Archive for trash

Junk

Posted in projects, television with tags , , , , on September 26, 2011 by darcyarts

Chores this morning included cutting the  top section of an old couch into what I hope are acceptable pieces to be collected by the waste management service. I think it will go. Cross your fingers and I’ll cross mine.

This is a bit of putting off the inevitable. Someday soon I will have to call a junk man, a guy with some muscle and a truck, not too expensive, to haul away our collection of outdated electronic machines.

TVs used to be so big and heavy. Computer parts, too.

Dorm refrigerators will die if you stab their cooling line accidentally while in a cleaning frenzy. It’s bad.

I would love to clear it all out and I will eventually . . . soon.

 

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Boxes, Pilgrimage and Paper Lanterns

Posted in Art, dreams, music, socialization with tags , , , , , , on August 25, 2008 by darcyarts

Currently listening to Maureen Tucker’s Life in Exile After Abduction:

I am in the habit of bringing home every small to medium size box that is tossed on the trash heap at my place of work. I have filled a third of my laundry room with a variety of them.

I often send things through the mail. Like everything packing material are costly, so, I recycling corporate waste.

This stack is just a portion of these recovered envelope boxes. They aren’t really heavy enough to use for mailing most things.

Before my last flurry of mailings the laundry room was getting awfully crowded. I almost threw them out.  

I kept them because I knew, eventually, I would use them.

I have hundreds of cassette tapes. Some are the last remaining pre-CD elements of my 80s and 90s music collection. Awhile back I inherited a new batch from a former workmate. Thanks, Larry!

My goal is to listen to everything so I can start making mix tapes for the world. Glory Hallelujah.

Most of these tapes survived my music-loving daughter’s teenage years. We lost a few Stones tapes to wear and tear, maybe a Dylan, too. Those were sad moments, driving somewhere in our beater Toyota, being fully absorbed in the sounds and have the tape snap. I think it happened once as Jessica and I were grooving to “12 x 5.”  Bitter disruption. Oh, well, we just popped in “Exile on Main Street” and carried on.

I now have 20 or so that no longer have their plastic cases. I decided I would make little slip cases out of these evelope boxes. Just something simple with the name in BIG LETTERS so they are easy to see. This is actually “Viva, Roxy.” I’ll have to relabel but that will be easy as I have also collected wonderful white boxes from work that hold labels. It seems they often toss out the last couple of feet of the continuous sheet of labels with the box! 

The white boxes are perfect for the plushies I make.

Here is a lavender whale and an orange squid.

They are from my Etsy shop where I must get to work.

 Christmas is coming in America. Etsy is a good place for interesting, inexpensive gifts.

 

 How’s that? Pretty rich, right?

I say give me the blonde with the golden gloves and the leopard print shirt. Twiddle those knobs, sweetie.

More recycling, something in the warm colors.

 I found this photo on the streets of San Francisco. It had been tossed into the trash and had a bit of food smeared on it. I gently wiped it away. You can see it’s someone’s very special moment with Marilyn.

It could have been a pilgrimage a great importance. Perhaps it was a jealous boyfriend who so cruely discarded it. Or maybe the woman had to quickly vacate her TenderNob apartment when she could no longer afford the rent. I know she will survive.

I used the pliable cork-cover from a champagne bottle to frame the photo and a bit of thin copper wire. Then I laid on some bus passes that Miss Jessica gave me.

I painted the outer frame in red roses. You can’t see the detail easily. I added red stars. Why not?

Geez, it doesn’t look like anyone has scrubbed the walk of stars in a while, does it? (Four planets currently in Virgo).

Charlie Before He Was a Heppie

Posted in Art, etsy, socialization with tags , , , , on July 28, 2008 by darcyarts

It was the summer of 1969 a few months before I began my adventuring and wound up at the desert commune. I had spent most of my life dreaming nature and rock’n’roll and even though I knew bad things happened I was pretty much focused on imagining a wonderful world.

I lived with my grandparents, my dad’s mother and father, and he was staying with us. It was very odd. Like having a strange uncle suddenly in your space. Too close for comfort.

Rumour has it that when I was a small child, I was attached to some father figure.  I’d come to live with my grandparents after I recovered from tuberculosis. I was found once, sleep walking, pounding on the front door, yelling for “Daddy.” I can’t imagine that it was James Mahoney for whom I pined. When would I have formed such a bond? I went to the hospital when I was a year and a half old and before that he was never around. It must have been a past life memory I was acting on.

Here’s a picture of my dad with my granny.  Trouble was never too far behind or ahead of Jim. He fancied himself a cholo. It was the 50s. He was into drugs, bennies and pot, and drinking.

I know this look she’s giving him. I can hear her saying “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Jim.” Responsibility was not his thing.

One thing they had in common both of them liked to dress up.

On this particular day in the summer of 1969 my girlfriend Pat Stinson had spent the night and we were in the kitchen. My dad was sitting at the formica table looking at the paper. On the front page was a picture of Charles Manson

“I knew Charlie before he was a heppie,”  my dad said, in his low-key mumble. He  always said “heppie” intead of “hippie” because non-conformists were hep before they were hip.

It was a matter of fact. He and Charles Manson had spent some quality time together in the jailhouse at Terminal Island, a low security prison near Los Angeles.

 

 

 

 

 

 Pat and I didn’t say a thing. We tried to be cool. One slim degree of separation was unnerving. Do we look like potential Manson followers?

My father was never much of a criminal. Neither was Charles Manson. He was at Terminal Island from ’56 to ’58 for stealing a car, a ’51 Mercury, according to the wiki.

 Jim Mahoney routinely messed with people’s heads.  It’s something he and Charlie learned in a jail.

The most arresting thing about the picture of the long-haired Charlie was the look in his eyes.

He looked pissed but there is also that deep sadness of the fucked-over child, a wounding betrayal of trust.

He would work his menancing look and  become, for the cameras, exactly what he was expected to be  — a crazed fiend. In many an interview Manson attempts to address the psychology of perception vs reality. His raps pretty much fell on deaf ears as the press went for devil-drama instead.

 Charlie practiced working up his crazy look for years. He was obviously bent but it was also for protection behind prison walls. He’d been abandoned, abused and institutionalized, like so many others. But he just managed to find himself in a time where there were plenty of suburban children were open to his jail raps and psych plays. It was all talk but Charlie found he could actually manipulate some of these nasty, spoiled novices. They enacted his revenge against a society that had broken his heart and treated him like trash.  

“Just like hypnotizing chickens . . .”

“Lust For Life” Iggy Pop

 Charlie sky-rocketed to infamy after convincing a pack of  suburban brats to ritually slaughter a number  of wealthy, beautiful people at a home on Cielo Drive in L.A. 

“Look down at me and you see a fool. Look up at me and you see a god. Look straight at me and you see yourself.”

“You can’t kill me I’m already dead.”  Charles Manson

 

 

This is not Devendra Banhart.

This is a card made by Camuscanoe at Etsy.