27 December 2008

Dreams of Eurydice

I dreamed last night of you in a crowd
walking with a rose, the pink one I bought you, pulling
away its petals letting them fall to the ground.
You were looking for me, you were with someone else.
I was gone.

I had another dream of an eerie street of brownstones
dark except for the sole decayed light bleeding orange
leading to a basement structured in steel painted in dripping black
a Man inside, sitting at an empty wooden table
in there alone, brooding with a crimson face
He turned
and His eyes shot through me as if to say
she is gone and there is nothing.
A car on the street pulled up to the curb, a brown rusted Cadillac
and the window rolled down smoke pluming out and I couldn't see in.
Eurydice, the wind whispered, and the car took off.

Through a fence with barbed wire I watched lightning strike
the ocean, a flash of a wave being surfed by a man under gunpoint.
In a wet jungle, lightning shone on the path as I searched for you
stealthily maneuvering around guerillas, winding trunks and 
slapping leaves to sinking mud and walls of trenches.  
Crawling through this never 
ending maze I cried out to the wind, rain 
pouring into my mouth.  
The wind didn't answer.
The rain stopped 
and not another bolt of light.  

Then, I woke up.  

26 December 2008


Strong first encounter
A planted kiss with beer on his breath
Vodka on hers
Leading the way hand holding down the pier promenade on a t-shirt warm night
The ocean a lake of radio silence letting them tune in to one another
Who pays for what
One night stand bluffs did you did I
On the brick wall he leaned against her at closing time, the crowds 
crookedly walking watching their beginnings through a film of yellow 
poisoning but not, just
They didn't fuck that night.

A whirlwind of in between
Youth and adult love that we're told
Where past lovers are forgotten
And friendship becomes the basis before sex.

Instead, they shake each other and pop the corks exploding 
Out, and up the rickety elevator as high as they can
Hoping for the penthouse
Not the roof where all they can do is look down,
A dread remembrance of their ride.

They should have taken the stairs. 

11 September 2008

A Change of Season

Before, at the end of Spring
There was an open sky
Limitless and forever
The days would end in a brilliant blaze
A bright smile before
The tender breeze of night.
In waking, the day rose in a soft yellow
Everything full of green vigor.  
A brush of sweet air would wrap around me,
Your voice.  
There was feeling then.

Now, the coldness begins to reach my bones.
The ocean slaps angrily against itself.
The wind torments loose leaves and then ceases–-
Once they fall.
There is no pleasure to your giving.
A routine like the appearance of a forgotten sun
Lifted and dying, blocked by an irrational gray haze.
Only a noise now, a mechanical drone
The huff and rupture from a monotony of cars
Taking the same routes, hoping for the earth to crack.
A pencil scratching against a calendar.
Fill in.  

I look out at the sea slush, the white peaks
Waiting for stillness.
The seasons have changed
I accept
And I know as a whip of wind smacks down against me
The season will change again.
But as I grow resilient to your cold,
I wonder if I will feel the same.  

13 August 2008


My youth was cardinals
red as Renoir kerchiefs afloat on the snow
sea of home. I moved to be the red-winged
blackbird, flashing in flight like Reno
through Tahoe, the lake night a pigeon neck
purple-grey. Adolescence landed light like cockatiel
screech, so I made myself thousand-mile Pacific.
I still write towards toucans’ beaks like peaches,
today I’m the ocean pant, looking up
never as still silver as the pendant, its oneline gull.

28 July 2008


White petals falling from trees, showering knees grassed green in the playground.  Nicholas, reflecting on his childhood, his knees, never recalling a time where they were made wet or stained by fresh grass.  He remembers his feet though, tightly tied in hard shoes that clattered against hard cement, books in hand, uniform tucked in and buttoned tight.  
He came here for Rebecca, Matthew's Mother.
He looks at the children, and can hardly relate to young Matthew.  It's Matthew's birthday today, his fourth, and Nicholas showed up with a present, a toy truck.  He wrapped it carefully at the toy store after he made the purchase.  A man in a suit waited behind him as he taped the red wrapping paper around the box.  Nicholas speculated that this man was a father buying a gift for his son after a days work.  Maybe it was his son's birthday.
Strange, disembarking from the metro onto the gray concrete of the suburb outside of Helsinki, where he used to live with his Mother.  Bad memories of gray days made ominous by their repetitiveness, not a clear sun for months on end.  His Mother was a beautiful woman made ugly by her own addictions.  Birds don't sing on this street.  Nicholas sees the balcony of his Mother's apartment, the open door.  He tucks his head down and embraces the shadow made by the lid of his black cap.  Birds don't sing on this street, only alcoholics.
One of Matthew's friends has a tantrum.  The mother slaps the child on the hand, an echo in the courtyard.  Nicholas doesn't flinch.
Nicholas sits with Rebecca, both in foldout chairs.  She waits for Matthew's Father to arrive.  Nicholas can relate to Matthew on this point alone.  A father appearing and disappearing, as if in a recurring dream.  Sometimes a nightmare, other times just a dream.  
Matthew has already unwrapped the presents and has made everyone aware of his favorites by holding the boxes of the gifts liked best the longest.  Nicholas' toy truck was one of those gifts.  The educational toys were collected in one location against a rock.  These toys faced the rock, as if the toys themselves felt underappreciated and decided to shun the crowd.  
Matthew's Father arrives at the end of the party, when most have already gone.  Nicholas watches Matthew's Father lift up Matthew.  He showed up in workout gear; a gray hooded sweatshirt and gray jogging pants.  He looks strong and forceful but has a calm disposition that reminds Nicholas of his own Father, and the truth behind the mask of calmness.  
Matthew's Father towers over Rebecca.  Her blank face and her attempt at unfeeling eyes are also a mask.  She stills loves him.  Nicholas wonders if he had ever hoped for his own Mother and Father to be together again when he was younger.  
Fallen white petals fill the chip bowls, the soup bowls, the red cups with drinks unfinished.  Nicholas helps Rebecca carrying all the containers back to her apartment kitchen, up three flights of stairs.  During each trip up to the apartment, he has to turn the hallway light back on.  The light is on a timer.  He says goodbye to her in the hallway.  They look at each other, and the light goes off again.  In the dark, she tells Nicholas to wait for a minute.  She's going to tuck Matthew in for bed.  
Nicholas waits outside among the white petals and the growing dusk.  He waits but she never shows.  She might be asleep with her son, he decides.  He remembers how she fell asleep so easily that one night after they made love.  The only time they made love.  He couldn't fall asleep that night.  He listened for cars in the desolate streets outside his apartment.  He listened for rain and wind.  He heard nothing.
He walks back to the metro and on his way to the station, he looks up one last time at his Mother's balcony.  Her balcony door is still open, the drapes flowing inwards by a soft breeze.  He doesn't want to see her tonight.  
He waits for a couple minutes at the metro station and boards a train back to Helsinki.  He feels a sense of relief as his seat begins to jitter and the train lunges forward.  

25 July 2008


sometimes i make the light shake
the ambient fixture flickering
sometimes i make the light shake
outdoors corner of everyone's eye
they know behind is my lightning
even a sun day they know.
my old robot truck is ruststruck
and mine with lightning.
i go out in cloudbreak
warm in lobo fur and first love
where raspberry canes scrape
under my youngagain transmission
mustard colored body named romance
the lightning bed of it forever
a rumbling nerve. lay down.

21 May 2008

101 near King City

On the 101 heading north eighteen miles from King City
another splatter of bug cements on the windshield.
Easing along the low incline two lane highway
hunched hills on the left with grassed hair blown ochre by the high sun.
She sits next to me, her summer dress mint green and patterned arabesque sinks away as we rise on the road towards the sky blasted cerulean.
I switch the AC dial off and with the same hand warm her left thigh.
We turn away from what lies ahead and her eyes luminesce like two pools of rich gold brown, the warm midday light falling on her face.  

I stare through the mosaic of mosquito spread and can't sight the horizon.
The sun has begun its descent and I watch a black bird sweep down and away.
I turn to her one last time and wait until her smile begins to fade before I face the road and prepare with the land from the fleeing sky.  

17 May 2008

Summer Day, Greenlake

I leave with the sun in the same place
On the horizon of my mini-blinds

I walk north, no time for the rose garden
only the briefest moment with the animal smells

I rush the water.
I keep the lake at my left shoulder
and watch the sun and then the moon

I watch women burn down the path
and call me a misogynist but I still
think they look best in pink or white tank tops

But it’s surprising hard to draft after
a particularly nice ass so I drop back—
I walk pretty fast though

Walk, see people pass, leaving my headphones on high
Don’t want to hear any sirens
The pop is Swedish
I’m dancing I’m invisible

I cross the Scots tennis team once, then again—
at the center of the phalanx a girl’s mouth makes
the shape of “Then she said—”

A golden retriever getting hit in the head with a plastic bag
of its own shit every second step

I’m not yet the guy with grey armpit hair
staring down the women keeping a hula hoop
afloat on her waist while walking

I’m not yet the man rollerblading with the aid
of modified ski poles

The backstretch of the lake is getting dark
my sweat cools my back tightens
I scroll back to older beats

At the point where I started
children skitter across the shore
They’re laughing they’re gamboling
They involve themselves in foam footballs and Canadian geese

It’s dusky and getting uphill and I don’t want any water
I want “Billie Jean” I’m putting one foot more directly in front of the other
I’m rolling my shoulders I’m missing beats
Someone in the woods might hear one or two “woo!”s

Fuck it I’m almost home and I hear my heartbeat
in my ears and “Smooth Criminal.”
A block off the main road I give it a sideways slide

I go inside to make my hierarchy and look back and all I see
is an exuberant Boston Terrier leaping off the twilit edge
of the path at a cloud of gnats—its owner
looks, understands and lets the leash go—

14 May 2008

Gerhard Richter Suturist Style #4

(this is an actual stained glass window in an actual cathedral.)

13 May 2008

29 April 2008

Another Costa Rican Beach

Open mouth smoke green rivers and their still alligators.  
Riptides can suck in swimmers one hundred meters.  
I've yet to see a stingray jet.

27 April 2008

When you roll with us

We enter under the tubular arches filled with flashing sketches of neon reds and blues, the lights illuminating the street like one of those old theatres on a Friday Night Premiere.

We are seated at one of the many long tables varnished in deep red, sitting down in tall slender chairs like kings.

We recount our last few weekends, our trips to Vegas, Cabo, college towns in Arizona and Texas scoring on undergrads, and count our collective kills.

We order drinks, and, like a procession we are delivered foamy beer in fake wood kegs, sake in vials that look like they're made out of porcelain, and know this won't be the last porcelain we drag our mouths across, just as long as it isn't in this bar's bathroom, but our own.  

We look at the prospects referring to them as girl in black or girl in pink or girl in blue.

We have our waiter do a countdown for the first bomb, and quake our fists against the tabletop at the rush of three, chopsticks tripping off, sake cups plunking in beer mugs, shooting up syrupy squirts of high gold that are caught as we raise our glasses and kamikaze them down our gullets.

We announce our birthday boy and frenzy our eyes over potential birthday girls.

We do another bomb.

We stand on our chairs and do another bomb.

We announce our names and state that we like ladies and do another bomb.

We order sushi platters and make bets on how much we can eat and which girls we can get, the girl in black the girl in blue or the girl in pink, and do another bomb.

We shimmy our asses against the asses of other girls standing on the chairs next to us, and we do another bomb.

We hand over our empty kegs of beer and sake containers and ask for more and in the meantime with what is left do another bomb.

We try to eat our food and decide that we are too full to eat but not too full for drinking so we pour more into our glasses, pound the table, and raise another.

We spill sake, beer, and soy, and the trays and plates slide closer to the edge as if at the end of a flat world's ocean, and we do another bomb.

We cheers to the birthday boy being a fag, bang and do another bomb.

We cheers to someone else coming out of the closet, laugh our asses, slam and do another bomb.

We cheers to all the girls we will crush, and do another bomb.

We cheers to all of us being the man, and do another.

We are the only ones left and do another, pay the bill in a flurry of twenties, and do another.

We are still reeling from all the bombs we dropped as we exit on the slick sidewalk undulating at each step and wish we could do another, but we got the motion down now for the next bar, and the next night, and the next group of girls.  

The only thing we haven't figured out is the next morning, our cracked lives appearing fine in a hazy mirror blurred by our own eyes.  

26 April 2008


I catch up with you
In this boom time of the manic
Depressive memoir, (a spree
Of snakebite kits) the same book
You were writing when I knew you,
Before you stopped. But I know you
Will, at least, start one again
And we will have at least one more
Long conversation like the last—
You wishing for one more chance
To come back, go back to back then
And me actually picking up a tennis racket
Swinging backhands to bat you away,
You coming through the space
In the catgut anyway.

23 April 2008

Looks good

Bundle of light heads racked together labeled and named after sultry women.            
Brigitte is grabbed by a black-gloved hand.
Cables twined through scaffolding above, a plug inserted, Brigitte lights up.
High-watt orifice casts down a fan of light on a mahogany office desk.
Reflections are swiveled clear from the gimbaled glass panels.
A bleached blonde stand-in sits in, and the light is studied across her face.
How's this? Like this? A voice asks from a ladder, hands mending and bending black-wrap around the burning eye of Brigitte.
Guess all those arts and crafts classes helped you out, somebody yells and laughs.
A woman, maybe an actress, maybe an extra, splashes through pages of People off to the side on a couch.  
Someone important watches the setup, shoulders slumped over a bowl of cereal.  He cleans some milk away from his manicured beard with his hand, just above the cuff of his clean white shirt, and peels away into the shadows of the stage.
Two cameras are set on two different tracks.
Monitors are on, the chairs aligned.
Looks good somebody else says.
Chapped lips radio in hushed orders.
An actor arrives.

12 April 2008


An older man with white hair on the sides of his head and no hair at all on the top sucks in slow from his cigarette.  He sits under the eaves of the café in lukewarm shade, the cigarette held between two fingers resting on the arm of a faded plastic chair.

A woman walks outside with a clipboard, newspaper and a dark brown leather purse.  Her sunglasses are pushed to her hairline.  She sits at the next table and crosses her tan thighs under her floral print dress, the white flowers outlined in red surrounded by night black sky.  She too smokes a cigarette.  In fact, they both smoke Marlboro Lights.

He notices the design on the back of her clipboard.

You teach, he says
Yeah, she says.
Lot of teachers around here.  One inside.  He teaches mechanical engineering.
Oh yeah?  She studies him from the corner of her eyes, blowing smoke from the side of her mouth.

Later on he asks, You look young to be a teacher, why history?
I studied abroad in Germany, she answers.
I was stationed there in '72, '73.  Frankfurt.  You study in Frankfurt?
No, Bonn.
I miss the beer, he says.
Yeah, she says.  It's hard to find places here for a nice quiet beer.
All the bars here are filled with yuppies.  Too many yuppies.  He shakes his wrinkled head.  

There are still a few dive bars around.
Those aren't real dive bars, lady.
The Mermaid is but the owner died and they are selling the property.
That place has been around for 50 years though.

You like teaching?
I like the freedom.

The old man lights another cigarette.  She gets up from the seat and presses her cigarette out with hurry in a black ashtray.  She tucks the clipboard under her arm and turns to him, full frontal.

The children left behind are ruining this country. 
 She leaves him and walks off back inside, settling low in the corner of an empty couch and begins reading and marking papers attached to her clipboard with red ink.

The old man smokes three more and gets up, stuffing the side pocket of his jeans with his pack of Marlboro Lights and transparent neon green lighter.  She left her newspaper outside on the seat of a green plastic chair, the paper folding casually back and forth as ocean air breezes through the patio.

11 April 2008

This Afternoon

I close in on your silver and gold necklaces interlocked around your neck.  My body is slick against yours and you bend back, chin to the ceiling.  

The pleated shades are pulled down but light still streaks through the sides onto the denim comforter.  We roll in the slivers and for a moment your necklaces flare.

When your eyes enter the light, I think of jade and a warm green sea.  

07 April 2008


Her hair shines like the light off her baby-oiled leg.

El believes I'm staring through her white v-neck at her breasts. She is right in a way and only moves her eyes as I peruse her uniform. Her eyes are calm. Maybe she has lost a bet I don't remember making. She smiles or is about to smile as she pulls the shirt over her head and whips it to the floor. I lock onto the scar.

I trace the raised line above her sternum around the left clavicle and over the shoulder ten times in five seconds. My eyes shutter, remembering. I cannot stop my molars from grinding and my nostril rear like horses'. I hold my seething tongue behind my front teeth. The scar is standout pink and I can't put my finger on it. The skin is Gauguin brown and I'm an imperialist. I have greed for moments too absurd to last.

My cocked head follows the scar over her shoulder, centimeters from her gently sweating skin, a 45 degree angle down to her spine. The scar stops. Or it goes under the skin and follow its line down to her hip. I lift her right arm easily and escalate back up to her heart. The puckered movement around wraps her in a sash.

"First prize."

El sees the hair standing on my arms and our moment accelerates towards the end. I meet her eyes and trade her contempt for the forever imprint of damage. I ask the scar how and why because I know it won't answer.

02 April 2008


Faye Dunaway in Bonnie & Clyde

Suturist Article

Jean-Luc GOD-ART

"Everything is Cinema."


numerous insults of un-Suturist Spielberg (do you know that asshole's name is now part of the dictionary? If I want to spell it "Speilberg" I get corrected).

29 March 2008

24 March 2008


Anouk Aimée in Jacques Demy's Lola.

Beautifully photographed in natural light by All-Time Suturist Raoul Coutard.

21 March 2008

These Modern Things

When you dream of her strong shoulders every night for a week.

When you say for years that she will end up with a soldier she can cheat on when he's away.

When you check her facebook that says she is "enjoying her boyfriend being home before his deployment."

When you finish ten minutes worth of maniacal cackling, your throat sawed sore, bitter.

When you see someone, skinny, not unlike yourself, sliding into her prefabricated house, the chintz print curtains either ironic or not ironic.

When you unironically fuck her.

When you skip side saddle out the screen door (this is the way the ladies ride) as she smokes in the sheets.

20 March 2008

New York Street Under Construction at the Studios

Condors shoot up in the air commanded by men with hammers and paint brushes.  The siren of one condor beeps as it repositions against an unfinished brownstone exterior.  A few laborers dump contents of a concrete mixer into a cart and wheel it over.  A man approaches the site.  He has a black visor on backwards and upside down and wears a t-shirt with Don't like my attitude? Take a number written on the back.  His grey Dickies shorts hang low past his knees and it's hard to tell if the full tool belt he's wearing is holding up the shorts or only pulling them down further.  
"Ey Jack," he yells.  "Thought you were an actor."

Jack has his foot on a pile of 2"x8"s stacked off to the side.  He's leaning on his perched up leg, a burning cigarette on the corner of his mouth.  He eases up straight, his black t-shirt tucked in a pair of faded black jeans.  He's got on red suede Fila's, shoes that look like they could be used for bowling.  He flicks the cigarette away.  

"I was," Jack yells back, "but I quit doing the porn.  Only sell the toys now."  Jack grins and the man with the black visor laughs.  A few other workers within earshot look over their shoulders and share in the laughter over the sound of hammers and drills.  

They shake hands and exchange a few words before they part.  The man heads down the New York Street with his tape measurer and checks a door detail on one of the brownstones.  Jack turns to the mess of fiber skins laid out on the pavement, and begins to separate the stone skins from the brick skins, the sun slanting down on his shoulders.  

15 March 2008

Ashbery Is an All-Time Suturist

"The backward weave / of the waves congratulates him."

from A Worldly Country, his latest publication in 50 years of (proto)suturist writing.

13 March 2008


Pink hibiscus in your hair. Your hair down and luster brown like the polished wood paneling the walls and covering the counter of this bar. Loose white straps of your tank top peeled away by breeze. Black strings of your bikini sweeping around your bare shoulders, tied around behind your neck. Your seashell earring lingering silver shine. The fine line of your profiled face traced in shade. A crescent of your amber iris.

I take this photo of you when you're not looking.

A quiet kiss.

White water touches shore and slips away. Palm trees bend down and tickle red stucco walls with their leaves. Grains of sand blow and skip across faded asphalt on the lone road that leaves this beach.  

Saul Leiter: Photographer

12 March 2008

Still Not a Suturist

this is also gutter trash steven:

and this will be garbage too:

even if "Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" is a perfect description your head, spielberg.

11 March 2008

Not a Suturist

Steven Spielberg.

The girl in the red coat scene from Schindler's List is the tackiest thing I have ever watched.

Guy Bourdin (1928-1991): Photographer

10 March 2008


Runaway Blvd. by Crash

09 March 2008

Fashion District

Long Alleys.
Pushing through air greased by frying food, stained by old urine fouling up sidewalk.
Inside-out dirty socks left to rot.
Man with giant diseased feet in custom made sandals jingling a super-size cup of change, waiting for more.
Stroller wheels bumping shoe heels.
Trays of bracelets fake and shining like gold and silver.
Zapatos!  Zapatos!
Largee tees, three for ten three for ten!
Cotton Candy.  Cotton Candy.
Ice cream carts pacing, attached bells dangling and ringing, acting as the singing voice of soundless ice cream owners trying to make sales.
Mommy Mommy!  Why do you have to do that!
Mariachi music fast-forwarded blasting out of storefronts.
Headless mannequins with bodies that would make some plastic surgeons proud.
And clothes, faded clothes hooked and forgotten on barbed wire, the only items here not for sale.  


The way an afternoon peaks in sun streaks
then loses its way in the clouds

an ending or a wearing down


I’m scared of having my fortune told

Later today a woman

will look straight out two eyes around a straight nose

This will remind me of you

08 March 2008


“His infatuation with Kaya was like a wound.”

Further Seagrove

Seagrove Park, brine in the wood sign, live oaks alive on the cliffs. I like to sit now snapping the fat child fingers of iceplant, so heavy and damp on the inside.

Just here she would turn over and over on the grass, wanting to be touched by an exact quantity of light. She arranged me for shade. She would read and I would watch her read. Like I imagined things when we had children—how could I ever read when they were out playing in the ocean. Sand in the creases around my eyes with the green in them given to the children mixed with grey, stirred with light.

I cut out the veins in all the leaves I’ve torn down from trees whose names I don’t know. I sit still believing in their vasculature even though it flows away.

The ocean today. A beautiful god. Huge puzzle pieces of navy and sea-green distinct all the way out to horizon. No ripples but glitter. I think an east coaster would have to admit the Pacific is just better.

—if she only would have left me Seagrove.

07 March 2008

Aviation Blvd., 1:32 PM

He drives an old Chevy Impala, deep-sea blue. She sits next to him, her hair hidden under a multi-colored scarf.  All you can see from the back window are her gold hoop earrings, dulling and brightening in and out of shade, as the car slips under early afternoon shadows from telephone poles, buildings, and the occasional tree. She's eating sunflower seeds from a bag, the kind that you chew and spit.

"Want some?"

"Okay," he says easing the Chevy straight at 50 with one arm steering in his white muscle shirt, jeans dirtied and boots muddied from the construction site.  She's still got her apron on, stained smeared and greased with reds yellows and browns from cooking in the kitchen. They're off work early today. She got fired and he quit. She pinches a couple seeds from the bag, reaches across and touches his mouth, slipping them in. Down her window goes, and she spits some of her shells out. He spits his in an empty water bottle.

"Beautiful day," she says.  

"Yeah," he says, stopping over the white line at a red light. The left turn lane's open and the light turns green. "Wanna check the beach?"

"Sure baby," she says, touching his arm with the back of her hand.

He pulls into the open left lane, the sun rolling on the car from fender to hood to roof to tail and off.  He does a wide turn through the light as it turns yellow and heads west towards the ocean.

06 March 2008

Electric Suturist Park

While you would like to stroll through this park, green next to the beach, and speak f about the young girl trailing the kite, her father’s indifference, her mother’s worry. The plot of their lives. You would show your compassion, your effortless coherence of plot, your comfortable turns of phrase. You’re hardbound.

The Electric Suturist sinks under the ground, travels through the valley of a grass blade, rushes past the pink-trimmed seven year old, climbs up the wind-fluid twist of wire, and sways down to the world from the kite. The Electric Suturist texturizes things. The Electric Suturist feels and makes you feel the salt-wood Seagrove Park sign, the sea bordering rope on the piling highlighted as human hair. Her hair. His hair. Mermaid hair? The endlessness of metaphor.

At any given moment there is enough in the park: people, color, and movement to sustain the Electric Suturist for the duration of his writing life. Total sensory immersion will save the day indefinitely. Any back-story can be indicated in the huff (or is it the thrash?) of waves, the whistle (or caress) or wind. Is that cloud the shape of divorce or a Richter portrait? Is today’s embrace (or punishment) from the sun wholly new or an empty repetition of hours? The Electric Suturist presents you with the hypnotist twitch of the kite string over and over, as yarn or garrote.

Why ever leave this park (this park that is the same as your house, the pod of your car or any place that can hold light)? Any place where you (and the Electric Suturists) step is perfectly color-blown by all these things.


Additional park-like thought: Blow-Up bringing into play tight white pants, negatives, Vanessa Redgrave, sex: all very interesting things. But the important is the proto-Electric Suturist photographer changing his life around an obscure image in the bushes. His careless photo of it is blown up over and over in the most important sequence in the film. Unwinding the electric truth from the ever-larger foliage is all that matters.

And on to someone even larger scale. The most important event in Abstract Expressionist Barnett Newman’s career was the discovery of the zip (the thin strip that breaks up his most significant paintings). I have co-opted the zip as a central part of Electric Suturist creation. You take a field in stark color, you add a zip, you have a work of art both ruptured (electrified) and healed (sutured) by a vertical line. The zip is a bolt in two senses: as something that holds the painting down and as something that streaks it, like lightning.

Electric Suturist.

Golden Girl

She's driving to court, her wet hair tied up tight, shiny and streaked with strands of gold. She only needs to check herself once in the rearview mirror. The early morning sun bursts a soft golden light as she passes a slow moving white truck and switches lanes. She shuttles down PCH in her gold chrome Jaguar.

There is a wound. The Electric Suturist does not follow the girl in the Jaguar as the standard narrator would do, but instead puts the car in reverse.

She's on her way to court.
She has a son.
She has a home three blocks from the beach, a one story modern colonial with a lone palm tree planted and swaying in the front.  
The garage can fit two cars, but at night only one returns.
The house is big enough for three, but only two stay.
She lives with her son alone.
She tucks her son in alone.
She sleeps alone.
She ties her wet hair tight in the mornings.
She has golden complexion golden hair and a golden car and drives only in golden light.
Early morning and before night.