Back Again

Paranoid Drawing number two

A Driveway Drawing

Paranoid drawing of the day

Movement

Theater Piece

4d

4e

Glyph1

Picture Writing

Woman sitting

Lady in a Parka

The Miners

A Major Event

Factory

Seagrim's Egress-5

Seagrim's Egress-4

Seagrim's Egress-3

Seagrim's Egress-2

Seagrim's Egress-pg 1

Seagrim's Egress

Gas

The Counterplot

Chapter 5-Mufflers and Silencers

Tremble is doing some sleuthing of his own. Convinced that mufflers hide but do not bury noise pollution he is busy negotiating an entrance into his local scrap-yard when he is accosted by a driver who simply says: ‘You’ll rip your suit. Go round the side.’ Brand new beetle bugs, limousines and convertibles are being squashed into nice compact squares and the crushing man has no qualms about explaining why. ‘This is a win win. We’re all making money! The makers fulfill demand before it is even there. The fitters and skilled workers are satisfying their deepest creative urges. In the act of making and destroying there is a power briefly grasped that allows everyone to fleetingly feel what it is like to be a shop floor supervisor. The consumer is content to have owned or leased, however briefly, a thing of beauty and awesome power and they willingly pay for the privelege! Their want of the newest and the latest, their need to compete and out do is so strong they never doubt the demand is there and so they perpetuate this smoothly running machine. Demand is increased and covers the cost of crushing brand new cars for which I am eternally grateful seeing as that is my job. In essence the buyer pays for two cars each time but they only get home with one. We have to crush the second otherwise they’ll sit on lots, take up rental yard space and generally cause raised eyebrows. We cannot let the consumer think they can easily afford a second car. The Oil Age would peak all too soon—mind you probably not before we’re all dead from Ozonitis. With that the Crusher gets back to crushing, a big contented looking man who no doubt has a big contented brood waiting patiently for him to come home and envelop them in his great big warm and fuzzy mechanic arms.
Tremble asks if he can look around, removes a box from his car full of scrapers, tiny glass bottles, dental floss, staples, rivets, batteries, rubber stamps, screw drivers and so forth and heads over to a corner of the yard where sits a rusty ford pick up full of old chicken crates. Reaching underneath he nimbly removes the muffler, the evidence, he’s sure, will clinch his case and get the Big 8 thrown in jail.

Another Homeless Graphic

Gone With The Wind

The Wireless Operator

Near Sighted

Tile

Wet Ash

Chapter 4-Axis to Grind

Tremble Skelt, Digital Cowboy, has a companion, E. S. Cort, sidekick and sleuth, who has a major in stress, but provides some comfort for TS on the rare occasion when physical affection is called for. They’ve reached an impasse with the super powers concerning greenhouse gasses-YES greenhouse gasses. As the lower house guesses what the upper house is up to Edward is scrubbing the senate floor. In this disguise she is observed by no one and thus is free to eavesdrop overhearing the quick verbal exchanges and light banter of govt officials and miscellaneous representatives as they skid across the polished tiles, emerging from taxis, entering elevators, slipping a fiver or a ten spot to gophers and inbetweens, receiving kickbacks and big sacks from lobbyists and sighing about the weakness of the coffee. She observes one well respected politico remove a position paper from his briefcase and throw it with great and public indignation onto the very marble floor Edward has just finished polishing. He stomps and stumps on the ruddy print out. The petty bureaucrat in him has reached its zenith. She almost blows her cover as she reaches for the ranting gentleman’s collar and slowly pulls him to the floor where he is briefly forced to look at his own most embarrassing reflection in the mirror clean tiles and rub his nose in the screwed up balls of bills yet to pass and promises yet to keep. A deep voice says: ‘I’m more polished than you will ever be.’ When he looks up his assailant has gone and he is alone next to a mop, and a bucket of filthy soapy water in which he sees his emptied out wallet floating stupidly. Edwards, his thug and sleuth side amply fulfilled, decides to give full ear to his feminine side and goes off to get his nails done.

The Trimmed Lamp

Why I'm a Collective

Simple-a lot of me fit in one skin.

Graffic

Abdominal Surgery

Streetband

Ike

Why Bruxist?

Why Bruxist?

Frankly why not?

I cannot name my blog after me without feeling this slight curdling within. If ever you should try to Google me (and I am not suggesting I am any more interesting to Google than anyone else) you’ll land either in Russell’s Christian website or Bertrand Russell’s Why I Am Not a Christian, neither of which are me…which makes me want to grind my teeth. Come to think of it that is exactly what Bruxism means? It is the tendency to grind ones teeth at night and damage the enamel on them—which encapsulates nicely my tendency to gnash my teeth when confronted by the News, or possibly a new exhibit, movie or book. But I’m not so interested in reviewing stuff as in reviewing my reactions to the world around me or my creative life in relation to it.

What that means I am not sure. I do see a glimmer of what this is all about which I’ll nurture here. I’ll add crumbled up dried up leaves and see what happens.

Fire is ire without the F.

War is over and over

Shakeonit

Bugs

Messenger