scrimshaw chapter yesterday
aw mama can this really be the end? I was with the painter Doug Wolski last night. we went to Nick’s back porch which is around the corner from my place. I was never there before. It’s a dive but a cool one I guess. We discussed why drummers always have a bald spot and long, long hair. Doug says to me: “that whole head is poem, that whole skull cap is a book of poetry.” I agreed. Around sunset I walked over to D’s house. It was a really beautiful walk and I got some great shots of the National cemetery. It’s really spooky actually. The party was cool; there were some nice people there. D has Doug’s artwork on the wall-this long geometric pattern, these shapes chopped off and measured, this group of colors separated by the frames. It moved me before I knew that Doug did it which is a good sign. He was sleeping on a couch and he came out to the back porch. “I knew that was Jim’s voice.” He said he was looking for a graceful exit and I grabbed a beer and we cruised Marietta listening to the Fugees. I never heard them before and it fit right in. I wish I could say that we talked about art and creativity and the struggles of the avant garde underground. We watched the Bulls and talked about the cougars a few bar stools over.
I said the brunette would take it in the face and the blonde wasn’t bad. This gray haired four eyed faggot was making a play for the blonde. He was probably younger than me but he looked like fifteen years older. He was pulling out all the stops for this bitch. The band started playing which was better than the Whitesnake they were piping in. I started putting my fingers in a peace sign over the guys head. Crowley said that the victory sign was the magickal response to the swastika and I don’t know if that’s true but it sounds good. He spun around and told me that he was gonna kick my ass.
-Why are you grabbing my dick! I am not gay!
“Yeah, we’re not gay man! What’s your problem?” I liked how Doug backed me up instantly and I continued the script.
-Man we just came in here to watch the Bulls. I got fifty down on them. (My phone buzzed) that’s my bookie right now, jeezus. I can’t believe you grabbed my dick! I am not gay!
“Jim’s not gay man, what’s your problem?” Doug lowered his voice and said: “don’t get me thrown out of here.” The barkeep had curly blond hair and curvy figure that radiated movement. She was wearing a t-shirt with Biden’s quote: this is a big fucking deal all over it. (I got a big deal for ya baby). She asked how we were doing.
-Oh, everything was fine till this guy grabbed my dick!
Doug figured things were gonna get ugly so we exited via the back porch. He said something like these bushes were made for pissing. We got to headquarters and had some of the Newcastles left in the fridge. I showed Doug some of my visual work and he made an insightful comment that I’m attempting to replicate.
“Part of being an artist is putting your work out there. If all this great work is hidden...” He left it for me to put the frame around the piece. He started saying that my last girlfriend was hot, that she was the only one at the art gallery talk that had something to say. I told Doug that he could have her. When we were breaking up I asked if she minded if I wrote a book about our three week fling.
“You’re gonna do whatever you want to anyway! Oh that’s right; writers always have the last word-but not if no one gets a chance to read them!”
She was referring to my lack of self-promotion, to my reluctance to shill my wares on Ebay. She was right, every other artist promotes themselves but I’m way too interested in pretending to be cool to do it. I bit the bullet and put my book about Jucifer, “Jucifer Rising” up on Ebay. I actually sold one this week. That was magick. Naturally it’s a book dedicated to a female friend who won’t talk to me anymore. When I was hanging out with my close friend, the organic farmer she decided to undertake some subterfuge at my suggestion.
She texted Snoopy and asked if she’d seen me. Snoopy was like: I haven’t talked to Jim in a year. He was on thin ice with me and I am done with him. He’s tried to contact me a few times but I am done with him.
The organic farmer said that I was a mess and I was trying to kick. Snoopy was like: good luck. I dedicated the book to her cos she was my platonic best friend for years. She really carried me through some rough emotional times. I dedicated the book to her cos literally it wouldn’t have been finished if it wasn’t for her. I thought best friends forever meant forever. I understand I’m difficult to deal with when I’m using cos I really start to believe I’m Bukowski or Dash Snow or whatever other character I’m pretending to be.
Writers don’t really exist, they’re always outside of everything, taking it all in, organizing, cataloging. The past 25 years of my life have been one big manuscript. The beauty of it all is I get to control the past and I regurgitate it into a form I can deal with. Y’see, it says it right here. “Paste the sheets from right to left and from top to bottom: then behold!” (Liber Legis Chapter 3, Verse 73).
After Doug left I wrote out a bare bones chapter for “Scrimshaw” about the influence of various women on my life. There’s nothing more beautiful than spending time with a kindred soul. Some of the kindred souls I’ve met over the years have profoundly influenced me. All women excite me, few interest me. I told this cute lawyer last night that from now on my lovers are gonna have to have a favorite Dostoyevsky book.
“I guess that leaves me out.” I didn’t even go there. I sent a note to the Nazi Hunter, a woman I mistakenly thought I was in love with cos I confused love with obsession. I told her that her facebook photo looks looney and it would be nice if she’d just mellow out and be my friend. Why did I do that? I’d like some closure on things. At least I only sent her the message and didn’t post it for all to see. I need to get a breathalyzer on my email outbox. I think such an invention would be worth millions.
When Doug was here at headquarters and we doing things that can’t be revealed until the statue of lubrication expires I played him the song “Revenge”. This song by Dangermouse & Sparklehorse has been the soundtrack for “the Dash Snow Thing”. He snapped his fingers: “This ain’t Dangermouse. It’s, it’s,”
-The singer is Wayne Coyne.
“The Flaming Lips!!!” and our heads nodded.
Like Wayne Coyne sings: “you can’t hide what you intend-the more I try to hurt you, the more that it hurts me.”
Yeah. So that’s it for today. I think. My intellectual mentor Dave texted me the other day that Genesis P-Orridge was recording at WFMU where Dave is the major domo graphics artist in chief. I told Dave to say hello for me.
“I probably pissed them off when I told them ‘no you can’t have my parking space’. Definitely pissed them off when I started busting concrete and hammering nails outside the studio...with the door open.”
I wrote back: refusing my guru a parking space, classic!
This Easter morning my head is pounding. I’m dope sick but that’s a good thing. I’m listening to the famous June 3 77 Tampa gig. There are three sources for the gig. The second tape starts with a guy yelling “bring on the blimp!” Zeppelin played three songs and the rain started. They split and the crowd rioted. This bootleg has snippets from the news broadcasts. “About 4,000 people were involved in the melee, 52 were arrested.” My dear friend Frank Mullen was there. He told me that when Zeppelin left the stage he knew they weren’t coming back so he split. While he was in his car the riot started behind him. I downloaded the gig for him and then I remembered he was dead from cancer. Frank’s dead, Ana moved to London and my best friend Snoopy hates my guts. Fortunately, the woman I’m involved with today is amazing. She’s a painter with a huge heart, piercing blue eyes and a killer smile. I’d go on to say that she’s brilliant and physically gorgeous but you already knew that.
I’m winding down and moving forward. I’m really happy about “scrimshaw” though these days I’m not writing this book: it’s writing me.