Rescue Me.

After an earthquake in Pakistan, some villagers tried to save a donkey that was buried alive. For me, this image has a tender & dreamlike quality.

Sponsored Links: why you gotta call me out?

Philly: I miss you!

East Passyunk Ave forever.

I can be your Mirro baby.

JAWS

Those are my teeth. I like x-rays, but they scare me. When I look at an anatomy book, it is still separate from me. I know that what I am looking at is inside of me also, but it is not mine; it's almost not real. X-rays are me. They are mine. They are what I look like all the way in. So strange. Does anyone really want to know what they look like all the way in?

ashes to ashes

There is book shop a few blocks south of my place, that I often walk by. I picked up this book because I thought it was pretty. Upon on a second look, I found that it was the funeral book for a young girl by the name of Catherine M. Coughlin who had died in the 1950s. The book had an envelope full of cards from floral arrangments, a photo of the girl as a baby with her mother, and lists of visitors, callers and casserole bringers. The letter, from a classmate, is an incredible example of the frank speech of a child, free from euphemisms.
This book made me think, strange distant thoughts. I've been melancholy ever since I picked it up. How did it end up here? In my hands? What now...

Friends Help.

Thank You.

Gets to me.

David Shrigley. I bought a few of his books and I can't stop. It's the kind of tongue-in-cheek, between the lines, absorbing "outsider" techniques into a faux-naif style, that completely absorb me. Yes, his work may look childish, however the messages reveling in human foibles and revealing a calculated vulnerability through his emotional outpourings, are nothing that any child I know, could create.