the vessels are on the move

Holly's Crown

Holly. was always and is always too too smart for all of this. 

my very own smoopty la boop

Listen to the story of Jermima puddle-duck, who was annoyed because the farmer’s wife would not let her hatch her own eggs.

“I wish to hatch my own eggs; I will hatch them all by myself”

So off she went. And I am sketching you my perplexity of an ultrasound.
It goes like this: You will have nothing of me and you know you are dying!
My older cat Holly is dying. I can smell it. The smell came today, April the 23^rd.

smoopty la boopty.
And?
I don’t even think I care. Atleast not in the way I am supposed to.
So I do this.

Put the cold jelly on my stomach. And we can have sex instead.

The smell is hard to ignore.

I don’t care.

Her sister-in-law, Mrs. Rebeccah Puddle-duck, was perfectly willing to leave the hatching to someone else- “I have not the patience to sit on a nest for twenty eight days; and no more have you, Jemima. You would let them go cold; you know you would!”

“I wish to hatch my own eggs; I will hatch them all by myself”
in a room of my own.

This object I found and fell in love with, reminded me of a dream:
Annie. A picnic by moonlight. A man with a slideshow. We sit on dark grass a blanket. And I lay out, carefully and decisively a caterpillar, a spider and a seed? I cannot remember for sure but some are living and have transformative potential, the potential to move, and clear meaning. So me and Annie are conversating whilst arranging these elements, each part of the dialogue, perhaps its base structure. And Annie opens a packet of sugar and salt and sprinkles it, the sound of salt. The salt spilt is language. As the conversation manifests I lay the elements out on me specifically, and am still to balance them, I feel them moving. The spider starts to crawl, the seed unfurl, and we are concluding. The man giving the presentation shows videos of Annie dancing and singing with long blond hair from her youth. I have a video camera. It is like this video camera is the deciding factor in the pinnacle of this conversation. Now I will make a decision. I ponder on whether to film the elements unravelling on me, and bits of the man’s presentation. It is hard to decide.And so I draw this:

and then I share...

I am deciding.
meanwhile I am given a gift off my nana:

and another off Alexis:

What do you love?
Everyone. Anyone. But just one at a time.
Simone said attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.
and children like to make nests. It is a thing.
and how long will you be drunk on sentiment?
I don’t know smiling
cover my face.

I like that object. It caught my attention. I love that object. Something in me dropped when I saw it.
I arch my stomach, and like her, I let it collect warmth.
Those tiny trinket boxes make me want to pinch the air with my fingers, as if I have nipped at its texture, that I know isn’t there but alone I surpass the material- for you; this tiny tiny. It is a gesture that goes nowhere because all it is is how I am. keeping trinkets. It is warm. How could I not completely understand a duck turning her eggs very attentively?
Yet there is nowhere for that to go, except here.

Her blankets are clean. The food is there. Fresh water. But she will not eat.

papery theatrics; a meme game

Playing in the meme machine; mis-reading Promethea meets Lacan (I heard him through the grape vine)
assimilating the ideolojuice, sending well wishes to friends and fellow cats:

doodles on pattern

doodles/alien hieroglphs

Just get in the box!

Cat fight during coitus

Its real but i’ll not say.

Oh quid pro quo, fuck you right back!

Feeling fabulous!

Snap

I’m quite fancy and silently think:

Spunk Bucket,

During 

Fancy fancy...

‘‘Would you like to be inside of me?"

How could i refuse?

Now that, sister, is a lady!

Acquiescence?

Acquiescence is the word-touch-to-touch you

How else to bring stars to the bow?

To swill is to spunk bucket is acquiescence and acquiescence has the luminosity of silver sequins transfigured to tongue.

Is to is is to sWill.

______________
After notes on above text:
Not unlike recording a dream, i receive similar joy from automatic drawing/painting/writing. It feels like i am feeding from my centre, that is creating some sort of circularity between myself and whatever immateria co-operates. Here I present a ‘capture’ of a potential automatic method in its nascency. When practising attention to personal monologues noted was that often enough the ‘i’ splits and i feel I shrink or regress in order to be in dialogue with whatever else.
So much so that this small placid voice seems not at all to be my person; a process of acquiescence that seems a necessary pre-exquisite to these explorations. It begins

between two. And along the way regularly employed, in order to channel and be

receptive to the conversational is an oscillation between the strategic coyness of a child and the knowing voice of an elder. Maybe a hide and seek. Always trusted. But also this splitting can employ on certain occasions a sexed flirtation between the invisible two. When dancing alone who is it we dance for?
Izzy being in heat and presenting the lordosis position in all its defiance becomes sign, or tying point, for this re-direction of my attempts to free-associate. So locutions through lordosis? Meow!
Spectral are those moments where I am aware of myself as the space that houses such conversation. the crescendo seems to manifest in a single voice with all the ferocity of an impulse. As if ‘all of a sudden’, ‘out of the blue’. Force becoming conscious of itself as force? and just the confidence to speak.