Image via The Lineup

That’s EXACTLY how I fucking feel: smashed crashed and fucking hopeless, yeah, yeah, yeah.


Thank You Sky Gods: Rain at Last

Sometimes when aching so desperately for change in one’s present circumstances and when that change finally makes itself manifest, we’re so breathless and grateful that only shards of the past will serve as proper offerings of thanks. Even if it’s “just” rain.

Thank you Sky Gods.




God’s Not Dead really moved and inspired me; it actually had me crying at the end, for reasons which involve many elements that this little film attempted to articulate, namely, contradiction.

“Contradiction and complexity are the only things worth writing about.” — me, circa late 90s, again and again.

Rest assured, this film did NOT turn me into a believer. No I don’t believe in Jesus, I don’t believe in god, not before, and not now, far from it. God’s Not Dead is a pop glossy Christian advert about a college student who is a devout believer and enters combative debates with his atheist professor. This fucking film trashes atheists to the point of bigotry; it contains many scenes that strain credulity; it actually concludes with the main characters cheering a Christian pop band with soaring anthemic guitars.

And I loved it.

Because it was the spirit of what the film attempted to communicate: Don’t give up. Don’t hate. Life on Earth is an amazing gift, and we should be whispering thanks with every given breath.

I am an Atheist. And a Humanist. And a Polytheist. And a Pagan. Are these contradictions? Yes. So what? “I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Harlan Ellison

Ayn Rand claimed there were no contradictions in nature. It’s too bad the bitch never understood human nature.

Anyway, this is a good movie. Check it out.


The Art of Johannes Theodorus ‘Jan’ Toorop

The vagabonds, 1891 Jan Toorop



Johannes Theodorus Toorop was born on 20 December 1858 in Purworejo on the island of Java in the Dutch East Indies (present-day Indonesia).[1] His father was Christoffel Theodorus Toorop, a civil servant, and his mother was Maria Magdalena Cooke.[2] He was the third of five children and lived on the island of Bangka near Sumatra until he was nine years old.[3] He was then sent to school in Batavia on Java.[3]

In 1869 he left Indonesia for the Netherlands, where he studied in Delft and Amsterdam. In 1880 he became a student at the Rijksakademie in Amsterdam. From 1882 to 1886 he lived in Brussels where he joined Les XX (Les Vingts), a group of artists centred on James Ensor. Toorop worked in various styles during these years, such as Realism,Impressionism Neo-Impressionism and Post-Impressionism.

After his marriage to an Annie Hall, a British woman, in 1886, Toorop alternated his time between The Hague, England and Brussels, and after 1890 also the Dutch seaside town of Katwijk aan Zee. During this period he developed his unique Symbolist style, with dynamic, unpredictable lines based on Javanese motifs, highly stylised willowy figures, and curvilinear designs

In the late 19th century (in 1897) Toorop lived for 20 years in a small house on the market in the seaside town Domburg, Walcheren, Zeeland. He worked with a group of fellow artists, including Marinus Zwart and Piet Mondrian. There was no joint endeavor or common style among them. Each followed his individual personality, but they sought their inspiration in “the Zeeland Light”, in the dunes, forests, beaches and the characteristic Zeeland population. Toorop was the center of this group.

Thereafter he turned to Art Nouveau styles, in which a similar play of lines is used for decorative purposes, without any apparent symbolic meaning. In 1905, he converted to Catholicism and began producing religious works. He also created book illustrations, posters, and stained glass designs.

Throughout his life Toorop also produced portraits, in sketch format and as paintings, which range in style from highly realistic to impressionistic.

Toorop died on 3 March 1928 in The Hague in the Netherlands.[1] His daughter Charley Toorop (1891–1955) was also a painter, as was his grandson Edgar Fernhout.






A Holiday Classic! “One last time, Evil Bunny’s gonna tell you how it’s gonna be, got it?”


Ah, Easter.


Катюша (Katyusha)

This video is a single channel trailer for a three channel video piece based on material collected at Pyramiden, a mining community established by the Soviet Union in the Svalbard territory in the high Arctic. At its peak Pyramiden was home to more than 1000 miners and their families. It was evacuated in two days in 1998 leaving a ghost town. The three channel version of “Katyusha” will refer to three characters. The “Guide” takes the form of a grey sea bird, the Northern Fulmar. As the piece progresses we discover clues to the identity of two “Lovers”, a ballet dancer and a basketball player. The elaborately painted floor of the basketball court in Pyramiden is a central motif, as is the abandoned ballet studio in the northern most corner of the town – once the most northerly ballet studio on earth.


I Still Believe (II)

Screen Shot 2015-03-03 at 10.57.11 AM

Aleksandra Grigoryevna Samusenko (Russian: Александра Григорьевна Самусенко, Ukrainian:Олександра Григорівна Самусенко; 1922, Chita—March 3, 1945) was a Soviet Ukrainian commander of the T-34 tank and a liaison officer during World War II. She was the only female tankman in the 1st Guards Tank Army.

Samusenko was awarded the Order of the Patriotic War 1st class and the Order of the Red Star, which she received for bravery in the Battle of Kursk.

† † †

The T-34 looked like this:


and this


I’ve been inside submarines and gun turrets and tanks. They are terrible spaces, no shit: there’s no room to breathe and the fucking seats are made of metal that seem designed only to hurt the human frame. There’s nothing romantic about them. They are artificial war-horses made for only one thing: to kill other war-horses by way of screaming shells and fire.

Yet I’m still seduced. Especially by the idea of a young woman driving a metal machine into battle. Maybe I’m just an asshole. Maybe my idea of a WARRIOR TANK WOMAN still looks like this in my head:


Steve Scott

Ridiculous, isn’t it? And even worse: I’m not “seduced” or turned on by a guy driving a tank. Brad Pitt behind the wheel of a killing machine doesn’t get me hot.

So I’m just an asshole, aren’t I. Note there’s no question mark at the end of the preceding sentence. I’m just a sexist asshole. The idea of a pretty, frail, cute, preferably barefoot girl wielding death still gets me stiff. I don’t want her to hurt me—sorry, not my scene—I’m very good at hurting myself, thank you very much. No, that’s not it.

The concept of a feminine creator/destroyer is really the only spiritual concept I truly believe with every cell of my body and blood. Yeah, I worship The Moon, The Rain, The Snow, The Trees, The Sun… but Woman? Whew. Baby. I want to both take her and worship her, bind her and elevate her. Jesus can go do his thing on the mount, and Buddha can dream for all eternity. But I will pursue and try to capture The Goddess until the end of my days.

I still believe.

Isis am I, and from my life are fed
All stars and suns, all moons that wax and wane,
Create and uncreate, living and the dead,
The Mystery of Pain.
I am the Mother, I the silent sea,
The Earth, its travail, its fertility.
Life, death, love, hatred, light, darkness, return to me—
To me!

Hathor am I, and to my beauty drawn
All glories of the Universe bow down
The blossom and the mountain and the dawn,
Fruit’s blush, and woman, our creation’s crown.
I am the priest, the sacrifice, the shrine,
I am the love and life of the divine!
Life, death, love, hatred, light, darkness, are surely mine—
Are mine!

Venus am I, the love and light of earth,
The wealth of kisses, the delight of tears.
The barren pleasure never comes to birth,
The endless, infinite desire of years.
I am the shrine at which thy long desire
Devoured thee with intolerable fire
I was song, music, passion, death, upon thy lyre—
Thy lyre!

I am the Grail and I the Glory now:
I am the flame and fuel of thy breast;
I am the star of God upon thy brow;
I am thy queen, enraptured and possessed.
Hide thee, sweet river; welcome to the sea,
Ocean of love that shall encompass thee!
Life, death, love, hatred, life, darkness, return to me—
To me!

Aleister Crowley, from Tannhaüser

•  •  •

Credits: Top panel Hollow by Zenibyfajnie. Bottom panel The Priestess by Lady Frieda Harris from Crowley’s Thoth Deck. Great thanks to Dress Rehearsal Rag for the Crowley quote and the reminder of her glory. Middle panel—it’s not as tall as the others! Well, that should not break the strength of the Holy Three. She/They will be fine. Show me a perfect, no-fuck up spell. You can not. Anyway. That is all.


Leonard Nimoy, 1931 — 2015


As we all know, Leonard Nimoy died yesterday. I wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror if I didn’t mark his passing. Nimoy as Spock was truly an iconic figure and character in our collective pop-culture consciousness, and I guess we all thought he would live forever. He didn’t. None of us do. But he lived pretty long, and he certainly prospered. I’ll spare you my memories of growing up with Star Trek ToS, my appreciation (and occasional jeering) of his numerous artistic efforts and accomplishments, the time I met and spoke with him, etc, because the outpouring of sadness and shock across all media outlets regarding Mr Nimoy’s passing on Friday February 27 2015 served as undeniable recognition of what Nimoy/Spock meant to everybody: someone and something so unique and potent, it felt like a death in the family, a piece of ourselves who would never come back, now gone forever, a Science Fiction and American original.



I Still Believe


I still believe in the power of fiction, I still believe in super girls.


Of course it’s an aesthetic. Super-powered girls and women, my Muse on mega steroids, yeah, well, so what? What’s wrong with that? Beautiful prose, “beautiful fantasy lovers,” fiction is supposed to seduce us, and we as writers must seduce our readers.


I mean, my first literary crush was



Who, in my fantasies, looked like this:



Damn, I wanted to save Sylvia. In a fantasy sort of way. Like averting the Titanic disaster, or killing Hitler in 1933. I wanted to save Sylvia Plath. Because I believed. Her words, her genius.

I wanted to save her from the fires and fumes of her self destruction.

Reading her poetry as a teenage boy, I felt nothing less than anguish. Here was a real Supergirl—but she just couldn’t live. Not on this Earth. Not on this world.




Lady Lazarus


I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

† † †

I grew up with three older sisters. They were all weird and powerful, overwhelming to poor little drax! It must come as no surprise to even the most casual of my readers that I’ve fetishized super-powerful women in the bulk of my fiction.


Gloriana Blitz from DOOMTOOPERS by Jo Chen & La Shae Ortiz


Samantha Cross from CYBERSTORM by William Briggs Jr

Dark Mori babe unknown_rev1

Mori Kim Marr from EXIT VECTOR by Claire Boucher Grimes

So is she my super-muse or my super-dream girlfriend? Both. Like I said up top, “Of course it’s an aesthetic.” And again, so what? It is an aesthetic that has served me well in both literature and life. Example: when I met my former wife in 1994, she was a 3rd degree Black Belt and she kept weapons in her fucking kitchen. “Show me,” I asked her, and she whipped out a Sai for her right and a Sai for her left and she tore through that tiny kitchen, black tights and bare feet, her hair flying, a blur, she would have put Frank Miller’s Elektra to shame and I thought OH MY GOD OH MY GOD BABY I WANT TO MARRY YOU, and I did, and we did, and it was great and we had two amazing children, but in 2015 we don’t love each other anymore, and that’s okay—that happens—but it’s also okay because…

I still believe.

I received a few gift cards for my recent birthday. I was adamant. I wanted a copy of STATION ELEVEN and a Supergirl Action Figure, an icon for my desk.


I had to release Supergirl’s ankles from metal bindings as the cat on my lap looked on. This might be the most surreal photo I’ve ever snapped.


But there she is! On my filthy fucking black desk! An ideal, an aesthetic, a heroine, a muse. I still believe, I still believe, I still believe.


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