Mouse rides the fishing cat

“If comedy is a full stop. Does that give people nothing more to wonder about?”
“I didn’t see them as comical, I saw them as snide and attacking men and women both at different times for no reason in particular other than you could.”
“How do you deal with an attack?”
“I saw you saying back off too, yes, I understand. But that’s not what we’re into. It’s a grave. People get it once, then laugh and have their cheese sandwich and leave. They need to dream.”
“Comedy not a dream then eh? Art-laughing is just about snide attacks eh? No, ha-ha I enjoyed that so much I want to put it up on my wall and shock my guests.”
“It’s not shocking. It’s just old tory and gold digging bla.”
“I find that attitude bizarre. I’m more crafty than tory. But if that’s the angle I could go for the golden circus stuff, rather than the gore. Put them together and I’ll get some bawdy palace or something eh? Call it Madamoiselle.”
“No way.”
“Don’t want the female sex play eh? Not been done this way before. All men, or weeping picked apart women. Can’t handle me? Ah that’s it, too much of a channel change. You’re easy.”
“Bastard.”
“My mother would be offended by that.”
“I’ve always wanted to say how whatever you do whatever you ask and what ever is out there is a play as long as you don’t let it get into the ways of which to do and think around how it is you play.”

Served

Plate says, "What the hell are you doing with your life? Aren't you over this stupid thing you do yet? Can't you get a grip and start doing something useful for a change? Where's your nous? Has it been eaten by some infant mouse? Fuck off."

Eater says, "Um. It sort of disturbs me when food talks to me. I'm not sure I can eat this waiter. Would it be possible to have something else."

Cafe Superstitious

Last of the Blearies...

Collected lip

“Cruise to the point of crud and restud,” said the Bleary. “It could be that nothing here really matters. It could also be said that the thinking here is shattered. And if that’s the case then I’m wearing some kind of hat. There’s a book in that.”

Floatie washed down with cherries

“First time I saw you, I thought lifesaver, then you popped into my mouth,” said the Bleary. “Then I needed something to swill you down with.”

Wine glass news reader

“Her face looked like a wineglass, so I licked it. It really had nothing to do with that, but never mind… Some things are making people nervous. I want to know what they are. So I eat the monitor and the mouse just to be sure. That was in my younger years when monitors were televisions and had bunny ears,” the Bleary said.

Light bulb and barb

"This one is pretty straight forward. Everyone wants everyone to not leave heating on and go out and get gum leaves to wipe their bum so that the toilet gets blocked and shitty gummy smells fill the air," says the Bleary. "Totally ruins your taste for eucalypts if you're a koala."

I ponder that for a moment. Then think about how much I want to think about what this Bleary says. Okay hmm.

Liquid lady

Think this one is possibly ugly. No lady is every going to respect me after this. I think this cartoon is something I’ve seen before. It talks me through the draw. And I’m thinking I can’t use the word automatic to describe my art anymore since that tracing machine got hold of the whichy art and made it about electronics. So this is my hand just doing the thing it does when the pictures inside my head want an outlet. Who knows maybe I’ll find some ladylove to send this to as a card. Or maybe that’s just liquid dreams talking. Hey, did I say that or did someone else? Am I actually myself ever? Yes. But this one’s a bit of a character. Question is, is this creation going to play a big part in my life or just a little one? Glup slip slop…

Biting the balloon

"Post now. We need directions to get to this place."
"Okay something weird going on here."
"Don't post that one. Draw a new one, all those ones you did last night are now redundant."
"Okay."
"Too late now. Needed it ten seconds ago."
"Okay."

Bloody exhibitionish

Wind-up

Bugger all. Your life loser. So sorry to have had to have lived it for you. Na. Tis okay, just a wind-up. Pop. Get a lid on things.

Precious paint

Ephemeral

I thought the world was an orange. And then I thought, if I ate the orange then where would I be? But I didn't think any of these things really mattered much at the time because I was taking things in slowly and creating things I believed were fruitful. But they just ended up turn out to be... something else entirely.

mox

There are several reasons for making up stories about things that aren't really there. And sometimes I do this to defend my epiglottis other times my insight. But since there is no point to this one, it might as well get to one. What? You actually want me to say something else?

Milk from the sheep-cloud

Scene

This is what happens when I’m walking down the street. And why I can’t stop laughing, in case anyone wants to know. Little dialogues, like this:
“I'm just wondering when the time for wandering will waft my way again. “
“I find that attitude abysmal . Get a life and a career happening, says Mum. Don’t you dare have sex, or even think about it or I’ll make you eat the baby.”
They have character voices too, don’t forget, that’s often what gets me laughing.
“Um, I’m sorry. I just thought you were pouring crap on me.”
“If you don’t eat it. You’re going to have to do something with its crap.”
“Stop eating babies!”

It is just really weird stuff.
“That’s not a good one is it? Little lamb on the spit.”
“Mate, you go too far.”
“If you mate with me, my Mum will make you… you know.”
“Stop it. You’re asking for trouble.”

“Oh. That’s right. You’re the force of good and I’m the bad apple eh? Well I’ll make a drink out of that fermenting fruit and sell it to all those well wishers out there.”
“Stop arguing with me. I want you to understand where we are coming from. I want you to see why it is that we earn and you burn.”
“Which part of that made sense to you?”

And sometimes, I just listen in haphazardly to things going on around me and draw them with my pen. Not listening through my ears, but listening in another way. Does this help or hinder my play? I wonder. Hmm. Grin to the point of grit and spit away. I find it funny. If you don’t, I think you’re silly to judge me for hearing and seeing such things. If there’s no use for them, why are they there? For me to twiddle my thumbs with? Don’t make a monster out of me and I won’t make a monster out of you. I'm just here to see what exactly it is people want me to do. And if you fck with me, guess that's going to come back in my art. So, here's a nice little scene for you eh? Let's not try to burn the which again.

Jesus craft

Man and donkey

"I'm never going to talk to you again if you think you can give me such crud as this for a post. I think you are a moron to even want to put it out there like it means something. However, being friendly and all I'll try to make sure that I'm in love with everything you do and that sort of thing. Yes, okay, whatever, good, there's there and there's here and what am I talking about."

"Buggered if I know, you're probably the donkey."

"No you fool. I just wanted to eat you alive for a bit so I can roast you up tommorrow."

"Okay. So this is about stuffing the donkey with something nice and tasty?"

"Shh. Be quiet. We're hunting wrap its."

"On a stuffed donkey?"

"Okay. If that's the way you wish to play you obviously don't need to have a wired up interaction anymore."

"Um. What's that to you?"

"I want you to be fat like me. I hate thin ugly people that don't eat."

"If you were a donkey and the man sitting on you was fat, would you prefer that extra weight, or the bones sticking in?"

"You've got me thinking about where this is going and I'm sort of wondering that myself."

"Okay. Then we're done. Key is in the see eh?"

Serpent of the well

I had all this awesome food ready for them in the car and they never turned up. I couldn’t understand why until I met you. You told me. And then I realised what had happened.
It really hurt me what you said. It really destroyed a lot of where I’m coming from. I wanted you to tell me how much it costs me to be part of who you are.
I told you not to go there. I told you to only think of me as a friend. But you didn’t listen. You wanted to play her. And I said, that’s something you should never do.
It was quite accusing what she said to me. It felt really wrong. I wanted to hide for a while. Then I began to understand why someone might not want to picnic in the woods with me. I realised that I scared them.
My attitude was short-tempered. I had very little access to much machinery besides my car. And I was somewhat fat.
So, I went off by myself and threw everything I collected into the river. All that beautiful tasty trout cooked-up and mashed into egg-whites. All those lovely dainty perfectly wonderful edible flowers I’d collected. Cheeses, sausages… all home made. All so wonderfully tasty. All into the river. Her loss, I said. Her loss. That’s when I started to realise that the river was actually alive and that it moved like a serpent and it had a home in a deep dark well. A well where all those thirsty could always drink from, when the serpent was around.
The serpent didn’t dig the hole though. The serpent just claimed it. Took its cool blue stream of consciousness down there and re-awoke the land. That’s what happens when a river gets fed what others do not wish to dine upon. The river finds the place which gives it endlessness.

Polly wants the nut cracker sweets

Just forget about what is written in the draws. It doesn't matter. Maybe you don't even want to know. The places to go that are red. Like that colour.

Bit of rocky garbage canning

And it's a wrap.

White elephant sale

There was something under this painting here. It was called Redhot pokers. Stuff of the ying and yang. Think I miss it a bit. But there it is gone, except for the photo. Artists, foolish cards eh? Thinking that they can actually exhibit the lost worlds of never being and people will flock to the seeing. They'd rather listen to the same book being read again and again and sing the same hymes. Nautical nature disturbs and corrodes their sense of ordered lore.

Nature

The fire of nature doesn’t want to be controlled. It wants to burn to the point where the area can be renewed, by the tune the wind plays on a certain day. Nature doesn’t care about peoples’ houses. It only cares about the health of its skin and its hairs that are growing. When humans try to control nature, this just makes organic order messy. The humans are just being hyper critical about the place they are settling. But that's the hippycritter doing its scuttle skidder eh? and then peddling its non-sequenced shares and negating the eclairs.

While the hippo goes in circles in a zoo of someone else’s making and only escapes into a hypotenuse when it learns how to break free from the captive inside its own sense of sublime ridicule which criticises a state of mind that is trying to encouraged hype to the point where it can wear a stripe. Waking up is important, circles can be hypnotic. So those who preach what they cannot teach at least should collect their straight and curl them to the point where they don’t make such a scar in those they anoint. Although if done artistically branding might be the way to go! Slash and burn only works for some.

Mirrored

People reflect so much of what is around them. My fingers get nicely calloused from the guitar strings. And when I say “Get Stuffed,” to the Lammington, that pink fluffy thing thinks I said I wanted it to fck itself or something. So it starts multiplying. And then there’s all these Lammingtons around me saying the same thing, “We love the Lammington/ Have you seen the Lammington?/ I wish the Lammington was in.”
But that’s not my thinking, I can’t stomach such things. They upset me and distract me from what I’m doing. Then try to blame me for their pussy getting hit by a car.
Question is how do you get a Lammington to go away when you’re trying to concentrate on writing? Mash them.

A landscape of containers

Last year I started thinking about how containers might fit together, be linked. And how they are something like human behaviour. How our lives can be wrapped up in little tempory bits of plastic.

Now, I've got the gallery set up full of artful intregue.

And some brilliant guest speakers at my opening

of the exhibition 12th June 6-8pm,

At 54 Burke Road, Malvern East, Melbourne, Australia

Sustainable culture, Fern Rainbow

& stand-up comedian, Duff

Art is organic. It is a dream. It instigates. It is a creation. It is something that is a platform from which to think. It is responsible and responding. And although items in an exhibition may be separate, it is best to curate some bonding.

Escape in the clouds

The weather contained in a ship in a picture on the sailor's sole

Tigercork

“Don’t mind me. I’ll guard your door,” says Tigercork. “I’ll keep them out and at bay, won’t let them touch any delicates. I’m armless, but I know enough about the world to know who’s who and sort out which ones spit out their gum in the bin and those who leave it on the floor for you and I to step on. I won’t let anyone through who you don’t want there. They can stare me in the eye all they like, and I’ll just stare back as they look at me cork and pins, but I’m not stepping out of the way, until I know they’re okay. So no worries. I won’t let them get a foot in edgeways.”

Ocean floor dish

Thinking about putting this in the ocean somewhere. Trick the fish into nibbling on it. Do it just to tease them. Think it's a sea lettuce.

Masked Existence

Why would someone want something like this?
What do you mean?
It just looks like a pile of rubbishy thinking
It’s absurd.
What do you mean?
I’ve lined the plastic with pink velvet and made it gape like a mouth among the used guitar strings and other things.
So?
It’s called Masked Existence. I’m changing the way the containers look. It is a prototype rethink on how I use my equipment to rearrange the nature of how we look at a junkyard.
Is your whole exhibition going to be like this?
No, not really. Just this one piece. Each of my art works has an individual reason for existing. I don’t repeat the same idea over and over again. Sometimes ideas are connected though. But they are as separate as humans are. I’m interested in how we interact with our environment. How we merge and attempt to be separately contained and how it is possible to understand this even without having a conversation with a person.
I’m sorry, but I hate this piece of artwork so much. I really do. It reminds me of the worst kind of art I’ve seen. It reminds me not of children, but of crap. Just a whole lot of crap mashed together. But then I when look closer and I realise there is a fair bit of work in this. And that makes me want to know why someone would put so much effort into something that looks, from a distance like nothing much other than a tangle of bits and pieces of shit. At first it made me feel sick. Then I rethought that feeling and I said to myself, well now, what would I do to make it look a bit better… And I thought perhaps maybe I would add a whole bit more on the bottom and have it up in the air and dangling from a chain. Because I think this piece is about someone who is in utter pain. It does not make me happy. It makes me sad. It makes me want to strangle the thing that made it. It makes me want to rip it to shreds. It is so stupid and braindead. Okay. Now I’ve said it. Sorry for being such a pian, I just can’t help it.
Poor thing, no one likes it. No wonder it masked its existence.

Black cat diver

Go some place new and change your mind about any doubts you have that expression is organic and forever changing and can never all be done before. Got something blocking your way? dive into the substance, even if it gives you an eerie chill. Find the myriad in the mundane and gain understanding of what you previously thought insane. Not all symbols are the same, the world mixes them up. It is connected via the links you decide to make. And paintings can be like fortune cookies. All sorts of little strange messages in there.

Red chalice

Something to eat cherries out of. But best share the dream with others, so they don't get jealous. Jealous people have a tendency to be callous.

Adds up

You hate it. That’s the point. It scares the crap out of you. To have it dangled in front of your face is not something you would call motor beeping ace.
Just remember, you’re the one with the pack and the spade here. So dig! Ahhhh my hair is falling out I’m going to have to get a wig. I could play my cards into a war hole then.

The pizza box

Should’ve got a large, it was tasty.

Following the white rabbit

Following the white rabbit (2008), was painted over another painting: Secrets (2002). Perhaps I should’ve left it at that. But something weird annoyed me about this abstract pretty. It was part of an exhibition called: But what is it?

I got the title from the architect, Lloyd Wright, who demanded painters paint something tangible he could understand. "But what is it?" he demanded of the finger-painters.

Maybe it was also those pill containers I stuck on there. Pills I chose to swallow years ago. White rabbits? I dunno. A chaser to the bunny ears certainly. Bunny ears distracted my mind from the forced psyche meds from hurting me as much. But the bunny ears hurt me just as much. And getting off something that I was allergic to was worth it. So I can’t condemn those transparent things I filled with glue glitter and stuck to this canvas. I can only say I was going through a stage and chasing one thing to stop another. But then there was painting. Just letting the visuals out.

I'm doing a post-mortem on a painting here. Frankly, I found it somewhat disturbing that it had what seemed to be an illustration from some old old Enid Blighton book. Not me! But, that's the automatic.

And there's the ear listening.

So, I look things up and start to see metaphors I hadn't really delved into before. Chase the meaning of that damn white rabbit and it is really time consuming thing, that's what i think!

Pretty connotations

Sometimes in a situation where the words of English have connotations we do not think are pretty, we have to find a way around it. Expect a backlash and whip-crash. I mean it. I did the worst thing I could do on sorry week. Yep. Put up the worst display for a fight I could ever. See, I’m always wrong. No matter. That’s just me. I’m like that. I'm NO.

It wasn’t a question of the kind of emotional play being used, just that emotional play was being used. As it is, again and again. Bad thing? Good thing? Boon. I like that term. It means no.
But my question was, what do you do with such a scenario? Nothing, because it’s not what you think, it is something pink.
***

“Now newspapers, you know they always want an angle,” she says. “And you might not feel comfortable…”
See, I know what she’s going to say. I’m going to hear that I should play the mental health poor NO play. (Not a good one eh?). Got. So I say, “No, don’t worry about that. That’s not important.”
But she is insistent, raises her voice, “Listen to me I’ve got to tell you, I’ve got to let you know.”Like giving me the cop line. She wants to tell me that I have every right to speak but my words will be taken down in evidence or something.
But I’m insistent, “No I’ve heard you say this stuff before. I don’t need to go there.”
She raises her voice again. “Listen to me. They always want an angle and you might have to talk about your illness. Are you comfortable with that?”
What does she want me to say? Yes. No. Boon. Boon. Boon. But hey, English. “Why would I ever need to take that angle? My angle is about dreams and the environment and sensing. It’s an art exhibition about what can and cannot be contained. It's semantics and semiotics. Stop using those horrible terms with us. It’s like saying to someone who is fat that they have to always use that as the angle for their show. What? I eat a lot of cake. Are you interested in how yummy it is?”
Then wait for it: “I don’t like that tone you are using with me. It’s upsetting me.”
Hey, and she’s making my armpits start to do that fear stink. Does she want me to blame her for that? “I’m a psychiatric survivor, that’s my angle.”
Then there is a knock at the door and she doesn’t get to finish what she’s doing with me. That’s for later. She has to have me under her cream bun.
Now, this should be a friendly nice likable character. But it isn’t. Why? Because I’m telling the darn straight truth here. I should never do that. I have to be wry. Now you know why terms make people cry. When they’re used upon your being as a marker of who you are. I’m a blue. What does that mean to you? That I’m a blooper? Probably. But don’t ever try and put those terms on a psychiatric survivor. They don’t mind you using it in anyway, except when you’re in power and can put them away. (The previous blog has a term there. Think about it. Boon.)

Locating the location

I think when we’re talking emotional blackmail we’ve got to think about the situation and the set-up more. I think we’ve got to find that splace where we are going.
Obstacles make me think: I want to get around them. I have to get around them.
Although, I have been stopped in my path by people who like to say that what I’m doing is upsetting them.
Today, I told someone no way. That they were projecting their own sense of being onto me. This cleared stuff. People in authority can be very insistent about having power over the way we speak.
Next time I might say, “Oh dear, you can’t control your emotions very well can you? Like that psychiatrist that yelled at me for making a pun out of his title, then put me in the psychiatric slammer because he felt I diminished his power. How considerate of you.”
Would that work? I could also play the handyman: “Want to make an issue out of this love?” Perhaps that’s all I need to say. But some people freak out even more when I play funny hat says.
Obstacles just create a bumpy drive for my journey. I have things I need to do. Obstacles are the panic zones, where my mind starts going into which, which, which, trying out all kinds of experimental ways to get past, around, through. It can be be confusing and misleading. But I’m going to try and not ever let other people misdirect me again. Shouldn’t respect someone who treats me in a way I’d never want to treat another human being. Shouldn’t trust them. Just have to remove them from my path. No further questions about my tone, or manner then need be asked. You tropple dawl and I catch your maul and put it into a basketcase. I’m someone who loses time if I hesitate.

Advice and the flying dryad dragon

Technique? I move about and create a canvas. Splash some paint. It might turn out something like this:
A few people said I should keep the painting as it was and do no more. But when agreed to, then they changed their mind. Said they like my complicated stuff better. It was like they wanted to question me further.
For painting is like speaking. It’s just communication. About being part of nature, machines, humanity, all those things I’m contained by and want to expression my opinion on or discuss. It comes from the things I sense. Stuff I can never tell people in a “real” conversation, without working on the idea myself a fair bit. It's a dream. Mumbled recollections of dreams to other people often just do not equate to anything reasonable or meaningful.
So, I painted more and this was what came out:
Now I feel more satisfied. I needed to know about a few of the things going on here. It’s sorted stuff out for me, better than any sleeping dream can.
Think the more I use internet the more the square screen appears in the paint. So, I’ve been thinking about quitting blogging for a bit. Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I haven’t really quite made the year mark yet. Took me a while to actually work out that there was a difference between a page element and a blog post. But, I was using places like library internet. And cranky people would stand behind me wanting their ‘hour” to start before I finished mine. So I’d end up sending a blank email to someone in a moment of mundane panic. Hmm. Good to have a place to relax with it. It’s been interesting getting to know all this stuff that’s been around for years. I feel like Rip Van Winkle. Or some sort of sleeping printcess. There’s so much other stuff everyone does that I’ve never done. But then, they don’t get to visualise flying dryad dragons.