zero views / new year, new dissolutions

And that's how I like it.  Because what do I have to show?  Besides my toches.

Tomorrow going to work on another of the Burroughs folio portraits, and whatever else I feel like.  Maybe one of the Bridge of Manipulations.  (That's what I'm calling the Major Arcana of my tarot.  I'll print it up as a comic book.  Because why not?)  Or maybe I'll just build some goofy sculpture thing to decorate the house with.  Or, maybe, I'll do another pointless, sweaty caricature of a world-altering narcissistic mobster.

No.  No, I think all the joy has departed Mudville, there.  It's not a thing you can continue to point to and say anything meaningful about.  The president authorized kidnapping people off the streets of America.  Now he's sending in Chinooks, running & gunning and snatching politicians from foreign powers.  What's to say?  What angle is left to take?  Who's even listening?

Bitching on the internet about the president of the united states is like patrolling a condemned building chock-full of fire alarms with dying batteries: the echoing chorus of demented squawks flattens any rising notes.  What's being said?  What needs saying?  DOES ANYTHING NEED SAYING?

A wealthy flabby sack of Good Genes spends every hour of every day wondering if he can distract from his persistent association with criminals, perverts, nazis and rapists.  One of his first acts in office-- for the normies who fondle firearms and fret over the sexual orientations of anyone who finds them unfuckable --was to sign a piece of Very Legal Paper that defined gender for all of us.  The flag-humper needed to secure the loyalty of neurotic white men who have chosen to believe seed oils are negatively impacting caucasian sperm.  How better to do that, than to declare semantic victory over the battle of toilet access.  It's a bloodless doubleyou, a win TDS sufferers can't take away.

I can't take that win.  All I've got are ells.  Bloody 'ells.

Do we even need to have opinions about what is indubitably crank behavior?  Do *I* need to have an opinion about whether the main character of a cancelled teevee show is experiencing a 3am existential snit about water pressure?  "THE TOILET, IT CAN'T CHOKE DOWN MY PRESIDENTIAL LOAD."

Christ.  If I believed in new year's resolutions, that would be my resolution:  to stop worrying about a vapid, rapey crank with the seeming authority to do whatever the fuck he wants, to whomever he wants.  I've spent my entire life worrying about presidents the way evangelicals worry about the looming antichrist.  Every fucking president.

This one shouldn't be exceptional.  Only he's the exception, isn't he.  He can't do any of the bad shit he's signing off on, EXCEPT he gets to, because this is not, never has been, a democracy.  He can't get away with straight-up mob excess, EXCEPT who's gonna stop the mobsters?

Not me.  I've got real work to do.

Not direct action, silly!  When has direct action ever stopped a president from being a drag?  Leon Czolgosz was a piker.  Drawing Wolverine.  That's where change starts.

chipocalypse (a post-it nope)

mine eyes have seen the gloryhole

 

pardon the mafioso throatpussy

 

practicing inking.  not thinking anything unamerican

the times

 

on persecution

obviously, i have feelings regarding the incoming admin of criminal toxic failson mafioso snowflakes

a lot of these feelings respect what i interpret as the persecution of my husband

my husband held my hand the last time i nearly died

that means more to me than all the legislation in the fucking cosmos

i'm not saying the name of the motherfucker who's purposefully targeted people like my husband, who is the single most important force for good in my existence.  but i think you can guess to whom all i refer, i mean, there's enough fucking merch and shitty real estate and virtual hype wet dream currency named after The Motherfucker (Who Shan't Be Named Lest He File A Defamation Suit)

i am not saying these things for legal reasons.  because i want to keep a blog.  which is a form of complicity, in my book:  to protect my husband and myself, i cannot say certain names if i choose to maintain a form of social media and continue my necessary self-expression in the arts.  because we are living in an era of absolute censure, by a candre of shitheels who could have been stopped, at any time, from committing the harms they now commit, with grindingly deliberate cruelty.  they call it a mandate.  i call it less than a quarter of the population being fucked beyond repair, deciding for the majority who simply want to coexist in peace.  i call them nutless thugs.  mandate my ass

i don't like that i can't just say FDT like nipsey hussle at the top of my lungs until my vocal cords erupt

because none of this is necessary nor productive, bruh

and you're fucking persecuting the love of my life.  i mean, fdt

these asshats have decided to be fascists because the power was there for the taking, and we're all to some extent complicit in letting this minority claim it.  you want biological truth?  i know this is the most hippie tripe to express, cringe is my middle name, but the truth is we, YOU, and "i", and they, and them, and They, and THEM, that's all consciousness.  Individual consciousnesses, entangled in individual bodies & lives.  There is no one perfect model for consciousness.  There is no perfect soul.

but my husband comes so near to close as makes no legible difference

i have been abused, drowned, homeless, broken psychologically, and quite literally bled in my brain.  i have nearly died three times.  my husband is the man who held my hand that third time

that cannot be taken from us.  not with a pen.  neither with handcuffs truncheons nor guns.  and that seems to be where things Are, in this present moment.  i have been a demented runaway from a violent home, and i have survived being homeless during the covid pandemic, and only one man has been there for me through two thirds of that.  who am i s'posed to listen to, the flabby combover with a toadstool dick and a history of rape and bodies upon bodies upon bodies to account for, or, uh, the man i love?

 fdt

that's the last i have to say on that.  it's out of my system, i promise.  fast forward four years.  fer shure