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click the image to see the large version and details HERE'S WHAT THIS PAINTING IS ABOUT The clown is me. I'm in this place in my head where I like to go for an alternative to the 'real' world**. I sit alone in the dark late at night when I can be secure that I will not be disturbed or distracted. I sit in the darkness with only the illuminations of a few small ambient light sources. I used to light candles, but I don't use candles anymore ... (here's why). I surround myself with my drawings and paintings and my collection of dead animals, skulls, fetish objects and masks ... and I drink alcohol ... and I take psychedelic drugs. I do this and I begin to see and hear things. I leave the 'real' world and begin seeing and conversing with apparitions. At times I have sunk through the floor into a place where I speak to the dead. Other times I rise up into a black secret stratosphere where everything is intensely black, Blacker than any Black seen by human eyes. Only reflections of some far away dim light exist to show forms and features. In this black place high up, I become like a spirit myself looking down at the world with some supernatural secret understanding. In this place the wind whispers ancient languages to me ... Most of these memories leave me when I return. However, I bring some of it back. I think these are places beyond death. Perhaps I have crossed over into a place of the dead? Perhaps I go to a netherworld between life and death? ... perhaps it is where I will be when I am dead? I am fascinated and curious beyond words. I return to these places whenever I can. When I am there, there can be no doubt of the existence of God or the Devil. There is no doubt of an infinite number of beings, in an infinite number of dimensions. There is no questions of faith in the other world. But here, in this world, I doubt and question everything. Which place is more real? What is more real to a madman, the invention of his madness, or the rubber room of his existence on Earth? If you were in a dreaming coma for 50 years, what world would be more real, the life you live in your comatose dreams, or the bed you lay in while your body slips away from disuse? I have tried to take others there with me but that does not work. If they see where I am they become afraid. If they see who I'm communication with they become afraid. If they don't see anything they are afraid of me, because I'm no longer who I was, and become as unpredictable as a stranger. OK ... I know what most of you are thinking. He's a crazy drunk geezer who gets so loaded that he thinks he's in some other fucking dimension. Well, yea. That's probably right ... I'm an alcoholic and a drug user***. I believe that these places exist because I go there ... in my mind. So ... Who knows? Who cares? I'm aware that I'm dying. No, I have not been diagnosed with some life threatening ailment. But believe me, we are all much closer to death than we think. I am obsessed with death ... I think of death and dying every day. I know that the sands in my hour glass are going to run out and there's NO guarantee that I'm not going to blink out like a TV set and become oblivion. That's why I hate fucking around doing all this crap I don't want to do just so I can not become homeless. I resent doing ANYTHING I don't want to do! (** I hate the everyday 'real' world. I hate it because most of my time is used up in the mundane efforts of seeking food and shelter. All I really want to do is spend time in my head, externalizing the images that I see when I'm there through my drawings and paintings.) There's not a fucking thing I can do about it though, so I do what I must the best that I can, and take whatever time I can to create art and visit the death dimension in my head ... I don't give a fuck. (*** What I'm telling you is NOT advise for anybody, unless perhaps the advise is to NOT do what I do ...That's fucking lame and hypocritical I suppose, but there's a dear price to be paid for the places I like to send my consciousness. I do not go there with impunity. I have fallen to terrible places using drugs ... and it is no small miracle that I'm alive to write these words. Who knows how much fuller my life could have been? It's what I am ... You are not me, and you don't want to emulate me.)
Is this the artworkl of Satan?!? (This comes from the guestbook) Concerning the letter that appears in my guestbook dated Sunday, January 21, 2001 at 19:36:02 from 'Thus Spake I" First, I want to sincerely thank those who wrote indignant letters in response to TSI. However, I gotta say ... I think this is one fucking cool ass letter! I am not offended by TSI's words. I love the first sentence, "I find your artwork one-dimensional, stale, and dead." ... Yes!, My art is stale and dead because the world I see is stale and dead ... That's not all it is, but that's a hell of a lot of it. When TSI writes, " Yours is third-rate art, third-rate philosophy" ... Sounds like a promotion to me. I was thinking more like 6th or 7th rate! Please ... I beg you to rip me apart! All I ask is that you do it with intelligence! This letter is intriguing. Tear me to pieces! Expose me for the phony that I am! Just do it with a little wit and style. I think that TSI is putting us on a little. It's difficult for me to accept that a person who writes with such eloquence is also a person who believes the dogma which this letter asserts. My guess is that this is someone flexing their melodious muscles, probably in a few moments of boredom ... I'd have a hard time coming up with shit this good unless I hired an add agency! ... For instance; "Your art gallery is but the vomitoreum of the damned." "The subjective and objective manifestations of demonic thought transferrence bleed on every piece of art that you vomit." " The liberty of your living crypt is the tyranny of the flowers of life." WOW! É THIS IS FUCKING GREAT SHIT!!! This person is not stupid enough to think that I worship Satan. This is someone who has graced my guestbook with some interesting words ... AND with some insightful words as well; " You are not the last, nor the least, but only a wilted flower child of the '60's." ... Ouch! ... Got me there! ... I hated the hippies because they wouldn't let me join their clan! They tortured me when I took their L.S.D. They set my long hair on fire! Then rebuked me when I took Heroin to escape their mocking laughter. He pushed another button when he wrote; " Marmoreal soul'd fat and old, the soul you sold was flat and cold" ... I am an aging pot bellied geezer. My mental faculties are rapidly forsaking me. My body is covered with unidentifiable growths and blue translucent moles sprouting thick black hairs. I seek both remembrance and oblivion, oblivion when I remember and remembrance when I forget that I don't really want to remember. Seems like TSI called my shit a couple of times there É But I have to admit, I don't know what the heck "Marmoreal" means. So, to TSI I offer an avalanche of thanks for submitting something clever ...
I find your artwork one-dimensional, stale, and dead. For leading innocent young people into the depravity of your moral abyss I give you this poetic kiss: Marmoreal soul'd fat and old, the soul you sold was flat and cold... You gave your precious, eternal soul for filth and slime and Satanic trifle. Had you even the slightest idea what eternal punishment beyond belief awaits you when you die, you would have crawled to give the nearest Catholic priest your confession, and would have become a great saint. You paint quaintly and faintly in a tapestry of typical Satanic rantings. You don't believe in the Devil, but the devil believes in you. Your paintings are his pantings. You are proof that the devil, the fallen angels, and their silly followers have lost. You are not the last, nor the least, but only a wilted flower child of the '60's. You gave your will and the dark, maddening, crawling members of the Kingdom of Darkness fill your soul. You are trapped, a perfect slave to the Devil. The REAL one! The subjective and objective manifestations of demonic thought transferrence bleed on every piece of art that you vomit. Your art gallery is but the vomitoreum of the damned. But try to be free. Freedom is the ability to perceive reality and to act to do good according to it's fearful symmetry. For the tyranny of beauty eludes you... You have gone willingly, for a few peaces of silver, into the vacuum of necrophilous existence...the liberty of your living crypt is the tyranny of the flowers of life. Mock on, laugh at beauty...lead the procession of the damned weaving, and heaving, and sobbing, and throbbing like a bleeting heart in the mud and squalor of an existence without compassion, mercy, truth, or love. You worship death. Suicide is your 8th sacrament...but you give homage to the truth of Christ in your ribald mockery of his creation. You are a follower, a little possessed puppy too scared to dare to break free of your bondage to demonic possession. Even the solemn rite of exorcism cannot work if you are too weak to will against the damnation you have chosen. you are frozen. Yours is third-rate art, third-rate philosophy, and cowardice in choosing evil as your muse and accomplice. You are the grandest follower of them all...you have given your spiritual freedom for the noose of cheap evil tricks. For you cannot create but only imitate. True art does not imitate life, but is the process of giving life as an extension of the continous creation of God...a confirmation of all that is loving, good, and true... I bestow upon you and Marilyn Manson, the great muppet caper of the century award for deceiving yourself into thinking that you are anything but one of God's creatures in rebellion...silly little cupcakes that you are. Have a nice day. :-) --Thus Spake I (TSI for short) 7Angel7@aol.com New York, NY USA - You are on Page 5 of 'Connett Speaks'
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