Thursday, August 5, 2010

Closure of Confessions of Someone Almost 18 / The Komarovian

     I feel like I’ve been gone so long, yet in reality it’s only been a few weeks. A bit has changed, not much and everything all at once, encompassing my all as I favor to say with high frequency. The tension mounted and nearly destroyed me—and yet, I lived—fleeting the precipice of the Lake of the Dead once more; dear Raziel, we are worthy.

     Confessed out & self-proclaimed as nothing and all of everything. Predictably the pilot light flickered out with a whisper lacking a proper recognition when probably due. Unapologetically, “I wanted to kill the most amazing person in the world, then I realized suicide was a crime.”


     One last thing remains before we pick up and move on: thank you.


The Succeeding Works of
Alexis Komarov Voltaire

Saturday, July 17, 2010

“Everything has been prepared for the distribution of bestowments. During our Savior’s fifth year of existence. . .”

     Phantom craters betrayed his identity; the younger man behind the room’s door mentally cringing.
     A throaty swallow following he queried, “Has there been notable progress?”
     Explanation wasn’t necessary. The cracked lips reassured, “Saint has entered Sino.”


     Anxiety washed over the man receiving the news, his youth denying perfect play for his visible team with sacrifice. By active tongue laced with jitters stumbled, “She has been born then? Born? Alive?”
     Peeled eyes concealing irritation accompanied a hand gesture in the visibly nervous man’s direction, “Without disrespect V, you have been allotted years of time specifically assigned for preparation of this day. Pull yourself together and cease  the self-mutilation unless you
’re prepared to wash canvas. Death, what torturous events you let plague. 

     If Saint’s supposed,” the lecturer paused before applying a slick coat of disgust to his next word, “guidance cannot even follow preconceived rules of living that we ourselves have written, how could we find it within our conscience minds to instill said values and expect Her to deliver them thoroughly, within the capital G. . .?” 

Friday, July 16, 2010

ɔʇǝ

     Youre gorgeous, beautiful; I’m screaming “ET CETERA” at you with symbols crashing and clashing in desperate collision roaring for the end of repetition war.

     Divided from the aesthetic of the concept, I want someone I can send special lyrics, peculiar poems, and scientific excerpts to with received appreciation. A thoughtful response from the heart every now and then would be a dream ideal real, but mostly I enjoy the silence of wonder and magnified magnificence of the being.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

     When people respond to the conversation starting question with, I would want to read minds, I conceive it laughable. I’m close to saying that it’s immature. However, with thought more elaborate I decide it’s likely a characteristic of someone who would rather live free of reining wonder.
     My conclusion rests on their fear of the unknown until I recall the following: I am petrified of the unknown to the scar of madness, yet I would hardly thirst to contain author’s knowledge by forced draw.
      The eighth circle of Hell with my head turned round just isn’t where I belong.

     Leading me to the night’s wonder: why do people like me? We’re in sixth grade for a moment because I mean like me like me. Usually I don’t attract the children of ages lesser than my own, as a matter of fact they rarely even match me. By the looks of it, I’ve strolled into the ballpark of grown men. Pushing aside the idea of my clumsy stumble I’ve considered the two major league reasons for this. The first being, “They’re immature, that’s why they want me,” and the second, “Or maybe I am on the level they’re convinced I am.”

     Peering beyond a few that provided Pictionary purpose to the prior, I’ve learned enough to keep up the awareness guard for filtering the retention pond. I could easily spot a dorsal fin from miles away with a sharp eye… if it’s open.

     & In the end it’s all an exhausted sport and I’ve tried being a player. Heartbreaking might be fine under Valium-colored skies, but here I’m gazing with a mirrored blank stare at Tamarian Gardens. “You cannot see anything. I tried it too.” As for being blindsided—I’m capable too, Im capable of anything, after all.

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 21

Nicest thing someone has 
said to you this week

I want to be your Chicken McNugget,
chewing bubblegum along side you
as the world passes by.


Just always remember who you are and what you mean to me.

30 Days to an Almost End series list

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Saturday, July 10, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 17

An art piece
(painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)

Marilyn Manson


Untitled (Dita)

Les fleurs du mal

Wraith

Thursday, July 8, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 15

An inspiring quote
July 6th-8th 2010
A. Voltaire
     Of all that is written I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will experience that blood is spirit.
     It is not easily possible to understand the blood of another: I hate reading idlers. Whoever knows the read will henceforth do nothing for the reader. Another century of readers—and the spirit itself will sink.
. . .
     Whoever writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read but to be learned by heart. In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak: but for that one must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks—and those who are addressed, tall and lofty. The air thin and pure, danger near, and the spirit full of gay sarcasm: these go well together. I want to have goblins around me, for I am courageous. Courage that puts ghosts to flight creates goblins for itself: courage wants to laugh.
     I no longer feel as you do: this cloud which I see beneath me, this blackness and gravity at which I laugh—this is your thundercloud.
     You look up when you feel the need for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? Whoever climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness.
     Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent—thus wisdom wants us: she is a woman and always loves only a warrior.
     You say to me, “Life is hard to bear.” But why would you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening? Life is hard to bear; but do not act so tenderly! We are all of us fair beasts of burden, male and female asses. What do we have in common with the rosebud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on it?
     True, we love life, but because we are used to living but because we are used to loving. There is always some madness in love. But there is always some reason in madness.
. . .
     I have learned to walk: ever since, I let myself run. I have learned to fly: ever since, I do not want to be pushed before moving along.
     Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.

     Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Monday, July 5, 2010

COSA18 Interviews Ryan Maloney from Cerebrot.com

“Swasticrow”

     If there’s an artist I’m positive deserves my respect and admiration, only a single individual comes to mind. Surpassing all celebrity and expectations of a dear friend, “if this isn’t real, then this is as real as it gets.”

     Over the past year I’ve wanted great things for COSA18, one especially being to go out with a bang,
not with a whimper. If there’s one person who’s taught me how exactly to achieve that this crucial year of mine, it’s the most spectacular artist I’ve had the honor of unexpectedly befriending—Ryan Maloney. The pleasure was, has been, and will be all mine.
 
Whether you feel you fit the broad definition or not—why are you an artist? When do you believe you became what it means to you?
I am an artist because Charles Manson is locked up, because Jesus Christ is a lie, and because being born is far more of a bloody and painful spectacle then dying. The first time someone told me that what I was drawing was disgusting was when I truly felt like an artist. I believe it was in fourth grade, where I was sent to the school social worker for drawing monsters doing unspeakable things to people.  I am an artist because I have to be, because I feel compelled to put something into the world besides CO2.  My whole life I have been lied to, and promised and threatened and pressured by men under the banner of God. All those people only ever encouraged me to subtract things from my life, and separate myself from the world.  Being ‘worldly’ was to be evil growing up, but now I consider the alternative to just being invisible.  So I paint, write, and photograph unsheathed.

“Fraternus”

Are you influenced or inspired by other artists? Do you think there’s a difference between the two?
I am heavily influenced by other artists. But not generally inspired. For me, being inspired is typically difficult and out of my control.  If anything, looking at art is discouraging when I am uninspired. Thoughts such as ‘why didn’t I think of that’, or ‘Christ s/he is good, I’ll never have that much discipline’, or other such negative thoughts.  But when I look at nature, and photography, and get outside a bit I can get whims of momentum, and within a few days I’m usually gritting my teeth to get off work and throw some penciling down.  I usually have a list of 10 things I want to paint at a time.  Or destroy 10 previous ones. It’s either or.

Besides fellow artists, what influences and/or inspires you?
Biology, botany, fetish, sobriety, medieval art, surreal photography and music. Also not being able to paint inspires me. Like only drinking coffee for 3 days; if you down a cold glass of clean water after that you are probably going to orgasm. Or create something, in my case.  You said besides fellow artists, so I hope that answer is sufficient.

Your own blood is your popular medium. When did you begin using blood in your paintings (or in any other artistic creation)? What led you to the choice?
Somewhere in a lot of books that everyone has read people say that blood forms the strongest bond. And people wonder why I paint with it. I may not live for very long on this earth, but hopefully my paintings will.  Blood work never really took an artistic form for me until my 20’s, but it was a means of dealing with extreme emotional distress before that. Inner thighs when I was young, progressing to ribs and pectoral areas these days. People who cut their arms probably would be advised to not try and relate to me, as I have no patience for it. The old lady at Starbucks shouldn’t feel the need to pet you and tell you she loves you and everything’s going to be OK. That would mortify me. Why would you want that kind of attention? Getting scornful emails, and negative comments in front of your paintings is far healthier in my opinion.  I chose to do it because it releases adrenaline in my brain, and I’m addicted to it. I love to paint and draw, so eventually the two just spiraled together.

Have you always solely used your own blood, or have you used the blood of other people or animals in your work?
I’ve only used my blood but I have made a few commissioned pieces using other people’s blood to paint their live portraits. It always ended badly. Apparently taking the commission was akin to prostitution. And that’s not what I plan on when I pick up a paintbrush. Live painting is anxiety to me. I don’t know how a person can engage in sex acts after spending hours worrying that they are making the victims neck too fat or eyes too bland.  So now I strictly paint in my own. It’s my art, my craft and my madness.  The only blood I would want to mix with my own in a work of art would be another artist, not a bystander.

 “Myself as a Bird”

I won’t inquire the specifics of your blood drawing methods, but I will ask this: do you ever dread having to draw the blood for use in a piece?
If anything it’s the opposite. Though there are days where I look at a finished penciling and as I cotton scrub it down (fading) I get a pang of annoyance at the labor that is impending. Once I start and that rush hits my veins however, the bar is down and the ride has begun.  Recently I’ve been using vials and painting from stored/refrigerated blood for ease of effect and its just nice when you are out of Bactine and don’t feel like being shirtless.  You can’t do this kind of thing and not get a little bit excited about it. If you don’t lick your lips a little bit you should probably hit the hobby store and pick up some paints.

Clearly, you are not the only “blood painter” out there. Do you hold any sensitivity or lackluster involving the field of blood painting?
Clearly. I started this before I knew others existed. I had no doubts that there would be others, because no one invents anything these days. I’ve been gravely disappointed at other people’s ability to give me any credit, since I have a lesser fan base or whatever. But in the previous 12 months time I’ve sold a few thousand bucks worth of original art, prints, and commissioned live pieces, and have had several photo shoots with more on the way, and more orders pending.  So, that pretty much comforts any sensitivities I have about being accused of copying or wanting to crawl up another artists ass.  There are certain individuals that I hold sensitivity to. It’s not in my nature to be forgiving, or overlook things unfortunately.  I’m a grudge keeper, and its horrible immature but immovable. Art isn’t about choosing sides so people can think whatever they want.  For some people art is like changing songs on an iPod, which is a shame.  I don’t paint for other people. I paint for me. If you don’t like it then just hit next.

What types of environments do you create when painting?
I try as hard as I can to not create any environment. Painting the things that I like would just be ruined if I tried to put them in a setting. That’s what photography is for in my opinion. But many a great painting has one form of environment or another that makes it wonderful. I just am incapable of achieving that at this point.

What piece are you most proud of, and why?
Infetish is the one I am most happy with… but I am definitely not proud of my works. I’m proud of people having the courage to tell me that I’m degenerate or fucked up, because I believe that takes more courage than what I do.  Correction. I am very proud of everyone who works with me on photo shoots, and my kitten when he superman slide tackles my painting and forces me to start over and create something better.

“Infetish”

I’m sure you’ve heard about Marilyn Manson’s Antichrist Superstar video being leaked from the depths of his website by a hacker of sorts. With Cerebrot.com unopened to the public, how would you feel and react if someone infiltrated your art in a similar way?
I did hear about it, and was sent the video before I was even aware of an issue or leak or anything. I was expecting something totally different. It showed up in my inbox first thing in the morning before work, I hit play, rubbed my eyes and started my morning with one of my favorite songs, paired with a strange video.  It wasn’t till two days later that I found out people were piss whipped about it. Now it feels like a drunk hook-up. It just kind of happened, it was over before you know it, and now everyone is standing around yelling and pointing fingers and someone might lose their job. Cerebrot.com will be a blip amongst a billion blips. People won’t visit it often, it will just be partnered with my Facebook page to be updated with new pieces and shoots. And the occasional photo-travelogue or absinthe review.

The video was magic. It’s a shame it caused such a stir.

In Plato’s Republic Socrates says, “as [far as the] arts are concerned, then, no art ever studies or enjoins the interest of the superior or strong party, but always that of the weaker over which it has authority.” What do you think about this statement?
Horse shit. Art can absolutely be the authority on the superior party.  AKA critics, or swarms of fans whose wallets can skyrocket a piece to infamy.  Weak and strong can’t be distinguished in the face of art save for the few that can destroy it, or engulf it in recognition.  Art has silence and stirred millions of people for ages. Looks like Socrates didn’t have his little boy the day he wrote that.  Paintings, statues, palaces, jewelry, monuments have been erected for ‘superior’ people and often those are the pieces of art that endure the test of time.  I could just be misinterpreting the quote though. It’s 3:00am.

 “The Light Shines”

Over the next ten years, where do you hope your art carries you? Or, where do you hope to carry your art to?
I want someone to have a cardiac arrest standing in front of one of my paintings in a gallery, and have the person’s family spend inordinate amounts of money on the piece so they can ritually destroy it in the name of God.  Then I would like to attend the funeral and be thrown out. That is success. 

Interview by Alexis Voltaire

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 13

Your favorite movie

Sunday, July 4, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 12

Explain the person you love most

 
     He’s my brother. He’s anything and everything to me, forever and always. He is the only person I would ever consider giving my life for. If it came down to me or him, I would rather it be me.
     Never to worry, for I am here. You have no better protector than me.

At all costs I sought to give that which smothers you.

     I’ve been in love once. When the relationship ended, my trauma was realizing that who I was in love with wasn’t the person I had been involved with. It wasn’t a fabrication on my behalf (“. . .just as today our unsophisticated cameras record in their own way our hastily assembled and painted world.”), but a lot of false play and acting from the opposite end of the spectrum. Largely, it was, “I want to be, I want to be, yet I’ll never be.” (“Pretend all you want, you can cry to your heart’s own beat.”)
     From my end, I believe I was bodily in love. It felt as science defines it, so I imagine it was true despite the diamonoid fixture I directed it towards. I had never felt that way before in or out of love, especially when considering the bereavement I experienced following his initial absence. (“It was plain that he was upset by the loss of that precious object. It was plain. The loss of the object upset him. The object was precious. He was upset by the loss of the object.”)







     Someday, I want to fall in love with someone and selfishly reexperience the emotions I miss everyday. The constant fascination, a joy unexplainable, the desire to dedicate anything and everything I create (“Powerless to utter itself, powerless to speak, love nonetheless wants to proclaim itself, to exclaim, to write itself everywhere. . .”). I don’t hold reservation with trusting another person to the extent I did (“I know that I’ll have regrets, but that’s the price of one more lesson learned.”), but I am a bit wary at this point of a man’s promises if they sound the same. Maybe because it’s still fresh in my mind, but maybe lies are similar even if the people necessarily aren’t.
     More than anything, I want to care about another human being again with familiar passion. I had never felt more alive than I did when I was in love. Everything magnified and glorious beyond the norm, absurdly Nabakovian till the very last moment of fleeing a beheading. A muse, a grandeur inspiration of things I enjoy and dedicate myself too—that’s what I want love for, that’s what I want my altar to resemble.

     As for “the One,” it will be whoever my husband turns out to be. There isn’t a cosmic spider web of humanity separate from the aesthetic play of the popular notion. I don’t believe in divorce for my future. By default my husband will be referred to as “the One.”

Saturday, July 3, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 11

This week in detail
     I don’t remember my week in detail. I couldn’t tell you what I did last Sunday, I honestly do not recall. Instead I’ll tell you some details about my week that I can remember.
  • Finally, I changed my last name on Facebook to Voltaire.
  • At some point, I ate two or three or maybe even four McFlurries. All M&M. I’ve never had another flavor, and may never.


  • I worked out a lot. This morning I went for my first morning bike ride, around 6:45 AM. It felt wonderful, I want to do it again.
  • I watched a lot of movies this week. Cabaret, Copycat, Blue Velvet, The Lovely Bones… I think I’m missing one, too. One movie I didn’t see this week was Eclipse.


  • I’ve read quite a few books this past week too. Plato’s Republic, Dante’s Inferno, Lois Lowry’s Gathering Blue and Messenger, Justin Halpern’s Sh*t My Dad Says. Now I’m reading Nabakov’s Pnin.


  • I got a new Miley & Max skirt today, as well as a really cool wifebeater. It’s too big on me, but it was the only one I saw. I couldn’t pass it up.



     And that’s my week, the bits I can remember.

Friday, July 2, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 10

A photo of you taken over three years ago
 
My dad & Me - October 2006

30 Days to an Almost End series list

Thursday, July 1, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 09

A song that makes you cry (or nearly)

     Fear gripped this moment, hesitating it’s arrival.
     Unanticipated, old thoughts with new endings:
     And nothing in this world is for real, except. . .

 
      Trust me, it’s not the same as it was.

30 Days to an Almost End series list

Thursday’s Thoughts - Theme: Sam Halpern

     I just read Justin Halpern’s memoir of his father Sam Halpern in Sh*t My Dad Says. I remember when the concept was a simple Twitter page that I found wildly hilarious whenever I got a chance to stumble across it.
     I was pleasantly surprised when Halpern showed up one night on Chelsea Lately talking about his new book and a TV show in the works!

     With that, today all the quotes are from the mouth of Sam Halpern.

This Weeks Theme: Sam Halpern
“When it’s asshole-tightening time, that’s when you see what people are made of. Or at least what their asshole is made of.”

“Listen up, if someone is being nice to you, and you don’t know them, run away. No one is nice to you just to be nice to you, and if they are, well, they can go take their peasant ass somewhere else.”

“Sometimes life leaves a hundred-dollar bill on your dresser, and you don’t realize until later it’s because it fucked you.”

It’s July 1st.

     I realized this morning, reading a tweet or something insignificant. Regardless, I was scared, but at least a friend was with me. Disaster avoided. 
     Just reminded on Facebook. Now Im scared shitless, Im terrified. I feel like doomsday is approaching, not the date of my late birth. I feel like the worlds ending, collapsing, and Im at the center past the event's horizon.

      Help me survive the bottomor the center...