Bacchanalia – David Adickes

Posted in art, band, blog, houston, performance, southmorehouse with tags , , , , , , , on October 28, 2012 by tymora42

I met David Adickes at the George R Brown Arts and Craft Faire. Adickes is a big deal in Houston as is the Craft Faire, I guess. Houston is known nationally in the art world for its collectors. Galleries an Brokers from around the US come to this thing bringing their A game of tipping point artisans because they know we have the money and want to spend it. We have the money because we have the oil. Alaska may have it too, but they lack the metropolis culture.

Adickes is a sculptor. His claim to fame is building the largest sculpture in North Amica, the Sam Houston Memorial in Huntsville. I wave at Sammy anytime I leave Houston going north on 45 and ask his protection while I am traveling abroad. Adickes has also done the bust of every American president in 20ft stone. Originally it was a commission for the Arlington Cemetary, but they pulled the funding before they were put on the trucks and shipped to DC. Now they sit in a lot across from his studio on Summer street, right across from the building we have reserved for the Bacchanalia Naked Tuesday.

So, I told him all about Naked Tuesday. I told him we were expecting about a hundred folks to participate but that our expectations generally tend to be too low. I told him about the ritualistic Church of Melkrath’s dark metal. I told him about the invocations in unknown languages of Serum Fantis. I told him about Ak’Chamel considering themselves puppet masters rather than musicians. I told him about southmorehouse and I told him he should come.

“You need a mask to get in. We don’t care whatever else you wear if anything at all.”

He laughed and asked if my beautiful partner would be there. I told him yes and he asks me, “How much of this is true?”

I said, “90%”

He thought for a second. “if this is true, I want you to dance naked around my president heads.”

Consider it done.

Bacchanalia – finding the space

Posted in art, blog, houston, performance, southmorehouse with tags , , , , , , , on October 23, 2012 by tymora42

Finding the right space for this event has been a challenge. Asking local establishments if we can get naked there during business hours is always a challenge. Originally we decided on the Silo, the place art cars go to die. It met many of our requirements. It was unusual. It housed art. It was outside. They would have let us burn things.

We had the music – Serum Fantis, Ak’Chamel, and Church of Melkarth. We had the venue. I could worry about logistics and the next event in the weeks to come. Until the ball dropped – and I mean that in the least naked way possible. Ken, a great guy and owner of the Silo, had a conflict of interest with a social partner. He decided that he could not continue with hosting this particular Naked Tuesday, but to contact him in the future with any other engagements. We hope to. We really liked working with Ken, but we understood and put the word out that we were looking.

This is when Gutterbrain Studios at Summer Street contacted us. They REALLY wanted to be the host. I was conflicted because they are an erotic photography studio. This violated two principles behind NT – 1) no photography and 2) this is not sexual in nature but more about purity of the body. After speaking with Craig Christie about our goals for this event he seemed on board. He would hide his camera and penis for the evening or at least take it into a private room.

We were sold, spoke to the right people and dove head first into the arrangements.

Feral Futures pt 2

Posted in activism, adventure, band, colorado, earth, ecology, hiking, travel with tags , , , , , , , on June 19, 2012 by tymora42

The Wild Roots blog had great information about itself and the Feral Futures campout. The directions were detailed with numbers rather than names, though. Being a literary person I like words. Being a logical person I can follow numbers. FYI: 602 is not on Google Maps nor the Latitude 40 topos. It is, however, on a small rectangular wood sign once you make the turn off 501. How’s that for numbers.

Once you get to Pine River Campground they have another sign provided by Wild Roots in a car window detailing trail directions to the main camp. If I didn’t see him on the way out I would assume that Tom was still there waiting for his deer cart to load equipment in for a water filtration exposition. The cart was about half a mile in, pushed off to the side, abandoned by the initial group struggling to get it up the rocky trail. I sent a bicyclist fisherman heading back with word of it’s situation for him. Poor Tom.

You will walk past 3 miles of barbed wire to the Weminuche Wilderness boundary. Main camp is about another mile and a half. They hung a green bandana from a tree, intuitively instructing those in the know their whereabouts. On my last pass someone constructed an arrow with rocks and an animal vertebrae.

I met the crew led by a guy named Nathan, who runs the Wild Roots blog. He said this was their fourth year doing this event. As it turned out I had met Nathan once before at a holy! holy! holy! show in Durango. He put me on the Rise Up email list under the name Dirty Hands. He claimed that holy! holy! holy! would probably play at their gathering on the solstice. “If you see a bus in the parking lot, they are here.” They put on a really great show. The Beehive Collective opened with a seminar on The True Cost of Coal. Then the lead singer gave a talk about activating against strip mining before taking the stage and convincing the audience to get naked. I like to walk by that building soon to be a parking lot and say, “I got naked there.” It is one of the few places in a Colorado city that I can say that compared to Houston.

I met other folks with names like Grasshopper and Kenney Eye and Juniper and Nettle. No Ben. Nobody knew the hitchhiker I picked up a day ago.

I ate lunch up the river and swam by myself. Coloradans don’t like to get wet. When I mentioned this to Nathan he said, “That’s not true. My friends and I live to go swimming.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “swimming isn’t the only way to get wet and it’s the only one Coloradians can think of offhand.” Texans in full business attire in the middle of the summer will thank you if you shoot them with a water gun. As Nathan finished filtering water into a large canteen, a girl pulled a bundle of plants she had soaking in the Pinos to the shore. I followed her out to a group that congregated to learn how to weave a net to catch fish. I wonder how well that worked. Grasshopper returned my map and we talked about Tuckerville, an old mining town turned ghost town up in the hills of Vallecito. I shook my hands, thanked them all by name and left.

Somewhere in the woods along the trail someone was playing guitar and a girl’s voice was singing. It was beautiful. Ten minutes up I saw Ben hiking in with a group of Australians freaked out by how many guns they saw openly displayed on the horseback trail. He told me that five minutes after I dropped him off he was picked up by a kayaker heading up to the lake. The kayaker bought him drinks all night at a local bar and offered to let him camp out in his back yard. Ben obliged and made a late start in the next day, the day I saw him. I told him I would try to make it in on the solstice for holy! holy! holy! After the show I would get people together for some night swimming in the buff. We will see. I have lots of work to do that day and it is a hike in.

Tom was waiting about thirty yards past the cart tha had moved maybe ten. It was repacked with medical supplies. He informed me that national parks at federal. Although they honor state laws concerning gun control they do not honor state laws concerning medical marijuana. I wished him and his glaucoma well on their way and made my own journey back to the car.

Feral Futures pt 1

Posted in activism, adventure, colorado, ecology, hiking, hitchhiking, travel with tags , , , , on June 18, 2012 by tymora42

I picked up a hitchhiker named Ben. I like picking up hitchhikers. I’ve been there. On the side of the road. Waiting. Walking. Taking rests. A break from the weary road. Running low on water. Hoping for someone. Anyone. Some kind soul to save you from the beauty of the road that has turned desolate. He was a “friendly.” I could tell from his labels. He had a nice pack that he was sitting on top of at the time of the extraction. That meant he actually walked most of the time. Unlike those yahoos with shit strewn about all over them. Or a duffle bag. Those guys aren’t adventurers. They aren’t ready for anything. They aren’t moving. They are just waiting to get to the next place. He wasn’t. He had a pack. The head of the pack had a hand drawn robot character. He wore a Phishing hat. I picked him up.

Ben told me he was heading for Vallecito Reservoir, a lake with three rivers flowing into it. From there he was heading up the Pinos to Pine River campground. He didn’t know all these names, of course. I knew them from the road and trail numbers he spouted off from a list. My brother and I tried to drop a canoe in from that campground, but there was no river access from it. Everything along the banks was privately owned by horse ranches, who probably strung up barbed wire over the stream even though all waterways in Colorado are public use. The nearest put in to run the Pinos is three miles up from the trailhead. This happened to be where Ben was going.

He was heading to an Eco Activist meet up for the next 10 days. “Like a Rainbow Gathering, if you know what that is.”

“Yeah, I was with the family at a National in Arizona a long time ago.”

“Cool, then, so, yeah, you know. This will be more like Regionals size-wise, but there should be people from all over. I’m coming from Texas.”

We talked about that for a minute. He had a bad time in Houston on that section of the trail and swore to never go back. By the end of the ride I learned enough about Feral Futures and Wild Roots to want to see what this camp out was all about. He invited me to join them when I could and ultimately admitted that I softened the whole Texas experience for him just a little.

The next day I scheduled my hike into the forest. I wanted to see where that trail went anyway.

Again? Really? Why not?

Posted in southmorehouse on June 14, 2012 by tymora42

I haven’t been writing in a while. I started doing southmorehouse events again. I met a girl. It really is mostly her fault. She keeps me busy. It is her fault that I started doing southmorehouse again. She kept meeting people that had fond memories of the organization. They would ask if I was going to start it back up again. I always dismissed them until one day she asks me, “Why not?”

We were becoming comfortable awful quick. We both knew we would last a long time together. She wondered if my adventures were behind me. They were not. They just came in different formats than that time of my life. I could do southmorehouse again, but I would do it differently. The wisdom of my older mind would handle the organization while my childlike self would handle the stage presence. This could be fun.

“I don’t think you know what you are asking.” Of course she claimed she did. She didn’t. Nobody could who had not been there in the early days. She had an idea from the stories I told her, but she couldn’t know.

“I would need a partner.”

“I’ll be your partner.”

“Are you sure?”

This is like opening Pandora’s box. No matter how prepared you think you are, you aren’t. It will show you things about others and yourself. It will be fun. And it will be hard to close the longer it stays open.

She quit after the first big show.

Enough time passed to ease her into the next. She came back.

The Scylla’s Blanket

Posted in adventure, books, fantasy, fiction, life, love, passage, poetry, relationships, story, travel, writing with tags , , , , , , on March 1, 2012 by tymora42

What a delightful day for a picnic!
The waves of Charbydis lapped against the beach
Helios had not yet set upon the Cliffside
And the song of Sirens played softly over the dune
Scylla laid in wait upon her blanket in the sand
for sailors, the most scrumptious of company,
To pass by her snare
She will reel them in like a fisherman
Entice them into her cavern with her sway
Posing all twelve of her long tall legs for the show and
Nibbling on appetizers of caviar and starfish

Fleets edge up to Beauty’s blanket
But only six men will be served
They would be wined and dined upon
A pound of meat; A bottle of red
“Oh, yes, dears, there is plenty enough to go around
Would you like some more?
You sure are a group of big strong lads.”
The conversation goes on like this
With the choral serenade still lingering in the distance
The calming waves churning along the shore
And Helios preparing for bed
Scylla smiles with all of her teeth
Then she cries
She wines like a babe about ceaseless desire
Here, they cry for her
She brings them close to her lips
They enter her and are consumed by her ways

The feast is done
The lambs were harvested on a bed of kelp
The ox were well seasoned with salt and brine
Beef and poultry and pig and man
All were taken down her gullet
With nary a crumb left for the ants
The men lay strewn about the den
From the ravenous ferocity of their hunger
In spent puddles along her floor
A little of them here
A little there
“Seconds?”
Gracious Host has the nerve to ask
“Dessert?”

“No, thank thee, m’lady.
But we must be on our way.”

Houston VIP Poetry Slam – First in the Season

Posted in bar, houston, poetry, review, southmorehouse, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 4, 2012 by tymora42

It was good to see some of the old guard keeping watch over the up and coming Houston Poetry Slam talent. This was their first slam of the season to prepare for sending a team off to North Carolina. It was a great show, but that is hardly what I want to talk about. I might be a little rusty on appreciating the quality of the poetry involved, yet my good natured heckling skills were alive and well toned. You have to keep yourself in shape.

The venue was a low key coffee house on the east end called Secret Word Cafe. The same place Marcel Murphy, Houston Slam Team alumni, runs a writing workshop every Saturdays at 11am. The barrista / owner (i don’t even want to try and spell her name without seeing it) made a special tea for me and named it after the African name Jelani Williams gave me before he died off continent retracing his roots for the umpteenth time. Can it really be retracing if you have already done it, embraced it and started to live it?

The event was live and I am looking forward to future showcases – every Friday at Secret Word. They have a lot to work on before the Nationals in August. Some great poets spat in our face about greater issues than teen angst, politics, sexuality, color and growing up. The winner, DEEP, hit us with a first person piece about a mother sticking her babies in a dryer or an oven or a microwave. i was never sure which and it could have very well been all three. They were nearly going to forego the encore. i could not let that happen.

Marcel performed a sacrificial piece. It was not his best. It was not his worst either though. My only disappointment (aside from not seeing some of the old school greats: Karega, Rassul, Murph, Marie Brown, Craig Lindsey, Cedric “Brother Ced,” Alex Wukman, Doug Shields…. this list could go on for a while) is that Kyle Blue never stepped out onto the matt. His girl did. She rocked a piece about an aspberger kid wanting to be treated like an adult. My favorite was Peter “the Rock.” Although he did not win that night, I am positive he will be a member of the Houston Slam Team.

Come out and support them. Secret Word Cafe every Friday. Doors open at 8pm.

Go F Yourself – another Hash post

Posted in adventure, beer, blog, houston, rant, relationships with tags , , , , , , , , on January 30, 2012 by tymora42

Tonight I got to tell more deserving people to go fuck themselves. Yes, this is another Hash post.

We ran trail, a shiggy 5 miles through south Humble’s development. Only part of it was green belt sidewalk. The rest was marsh and twigs, my kind of terrain. Being a swamp born coonass those second wave marathon runners slowed me down through the brush. The first wave was long gone. The second could take me In a clear straightaway. This, however, was home. I ducked and weaves like willy the wabbit, bowing my sunglasses down when eye pokers threatened, letting my arms grow numb from the brambles and stickers, hopping over the wet bits by staying close to the trees and hobbling over downed logs. When there were not logs I made them with swift kicks to trees. I was determined to keep my feet dry. That was dad’s first rule of backcountry hiking: Always keep your shoes dry. Never get wet unless you have to.

Despite the three or four river crossings, I managed to have dry socks when I rolled into circle. Yes, I bragged. Yes, I knew I would have to drink for it. Yes, I threw a sock in the two faces of my accusers. Yes, they made me do a tea bag down down. This is where they laid me on the ground and poured beer through my sock and into my mouth. I knew it was coming so I saved my beer for it. With the two kegs sponsored by Karbach brewery floated in under an hour I knew the only alternative was pickle juice.

The walkers got lost. A game warden wrote a citation. A Galvez hasher exposed our identity. A crazy girl ran with pickles. Am I missing anything?

They spanked a twenty one year old birthday girl at the on after. Barbeque sauce was shuffleboarded down the row with a high score of 1 for team BBQ.

Someplace around there I started talking shit. Nah, the shit talking had begun long ago for me. Tonight I just kept them rolling. Some old guy I have met at every function played the not remembering me game. Guess what? You can go fuck yourself you old English prick. He was only interested in my persona because I got to spank the hot birthday girl and he didn’t. There were a few others. They got theirs. Most of those that got it last time either remembered or avoided which suited me just fine. Thats one way to remember someone. The hash casher girl asked me again who I was, which can be a bit upsetting because she actually has to write my name down to record runs or whatever. You remember 30 percent of what you write.

Chuggers asked about my broken legged friend. G did not. He probably has Alzheimer’s anyway. I respected my elders and told him, “Not that you remember but…” Blah. I also drank in circle for a titty twist and comment about someone’s dead grandma. Life is good. The trail was great. The on after had awesome food by an unappreciated Assgrabber. I jerked off and went to sleep.

Go fuck yourself.

Pondering My Workd

Posted in bar, beer, blog, houston, life, rant, relationships on January 21, 2012 by tymora42

I lay here half drunk, the designated driver just got homemkimdamhalfmdrunk, drinking a beer in bed, beautiful woman passed out next to me, the its my birthday I can drink if I want to kinda drunk, and the whole world beckoned me to ponder it. So I did. Never do that. Or do it often. One of the two. Tonight we talked about limbs and conservationists and museum and art and running as oopposed to biking. Then the random shit started with people that claimed to throw up blood when faced with extreme emotion, a girl on a date with a cat psychic (like he knows,you have cats but doesn’t know the names variety), monkeys who won’t climb trees no matter how vast their dungeon, someone whose name may or not be James but prefers now to be called Jizz Hands for mysterious reasons and other of the like. I’ll have to tell her she snores in the am. Not every night. On her pre birthday birthday? Yes!

Here I am pondering the world – mostly harmless. Wikipedia shut down for a day. You could still get into a back door. I never saw it. I turned off the Internet. I typed “google” into Google and it broke. Instead I went door to door selling stock in myself. A couple of takers. They called me today to set up appointments.

One of the most ponder able moments was the dialogue about the Beatles lyric, “Oh, that magic feeling. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go.” Each of us had a time when it applied. It always fit. Some were right outta college. Some were en media res. Each was a journey the other could never know. Nowhere to go. Magic!

We cursed people with cuss words in good fun. I would curse without cussing some other people in less fun later. Whatever. They are just jocks. They angered and frustrated me because I thought they did not like me, when, as it turns out, after I pissed all over the bed about it I realized that it was probably more that I did not really like them. We had no relation. They talked about running and beer and marathons and racing and winning shit like a Bostonian talking about baseball or a Boulderite and their diet. One dimensionals bother me. I want to know what they thought about politics or technology or the last movie they saw or a TV show they watch or even (gods forbid) how they feel about their job. I want a connection with people beyond the immediate easy road. If we met on the plane we can get the small talk stuff out of the way – this is a really big plane, do you fly often, is that your final destination, are you from there, where were you originally coming from, business or pleasure. Done. Now we can get into the really interesting stuff. I have had more connection with people on a city bus.

And my ponderance gives way to sleep as the final thoughts of teacher versus student accountability, Perry dropping out, whether “Food Stamp President” is truly racist or not, and the million stupid puns I can make about one eyed one horned flying SOPA / PIPA eaters.

Stay-At-Home Wife

Posted in blog, family, life, love, relationships with tags , , , , , , , on January 14, 2012 by tymora42

Here is a quick story. I will remain as unbiased as I can (try to that is) in the telling of it because the important part (for me) is your reaction to the characters involved. When you are done reading, please give a brief (or lengthy if it moves you) comment telling me what you thought about them. After enough comments I will offer my own response. Thanks. Here it goes:

          A man and a woman are dating. The woman tells the man she would like to be a stay-at-home wife until she becomes a stay-at-home mom. She makes it a condition for marriage. He agrees. They marry.

They both have jobs. He makes “alright” money. She makes a decent salary also. Together they are doing well. She loses her job. She tells him it is time to fulfill her marriage condition. She would like to be the stay-at-home wife now.

He tells her they cannot afford it yet. His salary alone will leave a married couple in meager circumstances. She tells him plainly that if he cannot provide for her, then she will leave him. He cannot. She divorces him.

What do you think?