Sunset across the Parkway.

Shot this while shopping last evening.

I found some sugarless ice cream. Only the second time

since this bleeping plague ended the world.

 Ended it it and drove the whole damned planet insane.

These daze they're either 

Nazi book burners or deluded Commies. 

Me I just want to eat my ice cream in fucking peace.

On da other hand.

Like I just mentioned to a dear comrade here:

"Everybody is fucking nuts now. Just look out the damned window. The thing is we need to be nice nuts. 

Like Daffy Duck or Walt Whitman."

There's a t-shirt in that somewhere.

You folks watch each other's backs. Be brave be kind.

That and eat lots of pastry.

The setting sun beams over my fridge top.

Note how them New Yorker editions are piling up. 

That's my next job. Hack through them things. 

Been too wasted for now.

Like Holiday Fruit Cakes. New Yorkers keep forever.

A June 1936 edition is as fresh as February 2022.

More expensive, but now women and folks of color.

Exhibit 'A'

I like to think Thurber would have approved.

 

Been messing around with snaps I took of my scale models. Some I took near 15 years ago the Spitfire yesterday. 

More tweaking with the paint box.

I'll get over doing that when the novelty wears off.

I'd go into what these all are their histories.

Too fucking tired, all the time now.

Notice I haven't bothered with post titles.

Everything is a kind of shorthand these days.

Banging the keyboard explaining this noise is exhausting.

That's the lasting symptom. Ya fucking wasted.

The vax is keeping me alive. 

Tell da truth I'd sometimes rather it didn't.

If I'd got this bug two years ago, I'd be dead by now.

I'll be dead soon anyway so who cares.

Till then there's old movies to get to and kits to build.

When we kick da bucket all that matters to us. Goes into a dumpster. Like our bones go into a box or 

our ashes are dumped in a vacant lot.

Actually, I'm fine with all that.

I like the ashes idea. 

I's rather avoid the indignity of having my bones poked over by underpaid 34th century undergrads at some dig somewhere.

Stay the fuck tuned.

~ Click on them Models above...even I'm impressed. ~

 

 

"...discontinuity"

I've been resting and staring blankly all month. Not posting here much. The stuff below is from my FB page. I post there because FB is more insistent on content. You guys leave me alone. As I mention below, I've been playing with my computer's paint box. See before, and after of Coney Island Boardwalk...it passes the time. I should have taken more LSD back in the day.

I like turning stuff into cartoons.

See below from my kitchen window. Odd I never bothered with the Box before.

As to my life and death tales. I’m on the far side of my plague adventure.

Not nearly as notable nor tragic as it’s been for millions. 'Ongoing aftershocks.

Dream-like days. Symptoms like winter gales then vanishing.

Much as our current weather.

Warm days fading into raw coldness. Brief dustings of snow sometimes.

Then warm again. The Earth breathes and we with it.

Julian of Norwich had a notion on such:

‘…All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well,’

Among other things I've been upgrading old art with the paintbox. Mostly my doll glam shots. Cleaning them up fading 

the plastic join lines and blending the arm joints.

It's the end of the world

This gives me something to do.

 

During my Houseless year I dreamed that my new home would have a blue door.

When I got it I painted it sky blue. So it stayed for years.

During renovations all the doors were replaced with the same light brown.

When I get around to it sky blue returns.

 

Been spending time adjusting very old doll glam shots on my computer's paintbox.

The originals were out of focus dark dirty color faded.

I went pixel by pixel with these folks.

It's meditative to just slowly clean adjust and bring them back.

'Least best I can with what I have.

 

Another page asked of your strangest childhood movie experience. For me..."Psycho".

I was 10 and went to the movies every Saturday. 'Never knew what was on. Ma gave me a Quarter...yeah .25 cents it was Brooklyn and they let me in. My ma later asked what I saw.

I couldn't begin to explain that thing...so didn't.

I got into trouble on another page for being incorrect by not letting my life revolve around just my skin color or orientation. I’m a person that’s all. See below. Me my own self at the start of my adventure. I've lived into an era when many in this troubled republic use ethnic identifiers or some other arbitrary construct to rule their lives. Here’s my response:

What would you be if you were Free?

I mean just that. Who would you be what would you wear what would you like to eat or what music would you listen to how would you express yourself if you were not a target? If you were free from birth just to be a person. If you could walk down any street oblivious blameless a threat to no one. Just a person.

A free person not having to obsess on identifiers forced on you. Free to create your own life, and at peace with all. I’ve been told this is impossible. Tribal walls are the only defense. No. I refuse. Some of us have tried to live free despite a whole world saying we can’t. We try to live it now in our lifetimes. Not just dream it for some remote far future. I’m a radical. I insist on my personhood my freedom. My right to just be me not representing anyone or anything. I have opinions but they’re just that, and only that. We all walk the same deadly gauntlet, but in our souls we’re free.

From my life and times.

Saint Marks in the Bowery.

One of the oldest places of western worship in NYC.

Peter Stuyvesant, whose bones I met, are entombed in its walls. He was Mayor of this then Dutch colony 1647 to 1664. Till the Brits invited him to get lost.

The wall along Wall Street was slapped up to keep out the Brits.

Natives had long been forced out. Tho’ some still held portions of upper Manhattan. This around my future childhood home of 127th Street. If told to go back where I came from. It would involve a short subway ride. …the local would take longer.

Saint Marks whose first service was in 1660 and portions of which were built by Slaves. Has for the last 130 years or so been known as the Artists Church because of its close relationship to that community. If you’ve heard of them, they performed prayed or got drunk there. It’s also where for decades my friends in the radio biz had their memorials and where I want mine. It’s where I learned I had a talent for obituary orations. Everyone needs a hobby.

Like all institutions, and people it's changed over time. In my 40-year experience it went from a non-denominational welcome to any faith or no faith congregation. To a Christian only space. Then back again. Basically, it’s Holy Ground. All welcome.

On meeting Peter Stuyvesant.

One day I looked to my left, and noted I had an interesting pew mate. Mayor Stuyvesant or some portion of him was entombed into the wall next to me. Well. I'd heard he was lurking somewhere. There are poets, and assorted troublemakers planted about the grounds. Even a Vice President or two. However, I never thought I’d run into Pete’s bones. Heck of a town this.

On the matter of faith.

I had faith in deities’ ideas institutions and certain pastries.

I’ve witnessed these as profoundly and willfully mis-used. Perhaps we should have the faith of children. They exist in the now. A place of continual wonder.