Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Curious tapping

Making my hands, making my hands, making my hands, making my hands, making my hands...

More polemics, perhaps.

Am grateful for the opportunity I s'pose. Been a haphazard luxury to commit the hands to feelers to push, mush, crush wooden templates onto paper. This is what I do. In some sorts... dome and home... I want to convey sorrow for the passing of my dear lovely cat in all of this; alas the spiritus of up/down/to/fro freezes the head and well? shitfire if I'm not staying busy as a precedent of deeper avoidance. All that aside...

A picture and puncture.
Have it merry and hairy.
I haven't washed in days.
The door's unlocked, however.

(eyes used for tooth support)

Monday, December 21, 2009

... froms the sum=/ber

Ah, my finger digits. A digital tour (as it were) of Tabor, Czech Republic, from the summer of our lady '09. 
I apologize for the compression on this one, although it looks perty snazzy on a mobile device without too much muck-a-lugging. At any rate, from the summer: I spent the better chunk of my fishiness, gloaming and glopping about in Tabor, at the CESTA art residency. This here picture assemblage is a wee vista as to the many in's and out's, up's and down's. Good gravy! And e-special thanks to George Cremaschi, whom also features in this video. Good man, great coordinator, and one bad ass mustache.

Thursday, December 17, 2009


Alright. As a perfectly silly dweeb, I've taken to some perfectly silly methods to process the price of life being nearly always on its head. Here is a rendering of what computer dictation does on my perfectly silly smartphone. It reads like spam mail, sure; but to some of us, spam reads like poetry.

Well the good Glenwood have their own with Boston from Jerry would
doing the next bay what would you know that a good Cheyenne would have
their own decks take states with low winds today was a dumb well you
know process of building mess most recent Albona you my added features
is good three whatever good women other fun things with rubber I
brought my gut on flopping statements intended to be a well it was fine

(dot dot dot)

(eyes used for tooth support)

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

and a quick vis-a-vis mit Ralph-son

Tried to upload this piece yesters... will see if  such do's it plural and not plutocratic (the Interweb can be so fickle). 

Re: video.
Ralph has some grand hiddens amongst his tucked house in a seemingly stoic neighborway stashed along the western hillocks of Virginia. I won't tell you where-where, although a simple sleuth would  be able to deduce. At any rate, his abode is a cleanly face with some awesome deposits, relics, and fur-pieces. Most sculptors should be so bold! In addition to this, is his graciousness, friendliness, and obvious humorous outlook, lending to the beginning of what would turn out to be an absolutely wonderful journey down south. 
Great gentleman. 
Grand time. 
Brilliant artist.

on oops'ing poops, clouts, gouts, and lisp reading

Maddening flights.
Shoulda' seen the wind today. Dunnae on the pic of ol' inflata-babel... seemed to serve a good brine to echo the storm of beach splash and such out at the ol' Mitchie field, down the neck from the Big Boy Farm. 
Not a day for paratrooping. 
Good dang dangle op for some wicked recordings however. Have contact mic, will traverse into forty mile an hour windsweeper-frontal (about face) westerly, aiiiii yi. 
Do good done.
Now go be mobile again.

Monday, December 14, 2009

'pon the return, my fare ladle

Long little spate and spat spitteningly graced the plovers and legs of bitterns and such; now we were back, and all at once, everything had changed. I haven't been to the beach yet-- too many colleges letting out, festivus celebrations inebriating one quite celibate, and rifles all about: damn snow! Return, return. Back to the former and dormer window red wince grin bellow scratch heft sand lisp limply stretch (again) with echoes of the sadness, spoken in France, mispoken here, understood elsewhere, and scribbled down into recipes that only a dietician or nutritionist or ouest/rian would spare a glimpse to glamor ready sects nuances relish that there day, that there dia, them's there lunes. The rabbit-headed boys and bonus girlfriend click-boxes (sign here:____________), they were on that reach, long armed brine, callous and luxuriant, brimmed and rhymed with fortitude clasps and the cough of carbon plunder. Often I was made out to be a made man, left for guilty or minus the candor, reeling from slow-over sifted, handsomely wah-wah'd, and bereft of clefts, chins more closely studied, coveted in a pelt and hair quite satisfactory. Oiled in the pins, however. Fattened tusks and sing's end song, pushed in between folds and hidden ready-to-leap with appeals' pallor and heaven-heavy bread-handed. All a riff in the end, and probably well suited to the task, no matter how clearly hidden the job might be under less subtle occasional frequent forays to minor wet humid calendar dearing sported frocks and fables, ables retina or patina wedging tight fits of frantic and ocean front angel diminishing.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

pooling and pludd vatches and jim leftwich's blog

Cheggout Jim Leftwich's stuff! He does a meaty little flux-bloog here on the otherwise pale pasty pate of the usual interweb.

(eyes used for tooth support)

Monday, December 7, 2009

bite sized amaze

There's a real-men-love-Jesus bumpersticker that doesn't want me to pass him. Route 421 is a low gear winding drive down to Sanford, North Carolina which, eventually turns right onto 87, and thereafter Fayetteville.
"you're going THERE?" (my lefty friends chime)
"you're going THERE?" (my lefty friends chimed when I said I was heading below New England, and not just New York, but Mason-Dixon)
Seems there's more exotic shock value to traversing here than when I was in say, Tábor, Czech Republic this past August. Funny lefties; not terribly open minded.
But the Jesus stickered truck on the state highway is a shoe-in for a Southerly trek. And my Darwin fish trunk ornament prob'ly suggests something combative (open mindedness aside); especially for the feisty little Toyota Echo that I drive. At any rate...
The tour is over.
I finished in Fayetteville, North Carolina last night, on the bidding and invitation of Greg and Woodie, two potters (one of which is my brother), who figured this would be a real coup for a conservative town (for those who don't know, this place is home to Fort Bragg)... and all coups aside, the show probably was my most assertive, direct, "formal", and thusly, FUN. Sure, there wasn't the blaze and glory of high volume distortion for an hour---but I don't hate mankind, see? Heh. And what spelled different for this night, spelled the difference for ALL the nights on this tour: the crowds here could really show us Northerners a thing or two. On open mindedness. On a whole slew of other things, too. If anything, I've fallen hard for this place and plan to return.
The pic is from outside Greg's gallery. I unleashed Lady Liberty (or Gliberty, if you must know, as I am a proud card carrying Gliberal)... folks hooted and hollered and hurrah'd her inflation. And yes, like liberty and my silly show that more often than not, secretly smiles and makes soft pokes at the paradigms, she rose, toppled, wobbled, and let her air out. We'll let the whole thing rest with her big salmon grin-- like I said, the tour's over!

And this picture is for extra shits and giggles for all my dingbat lefty friends. This is from the hold-out room when in the forseeable future, aka, the Zombie Armageddon arrives... this is where you'll wanna hide. My brudda, Woodie, is an avid collector of Enfields and Mausers and other sorts of heavy caliber rifle from the turn of the century. The big Q is, if you're dumb enough to break into this house, it's not, are you going to get shot, it's what caliber? What year was the rifle made? How many rounds in the magazine? What model, make, and country of origin was the rifle manufactured? Haha.
The South rules!

And as a last note, this snap is from Carrboro.
We here noise artists, when option arrives, have our own formula for calibers, and so it was a nice little moment of C O O L (!) when these fat slugs all got hogtied into one massive daisy chain. You shoulda' heard Scotty (Clang Quartet) baptize the crowd with his initiating set. Tremendous!

Sunday, December 6, 2009

nope nope yep yep yep

Don't trust this man

Don't list your concepts

Don't forget to right

Saturday, December 5, 2009

on account of not knowing hu

Well and
Well and

In my lower cases.
It's another rain in North Carolina... feel it in my legs and the woosh of wheels outside in passing traffic. Snow, too (they say). The mush of December indiscriminate whisker and cotton-eyed texting this while's all of the you's/other's snooze. Carolina? Yeah. It's been nothing shy of riches. Or maybe I've just been feeling brave. Old wubbly fingers and 5-O's showing up; 4 eyes 6 eyes 8 eyes and that ridiculous spinning gen gen gennies and getting hell for it from very cool people. Carrboro or Richmond or Roanoke or Greensboro. Guitars and the drone of a lingering E minor to take out the sips and tubes and squAwks and mildly leaving a smudge (don't take too too long); it's funny what the hell makes you strong. I'm not leaving or actively pursuing a trail this time though-- you should see the hard drive already. Besides, quantity is what it is: collective minutae. Say it---- "beh".

As it goes
And goes
I'm playing and playing and playing again. Leaving puddles even in this rain.

(eyes used for tooth support)

Below: Sam's father's vagina birdhouse. Greensboro, NC

Thursday, December 3, 2009

midst and mires

At the end of the night all the clicks go out and you're left with the slight salt and wince of ammonia socks, the gentle wubble of heaters in states that shouldn't need them combines with the orange green lamps and other more pressing concerns: bed, odd shapes, odder smells (than feet), drawling drawn dialects, happy? Twice I hear it ("this is the NEW south"). Or seven performance scores for a dog named Shu- Shu. Or white knuckles. Waffle Houses. Maya. Triple. Water Heater. Carry on carry on. Get them to moan, ohm, and stomp. Here is Ralph:

(eyes used for tooth support)

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

rrrrrrichmond and eye

Do it well and sweaty wet wheatened and wry.

Aaah the crossover into the South.
I'm burping out a microtour, tapping during a spate of insomnia. Sleeplessness is a common twin: strange lands and beds combining acts for short bursts of lid closure and long bouts of monkey brain. Oh it's not that bad, actually-- the long trek down to DC the previous day prob'ly had something to do with the molecules not lining up--- lots of mileage and wrinkly eyes staring between wiper blades and tolls.
Tour you say?
Just a wee one, and an excuse to visit my hermano in North Carolina. Or maybe that's vice versa? Heh.
Primal thoughts on last night's affair--- first shows are never quite as I'd expect: there's the synthesis of where things should fit, like props and puns; then there's the electronics and where all that shit flies; lastly there's the sudden realization that I'm playing a show--- and that no amount of preparation and prop application will work unless I decide to leap. So it was a leap, a good one, once the cogs worked loose. But more important was the larger leap I felt of simply getting out a certain headspace to come down here. December isn't a conducive or perhaps ideal travel month-- the light sucks, I wanna curl up and stay home, playing bad guitar for my cat, and admire the bleak grey with silly existential malarky while sipping craggy black caffeinated stuff. Why leave that?
Hee hee.
A last minute dash maybe, before the snow flies. And it feels like a race!
And so, yes, shows. More to follow, too. I'm plopping out and expunging some old ideas I've had over the years, mixing em with newer tricks, and seeing where it all lands. It's all new though; that I realize. Just being present and engaged sorta unlocks the gates, and all ideas (past or present) come to the surface as one explosion improv.
As a tangent, I'll leave with this picture. Now and again I get to witness some fantastic stuff in between shows, miles, and bouts of flappy fish outa water'ness. Yesterday also featured a penny tour of our nation's monuments with an old pal of mine who works for NOAA. A little bit of Abe for your day!

(eyes used for tooth support)

Monday, November 23, 2009

czeching foreign toilets

the reading of "do that plural"

Accompanying the re-issue of "do that plural" will be the rather long-winded diatribe betwixt Huso and his pal, Dearest Giddy. Hereto hither said lungs undo... take your time, my fine twelve leggy equestrian!

Dearest Giddy Sludge and Heath. A requiem for some tazers in your deep deep pockets! A challenge to pry your rapier botox flectum, a marriage disparage of yours and mine uncouth and accoutrement meister breem! We'll bite the bit together, say you! tell the old mare to ride whoa-brides and bridle their own paps of wrapped-snappy hosiery, dragoons and goonkids all the ilk, dispensing with armageddon hops and chortles under skirts while we waste waylays and layline bearings at their (or his-her) most-glowing loaved child-at-work, tiding tweed tediums with flavor slacks, rectangle basters, low lying glowing frustrated pics of desnudes lusion hall lexicon local one eighties. Men of dumps and ladles of rote, girlish nides and well-do-over lapsing forebear after-cues, sissel-bound  in copperish veneer rinses, the old blames and craned necks (portals approximax; apropos to pennies-on-tandemnic zaire); man the screams: Sand! Heft! Left over to rasp the grape-ish moon, manned over left king total tease kaas and caesar creases, returning to test the rotunda meme: Choll! Keifer! Wrent hisses and pie piss plenties, winces and wendies and will-do-me's and won'tcha gotcha can-can pee and ply in red tasted kneeds, wellspring hoff and planted plier joles and bowels jeering creoles and protestant proto-serum simplish plump. My merry Dear Giddy. Today we revolt and rescind. Tomorrow, we'll dine in fresh fresco, papel tare weights and shaman baubles babel wing proot. Let the dust settle. Let the nettles birches beast friezes and lope their own dires with chiaroscuros wrosted with welp wrestling tamper tads of gone-gropie billfold foak nodes. Damn them to hects, the lot! Make babes from brim and tease the tassels with well wrought hue! Jove, his jib was merry, like yours, hers, and my deepest deepling respite. We'll task together, friend. Task together with lists, and the following: astute fixes & nonpodium modems; capillary resistors, failed aquatics, motions (self-propelled) immulsionsings; red tore rick ranger fox bau / lowly chant - ted - maria de la suerte and galopagolineated frosted mini heaves chance candor knuckle pearls; drawing contested two standing molehill mounts. Carptonic (rest, e-z) the rest would be a solace easy ... stretch... (!) act normal; type numbers, appear pre-occu-pied (slowly cut and roll more balls) parting article rash and sedentary brain crush sensation prawn, his nibs veazie was a pie-eating scrub of a brown heck; glad shoes, hairy car, red phone, corduroy smile from ear to ear and by the by and tubs all chiming for brine hugs and summer anthem AND very good coffee. Name it! Belies & B'liars & truthscolds and soothe told tooth solds and redries and render-rings and shit man, it was a bad day (month) for "art" (stocks were traded in for the public-humiliation-wooden-type)."I used to have a stable hand for these jobs, now I haven't even a stable. Boy... " Muses rendered as euphemisms, snow's back and treated as another month of marble. The scope of things-to-come? Old trucker weres his wolfing (Mother, Katrina) as a crown of now briar and ancient pederast (crossing streets for jung'ers); I'm stuck just drawing and linguistically confusing raw renders as rear-enders as an ongoing dialogue... while others call for "magic". Things sound good in rope: multiwrapped textures now aren't that extreme are they, my man? Something in the box was a hoax. Pen ultimate enthroned pander wear & coochy or loo gurgle (barbel) with hot-doink actionswear and tediumpants enshrined by limply-toothed esquire tarts and their sudden pages allah toehead splendour, cottling up to throttle each wyoming senator with missed lucy grins and purple tares for lessonstares & feisty waits statedly deported & condemnmentalized a priori (leslie, leslie); much ado about corduroys and flecks (nary on the wane) of hectum, wrenches & palms, good sentences, island pulls, and oil spots under arms and paramours or troopers touping H-Ron lubbard tumber yack/'ard a' nor'westerly Cho' da (al D.C. return spin) "we're not going to argue about this" Mothers would repeat, too. Blit's balks; hoary pocks--oh those clooney eyes and marriage hand contraband... trash refuse pile squeeze umbilical stretch roster titty hanging dangle dare to insinuate more lush triangles (mental processing gets faster without masturbation) into the tune of greymatter/hot/madder rectified and rechanneled into on lyres onto undo lean-to's with nary a hairy eyeball doing the finger pinch and pucker. Romp with guile, rule with chin... the smattering of floor paper remnants as indicator of travels, new friends, and the changing seas. Huts and paws as the together-knits and offering good cordials in the evening way-seeds and lately swept-hind fogs (rescue grouse and slow roads homeword hubris/umbrage regrettor stymied); written oft chins, lessly takes and the sprine stay-lones with good-gaums and tendrist gaumy lads lowing (you gotta love the two armed ripes!)... on hypersped and pee'd uncles, the good royal geodes crack the whim and splay latent portents to the spread easy of him-magii/nary the rustic estrus prayer and lovely houlten preeners of bed & beaded partly sunny hermano handle-man muñeca tapered lapsing landowner filch balk blit's and good hoe with moe and money lending and marry the damn couplink: it's a xerox'd champagne! Only something'll something; shh, it's another winsome passing... stop up your eyes and keep the channel markers steady brine. A forty ton bag of flowers, blown red when the twister hits; pink or lilac or azure nodes nodding hex good egret dried bank & don't you have some job to go to and what's this story you keep not  wanting to get down with and when are you going to get down with down with get down and sshhh the cherry or at least have some regular sleepin' paddles, padded with feather tough urns or turning a' gawkin' and ready for chin-up solders. Don't even think I'll bathe, man. Don't even. Wondering in a fog or wandering in a thought. ps: did we tell you about the man who lived all alone? Or simply... news, no news. Only cows. Bad ones at that. Televised, angry, syrupy; cradled in jade, even. But no news. Please, no news. The mewling of personal stature, the requisite for journal logging, the fallacious facade of double id's and ism--persimmon flavored conjectures that hide the reek of tangible ape sweat and sweetheart idiom gone wrongful duty lawyer lame-horse antebellum. Antecedents and gracious lisps, tongue tithes and loose canon; shriveled pie-eyed or weasel ears quick to chanter, yep... it's all in the dung, aqua, and red streak. None of that, we'll have, the superlative we, the triumphalist creed, lawns left to weeds while the milk-wars and wares clanging, due processions (confess to likening 'em to parades), preceded programming losses and yesterday's twine pants and looms of guilt aquifers, sentinels on cherished rotation, horns brassing out same tangent spellbound book bindings and bed livers and head sores and red drivers and teat gloves and papal tatters and taste defiers and sedge loaners and stretch Reichian potato muffin pillow bitten heath divers and nomination drives and kind old ladies and unseated emperors and abdicated drones and teutonic nightingale worship astringents and agencies that continue to tell you what you don't need. We'll have them, sand and heft, but read me no more times less clearly with muddied eyelets citing pleases and thankful greases and prayer hugs dallied with chime and reason rhyme teethes... I'll do the banking. Yes. Undoing dine. This combo sheik will unedits paper rind and glum acre with lake taps and raspberry chokes on seeds tempered in over mown parks with winks and whispers and islets proudly circled by chop chops and soda purples, sewn with the dance of swallows. Sit down, warm your seat a thousand times; reduce: spools to spins, intimate twirls, double spoken laundry poems and swoops to incline cheekbone musculature to raise upward; still adaptive pants: bear in mind... double realisms and watch for sunsets; one arm sports a semicolon, one arms sports a hand drawn hu; envision firehose art for sure (but a garden hose will do in a pinch). It's 1952. Or something. I'd never had been there hadn't there nor nary never be been there you see -- it was a book. Sometimes I CAN read, or wake up with horrifyingly pronounced erections like I was seventeen. Making it 1931. IF yesterday you revisited gold bullion, today we continue to revisit just about the (canonical) point (ed. head) of last year. Which would make most things seem like yesterday... caked in the Mother's clay of reticent calms and an oil smudge. Or two. Do that plural, my good Giddy, and cheers to our nape!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

the simulacrum retort gone real

Now and again, great effigies find their digital likenesses in manners that really could only be done by hand scribbles. This one is flattering and wonderful to read; sometimes emails read as well as books!

Subject: a point well made is often round yet the more interesting point seem to be urgular.

hello there mr crank sir,
it was a scoobyblooby pleasure to find your très exquisitely crafted piece of flotsam and jetsam in the mail this week, after a hauntiful bout with a strangleful feverpitched virus that felt descriminated against in this fluhumbuggy times and held me aloft a fire of my own for three days taken all the liquids, but no sympathy needed as i am recovered yes even reapolstered. back to your wraptrapzi it took some careful chirurgical operations to avoid the tripwires and binkybonkytraps to coerce its innards to diplay their stufflike appearances. every item by its proces of inclusion suddenly a postmodern artefact. yes i am to call you a postmodernartefactian by the bristethernian council of smülle. i am listening to a piece of the alien junquette's entrailic circular expanses as i type, it's on a boat you are not alone there is some talk of trumpette or some trump of talquette, one wonders, two wonders for certain.
i hope to reciprocate with a spawny blob of my own come the new decennium.

yours in bibiganbooboo,

(eyes used for tooth support)

Friday, November 20, 2009

Apostle's breech; and kind of like Jim Dine

A few breakaway essentials I should voice…

It seems as though we're not going to be traveling for a bit-- Jay, Muñeca, and me ol' fishy lot. November does its landing, buttering us up for a winter of buffering the nor'east blows and so (and so), thus this little side lot blogger- splotch of wayward ways and ramblings has created its own emergence. I don't reckon the Solhushfandango blog will be put out of commission-- it was and is still a remarkable journal of three peeps communicating their insights from beyound the thousand mile marker-- I'm just needing to peck rambles in the quick tasty testifying manner, and felt solo bleeps would be more appropriate to gum forth. Plus, it's like this: I mutter a lot. Get snared up/glued down in my studio here in the barn at Big Boy Farm. And all-the-while, unabashedly take snaps that accompany thoughts in their hangars caught in mid-flight. Got me?

Just the fish this time, this one.
See what nonsense I can muster with baited breasts and cherry lingo and senile verility.
See what tippy taps can accompany the process of being in one place, yes--- yet one place hopefully mobile.

(eyes used for tooth support)

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

and the real

Saved for twice a day posterity...
this is the apostrophe beach

(eyes used for tooth support)

Anti-Sea-Pa' tinG

A few colors from the hinter-neglect...

(eyes used for tooth support)

It was a very funny set design. Clog said, "let's do fences" and I agreed: fences make for easy theatre. Condition? We get naked. SO the three of us did-- Gaylord showing up with his munchy floor guitar to add to the program. "Dude, you been working out?" Clog asked. Ed and Randy and Id would peek their heads around the fence and gasp giddy beeps of laughter: three naked middle-aged guys with instruments. Behind a fence. Playing noises with each curtain draw; performing sounds for John's paintings that would go up with each open-and-close. Could you see it? The fence would act as, well, a fence. Sometimes some ball bounce would get a peep or a slatted sidelong wink, though. I jumped a bit, too: first time for everything-- naked, no, but naked with the whole entourage? Yes. A yes Anti-Friend Hut. Curtains and clapping.

Friday, November 13, 2009

an old fave…

Huso Solutions: Adaptive Pants for the Man Who Lived Alone

Leipzig, Germany
July 2009

(eyes used for tooth support)

see's it combing