People sometimes ask, “Where is your work heading? What do you want to do next?”
It is not my work. It is not my choice.
For me, it is not a question of a next thing. It is a growing, evolving vision. I am carried along in this vision of life, of art. A performance does not have a beginning or an end. It is just a tiny bit of the vision. The vision braids around itself, flowing on. I do not know where the vision is taking me. I have not been down this vision before.
One thing’s for sure. We humans are not the end of evolution.
Lying here together Just holding each other Small, warm, Smelling each other Breathing each other in Breathing life in Breathing everything in Taking everything into our bodies Our body Breathing life, All life in, deeply To our core, Then breathing pleasure out, All warmed up, Breathing warm pleasure In all life everywhere, Watering life, Growing stronger, freer With every deep breath Taking EVERYTHING in Transforming transmuting everything Into our rose-skin reality Falling falling falling Masks falling away Who we pictured ourselves Falling away Just surrender into each other, Into egoless self within us combined, Without fear Trusting the core within us Falling Skin melting Nerve-endings pull us in From within Rich blood rushes in, Washing us from within, Tides within between us Rocking rubbing on each other In the sea of skin Everywhere surrounding us, Enveloping us You lay here, me in your mouth Not going anywhere Just slight movement To keep arouse pleasure alive Beyond time Before separation, Before birth and death A calm excitement Of being together Being within, Not being between
There is a draining, A releasing of surface tension Skin pales As everything flows deeper To the core Everything gets slower, Warm cool Beats melt together Warm wax colors flow in veins We get too small, We become invisible Rubbing rocking me From your belly button Downward In between Moist Absorbing everything Into our grooved smallness Into the life code of change Where we play Unseen, unknown Rocking small, pale Falling Without fear Into the cool tickling grass Sinking into cool slippery mud Getting dirty Falling, Following the roots Downward into cracks In hard cold rocks Breaking them open Revealing hidden meanings Breaking through to underground ocean Of dark invisible matter, Warm satin which seeks out All space, Seeks out all skin, Becoming/enfolding our body Filling everything So small That we plunge into the molten core, Into subatomic center beyond space Into solar explosion deep in the universal everywhere breathing spiraling warm change in and out deeply as we lie here smelling the sweet sweat of our very human bodies
We enter the magic cave Of play and healing, Shedding our fiction characters We use outside, Ego masks, skin tight, Limiting….limiting the expanding. Those masks will change When we put them back on, Softening to fit our new bodies, new faces… Later.
Here we are More than ourselves More of ourself Expanding Expanding into one another Rubbing skin Friction of pleasure Falling into the in-between Surrender to the falling Out of time and space, Surrendering into discomfort Of strangeness which contains A strange comfort of remembering The body and soul
Falling into the in-between, Surrendering into the trance Pleasure friction of creation Rubbing dead skin into each other, Aroused and excited, Going into each other, Taking each other in, There is no THE OTHER, No IN-BETWEEN. Breathing each other deeply, Smelling and tasting, Licking and kissing, Prickly state of inter-penetration, Nerves connected In the skin, Melt bodies together, Removes the lies of separation, Hearts beat together strong relax, Rich red blood flows deep.
We rock calm deep contained within each other Within the combined body Deep pleasure flows over us Washing from deep within.
We have been here before, Being contained within everything, Enveloping everything within. Lying extended within our combined body, Combined self/soul, relaxed, enjoying being within, Sucking aroused pleasure up As a tide of change, Enjoying being with each other Without going anywhere, Being enough.
The tide, the laugh Giggle, sobbing Pleasure Leave our body reality Trance of inter-dependence, Inter-penetration, Holy healing play dance, And flows inward into the whole cosmos, Changing everything, Changing healing unseen, unknown
We leave the cave With each other inside… And our masks expand and soften.
Creativity is like shitting. Most people do it. Everyone needs to do it…. More or less regularly. Every shit is different. There is nothing like a good shit! Some people obsess on their shitting! Some obsess on their own shit; Others obsess on others’ shit, Even buying it! I just enjoy a good shit! Oh shit, I’ll let you in on a secret… I play with shit! Creativity is just playing.
cold dark homeless
clogged with ice fears,
my only friend
is the wind
chilling my bones
into a cynical loneliness.
Herding my sheep,
looking in windows
of unattainable desires,
looking at presents
I don’t have anyone to give them to,
looking into the past
soft colored warm homes
that are no longer mine.
Everyone has left,
everyone is gone.
Even the sun has left
long before the manger.
And the sun
will not come back
This is the season
of dark depression
and fragile suicide.
I can always bum up
the plastic hope and faith
at 7 Eleven
it is my wonderful life
in the video store’s window.
But instead I wrap myself in a jaded pretense of dry ice isolation of not caring, and drinking the stale but warm wine of regrets.
of new hope
has always been hidden within
the long cold
clinging to our tribal warmth
as our only protection
into the scary
we always have been blind
to the evergreen
hope of life.
It has always been
the first time
and easy hope
have gone away.
So we always think
they will never
The evergreen hope
has been hidden
in the womb
of the humble
and in children’s dreams.
The forces of greys
have always overheard
of the hidden hope…
have always searched
to pervert it
into human isolation…
to kill it
for all time.
But the forces of power
the hidden human hope
in the baby’s cradle.
goes on a desperate killing,
the old world up……
we huddle together
in the silent night
upon the hill,
in our tribal body warmth.
the holy woman,
the medicine man
have always shifted
our attention away
from the dark
have always shifted
to the guiding light
of new birth…
in the stars,
then in the roaring
all human feelings
and still later
into that corny
with bright colors
Into this fire we have always gone, hearing the drumming of our innocent heart beating in a slow excitement, meeting again our love of life. We curl up with our love and wait for warm spring to arrive… as hope grows into knowing.
There are all kinds of art. There is art that calms, art that pacifies, art that sells, art that decorates, art that entertains.
But what I am committed to is art as a battle, an underground war against fragmentation. The battle is on all realities.
The controllers have always tried to fragment us. Fragment us from each other. Imprison us in islands of sex, color, religion, politics, classes, labels, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc. they fragment our inner worlds, they blow our individual realities apart, and play the pieces against one another. They are us, or a part of us. They are the controllers, the politicians, the sexists, the women’s libbers, the pornographers, the censors, the moralists, the church, the media, the businessmen, educators, the victims and the powerful.
They are us. They have divided us from our power, from our beauty, from our lust for life and pleasure. They have divided us from most of reality – divided dying from living – sex from living, sex from pleasure. We are kept in boxes of fear, of mistrust. We are kept waiting – kept waiting to do what we want – waiting for enough money, enough schooling, for everything to be right. We are kept waiting and protecting and hiding and suffering.
This is the time to do battle with the boxes.
As artists, our tools are magic, our bodies, taboos, and dreams.
This kind of art can be bubbles of childhood – hidden places where you can play and explore – it is the kids’ under-the-covers world, the playhouse, the treehouse, the cave, behind the barn, playing doctor, cars at drive-ins before going all the way, Huck Finn’s raft, tepees. People are afraid of this area of lusty exploring that they think they have out-grown — but they are sucked into it.
But this kind of art can have a more heavy-duty magical side to it that shocks, offends, and breaks new ground. This side is what is locked in, the subconscious, the womb, the underground, hell/heaven, pleasure/torture, the coffin, the grave, birth/death/rebirth, dream/nightmare, the hidden world of taboos.
Artists of this breed need to be warriors who are willing to go into the areas of taboo, willing to push beyond where it is comfortable and safe to explore and build a larger zone of safeness. They need to be idealists, willing to live ideals.
What we have here is only the first smell of fresh magic. Matter is hollow tubes containing fibers of packets of possibilities. Matter is symbol, is metaphor containing possibilities. These packets shape matter. These packets, in turn, are reshaped by each body /object they pass through. We are affected by the stars, and the stars are affected by us. We affect the Tarot cards and the I Ching coins we cast. The physicists affect the subatomic particles they observe.
By reshaping these inner packets, the material reality is reshaped.
The inner rivers of possibilities are two way on the linear level. The magical effects are always two way. The light of the sun warms us; but we affect the sun through the same channel.
We have entered the level of the dynamic web of relationships in which the individual does not exist. In place of the individual, there appear points of personal responsibility in a dance.
It is not the sun that warms, nor is it us who are warmed. It is the dance of no dancers, the dance of relationships that warms, and that is warmed.
Reality creation is a dance. We are the dancers. But in truth, it is a dance without dancers. If we really take on personal responsibility for the dance, we surrender to the dance, give up individual “control,” give up individual linking with the results. By taking on the personal responsibility for the dance, we are the dance. We melt with the dance. We are only the dance. We admit these facts. It is not a question of becoming, but of remembering and admitting. It is a question of being, living, dancing lustfully, without controls or limits in responsibility.
The life dance is beyond morals or limits. It joyfully digs into the dance to the juicy black core.
After 9/11/01 and the move to war, Frank looked at his oil painting, HELL TO WAR, hanging on our wall, that he had painted in high school in the 1960s, and decided to do a digital version so we could put it up in our yard!
He ended up doing four digital paintings over the course of six days:
HELL TO WAR – September 17, 2001
HELL TO ALL TERRORISM – September 19, 2001
WAR IS TERRORISM – September 20, 2001
PEACE FLAG – September 22, 2001