporary society?

Casper: Well I think, first of all that that's a very general question. I'm going to answer it based on what I want you to mean by it. When I think of what people mean when they use the word 'artist' I sometimes think of a musician or performer. Mostly I think of some random dude, who has no base medium, enacting or organizing zany or kooky events or stunts or 'happenings' in order to generate a conversation about some random thing they thought up. Some every-man who has ideas just like everyone else but they think that their way of 'talking' about the ideas makes them (not the ideas) more interesting. Also, they don't believe in beauty, or something. Or just become uncomfortable when asked to define it.

Telly: So what of the classical definition of the word? The painters, drawers, or photographers?

Casper: Fuck dude yeah good question. I think they are hopefully still creating new impressions. New feelings. I guess... to better explain my point it's important to differentiate that. These contemporary artists are really just creating and selling ideas. "Classical" artists are working with ideas too but it's important to note that their medium is that of feeling. And I guess it makes sense: people would just rather own an idea. A feeling is fleeting, a mood. Ideas seem to be more of a commodity nowadays. They are more tangible. You get to own a piece of a conversation or a piece of art history when you enter into the discourse of contemporary art. You. Your name. There. And people feel more validated that way; naturally people want to spend money on what they feel validates them.

Telly: So is this a bad thing?

Casper: No, that's not the point. It's all up to your preference anyway. I guess... let me put it this way: In your relationships with people, would you rather they view and interact with the idea of you, or with the feelings and impressions that you give them? Which is more real?

Telly: Ok. What do you think of the writer in contemporary society?

Casper: Well for one they're lucky they haven't had what happened to art happen to literature. Literature doesn't need to invert/implode in order to validate it's own existence. It doesn't need to be an idea bigger than itself. The craft of writing is immutable. The idea of a book doesn't sell millions of copies, a book does. There is still integrity in literature. Opinions will always vary on which literature is trite or flimsy or worthless; content can vary but at the end of the day, there is still integrity in words. They are the work of thought. Actual accomplishment. Every time. Actual work that the actual writer has to do.

Telly: What is the moment?

Casper: Somewhere in between.
As one word.
Right as you start.
In continuance.
Always never.
As a force.
Right before sleep.
Right after waking.
Years ago.
In my neck.
Meaning.
Meta-if.

Telly: Describe a girl or woman or important female in your past.

Casper: A few months ago there was this one girl on the uptown C train. The moment provided for us to make eye contact several times, each time perfectly. I exemplified an appropriate boldness and she an aware hesitance, but open and curious. She was full of detail. By the third eye contact, right before I got off the train, she looked away first, with a small smile growing slowly on her face. It evoked in me a sublime mix of confidence and shyness. It was pretty dope. Girls are creatures. Different.

Telly: What is your favorite punctuation mark?

Casper: The forward slash. It personifies relativity through continuance.

Telly: What do you think of meta as a concept?

Casper: Maintaining the highest or outer most layer/level of meta means not acknowledging awareness of it.

Telly: So...

Casper: Yeah.

Telly: Could you elaborate?

Casper: Well it's kind of one of those damned if you do type things. Also, it's bullshit. Also, it's situational. Also, it's fucking Santa Claus or a placebo. Also.. fuck it, forget it.

Telly: You mentioned beauty earlier on. What are your feelings on the idea of beauty and it's place within creativity?

Casper: Someone said something like "After the events of the 20th century, how can beauty ever really be entwined with art ever again?" And it's just like, if I told you that I fell madly, deeply, inextricably, horribly in love with a girl and she just shattered my heart, you would understand that I'd be upset right? But if I told you that I would never love again, that I COULD never love again, that I wasn't even going to try, you might think that was deeply romantic, and even smart to some degree. Safe and protective. But inside you, you'd know that it's kind of pathetic. That I was a fool. More importantly, I don't think you'd believe me.
It's like yeah, shit was pretty fucked up; still is. But now it feels like we're all in a private elementary school counseling session where no one is allowed to move on until everyone's feelings are voiced and validated.
But to answer your question: It is still the highest human ideal. That is a definition. I just made a definition that works for me. It is something people should want to feel, want to see, want to experience. It is something that I want to feel, want to see, want to experience, in as many ways as possible. Beauty comes out in creativity that is honest and pure and hopeful. Beauty comes out of moments that are clear and honest and those moments generate hope.

Telly: When we were teens, we didn't exactly spend that much time at home.

Casper: Right.

Telly: Now that we're in our 20's, I feel like a lot of my newer friends didn't share that experience. It's not something that I think about all too much, but I'm curious as to what you think about it. How do you feel that experience affected you?

Casper: Hmmm. Well, I don't want to go into 'the fractured family unit' or the divorced or distant parents thing etc. When you're a teenager you are naturally wanting to go out into the world more and become the person you are. But I don't think that's what you're getting at, although that's certainly part of it.
For me, it was kind of like knowing that where you lived and where you were at wasn't going to be your home for much longer. "Home" wasn't going to be home for much longer. The terrifying yawn was approaching.
When you were young, like a young teen or younger, your bedroom was your protection. It was there nursing all of your new realizations. Your bigger feelings. You protected your room because of that. Emotionally protected it. "Mom get the fuck out of my room!" and shit. That was the place where you could watch who you were growing.
But there came a certain point where it wasn't enough, or you couldn't defend it hard enough, successfully enough, or you just needed more. So you looked elsewhere. You experimented, trying to see where you could transpose the idea of home. For an hour, while waiting for a friend, the curb became your bedroom. Or a bench. Sitting shotgun in someone's car while waiting for night to come was your bedroom. Drinking or smoking at the park after school was watching TV after dinner. That time where you were hanging out with your friends and you got really drunk and made out with a cute girl was your 9th birthday party. Lying in a girl's bed with her when her parents weren't home was looking out the window right before you went to sleep. Walking around the neighborhood at night with your friends because there was just absolutely nothing else to do was going grocery shopping with your mom.
I think that's what we felt.
And I think the kids that did it did it for different reasons. Some may have come from single parent families, divorced families, fucked up homes etc. Some had emotional problems, yeah. Some were just hungry for more. I just remember feeling, when it started, like I wasn't a bad kid. It's weird because I don't remember being aware of kids that were like that until I started to be one myself. I don't think we were bad kids.
And I don't necessarily think it's fair to say that kids who weren't out at all times didn't experience that either. Those feelings existed in most of us, it's just we, apparently, needed more of them and right away. I don't know why. I don't know how it affected me.

Telly: What is death like?

Casper: Yeah, I don't know. That's probably a good question too.

Telly: Thanks for sitting down with me, bro, it was good catching up with you.

Casper: Thank you, Telly. It was definitely my pleasure.

2010-02-05T18:05:00.000-08:00

God is dead
Art is dead
Literature is dead
Artistic Statements are dead
War is dead
Lying is dead
Modernism is dead
Post Modernism is dead
Meta is dead
Post meta is dead
Meta meta is dead
Meta to the infinite power is dead
Relativity is dead
Love is dead
Sex is dead
Making love is dead
Fucking is dead
My penis in your vagina is dead
The idea of my penis in your vagina is dead
My penis in your vagina causing an honest response is dead
Aesthetics are dead
The idea of aesthetics is dead
"The moment" is dead
Immediacy is dead
Meaninglessnesslessness is dead
Experience is dead
History is dead
Single narrative history is dead
Cultural relativity is dead
Moral Hierarchy is dead
Moral Ambiguity is dead
Contradiction as a force is dead
Emotionalism is dead
Sentimentalism is dead
Nostalgia is dead
Earnestness is dead
Situationalism is dead
Existentialism is dead
Existential terror is dead
Existential loneliness is dead
Low brow intellectualism is dead
"Only living for the moment" is dead
The search for a concrete understanding of the human condition is dead
The Noble Savage is dead
"x" is dead
Post "x" is dead
Not-"x" is dead
The idea of "x" is dead
Living in a post "x" world is dead
Living is dead
Being alive is dead
Feeling alive is dead
Dying is dead
Being dead is dead
Being affected by the idea of death is dead
Dead is dead
Dead dead is dead
Dead is dead dead
Dead dead is dead dead
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2010-01-30T22:29:00.000-08:00

In the locker room of the local public gym. You are having a particularly bad day; achy. A guy walks in from the entrance and you look up instinctually making eye-contact, a grimace naturally on your face. The guy smiles, then looks down. This happens again with the next guy who walks in and you begin to wonder what your face really looks like when you are angry.

In the showers, it is cold; the water is cold. You soap each part of your body, in the same routine, piece by piece. You are naked, having decided after the first few times at this gym shower that you might as well not be self-conscious. You soap your penis, then your ass, both thoroughly. Wash the soap off. A guy asks, before turning the water on, if it's cold today. You mutter something curmudgeony like 'It is way too fucking cold out for them to be fucking around like this.' You hope some self-confidence squeaked out.

On the train ride home, you think the types of thoughts that only people with bad teeth seem to be predisposed to. There are other people's faces all around you. There is the idea of eye contact even when you are merely staring at a person's cheek. Or hairline. Or lip. Make eye contact to reaffirm. Break eye contact. You move your attention with eyes and head in a 2:1 ratio. Your eyes lead, 2 movements, then your head behind by 1. Slowly, continually. Pause when your head has aligned itself forward with your body. Look down, rest neck, show deference/ambivalence. Repeat cycle; 2-1, 2-1, 2-1 rhythm. Smoothly, continually. You get off the train.

At home you lie on your bed with your over-sized headphones on, listening to something sweet. Clench your eyes tight. Real tight so you can start to see the color in the blacks. Is that your blood?
Check yourself. Do you have new scars? Are there old ones that have disappeared? Would you even know?

As you wake up the next morning, you hit snooze on your cell-phone alarm several times as usual. When you blink back into sleep, take note of the placement of your legs, your chest, the way your neck is twisted and the position of your head. This morning, you didn't seem to shift much in between takes. Your body seems to appreciate this. What does it mean?

At work, there are times when you close your eyes and believe that you could be asleep if you didn't feel obligated, by some arbitrary, meaningless rule of nature, to open them again a moment later. Or not be there at all. Or not then at all. But definitely not dead. Someone says something to you and the most of you doesn't hear any of it, but your body and your words respond quickly, assuring the person you were always there.

2010-01-28T18:50:00.000-08:00

(don't say those words) (Spam Reworkings) #3

Hi, my mailman

But true love is a durable fine,
in the mind provable burning, ever dick.
Old, (?) and ever dead, Each ...fuck... and from itself never turning.
Some people have died such big dreams,
Such people have lied, eat. Swallow yours; up.

>
"But all I want is to love you, to wake up"
Besides, you each morning, to feel the harm.
Go fuck.

If your hand is mine, with heart, your arm, night, (_) , vortex.
He share each black hole; moment. Some blood: chips, stale 'earnest'.
Each honing, good and bad. Honest, you?
To lost myself, too loose. Snoozin'... bad.
She said, 'In your loving arms', do you wanna fuck me or what?
Lovers. Done. People want. (Rent)
Much out of, (more in), in thoroughly; In words.

>
But. I want all.
Is to share everything with?
You.

For us to talk, awful, long into the keyboard.
night, to dream together, and experience fall
It little things together
What makes life jerking? Yes, I have a big.
Dreams and all, .

>
But I want so many.
I want to spend. Rest and comfort of my life with things
The person I love. And I want to give him my lottery ticket.
And make our home a pissing in the hole. To lost. Shooting it down.
Splashy splash. And I want to win.

Licking pieces where you always feel. Burn and welcome,
Warm and for us to have, shoulder. Back of the neck/Below hair.
in we accept to fail each other
for who we are and always find a sweet coma in
accept to arms. findings. All I want is ...fuck... (yup)
for us to love each other
with unbelie-able love. And I do. Licking. Pants can come true.
I am here findyourarmour.com/lovelykisses/loss to find my true love.

Looking forward to get a child from you,
Totally

2010-01-27T18:47:00.000-08:00

(Spam Reworkings) #2

Jeri is sharing the photo album "New album" with you.

>hey sexy Juan
Its Hailey, maybe, i met u by the club,
next to the last tuesday night. dont u remember??? u do
let's meet, in bodegas, in days from now (bring a picture so i no it's u)
Do u find me lustful, do (?) you find me. Theres someone (!!!) in b side me.
you said I was tha hott latina. you said you hope this is you,
just got pics, anyways
you there, juan? Juan, you there.
you should message me. I'm back, sexy juanita
some day, it was easier, slower, message me (,)
n e ways, wha happen? it'd be really hott to speak to you
http://betysuki77452.googlepages.com/hotlatinass.html@remember?
late

view album

ps. dear Jeri, I'm getting fatter, eating in bed now.

2010-01-25T18:14:00.000-08:00

Tea With Casper (Reworking of a section of the script from 'Kids')
co-worked by Andrew Graham

> "you know who i iced bro? bitches. i love
> to pluck pricks while i yoddle. it's like a
secret password
> "bobby digital", for the orson wells shit
youth." "dick
> tricks." "hall of smelling the witches man, i
glow at night, smellin poo-poo."
> "casper's tight hole. hey, rubber-hat shit, he
act
> like he a donut. in frontal nudity shots of
their friends yo, they try
> to get respect." "sword sluts, like when you
get
> em a home, it's the papa smurf king they hoe
for man.
> , they bust brag you sick-tart suckin, he-
manjob
> he know he in marge for something man.
> on me the steel produced supertan." "sellin
your yoni cd's.
> the glue, tattered, sits on my shell, an inuit
man,
ha-ha
> whirls give bongbong core a new nanny.
permanent
> snot bites a minute, see finish, haha hits oy
oy oy!!!" "nut tits i juice, 'ight."

2010-01-20T19:03:00.000-08:00

A back story is needed for this piece. The original scan of this is from New Mutants (2nd series) #9. On this page, Doug Ramsey, a mutant whose power is to learn and speak any language almost instantly (arguably the lamest mutant power ever, but writers have done interesting stuff with it), has recently come back from the dead (yes, this is a comic book.) On this page he is explaining to his former teammate, Amara, that he has created a language specifically for her, that only she and him can understand, based off of the essence of who she is. This idea, coupled with the simple design of muted colors, immediately compelled me to want to engage in it in some way of my own. This piece is what resulted of this impetus.

I am feeling so good about this piece that I want to give away 5 prints of it, sized at roughly 20" x 30".
The first 5 people to email me at least 4 lines of something recently written, plus their address, will get a poster mailed to them in the next few weeks.
The writing can really be anything: irrelevant, random, personal, creative, abstract etc.
Just something personal from you. And something that has been written in the past month, if not absolutely brand new (I like new stuff.)

kevindunfey@gmail.com

2010-01-18T17:20:00.000-08:00

I just don't know what's good anymore.

I don't want to say that this is an important feeling; I truly just don't know what it means.
As artists (at least at the art school I went to and from talking to other students from other schools I feel that this idea is substantiated) we are taught to stand behind each of our pieces with confidence when it is finished. We are taught to talk positively and assuredly about the validity of the finished piece, thereby respecting (or propping up) it's importance and relevance.
Perhaps this was really just one of the lessons on how to engage and interact with the art world and it was my mistake to take it a little too literally. Perhaps I'm not supposed to believe that that is how I should actually feel.
Nonetheless, this is something I cannot do with this piece, as well as many other pieces I have finished.
It is important for me to state that:

1. Yes I am completely finished with this piece.
2. This piece, by itself, for itself and because of itself, is perfect.

Without nitpicking about, stating the obvious that I could always feel that one little section here and there could or needs to be moved, fixed or adjusted, this piece is finished and perfect for what it is in the time frame that it existed, through me, and it has fulfilled the amount of potential, in it's entirety, of the demanded energy, from me. Nonetheless, there is so much that bothers me about this piece. There is so much doubt and hesitation and dissatisfaction wrapped up in the act of looking at this piece now that it is done.

I think that it is important for me to say all of that about this piece.
I think it would be important for me, if talking about this piece with someone, to look down at the ground when beginning to speak. To stutter and grasp for words, pausing too frequently, creating an impression that I am confused or not confident. Because there is all of that in this piece; because there was all of that in the making of this piece. And none of that is a detractor from the fullness of whatever excellence this piece may embody now.

For me to regard the whole of the positivity of this piece, in isolation from every other emotion involved, and present this piece with the utmost of confidence to anyone would be a disservice to myself and to the piece itself.

(There is a great, great chance that this entire post will be removed within the coming week or two, if not days, if not hours.)

2010-01-17T08:58:00.000-08:00

This is the last in the photocopy run. It is probably my favorite; most likely for more sentimental reasons.
While I had a hand in creating the featured art in the photocopy, I cannot take credit for the photocopy itself.
Ownership must be given to Aaron Bouvier. (I love his tumblr, as well. Fucking fantastic iPhone photos.)
I must apologize that I cannot fix the misspelling of 'collaborative', as was requested by him.
Clearly that would have interfered with the integrity of the raw scan. Sorry Aaron.

Also, to check out some phenomenal color digital photocopy manipulations, check out Andrew Graham's stuff.

2010-01-15T05:17:00.000-08:00

Ooh these two...

I wish there was some accurate way to transfer the effect of surface to you via internet/computer screen. The blacks on this one above are so perfect and smooth: if I remember correctly, I did something to enhance the darkness on this one so much that enough toner was laid down to cause a jam in the machine. To get the print out, I had to manually turn it through the roller/press but the time it took to do this meant that it got 'over-heated'. This heat fused the heavy blacks into such a shiny, smooth surface finish that is fucking exquisite and works so well with the overall pattern/design of the piece.

2010-01-13T05:29:00.000-08:00

2010-01-12T05:23:00.000-08:00

2010-01-11T05:05:00.001-08:00

2010-01-10T07:17:00.000-08:00

2010-01-09T09:41:00.000-08:00

2010-01-09T09:38:00.000-08:00

The following posts are scans of photocopies that were procured from analog black and white photocopy machines. Some unnecessary text has been removed/obscured via photoshop.

2010-01-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

2010-01-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

Amidoinitrite?

2010-01-01T09:13:00.000-08:00

2010-01-01T01:25:00.000-08:00

'The idea of pretty' that I go to sleep to every night.

2009-12-29T18:17:00.001-08:00

2009-12-28T16:08:00.001-08:00

Original Scan: Uncanny X-Men #247

2009-12-27T06:24:00.001-08:00

Original Scan: New Mutants (Somewhere in Warlock run, post Doug Ramsey, I believe)

2009-12-26T16:14:00.000-08:00

Original Scan: Uncanny X-Men #137, the epic Dark Phoenix Saga

2009-12-25T22:42:00.000-08:00

Original Scan: New Mutants #98 or #99 with a piece of Uncanny X-Men #247 thrown in there

2009-12-23T19:16:00.000-08:00

Original Scan: Uncanny X-Men somewhere between #247 - #252 (This is embarassing, these I REALLY should know.) Had to post 2 details. Really thought it was important to show top one to give a sense of a lot of the textures in these pages/posters. Bottom one necessary because the muddled portions are my favorites.

2009-12-22T19:42:00.000-08:00

Is it obvious yet that one of my favorite series was the first New Mutants run?

2009-12-18T20:03:00.001-08:00

Original Scan: Uncanny X-Men.. somewhere in the 220's or around there.

2009-12-16T17:29:00.001-08:00

Original Scan: The classic "Days of Future Past" storyline from Uncanny X-Men #142.

2009-12-16T17:05:00.001-08:00

Original Scan: From some page in the first Deadpool on-going series. Somewhere in the 30's or 40's I believe.

2009-12-15T19:09:00.000-08:00

Page 1: Original scan from a random New Mutants comic that I can't remember (probably in the 30's). I feel this is some fairly amateur Photoshop work and that the page itself isn't removed/altered enough from the original to make me feel 100% ownership over this rework. It is very simple, though, and thought it was a great first page for the book.

2009-12-14T18:57:00.000-08:00

Original scan: Cover of New Mutants #87. Rob Liefeld. 1st appearance Cable.

2009-12-12T15:51:00.000-08:00

A preview of things to come.
I ran out of new material to post on here a long time ago. Have since been posting old stuff. Drawings take about a month or two to complete. Expect that long before new stuff gets posted. In the meantime, I'll soon be dumping a 'comic book' that I created senior year of art school. You won't be able to read most of it, but that's ok because most of it is 'fucking insane.' If anyone is interested in what some of the stuff says they are welcome to email me and I could (possibly) email a transcription.

2009-12-12T15:01:00.001-08:00

2009-12-12T15:00:00.001-08:00

2009-12-10T18:08:00.001-08:00

I'm still not you know

2009-12-09T17:55:00.003-08:00

2009-12-09T17:55:00.001-08:00

2009-12-07T19:09:00.001-08:00

2009-12-03T20:06:00.000-08:00

2009-12-03T17:33:00.001-08:00

2009-11-29T18:55:00.001-08:00

2009-11-27T16:59:00.001-08:00

via:
blog.syntheticlives.com
www.syntheticlives.com

2009-11-27T16:48:00.001-08:00

2009-11-15T20:58:00.001-08:00

2009-11-15T12:22:00.001-08:00

2009-11-12T15:56:00.001-08:00

2009-11-09T19:12:00.001-08:00

2009-11-09T17:35:00.000-08:00

Dear God,

I feel like I am slowly disappearing.
Am I slowly showing up somewhere on your end?

2009-11-08T19:45:00.000-08:00

2009-11-08T07:58:00.001-08:00

2009-11-06T18:31:00.003-08:00

I am in my head in the way that I am in my head and you are in your head in the way that you are in your head.

2009-11-06T18:30:00.002-08:00

2009-11-04T17:45:00.001-08:00

2009-11-03T18:28:00.001-08:00

2009-11-03T05:10:00.001-08:00

2009-11-02T18:26:00.000-08:00

2009-10-30T19:30:00.001-07:00

2009-10-22T16:35:00.000-07:00

2009-10-21T21:28:00.001-07:00