When I paint, the thing that I enjoy most of all is creating faces. It is one of the most plastic of all concepts, the face. All mammal faces have in common eyes, nose, mouth, and it is easy enough to blend the features of one species into the physiognomy of another. I feel like evolution itself as I experiment with new configurations.
Anonymous asked: Post a picture of yourself.
People ask me, what is this strange power you have over your wife? How do you make her do things like change the brake pads on your Toyota?
And all I can answer is: nobody has power over my wife. She does whatever she wants, and always has.
Go ahead; try and bend her to your will. I dare you.
It just so happened that the brakes needed changing at a time when my back was newly injured. Vangie said she wanted to do the job herself (even though she had never done any other car repairs).
So I stood there and talked her through it, while snapping pictures. She did well.
And the car stops well.
My working day begins, on a block with three houses.
Across a quiet, empty street is a little meadow of clover and wildflowers,
Bounded on three sides by trees and undergrowth,
And beyond the trees, out of sight, a pond.
From the trees, birdsong,
And from the pond, frogsong.
From afar, a locomotive’s horn sounds.
The air is cool, the meadow and the trees are green, the sounds of the morning are sweet.
Who could imagine tornadoes in the afternoon, and the wailing of sirens?
Last evening, I started another painting, in the usual way, without much of an idea where it would end up. That’s what makes it surrealism, of course. I did paint in a horizon line, just because my daughter’s daughter keeps asking me why my paintings don’t seem to have horizon lines. She has a kindergarten art class every Thursday, which is more training than I’ve had, so I often take her advice.
When I put this painting aside last night, I thought, “That looks like tornadoes there in the background, between the clouds and the horizon line.” This morning, before going to work, I looked at the painting again, (my easel is next to my bed); again I saw tornadoes, and I wanted to get back to work on it. But money must be made. I mean art is art, and business is business, and never the twain shall meet. At least, it’s turned out that way for me.
So off I go, to earn my bread, figuring I’d work on the painting as soon as I returned home. By early afternoon, I was wondering if the painting, or my home, would be there when I got back. A big thunderstorm, with tornadoes and hail, passed uncomfortably close to my house in Dallas, and even closer to the area I was working in. There was extensive damage in the path of the storm, but no serious injuries that I’ve heard of. My little house is fine, and so is the painting.
And so the question is, do you think my unconscious (which I access, on canvas, through the paranoiac critical method of Dali) has predicted the outbreak of tornadoes in my city today, or was it just a coincidence?
Brass knuckles, a revolver, and a dagger, all in one fold-away tool. Just the thing to fit neatly into the pocket of a refined gentleman thug like Sherlock Holmes, don’t you think?
Some astronomers estimate that there may be 10 billion Earth-like planets, just in our galaxy alone. If any of them have intelligent life on them, I wonder why anyone thinks they would ever want to come here. But if extraterrestrial tourists ever did show up in Texas, I would offer them a cold Shiner Bock, and tell them about Jesus. And if they were vaguely humanoid in appearance, and warm-blooded, I would chat them up, and ask how long since they’d been laid. My backyard is a designated Happy Landing Zone, and Tax-Free Spaceport.
Did you ever have a morning when you awaken from a dream, but the dream follows you into the street, and perches in the trees, singing like a brightly feathered elephant? Well, I have.
If I am a traitor to my “race”, let the treason begin.
Don’t let the paleness of my epidermis fool you into thinking that I am White. I got over that idea, and so can you.
I don’t hate my paleness; that would be stupid. My wife, who is a lovely medium brown Filipina, loves my white skin. I love the way our skin tones contrast when we hold hands. But that is only aesthetic.
I utterly reject any notion that white skin indicates anything other than a lack of melanin.
There is only one human species, and variation in skin tone, hair texture, etc. are no more significant than the difference between a calico cat and a tabby.
Anyone who thinks that being pale of skin should afford one any kind of special privilege, is supporting a false, oppressive ideology.
If being white is all you can find to feel proud of, that is a problem within yourself that needs attention. Get wise to yourself, and give up being white, and just be human.
My contract with tumblr requires that I post art, of an irrational kind, and I can’t paint fast enough to post new stuff every day, so I’ll just have to re-post stuff that may not be completely fresh, but which surely not Everyone In The World has seen before. Tonight’s selection is called “Stranger Than Television”.
To make yourself worthy of the calories you consume, and the oxygen you take up,
You can wrestle with the major problems of humanity,
Or you can untangle a snarled-up ball of kite string for a child.
Either project is equally meritorious, and you won’t convince me that it is otherwise.
Do what falls to hand, and do it well. That’s all there is to life.
There are no extra points for going afar to find something to be involved in;
There is no one who keeps the score anyway.
Save the world, or save somebody a headache; all the same, all the same.
The world, dissolved in a 40% solution of ethyl alcohol, retains little of its former clarity, but OMG, isn’t it interesting what it does to one’s inhibitions?
By Jacqueline Applebee
(Previously printed in Bisexual Community News. Free to repost with author credit)