This Week's Inspiration Board.

Shit I love this week. Click images to see 'em larger.

J. Morgan Puett's Chicken Coup:



Amanda's Autopsies:



The Selby:



The Malplaquet House (Photographed by Barry Lewis):





These images (which I would cite if I could, but saved without putting the source in the file notes):





And these websites (that I can't be bothered doing photo-collages for):

BibliOdyssey

Morbid Anatomy

Thierry W. Despont at The Marlborough Gallery

Grillon-Grillon

Geoffrey Gorman

Oh, and whomever loves me the most can buy me this.

It Seems Like

the second the sun goes down, I start making bad decisions.


And I don't stop making them until the sun comes up.

On My Fingers, Please (April Showers, May Flowers).

Soap knuckles from Spye Designs.


"Growing Jewelry" from Hafsteinn Juliusson

I Graduated...

...almost top of the class. I'm the one in black, lighting a cigarette.

Another Pretty Thing.

Okay, I swear I'm done with the constant blogging now.

Pretty Thing.

Courtesy of The Blue Planet, I present: Homarus Americanus, a.k.a The Atlantic or American Lobster, a.k.a. The Most Beautiful of All Marine Invertebrates:



Pretty.

Did You Hear the One About the Priest?

My reading list has taken a turn for the canonical; I'm currently trudging my way though Dubliners by Joyce. And a slow, stodgy trudge it is... I'm not a big fan of Joyce's short stories, mostly because they're so fucking subtle, I never feel like anything happened (plot- or character-wise.) And every story has a priest in it, if only in passing.

Blah. I'm considering reading Ulysses, just to finally be done with it.

I wouldn't be reading Joyce at all, except I can't find The Obernewtyn Chronicles in town and am too lazy to try and find something else, and so am reading the stack of novels I bought for 15¢ apiece a while ago...

This is The Title.

And this is the text!

This video has... like... all nearly all a good many of my favorite things, wrapped up in one convenient, 22-minute package.

P.S. I swear I don't go looking for these things. They find me. Honestly.

Although, I guess Bea Arthur on RuPaul is only the logical outcome of chasing links about wool fetishists (brace yourself: they're called 'woolies') and trying to get the full scoop on Angelina's adulterous, lesbian tryst (I would be ashamed of that, but I'm so tired I don't even fucking care what I'm looking at, as long as it has pictures. Oh, and I like gossip.)

Walk Hard. In the Dark. End Sore.

Because I'm always looking for ways to avoid writing (and because I'd just watched "The Descent" and have a thing for watching 'scary' movies and then walking around at night), I walked from my house to the nearest gas station tonight. I left my house at about 12:15 am, and returned a little after 3 am.

I recorded chunks of my walk. If you're bored, you can watch it...

Be warned, though: my lisp comes out in full effect. In video and on radio, I hiss more than Mike Tyson and Isaac Brock in a bar full of old queens.

And before anyone asks, the reason I don't know if my car actually caught on fire or not is that I wasn't the one driving it when it happened. I've been told that there was a small electrical fire. I don't know.

Please note: I'm melodramatic. Very much so. I think I say, many times, that the trip is 5 miles both ways. It's not: round-trip, it's just over 6 miles. Also, it's dark, so this is pretty much an audio track laid over blurry black images. Really, you should only watch this is you're bored and love me/miss me a lot.

Please also note: I really do need a haircut. No joke.

Here's another comic about those devious social insects:


I think it would be easy to interpret my frequent postings re: ants as a sort of affection for them, but this is not the case. As I've mentioned before, I'm pretty sure ants are the scariest motherfucking organisms on planet Earth and, while I respect their amazing capabilities/accomplishments, a few comics aren't going to lessen (what I perceive to be) their untapped potential for carnage and domination. It's just that I keep coming across ants in my web-travels: some of the stuff I view as legitimizing my fear, and the rest of it I relate to (on an emotional level). The WE THE ROBOTS comic above is a little of both.

Finally: as entertaining as it may initially seem when your cat accidentally consumes Adderall, it ceases to be funny when you remember it's time-release Adderall, and your cat is still being a fucking freak seven hours later. Cats on meth≠fun.

Whined the White Rabbit.

Things are back to peachy.

(Okay: I'll be the first to admit that things aren't exactly perfect, but I'm once again optimistic that they will be. I just needed a week or so to throw a tantrum and convince myself that everyone I'd ever loved had replaced me and that there really wasn't any point in trying to make things, since it's all already been made, and that even if I did make something or love someone, in any capacity, it'd be pointless anyway because everything is so fucking meaningless...

In other words, I need a week of being a ridiculously pessimistic, whiney piss-bitch. But I'm back to being the cynical optimistic that you're sort of used to.)

And now, for something different:

Ran across this little humdinger of taxidermy the other day over on eBay, which naturally made me think of Neco Z Alenky (or Alice) by Jan Svankmajer.

I almost hate to admit how much I love Neco Z Alenky, or how influenced I am by Svankmajer's work, because it seems almost too artsy. I find myself judging... myself... for considering a creepy version of Alice in Wonderland inspiring.

But, whatever, I love it. And it makes me want to collect the bones I find scattered around our property, clean them, and display them in pretty outfits.

I managed to find Neco Z Alenky posted over on youtube in nine parts. Part 1 is posted below. For those of you who love it as much as I do, here's the torrent.

The Heart Will Always Stay One Day Too Long.

Tonight:

The moon is in the wrong place and appears to be moving far too fast.

In the gas station, a crazy homeless man stumbled toward the Coca Cola cooler, mumbling about how "goddam George Dubya Bush is ruining the goddam country."

I read in The Secret Language of Birthdays that people born on my birthday have a predilection for the apocalyptic, and usually expect the worst. I concur; as I mentioned in a text conversation earlier today, either everything in my life is running smoothly, or it's the eve of the apocalypse (as far as I'm concerned).

All I want to listen to is "Go Places" by The New Pornographers.

Heart breaking as we speak.

Stay with me, go places.