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I’m feeling rather sympatico with this object today. LAvoice.org‘s audience and user base are painfully slow in growth, despite numerous improvements to the site’s layout and great contributions by Yael and comments by Marc. Faceless and gray. Well-worn patina of scratches, scrapes and scars. Perfectly, inoffensively rectangular, about the size of a Zippo lighter. Dense. I can’t even remember where I found this. Its sole distinguishing mark is a groove cut with a Dremel tool that I tried on it once, just to see how hard it was. The tool broke eventually. Perhaps I should emulate this obdurate obstinacy.
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Retrenching today, pulling in all tentacles, checking for bruises, briefing the crew, counting cans in the fallout shelter, inventorying ammunition. This skull was a self-chosen birthday gift from Kristina a few years ago. It’s a thing of exceptional beauty and efficiency, though it is not heavy physically, weighing just a few ounces. She said tonight, “I’m really impressed you’re making a concerted run at LAvoice. God bless her. Note to self: Next time you choose a project, make sure it has a clear end goal and human timetable. Very, very tired at this hour. So much work. So little time. Must resume stripping away skin, hair and flesh to examine the set of fangs I really possess. A steady diet of grass has made me forget that I can hunt down, kill and devour prey. But what does prey look like – I haven’t seen any for a few years.
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This is one of Joe Reed‘s very first ant paintings, a swarm of ants painted in acrylic on an oddly turned ivory object. It is hollow, and sealed, but for holes drilled at either end, as if it were to be used as a bead or ornament. The ants are better explained at the link above, but were among the very first things this extraordinary artist – my father – painted. Craft and inspiration are on my mind today; Spent the morning on the Venice boardwalk with my kids and my 19-year-old god-daughter, Liz, before driving her to the California School of Culinary Arts in Pasadena for an admissions interview. Ninety minutes later, she walked out with a huge grin and a promise of acceptance to classes beginning in August. She was meant to become a chef, and she’s barreling down that track, giddy with potential as if there were no other possible courses in life. I do the same – but without the same conviction, saddled with the doubt of a life (well- but) half-spent.I take a certain pride in craft – I’m beginning to mix my own photos in with the stock photos rotating through LAvoice. I think too hard and work not enough. I’m seeking confidence in who I am – always. Off to process more pix.
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I found these for a buck-fifty in Philadelphia about 16 years ago, in a weird little antique/pawn shop that felt like a front for some Mob operation. They are probably quite old, and certainly hand-crafted of what feels like tin and tin mesh. The temples are bits of bent wire, with careful little loops turned in the wire at the tips. I wore them for Halloween a couple years ago as part of an Invisible Man costume. Busy thinking hard, pushing harder on LAvoice. No time to wax any further here.
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Pliers – cutters – file – small screwdriver – tweezers – big screwdriver – Phillips screwdriver – canopener – knife … fetish object. It folds to a small, dense block of articulated titanium and clips to a keyring. It is a perfect machine. Okay, so it needs a serrated blade or a corkscrew. It is utility and adaptibility distilled to gemlike proportions. We visited Disney Hall for the first time tonight, waiting 90 minutes on line in its sheetsteel armpit for tickets to a youth concert. The teenaged orchestra of 36 15yearolds was heartfelt and accomplished, but shaky and a little lost in the grand acoustics of the place. Tickets in June to hear the Berlioz Requiem.
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Translucent and full of stored kinetic energy, it is noisy even at rest. I picture it at the center of a table surrounded by drunks and meth-addled bikers all whacking it with increasingly vicious force as they get more and more intoxicated and pissed off at the way their game is going. Maybe after a particularly bullshit shot, someone says something he shouldn’t have, and someone else wraps it up in a bar towel and beats the piss out of him with it before casually flipping it back onto the cigarette-burned felt, where it bounces off onto a barstool leg or a radiator, earning yet another of the thousand-and-one nicks and zips that mar its creamy surface.