Lowlands Away

My warehouse eyes,
my Arabian drums
Should I leave them
by your gate
Or, sad-eyed lady,
should I wait?

Anchors Away

And away, you Santee
My Dear Annie
Oh, you New York girls
can't you dance the polka?

Your hard earned cash will disappear,
your rig and boots as well,
For Yankee girls are tougher than
the other side of Hell.

And away, you Santee
My Dear Annie
Oh, you New York girls
can't you dance the polka?

Origin of the Species: Vol 2

The Slaughterhaus Rose Film Unit informs me they have just uploaded the latest in our endeavors: the video collage I did for Dubh Ros's DJ set at our May Day Freakout.

I was given a basic musical outline for the 30 minute set and based on the tones and mood, spliced together archived films to create the projection that would accompany.
Dubh was then shown the film and and began digging through crates (believe me, it's like Monument Valley in his studio) for his final loops, field recordings, sermons, and assorted audio madness.


After the show, we went back and reedited to sync the audio and video. Got some time? Check it out on Vimeo.








*Film stills from
Origin of the Species: Vol 2.

The Dead Republic

I just tore through the third and final book in Roddy Doyle's The Last Roundup series. I have been waiting to find out what happened to yer man Henry Smart since 2004. (No spoilers here, Slim, so simmer down.)

If you remember, the last book ended with Henry meeting up with John Ford in Monument Valley after his travels have dragged him up and down America through the Jazz Age, through the Depression years, and in and out of reality through WW Twice. Well, you wouldn't have to be Stephen Hawking to figure out how Henry makes it back home.


And of course, if there is trouble, or more specifically, the start of The Troubles, you can believe our old rebel will be in there somewhere. Roddy Doyle did a nice job weaving our hero through a very complicated time and region. To your right I have included my painting "A Short History of Ulster" so you can see what I mean. With an alphabet soup of armed groups and years of class war, they gave the middle east a run for its money. Thank you Roddy, you did not disappoint.

"A Short History of Ulster",
50" x 33 1/2",
acrylic, oil pastel, chalk and paper on canvas,
2007
Oh, alright, just one more.

Still Waiting

The Gulf Coast is accustom to battening down the hatches and reading itself for the next disaster to drift in with the tides. You know hurricane season is nearing when your grocery bags begin sporting tracking charts so elementary schools can follow the path of the Andrews, Opals, and Katrinas. The lines at the checkout, the filling of every available container with water, the waiting and wondering, watching the progress of that dark patch gathering speed as it lurks just offshore. Some hurricanes rip through the region in a matter of hours, some crawl through over the course of days pouring all that water soaked up from the gulf down to flood rivers, streets, homes and shops. Some particularly delusional ones loop hundreds of miles around for another pass to see if they can find a tree left standing or a roof still intact. Over the years, as we waited, we looked down in shame to mutter, “just let it go east, or let it go west, please don’t let it land here. Let the destruction and the loss and the years of struggling to rebuild pass us by.”

But the latest dark mass on the horizon refuses to limit its appetite to a few hundred miles of the region but is slowly, irritatingly oozing its way shoreward. And this time, the Gulf is slated for an economic devastation the Southland hasn’t seen since Sherman went on a torch lit parade from Atlanta to the sea. The oyster harvest has stopped, the shrimp boats are tied up in Bayou La Batre, the fishermen now volunteer to deploy miles of booms to protect the delicate fishing grounds that are the livelihood of the area.

This disaster's extent they can not chart though they measure the tides and calculate the currents. It has been lurking offshore for weeks as its harbingers of death, those first small clumps of black tar wash ashore from LA to L.A. Every morning, I follow the growth of the slick knowing it will soon land on those sugar white beaches and wash into the rivers and bayous. That is when the real struggle will begin.

I think perhaps this hurricane season, with its barely predictable furies, may come as a relief.

*Gulf Oil, Caudled Milk, Acrylic, Oil Marker, paper collage on panel, 2009

In a side note, this painting was created last year for a series on what it means looking back at the South. It is not meant to implicate the now defunct Gulf Oil Company in the current state of affairs

Capitol Hill Art Blitz

It's the Blitz!
No, not when Tommy was fighting Jerry but the Second Thursday Art Walk on Capitol Hill. I will have work hanging at the Packard Building through the month of May.

May Day

So come brothers and sisters
For the struggle carries on
The Internationale
Unites the world in song
So comrades come rally
For this is the time and place
The international ideal
Unites the human race.


Perhaps we shall see you tonight.

The International, lyrics by Eugène Pottier, updated lyrics by Billy Bragg