kafka

When I die, please pile all of my creative work high on the pyre.

Burn it all down.

Please don’t go through it all, re-edit and assemble it for sale,

and then make a million dollars from my sad,

overworked corpse.

Kafka was firmly of the opinion that if they don’t want it now,

while it can do me some good to sell it,

they can’t have it later,

the bastards.

He worked full-time, NOT as a writer, throughout his life. He would come home tired from long workdays and stay up all night writing.

I’d have been pissed too. They always blame his lack of confidence in his own work- but I think, deep down, it was his fury that he had had to work so goddamn hard all the time while lesser authors had the leisure and funds to write, and to enjoy their lives.

Every time you think “I wish he had written more” ask yourself- when is the last time you PAID A CREATIVE PERSON for something, and spread the word, so they’d have time to write or paint more? People didn’t pay HIM either, so there’s your answer. He never had time, because he had to pay the rent. That’s how most creative people tend to live- I am lucky because my day job is art too, but even so, it’s not free, it’s not MY WORK wholly. Even so.

ok, ok. The story of Carl Panzram.

 “I was so full of hate that there was no room in me for such feelings as love, pity, kindness or honor or decency.”

Carl Panzram was born at an odd time in American history. In 1891, in rural Minnesota, he was born into a poor farming family. His father left the family when he was 7. Brought up in an atmosphere of swift and merciless punishment, and unending toil for little or no reward, Panzram learned early that the world most likely hated him, or at best was indifferent.

Unlike most in this situation, he decided to return hate with hate, and indifference to suffering with callous disregard.

“The older I got the meaner I got.” 

The nation, in Panzram’s youth, was suddenly much easier to traverse. He was one of the first traveling killers. Canneries, industry, and labor disputes were common during his lifetime- the fact that child labor was being seriously defended by those in authority at that time did much to warp his perspective. He began his violence very young, and at the age of  eight, fighting and attacking other children. He was sent to a reform school at eleven. Reform schools and prisons at that time were not dedicated to rehabilitation- punishment was the purpose, and Panzram experienced several years of sodomy, beatings, forced labor, and starvation.

When he was released, he was primed and ready to take revenge on the world.

 “I first began to think that I was being unjustly imposed upon. Then I began to hate those who abused me. Then I began to think that I would have my revenge just as soon and as often as I could injure someone else. Anyone at all would do.”

In 1906, after another failed attempt at reform school, Panzram hopped a train out into the world.

“I fully decided when I left there just how I would live my life. I made up my mind that I would rob, burn, destroy and kill everywhere I went and everybody I could as long as I lived.”

He was almost immediately arrested for burglary and imprisoned again. At the age of 14, he was fully grown, man-size. He was able to escape, and began burning churches as a hobby along his travels. His fierce hatred for religion had been beaten into him during his time at the christian reform schools. He had begun to rape anyone and everyone he came across that was vulnerable; his anger was not limited by gender or age.

Panzram changed his name during this time, and wandered west again. He eventually enlisted in the military; he was court-martialed and sentenced again, almost immediately, for burglary. He was sent to the federeal penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth- an old, brutally-managed prison.  He was treated as an adult, since it was not known that he was only 16 at the time. A code of silence was strictly enforced there, solitary confinement and whipping were the chosen punishments.  He was there for four years- breaking rocks for ten hours a day, every day. when he left he was stronger and angrier than before.

I’ve found that I simply can’t do Panzram justice. His ability to express himself, and the sheer amount of information in existence chronicling his life, are overwhelming to me. He is a nihilist inspiration; he was the epitome of misanthropic, all-encompassing-hateful badassery, and his story is told very well and with thorough attention to detail here. You can also, like I did, buy his autobiography, which he wrote while in prison.

I hate to be a quitter but I honestly feel that my writing ability has broken under the weight of detail available about his life.

Perhaps I will come back to this post later, and take another run at him.

other, more successful stories in this series:

http://resonanteye.net/2011/11/08/ok-ok-the-story-of-ed-kemper-with-his-mother/

http://resonanteye.net/2009/07/10/ok-ok-fine-the-story-of-the-cannibal-armin-meiwes/

http://resonanteye.net/2009/07/10/ok-ok-fine-the-story-of-issei-sagawa/

not a morning person!

I have never been a morning person. whatever that is- I have always struggled to stay in bed.

I have trouble getting to sleep, you see. and so when morning comes I have trouble waking up, too.

But here I am, at 9:30 AM, reading and writing and setting up the drawing board.

I will be at the shop today from noon to nine, if anyone’s been trying to get some time, call the shop later on today.

 

ok, ok. The story of Ed Kemper (with his mother).

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Ed Kemper was a large man. He spent most of his life in very small spaces.

He was, unlike many killers, more than willing to openly discuss both his crimes and his feelings about them. Unlike most, he did not pretend to innocence or argue his liability. He also spoke freely about the urges he felt, and their origins.

“When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things: one part of me wants to take her home, be real nice and treat her right; the other part wonders what her head would look like on a stick.”

He was fifteen when he killed his grandparents. He said that he had killed his grandmother “to see what it felt like”; also, he was angry at them because they had taken away his rifle. Most killers will try to justify a crime, by giving reasons they think anyone might have done it. Kemper quite openly admitted that curiosity about killing, and simple anger, were his main reasons for the killing. He then killed his grandfather, as well, most likely to prevent retribution or further punishment. It was also a way for him to leave the living situation, as he disliked living with them.

“…my grandmother who thought she had more balls than any man and was constantly emasculating me and my grandfather to prove it. I couldn’t please her. It was like being in jail. I became a walking time bomb and I finally blew. “

He was imprisoned for these killings until he was 21. During his confinement, he was diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic and tested with a fairly high IQ. He was an intelligent person- but his mind was a bit broken. Whether the diagnosis of PS was accurate or not (diagnostics at that time did not recognize sociopathy or ASPD as proper diagnoses) could be questioned. (He is currently being treated for paranoid schizophrenia.)

He went to live with his mother when he was released.

This was probably a bad idea.

(more…)

alsea, oregon

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my green heaven.

photo of my commute to work.

yay!

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one of my most adorable clients is sitting half across the room in front of me, listening to the band. “tonight’s about Anji Marth, that’s her decadent decay on the walls! it gives me a hardon, does it give you one?!” the singer on stage yells.

my cute, perky, completely normal client turns around beaming, and in the silent pause shouts in a wee, happy voice- “I LOVE TO FUCK DEAD PEOPLE!”

at an earlier moment in the evening, a jolly young man with absolutely no warning fell flat from his chair onto his back, cracking his head flatly, and lying completely unresponsive in the center of the table area. “is he dead?” someone asked. people gathered around, cradling his head, talking at him. someone has died at my art opening! visions of infamy danced wildly before my eyes until he arose, bleary. he was led to a safer chair and left with friends shortly afterward, crushing my daydreams.

I had a conversation with electro hippies in fluorescent green fur hats about craft fairs, moderation in party times, and mentoring the young in a scene. I spoke with a woman who has done the Saturday market for 34 years running and who enjoyed the contrast between my work and the landscape artist next door. I also spoke intently to a man with a fear of spiders, a man who was in love with “galore” (the boar head mount) and a woman who was fascinated and repelled but wanted to know all about bone processing.

I had a great night. I also saw some old friends long missing from my real life, spent a bit of time with a good old friend I miss every day. and of course, enjoyed the gentlemanly presence and aplomb of Hawkins.

all in all, except for my crankiness from fatigue, an excellent night.

my work will be on display all month at the speakeasy. I’ll be back there on the 9th to bring a few more prints and listen to the excellent Mendozza … thanks everyone who helped make tonight happen and everyone who came out to support or buy my work.

ready for the art show!

Labels ready, statement ready, credit card machine set up, everything is set…

and I am still nervous.

 

I always am, I’ve been doing shows for over a decade and I get nervous as hell every time.

Wish me luck folks.

 

Oh yeah, side note: here’s my facebook art fan page, if you’d rather “like” than “add”.

I don’t bite, drop me a line! Or come on out to the show. I love seeing internet people in real life.

skellytons and candy, it must be halloween!

some tattoo work from today. so, so fun. color and black and grey, from one extreme to the other.

a few more things for the speakeasy art show…

just one more of the works I’m finishing up for it! Starting to get nervous and excited. the pre-show butterflies are starting up. will people like the stuff? will I sell anything? will I get too drunk to know?

and how on earth will I manage to explain my damn self, let alone my artwork, to a room full of people?

hopefully the music is loud. See you there.

get your own tree from me!

I’m doing commission trees right now, if you’ve liked the trees I’ve been posting.

email me at resonanteye at gmail dot com, to get one!

You pick the colors (up to 3) and the species, and whether you want roots,trunk, or branches to be the focus of the artwork. The one pictured here is a pink and grey oak…with the trunk the main focus. right now I’ll do a 9×12″ for under a hundred dollars- larger sizes, or full sized trees, may be more.

I’m looking forward to making these; I love drawing trees.

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