The Nocturnal Art Journals # 5
In through the out door
November, 17 2001 8:00 am
My door has 3 locks.
1 lock is a chain.
The other is a dead bolt.
And finally, the key lock.
This week has been weird to say the least. The old Russian creature has been driving me nuts again. On any given day it will stomp up the stairs from its basement hovel to the front porch of the building, and check all of the mailboxes at least 6 times a day. And not just check them all once, no that would be to easy, it will go through them all, wait a few minutes and check them again, you know just in case when it blinked the mail man showed up. What is that Siberian whore looking for? Its no use trying to talk to it, it doesn’t listen, and answers in some unintelligible dialect. I’m beginning to wonder what language it actually speaks, actually I’m beginning to wonder if its even a language at all. (Did I write this last week? Who knows anymore.) Maybe it never learned a language. There is also a distinct possibility that it speaks English better than me. I am trying to sympathize with it, who knows what atrocities it may have escaped wherever it came from. However it seems soulless and the more I give the more it takes.
I have been watching Naked Lunch over and over lately. Some days I will watch it up to 4 times. I like to have it on when I write and paint. Its a great film. It inspires me. I listen to lots of music as well. Silence makes me feel vulnerable. I feel as though the whole world can hear what I am up to if I don’t have music on or a movie.
A pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
I have been frequenting a weird secondhand CD store lately. Its downtown. Tucked away in an office building on the main floor. Everything inside this building is painted shiny red. Shiny red paint on glazed bricks. The “Arcane Building” I think its called. The owner of the store is even painted red. She has a reddish orange frizzle fried afro, red smeary lipstick, and red paint on her cheeks. She smokes like a maniac, even though she’s not allowed to. She simply closes the glass sliding door, and hot boxes whatever poor bastard that happens to be lurking around in her store. Perhaps she’s drugging the customer into purchasing stuff. The entire store is yellowed from years of smoking. Yellow and Red. Reminds of some strange McDonals afterbirth.
The store is pure madness. Piles of teeter heaped CDs. Rows and rows of moth eaten records. Collapsing towers of old faded VHS movies. If you touch any of her piles she freaks out. She claims she knows where everything is, you just have to ask her. I don’t believe that for a second. She makes me feel like I am a criminal, like I’m doing something wrong. I wait for customers to enter the store, and when she is distracted I quickly dismantle her piles to search for what I want, and carefully put them back together again before she notices.
She’s like a dragon protecting its treasures.
I spend lots of time there. Its weird, she knows almost as many rare punk and metal bands as I do. I’m guessing she’s anywhere between 65 and 120 years old. She doesn’t particularly like the music but she makes sure to remember all the bands, she does her research. I respect her for that. I picked up a Slayer CD, Jesus Lizard,Fugazi, and Motley Crue “Shout at the Devil” on vinyl this week. I spend most of my text book and school supply money at the CD store and on booze.
She makes me very nervous, it seems like its this way with everything I do. I need to be more aggressive, I just don’t know how to without going over the top and acting like a dick head. I have no in between zone. I waste so much time being polite and listening to people talk about nothing. I feel paralyzed. Caught in a web of nothingness. They suck the hours of my life away in slow slurps. Time vampires. Why do I listen to her, I feel compelled to, guilty for even being in her store. That’s not how it should be , I buy stuff, its her job to listen to me. AAAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
I’m currently working on a sculpture for school. I cant stand this class, I also don’t get along with the teacher, she’s a total femme Nazi. I had to sculpt a human eye. I decided to make a weird alien throbbing dink with an eyeball on the end. She didn’t find it very amusing. I’m currently making a vacuum cleaner sculpture called pervatron 2000. It is a sexual cleaning device. Its comprised of an old broken boiler, a vacuum hose, and other odds and ends. It also has a functioning light bulb on its head. I have a tape recorder inside of it that’s says strange and perverse things. It secretes two kinds of intoxicating fluids when it likes what you’ve written…..
Someone’s at the door. I have to go.
bye.,slayer,metal,punk,pink floyd,ALL,descendents,sex,vhs,1990s,iron maiden,poetry,literature,comedy,autobiography,journals,perverts,weirdos,art school,fugazi,snfu,