the art of rheotaxis

Almost transcended via cultural manifestation, a rich pastiche sometimes labyrinth of conflicting ideals too rusted for real use are nonetheless; rustic raw elements.
Enduring, rugged symbiotic loving.














I look at this once was stranger standing beside me in the snow. How did we find ourselves here, alone, amongst thousands of others. At first glance what may appear to be pure exotica by external factors such as iris hue or voice pitch, a mere peeling of the pallid diaphanous skin reveals through the scientific act of squinting, a communal rheotaxis performed repeatedly miles and kilometres apart. My upstream has been tantamount to his. Both of us, ‘holding position’ until our eyes were dry, until our gaping hollow was just another place to store stuff: How unexpectedly lovely for us, that we found an opening and had the audacity of crawling in.

symbiotic pillow talk

(Are my eyelash mites different from yours, he asks me. I smile. He continues; maybe we can get the two different kinds together and have them mate and make a Supermite)

I wonder; if we can map the migrational history of two groups of people through the microbes in their intestinal system, couldn’t we do the same with the demodex?

Maybe our mutual Indian background can be linked through the dna of our demodex folliculorum? Indeed it seems that it can.



How wonderous it is to be part of a symbiotic system that harnesses and harvests; the universe holds me and I hold a universe.

What would you do to give thanks?

I would let a vampire bat suck my blood, he says.
How about a tick, I ask?
Never.

Well now, how does a tick, or a bed bug get away with using our insides until we run dry? Haven’t they figured out that the tit for tat is beneficial to them in the long run? Are there not human relationships that work the same way? Do humans have a perverted pleasure in pain? Do we send off collective unconscious signals to the animal kingdom?

Come infiltrate our systems! We don’t mind. We kind of like it. Hit me! Hit me! One more time. Are we directly responsible (She was just asking for it) for the twisted version of a mutualistic relationship? Or is our relationship strictly by accident, coincidence?


There are no deviant by-products in the universe.

Whoever you are, wherever you have been,
There is no need to feel lonesome.
Though an island you may feel, you have more than enough love coming from the microcosms within. Can’t you feel them loving you? Don’t you want to love them right back?



Yes, let’s let our demodex folliculorum mingle, I reply.

It’s only a bonus if you can share with another island.

the solitaire years

It started innocuously enough with a simple free cell now and then. Nothing too extreme or obsessive but I must admit, I did like it when I would win. During this time I started dating an accountant. We went out for dinner, saw live music, enjoyed the occasional theatre. He showed me how to do my books. It was quite civilized from where we were coming from. Perhaps not profound and fulfilling, but we weren’t looking for that. We were looking for just normal, regular. Continuity. We had, after all, singularly traveled the palpable, uncharted water of drugs and booze and rock and roll. We had done the rehab. We had done the numerous failures. The abandonments. This was our respite.

Vice is a fluxating undulating snake of a good time or at least in the beginning. In the beginning it is always nice.

I would set the alarm an hour early just so I could get some. I never dared do it at work. When I would get back home in the afternoon the first thing I would do was turn on my computer and hit the solitaire icon. I had 660 games but I only played the one. Rouge et Noir; it was the best. I was manic. Fixated. I wanted to win. I believed that it was only a matter of time. I was a good player but this game was difficult; my wins never pushed past the 44%. If he won more than me I would become upset, start thinking that I was a loser, a mediocre human.

It was almost as bad as when I got stuck on the murder mystery books. I wouldn’t leave the house except to meet my therapist. Scrouched on her sofa she would ask me, how are you feeling today. And, biting the skin around my nails I would tell her. Doc, I’m a mess. I can’t take it anymore. I can barely leave the house. I can’t put the books down. At night I say to myself just one more page, one more page and I keep reading and reading and reading until the morning light. Exhausted I trudge through my day, irate at having to deal with people, strangers, the telephone. I just want to stay home and read. The worst is when I finish the book; I become upset, start thinking that I am a loser, a mediocre human.



My dealer, who wasn’t much of a dealer so much as he was a user, lived upstairs. He once told me- whatever gets you through the day. Well. I didn’t want to live like that- to get through the day.

Heroin and solitaire were dispassionate unplanned book-ends. Interspersed were journeys to other exotic lands. In fact, the geographic solution has always been one of my favourite stand by’s. Setting up house really did feel like I was starting new, that I would make things different this time, that I would be stronger, braver, more honest, harder working.


Vice in its chosen form is often a symbolic representation of one’s desire or there lack of. Habit has a seductive ravenous consumption of time. And settling, like vice, takes many forms.

It’s okay. It’s just a game. That’s what I told myself.

Be wary of the mundane as of the terrifying.

encaustic

There is something very exciting about making your own paints, mediums. It’s an alchemy rush similar to that of when a person gathers nettles for tea. I mix a rough 70% beeswax with 30% carnauba. The carnauba makes a slightly harder and shinier finish. I decided to use a very basic encaustic formula though at times I have mixed turpentine and house dammar varnish in as well. Often those additions will make a more malleable paste.







It’s been close to ten years that I have melted wax with pigment, one of my favourite methods and materials. Last weekend I finally fired up the hot plate, so to speak. As per usual, I had a plan. As per usual, my plan skipped off down the street as soon as I got my fingers in the pot. A work in process, I plan to embed an outline of sorts. I have a few ideas of what the outline will be of, but perhaps it best not to divulge my ‘plan’ until the completion of project.