The Long Love Letters to ODSeeus

2/9/01

Dear Roger bare with me on this:

Blacky once said, "An honest man shows all of his labor"

The following is a letter by a film maker named T. E Vee

"I was writing a book about a mathematic teacher that Toc and I were once very close to. I had written Toc, and others, questions about Mr.Barlow our teacher (and nigh-father) who Toc named PapaWolf. Toc immediatly insulted my writing as utilitarian, as having no personality. He said I wrote like "an enthusiastic bureaucrat". And so in anger I called his works "wacked-out English Twat", and a lot of "alcohol-sodden cantankerous spewing" (Though I learned later that he kept his drunken-wheelies down to once a week, if even that much).
He asked me if I wanted to tame Blacky, (one our names for Mr.Barlow). "Did I need to tame him with well-lit words behind glass? Did I want to make him noble, a secret friend to all kids, rough and chewed to look at but soft blurred with love beneath? Afine piece of fifth-business," he said.
And added, "You can fuck that in triplicates."
Then he asked me an odd question. He said, "When was the last time you were tested?"
I should have recognized he was talking in Blacky's own terms but I said, "Tested… testing what, my sense of humor?"
His next words told me he has given up, that he would no longer swim up the down water for me. And from then on his answers became clipped with a very dry smile. Now I was really mad. I stomped of a note yelling, "don't waist my time if your not gonna tell-me!"

It was a few days later when he answered by letter. "I apologize," he said, "after my initial …insult, which was just to test your feeling for language because there was no sense of you in your first words, I thought you would write back with a sharpened wit worthy of Blacky's chosen, the rest of my comments were very light weight dry-mock, only meant to be brotherly irony. I made the eager, and now I suppose, wrong assumption that you were one of Black's kids, one of his chosen. (My love tells me I have just traded up my insult for one with sharper teeth). I suppose beneath it all I felt; What right does he have to display Blacky to the world? I suppose this means I am still curious if you are one of his, despite your flailings? Why else write of him, except that you were his?

For me to talk about Blacky would be under the influence of bicameral sight. (That is a bit of a pun now; the word bicameral not only means the obvious; two-chambered view, but also in recent years has become associated with a pre-Homeric mind from a time when every Thing had its own Heart and could speak, even an image). Now, if I say that, I know from your past reaction you will think such a comment is wacked-out (and somehow English?) because it consciously reads multiple layers of meaning to each word, (words having Heart), and you obviously don't think that way, I apologize. Such an old-world view might feel wrong to your perceptual construct of the world, and that wasn't my intention. But Blacky is, more than anyone I've met, a creature possessed of a genius capable of completely fluid meaning with a phenomenological humility. Humility invisible in daylight. He was an Observer whose achieved mindscape, and grasp of the moment, made his repetitive acts as a teacher into a parody of his Very-Self. An actor perfecting for a life time his chosen roll. And His art was his complete presence of attention for his chosen kids. Us few. He said, (once when I tried to convince him to come live in the woods of B.C.), that his work was to stay and recognize his kind, to quicken their direction, their "grok of their Self."

Blacky set up a pattern in me that took me a good twenty years more just to own as an ongoing dialogue. He told me that I would achieve greatness one day, and that he would live to see it.

So… He lives!

Your language of images, had no feeling for the secretive hunter, the civil-wolf, that is Blacky, and so it is hard to imagine that those who knew him, in the quiet disguise as old Mentor, would consider handing over his private life so blithely to a stranger without some recognition of you, a small test. And please… you are your images, so don't stand on illusory laurels. I am supposing that what you will end up with are the stories of those who never knew his worth to their soul. And there's another wacked-out English word, soul.
Did you know that you are writing The Razors Edge? A wonderful task you have set for your Self, one worthy of Blacky's own, and a story worth refreshing. But you will miss the subtlest stories of him, and their echoes in the-now, if you can not douse your anger with patient wit next time one of his-own lifts their dark head above water to test the cupping of your …soul."

P.S. Have you ever asked Mr.____ what objects were found in Blacky's room after his death?

2/10/01
Just to top off the last writing, the following letter from page 25 of my yet unpublished V1 No1 Thank and Love Letters From Joey Fool, a letter to Blacky.

Dear Blacky…

This letter has paced inside me for years, always wary.
and the future presence of these words called on me
with an amazed impatience like the fluttering cry of a broken word
or like the urgent whispers of the air
about the guarded ear of a lone apostle.
What of all those painfully bright years
served in the school under the shadow of your brow.
We threw our bodies out over ideas too watery to hold,
splashing about, and yet … we spoke in turns.
We were just hollowing out a place in the ever sleep,
huddled shapes like good dog in the dark.
And in that drift of sleep, I was sounding for you, PapaWolf.
You were for me a huge blue-black silhouette
standing before a bright hand curled as if to sign 'fear-not.'
I slept a dream on your cooling shadow
and you asked for what I needed to say. Thanks for that.
While under your waters I was a field of tall grass
touched by a hundred separate swelling currents.
and always after I could never remember what you had said.
Your eyes clearly above every utterance.
Your hands trembling like a broken deer watching his life run on
through the tall black trees growing distant.
And now, in that distance, I hold your coat,
bred from an age rarefied by winter,
alert with hunger, that blood black coat, your pelt,
sweated down by a lone secret life in the sweet city of the hunt,
that coat … is my coat.
And is it precise to say, 'I love you?'
how shamefully easy wildness turns pretty,
one moment leaping up singing like a perfect wound
and the next as sated as a dark muscle of snake
humming his long belly through hot shallows.
And now you have died, forever,
and I wear your shrugged pelt … poorly.
I am poorly, I am. I am not the wolf that I am, my PapaWolf.
I just miss you.

9/11/01
Brother … we were chatting with Sparky in my Roombox looking at his comic. Dragonlenny called and then we were watching it happen.

Distracted with my heart broken. I finally said to Comrade-X, who is always talking of a place called Lower Utopia, I said, "What is Lower Utopia?"

So he told me, it was THIS, what we're living. He said, "Here we are just below Utopia, never quite there, but if you feel and listen carefully we are very close. And yes… it is more-so for some than other, but I did not say it was fair, nature is not fair, fair is lucky, but luck …is never enough.
What is fair is the juice of your desires, and your tenacious individuality, that is America. Americans don't need a higher authority to hold their spirit, (God is a perk), because America …Works …like love. Love is the very beginning of freedom and America is the closes thing to organized love that has yet unfolded. Utopia is so close that you can see it …in love. And it is a thing that you can never return from. Once you have tasted this manna you are…US.
So of-course spiritual fascist hate US, we are Water to all thirsty Hearts, because everyone wants to live in Lower Utopia… everywhere. We are a Saucy people, we love, we weep, and we joke when terrible things happen. We weep because we are not afraid to feel it, we joke because the spirit is so full… it perks even in the worst.
So to those who hate …go back to your book, look beneath it, there is only Nowhere where love is not."

10/5/01
Dear Roger

What a disguise I've put on just to have my say. Ha. True? I think my comics are for readers ten to twenty years from now, and my comics will be there waiting for them

We can never talk about transcendent experience in a common language because that is the language we live in, and its terms are the definition of the mutual reality, and therefore must fail to hold the experience that transcends reality. So a new image of language must be adapted, until it also becomes common. And we refine towards a more and more desirable view of our transcendent humanity. This is Hivel awareness.

10/25/01
Hi Roger

I just got this from Hal's Set-designer, Steve _______ who is a
wonderfully funny articulate human. A great person to have on this planet. It
might be sappy to send this too you but you deserve this praise as well for
initiating this work, and here is an independent source reaffirming the
sublime character that you recognize waiting in the work.
This is a good omen

Your pal
Toc

I saw your show yesterday. I went right in the middle of my day of wandering
around lower NYC. I was already (and have been for the past 2 weeks) in
this kind of dream-like funk, unable to process everything that's been
happening. There is an intangible sense of heightened reality (surreallity) that has made it difficult to focus or see things as they once were (seemed).
Entering the gallery, I was expecting to see larger versions of your work which I
have seen before. What I saw was like nothing I could have anticipated. Mixed
with my already unstable emotions and confusion, looking at your drawings was truly a profound experience for me. It was the early afternoon, I was
alone in the gallery, and I allowed myself to become absorbed by your images.
The undulating foliage on the trees and grass, the way you can draw wind and
the warmth of the sun and the cold of darkness, the strange text all enabled
me to be involved in what I felt was the heart and soul of the work. I am feeling numb and simultaneously I may be more keenly aware of the varying layers of my psyche- I am feeling particularly absorbed in my own thoughts and self-preservation and also experiencing selflessness and a need to not dwell on my own concerns. I feel powerless to control my environment and somehow more in touch with the inevitable flow of life and more willing to give in to a faith that nature will provide. I don't know what's going on, Joe, but I am glad to have taken the time to see your work. It gave me a moment to re-focus and think about higher things. You are amazing.

Thanks,
Steve

11/30/01
Yo Roger! This is some funny shit I've written, we "Maximalist of the Digital Reality!" A complete fantasy I've built for you, but I love it … and …I believe it! But I'm stuck where to go from here? I know there are some giant things I've left out. What? Maybe I've missed the mark all together. I should probably incubate this for a while before sending it to you but … impulsive I am!

Toc Fetch has been making art all of his life, in the beginning of the nineties Toc Fetch spent a year near death on an island, which change his life and art for good. Afterwards, he finally returned home to NY where he has been presenting his work at the _____ since.
Roger Ricco first saw a nine-panel story page by Toc in a gallery in Woodstock NY and decided to present Toc's work in his gallery in New York City.
Roger Ricco has been making art all of his life, in the early sevenities a women of vision and means, recognized Rogers critical insights as a positive direction for art, and backed him in beginning a gallery in The City. The gallery became renown for its presentation of "Outsider Art" (the works of people outside the traditions of art). Roger never stopped making art but since he was in such a position of authority his own sense of honor wouldn't allow him to present his own work so he continued quietly. Roger and Toc became friends, and as it goes, eventually Roger showed Toc his work, which …jumps to this proposal.

The Alchemical Use of Technology.
A Dialogue of Elements
The World as a Conversation
Things of Waiting and Watching

The subconscious is what is conscious. We are, when we are conscious, mostly un-conscious or sub-conscious. If consciousness is a pitcher suspended in the deep of the ocean, to then title the ocean as a subset of the pitcher … is parody. Our small island of awareness is much more of a sub-conscious realm within our Self then our Self is within us. The subconscious (better called the Heart) is a perceptive function of our awareness that misses nothing, recording every layer of perception and then feeding the needed parts back to us by way of dreams, desires, and …visions, essentially creating our life as a dialogue. Though the dialogue is mostly a one-way conversation, there are ways to influence the "Heart", but its predilections are mostly preset from the perceptually rich experiences of childhood. Art is the closes approximation to that language of the Heart, and the "Metaphor" gathers and speaks the most imagery in the least effort. The Hearts conversation moves like water, the path of least resistance …down. If you will talk to the Heart, (which is talking for the Heart), you will speak the-most-in-the-least and be willing to travel down. Down where things are so carefully lit and praise is the only sustenance.

Roger Ricco's images come from down "there", small forgotten voices, delicate and personified Things of waiting and watching, as if his work were saying to him, "Worship this and more will be given you."

Toc Fetch's pages of story are an allegory of the border country between Observations in daylight and the personified shadows and voices of a Heart. And again the echo; "Worship, and more will be given you."

Both of their works speak a figurative poetry best described in the tradition of Lorca and Neruda, that harkens back in praise of the simplest elements; objects with consciousness. The dialogue in a leaf, a scrap of raw Self steeped in soft electricity, the lovely delicate feeling of goodbye in decay, the world as a conversation.
Though the material presentations of their works are at first hand different their language has arrived at the same place. It is the seeming difference between their works that make the combined show so exciting that they are talking the same language in such different ways is most definitely worth seeing.
Both Roger and Toc are admittedly obsessed with the possibilities of digital technologies helping them to map, with speed, the more and more subtle realizations of psychological growth in their work. Obsessively devoted to the storytelling nature of art, and the power of beauty as stated through the careful directions of the human hand, they both use digital technology as an extension of their reach into their own Grand Circus Psyche, their Heart, (the country of art).

12/10/01
From: Shakespeare in Love:

RP: "Mr.Fennyman allow me to explain about the theater business; the natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to eminent disaster."

Mr.F: "So what do we do?"

RP: "Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well."

Mr.F: "How?"

RP: "I…don't know…it's a…mystery."

Roger (as per our conversation), this is a funny definition of the impossible experience of attempting art, but so true.

2/13/02
Dear pal

I have also come across this; no one understands the father thing but an-other father who has cut his blood in half seeing his own heart refreshed in the eye of his son's innocence. Part of what is so amazing about being a father is that full-blown instinctual love that can survive any amount of observation, even under the most clinical self-observation the feeling can not be deflected, it is a truly animal connection, like a perfect wound or an erection in samadhi. And yet …Life holds your son as hostage to judge your moral-relativism. So we pay for love … dues in the Heart. We pay for life with death and for love with suffering. Pope Joey says, "There would be no heaven if not for this hell."

(Bly translation) Rilke said:

Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.

And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead.

And another man, who remains inside his own house,
stays there, inside the dishes and in the glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward that same church, which he forgot.

Roger, I cannot tell you how good your words are. I have sometimes felt like a LeCarre spy wrapped in silent anxiety wondering if all this info I've managed to steal from my secretive branch of the Psyche will make it out before my cover is blown and I'm taken out. You are my contact, my link to an ideal and friendly politic. I feel thanks to you for believing that my intelligence is good, and I swear again by my life that it is, and I know that your instincts as a handler must agree.
Thanks.
So I am there, when-ever where-ever, by your word.
Here were 3 bad medicine paragraphs, about my mother and father, which I have taken back. Good-boy!
And you said, "I saw his love for you and did not quite understand your distance from him." And I say, "It's not him, the distance was her." (But now …those images are only bad habits). They, my parents, are just human of a time gone. And here we are now. True?

4/12/02
Dear pal

I wanted to make sure you knew that the image I sent you was a collage combination of photo and drawing, the real drawing will have a look of uninterrupted awareness unlike the mock-up. But the drawing is barely begun; Tree and I are working 16 hour days for Genny-op on a foursome of huge hodge-podge roman baroque flummeries for some restaurant in ______. Piss and Poo! Getting high on Turin-time again, but it was "do this" or "don't eat," and I work best on food-fuel. Tree is determined to have a bird piece ready for your perusal; we are working from the same bird who we call "The Boy". The Boy is a sweet fellow who lost his eyes somewhere when he died … they lie somewhere in the woods watch without a voice. He is even perfect dead. Perfectly dead.
We are holding a going-away party for Monstercat tonight he is dieing (of aids) he is a bone-bag growing death in his gut and he has been with us longer then Holybean. I remember once in the middle of the night he dragged himself home after having his face crushed by coyotes, crying out misery in a very human voice, scared the bajeezie out of us, I will never forget that sound and what he said. Biggest most musseled-up cat I've ever know. A cat with a pit-bull chest, a worthy fellow, a lazy saint.
Of course I won't put my words in the drawing; have no fear, you have already got that through my obstinate head. Brother, you don't realize that you are already a member of my House-of-Cardinal, you are here standing beside PapaWolf and Martin and the others, my trusted advisers, who's voice I-Am, so the …You …in me has already stood firm on that point.
We'd love to meet your friend (the film maker). Uncle Ruru is here, he is a wonderfully twisted writer, and was on a reading tour for his new book A Girl Named Jesus. He is one of Tree's old lovers, and you should meet him, delightful and mad-as-a-hatter. His arrival marks the beginning of the long summer party.

Your pal
Toc

6/9/02
Dear pal

(After a page of typical ranting derivations about L. Ify [pronounced iffy] thus deleted [thanks out to Tree], the point was: and the boy says:)

You are my friend. You were my friend from the first time you walked into my Room-box and did exactly what I do… which is to know a person by what they surround their Self with. You read my Room (I saw you) with more attention than you paid to any stuttering conversation that might have clunk out between us. In Lower Utopia everyone makes love to their Self by their environment. "Ye shall know them by their fruit." A persons environment is as obvious as a barometer to read, because the environment is an love affair; if it is cold then the love between that person and their Self is cold, full is full, sterile or Zen, close or distant, exacting or careful, it is a subtle way to knowing where the talk is the walk, and is far more telling then most words.

So returning to my point (with more thanks out to sweet Tree) whatever I do is an attempt to befriend you to my Self …because… I have many friends but only one other man who is a friend to my Self…Arebear. You are from the old country of art. You are that familiar and that is just the way it works. I chose you.
I say all of this because of how quizzical you sometimes look whenever I talk like your friend. You have that "motive-reading" expression that I so often wear myself. Like your eyes are saying, "Why is this real?"
The Answer: It really comes down to this; creative conversation is rare to come by. Creative conversation that is free of Dogmatics, Glommed-facts (heart-of-story over fact …any day ), Standup-prefabs and Deaf-monologies, it is your willing wit (wit is less about humor and more about Delight and the ability for open-ended imagination with judgment held for direction only) it is your willing wit that makes you our friend, Tree and I and Arebear-in-absence.

I wanted to say all this so as to add to your much needed chill factor, to be-you-comfortable, so that you feel that at least there are some familiars who do not want to melt you down for usage, who just like you for your perceptual panorama (your "as is"), your chat. We recognize your as-is and it's us (in Lower Utopia).

Your pals with love
Toc
Tree
Arebear-in-absence.

PS- Don't read the following if you're busy
The Epilogue left out of V6 No1 (Two 10 year old girls sitting on a little flat of sand beside Moon's creek facing each other, leaning in close. The elements of their ritual about them and Daffodil-Eleven studying the pages of Softdoor's Dream-journal, with a quizzical look. And the girl says:)

Daffodil Eleven: "You didn't write this did you?"

Softdoor: "I held the pencil."

Daffodil Eleven: "So who did write it?"

Softdoor: "No-man wrote it."

Daffodil Eleven: "Eeeyeah, I got the joke, but whose words are these?"

Softdoor: "I wrote 'em down."

Daffodil Eleven: "But you don't talk like this."

Softdoor: "Well…I guess the one who talks and the one who listens…are different."

Daffodil Eleven: "Girl, are you nutting on me?"

Softdoor: "Nomodanbefo."

Daffodil Eleven: "So who was Noman anyway?"

Softdoor: "Well… she is no man…she is a Dream…personified - as am I - as are you. Time does not Reason in Dream…so…the old women was just…me."

Daffodil Eleven: "Nooo!"

Softdoor: "Yeah, and there's more. So don't get wiggie, ok? I feel her…here…right here…Now."

Daffodil Eleven: "Whoa! Back-up! So she's like…listening?"

Softdoor: "Yop."

Daffodil Eleven: "So…what, you're like…possessed now, uh?"

Softdoor: "Yeah… But it's like last summer, remember? A week in the woods without a single word, remember my eyes, I remember yours! Remember what we said, that we were not going to speak even to our self. Remember the things we began to see, the ways we walked, it was all so …opened and different. We were hungry majestic animals, and the Woods recognized us. Then, for some reason, neither of us can remember, we wandered out and then over to Ananda Cain's sleepover! What was up with that! It was twilight, and we were pretending to be humans. And remember how, much later, we tried so hard to say what was wrong in that house, that house of too much daylight at night. How everything everyone said had been precisely drained of meaning to make it comfortably empty so that no one needed to listen to each other. Because not one of those kids had been living their own life, so no one had anything to say. Remember they all spoke faster and faster, till they were shrieking like some exhausted sitcom, dubbed over in… gibberish

Daffodil Eleven: "In Jabberwock."

Softdoor: "Yeah! It was Jabberwock! And then they wanted us to join in their reindeer-games, and not one of them even noticed that we couldn't speak. So we slipped out that window onto the roof, back into the night, and listened the owls hunt. We were possessed by the Woods and it was Good. We saw everything with that beautiful difference.
We were possessed by Life…with love."

Daffodil Eleven: "Eeew! Stop! You're harming my liver! Just stop talkin that way. You are just too fucking serious to eat cereal anymore."

Softdoor: (feigning shock) "Language! Ladies language!"

Daffodil Eleven: "Sheee-it! Oh I do so beg your pardon. Come-on…we need to get some cartoons in you."

8/10/02
Roger. Some soup?

Tonight (8/2/02) I went to a party with the kids. I played for hours with these clear fresh watery Hearts getting wide and happy with them, laughing like dogs play. Then at one point young Scout mentioned the term "bitch-slapping" (an ugly thing that crawled out of her mouth, an MTV term) and must have looked at her askew so she asked if I need to be bitch-slapped and I surprised her and said sure …if she really wanted to. She slapped me very hard, and so I said go-ahead do it again if you need to, so she slapped me again and I repeated myself and she hit me again, and stroke after strokes maybe fifteen-twenty time, the pain was strong I could feel my cheek swelling, she was throwing all of herself into it, the pain was intense. It broke my heart that she had no limit, no compassion, no sense of empathy for the pain she was causing. I took her slaps until it finally … scared her. During her third to last slaps I said to her, "Am I your father, that you could do this?" I walked away feeling half destroyed, I walked home feeling mortal and broken and thick with tears. Walking I thought about my day. Depressing.
Today (8/6/02) Scout came up to me and apologized. I said, "Welcome back."
(It is love that re-members innocence, says PapaWolf)
Today (8/10/02) Scout's pop OD'ed on smack, died today. She and her brother have lost their last chance to love him while in the world. And now…maybe she will really become that writer she claims for her future, how else will she build a shrine big enough for her father.

It is our part to live in hell so that we can so carefully delineate… it …from heaven. Isn't this a definition of our work? Agnes Martin said that the pain and sadness that we experience is the next state of truth struggling to come forward, (the subconscious is [painfully] reconstructing you), and her advise is that you should accept your helplessness and hold-on, because this is the real work.
The real question is (though grossly put): is .01% heaven worth 99.99% hell.
Answer: ah…ok yeah. (I mean) The-fuck-yeah!

10/19/02
Brother
Well according to the world we are not coming to the opening tonight.
How is it that females can get away with being females? How is it possible? One moment they are us and the next the floor is gone. I suppose I will never wrap my mind around this thing; female, I am continually hit with the realization that though they look vaguely like us they are flying at a million miles a moment perpendicular to where ever I stand. They force us to be hard (pun intended) cold soldiers of principle when all we really want to do is worship, and receive gracious pettings; good baddogs that we are.
So… if you are not numb then the world is painful. Fact… it's just a fact. If you are numb then the world just goes on passing by bring you closer to your death, the final nothing. An honest man who chooses to be numb also must say, "Why wait?"
If you are not numb then you are smothered by feeling, that feeling of the great unhappy weight of the world (weltanschauung). The inhuman scale of that sorrow presses a chill into your blood that slows your ability to move (and movement=living). That cold weight has (in its indirect ways) crippled the hearts of so many we love. And everyone has their limp. Sadness is the cost of our human awareness.
We are helpless witnesses (the-Fool) to our very own nature. And at the same time we are driven… not …to be helpless. As a culture we live out a satire in which we worship the complete and bland ignorance of youth in fear of our own mortality of which the young are to shallow to grok…yet! We vote for this with dollars. No one is exempt, no place on earth, everyone everywhere votes with their dollars. America only offers MTV and McDonalds but the world votes with their dollars for youth and speed. It is a desperate place where awareness …is rude. Of course the old world religions wants to kill us to kill the American way, we are everyone's human nature brought to the surface and allowed to rule. The old world views humanity as innately evil and we as Americans say, "I don't believe, let's see." There is a wonderfully positive note in that stand; it's all-or-nothing, now-or-never. America is Percival-the-fool who no matter how fucked-up he does a thing … it ends up working.
Grossly simple thinking with a thousand loose threads but the positive note is the point. We are positive creatures, foolish like good-baddogs, to whom awareness is its own quiet reward.

10/28/03

This continued from our conversation on Saturday I don't need to mention the pieces of yours I don't care about because you have a consistent series of images about light as a sentient animal that returns my stare. It looks back at me. That light is very definitely your own Heart acting, and speaking independently, it is watching you, dreaming you, and inspires you to look for it, and it is You. It is You that fills all the back holes of your perception with those virtual photon of anticipation, it is that light that remembers intelligently everything that you have forgotten. It is telling a story about its Self talking to you, cracking open the door to admittance, saying, "Hello friend, would you like to feel something really beautiful?"

We just organize or orchestrate observation by the Heart into some skilled form, formally. The pieces I don't mention are Other conversation, Other persona's desiring to be known, they are all legit but some feel like the sound of a million ton submarines passing close inside under the dark.

Marc's work is not about Direct-Observation (which was the critiquing that Rachael and I and Tricia shared about his images and that is because Di-Ob is our pet and has built our ethics). Marc's work is about a certain sense of metaphor, awe under the influence of humor, a kind of cheeky admiration for his own realizations. A fit sensibility for comics, if only he would.

That was what was so wonderful about Rachael's film that it was so utterly the voice of a Heart and not just human. I know that sounds so tired, the way the word Heart is used to wipe up so many little spills now. And I know her film was an exorcism of a cruel Daimon that can never leave her, but all-in-all in the end it felt like Buddha. She used that Daimon to Be, (if for only as long as it lasts for her and audience; because time is irrelevant to "forever"). To Be: a feeling of living beyond, marked by the high lone dignity of scars. Scars disguised as a face. Who would be able? Who would want to be Able? Cain was marked by God personally, that is far fucking more attention than he gave to most of the very few that he gave any attention to. (A metaphor). Cain was made a Wolf, by God to be seen in his face. A Wolf's niche is huge; the ground owned by its Heart encompasses herds (the zinging high-protein of hot blood), forest, mountains, and all the familiars there in. Hi-ho!

Toc