.
I'm so tired and dazed and generally out of it that it almost killed me to get it done — at one point I had to go lie down, thinking I was going into some kind of shock or stroke (most likely because of the dangerous mix of uppers and downers I subsist on), but I've just posted an image update with a bit over a thousand new pictures. Thanks to everyone who helped out and has been patient waiting for their images to be posted (I'm currently running about ten days behind right now on picture submissions).
I wonder… if the rabid push in America toward “virginity” is causing more teenagers to try anal sex because it's not “technically” sex, will banning facial piercings from schools cause more young people to get pierced south of the border? Anyway, I can probably get arrested these days just for asking that question…
There's lots of good bloody shots in this update, both in the public sections and in BME/HARD of course as well. I think I was a little disappointed that my facial cutting didn't bleed more — we didn't even leave a single drop of blood in the hotel room. Normally my face bleeds like crazy, but then again, it might just be that most of the time when I penetrate the skin which wraps my skull my co-conspirators and I have such alcohol-diluted blood that it flows like wine at some Dionysian orgy.
Thanks to Kevin for that frickin sweet
bike image. He's a fan of the red elixir as well, but really, I don't think you could live for long in Saskatchewan without starting to hack away at yourself, so I consider it a very healthy impulse in his case. Thanks also to for the great cover shot. There are more pictures on
BME and on her page, but here's a teaser:
You can never go wrong with blood. This next photo set (thanks to Lolli, one of only a very small handful of women I know that have done a chest suspension, for sending it), well, I wasn't sure whether I should file it in the CBT section or the play piercing section — it is 109 needles through a penis after all.
I think I'm starting to ramble a little? So if you like the pictures I just posted, just go check out the
site update. I'll try and add more tomorrow but I'm feeling really
“off”. Rachel is in Chicago right now dealing with some business, so the following article (found via
boingboing) really sounded personal. It's
an interview with Robert Crumb's wife:
In a recent interview he described himself as an "ineffectual individual," which is surprising for someone with such a prodigious output. Do you think he could survive without a woman like yourself in his life?
No, he wouldn't. He'd be dead without me. [Laughs.] When I met him his life was such a wreck. He's really a soft guy. He just wants to be liked too much. When he says ineffectual, he just can't say no to people. There are always parasites ready to jump on somebody like that. So I'm the bad cop.
It's sort of scary (sub in “pathetic” if you'd like) how much Rachel keeps me going. As much as I produce what I think is a decent amount of work, it's a lot more effort than I think people would guess… I joke that I'm an idiot savant, or that I can't remember what I did fifteen minutes ago, but it's true… it's not that I'm joking as in “making it up”, but just joking because there's not really anything else I can do about it.
It's now been almost four months since I last slept through
the night. In that time period I have gotten at most and hour or two of uninterrupted uninduced sleep, except on the nights where I manage to knock myself out with a bottle of
151-proof Jamaican rum combined with whatever opiate I can get my hands on, escalating my sorry state where I'm playing a chicken-and-egg game with booze and brain damage. It's strange… I don't even really get drunk any more — it just slows me down a little.
I'm pretty sure Bukowski scripted my life, but that's okay because the most beautiful art lives and dies drunk in a gutter… but ultimately I think I'm too much of a mystic. Bukowski would likely beat me senseless and then rape me… so I'm sticking with Jodorowsky — “One day, someone showed me a glass of water that was half full. And he said, 'Is it half full or half empty?' So I drank the water. No more problem.” The lower you fall, the higher you can rise.
I liked it coming out of that expensive
cafe in Germany
that rainy night
some of the ladies had learned that I
was in there
and as I walked out well-fed and
intoxicated
the ladies screamed at me
but all I recognized was my name.
I asked a German friend what they were
saying.
| Germany hates BME?
They tell me BME
is endangering
the German youth.
Personally I think
they are endangered
in its absence.
|
“they hate you,” he told me,
“they belong to the German Female
Liberation movement…”
I stood and watched them, they were
beautiful and screaming, I
loved them all, I laughed, waved,
blew them kisses.
then my friend, my publisher and my
girlfriend got me into the car; the
engine started, the windshield wipers
began thrashing
and as we drove off in the rain
I looked back
watched them standing in that
terrible weather
waving their placards and their
fists.
it was nice to be recognized
in the country of my birth, that
was what mattered
most…
But why the picture of the rhinos you ask?
In a haze this morning I found myself driving down a marsh-side road in Canada when out of the reeds our truck was approached by a family similar to the one you see above, although they were somewhat deformed stylized and were pinkish in hue with large orange giraffe-like spots — I thought to myself, “I have to blog about this”, and reached for my camera only to find I'd left it at home. Irate, I suppose that he'd missed out on his chance for fame and fortune, the largest of the rhinos charged the truck! Rachel threw it in reverse, floored it, and we narrowly avoided the impact.
Slowly the scene faded and I found myself lying on the floor of my office, not sure if I should worry about my hallucination and/or astral projection, or embrace it as another piece of the rich tapestry that we willful lunatics enjoy. But maybe I'm making the whole thing up? In the interest of avoiding another unpleasant stay in the asylum, let me definitely say: it's all a story, told for my own amusement.
I think I'm looking a little more haggard than usual. I wouldn't post such an unflattering picture normally, but it seems that the rougher I look, the more nice things get said, and like some narcissistic Pavlovian dog I can't stop the saliva from flowing. In all seriousness, I think I'm going to
build an
isolation tank to try and help me rest as soon as we move into the new house. I don't think my mind or body can take not sleeping for much longer, and I never turn down anything that has the potential to open the doors to another dimension, or at least temporarily fool me into believing such a thing.
PS. What does the average BME member's bathroom look like most days? The picture above seems about right to me, and certainly is a scene I've seen play out with my own eyes more than once (much to the chagrin of my
housemates I imagine).
Ah, arterial spray, my old friend…
