Haley Bonar - Last War - Audiotree Live

Egon Schiele in 60 seconds

Appalachian American Ennui Conflated with Pictures of Goya's Black Paintings

February 3, 2025: State of Tennessee v. [Redacted]: There I sat until my Motion for a Mental Evauation could be addressed so that my 70 year old client's emerging dementia could become official; requiring, I pray, for a dismissal with prejudice. The defendanat in state of tennessee v. [redacted] was a giant. As he and his dimunitive counsel took position behind the lecturn, an anomalous thing happened; anomalous, that is, in the Third Judicial District. See, Judge Beckner the Horrible started allowing a stipulation to the prosecution report to substitute for a recital of the underlying case during allocution, thus protecting me from the trauma that would have undboutedly come to roost upon the recitation of particularly horrid events. I'm reminded of Riley Eugene Ellison, whose three year old body died after he was burned alive inside of a clothes dryer in Cocke county and the consequent death stabs inflicted against Riley's torturer with a shapend plastic toothbrush. . . I am reminded of little Tabitha, Peter, and Delfina Lillelid and how her indoctrinated, stupid husband, Vidar, got his family, himself included, shot all to hell and the pictures, especially of little toe headed Tabitha with mats of dark blood in her hair. I'm reminded of Kerrick Majors, Ron Wallace, Hugh Huddleston, and too many others. So, there I sat as I sat sitting, when the pretrial detainee was asked to plead guilty "if he was in fact guilty." He agreed and responded to the satisfaction of the court. But the recitation of facts was what cold cocked me between the hemisphers of my brain. After hearing just enough to nail my attention, I realized that I needed to get the hell away from the prosecutrix, whose performance was pure gravatas. Let's get this out of the way. The audible factual basis for the plea was child rape, called Rape of a Child on the charging instruments. Of his own daughter over a cruelly long duration of months, perhaps years. So I left and went outside. Put it this way, I could no longer hide the welling, so I hid my body from the bench, bar and gallery, opting to shut my eyes and stare at the warm winter sun. I went back and forth through security so I could peek into the silent courtroom in order to assuage my mental health that the nightmare had ended, enabling me to work. Errant, I went back inside in order to advance my motion only to realize that the play was at intermission, and started again with a victim impact statement by the deeply wounded victim, who said this: "I was so excited to spend time with my father after so long." I thought I was going to bleed to death, recalling my own inablity to spend precious time with my own children during one of the dark pictures in the nineties, painted in by yours truly. And he rapes her?! How could this have even happened to the redacted girl. Vaginal rape. Fellatio. Cunnilingus. Everthing but sodomy. I wonder what the everpresent, un-in-ter-vention-ist god thought of the horror story as it played out. Fact: Everpresence is bullshit, folks. But non-interventionousness is not. So when the young, overweight young woman with purple hair furthered the impact her biological father had inflicted, I had to leave the gallery. Again. Goya's black pictures are ubiquitous now that I'm old, and apparently still up for it. Perhaps sadly, I'm made for this work.

You Hurt My Feelings | Official Trailer HD | A24

The War On Drugs - Under The Pressure (Glastonbury 2023)

Radiohead - Paranoid Android (Later Archive 1997)

Sue

Strange Appalachian concoctions born from deep poverty combined with genetic dumb luck pulled her up from holler, the corn crib, the smoke house, the barn and the out house and on to the American cultural stage. She laughed much later while telling AIDS jokes as her son's best friend succombed to its serial horrors, designing dinner presentations to nourish those bodies of her immediates that she sometimes loved unimaginably. I was told how she walked to the creek with her most beloved son and flipped rocks for crustacians and amphibians in summer below the covered bridge at Bawcress Farm like she did before being called up from the rusty junk dumped by hollowbillies back home. She deeply and differently loved and despised all but one or two of her immediates, declaring once, "be careful Greg, he's a good shot," but wanted the absolute best for them all with little regard for the hierarchy she created over time. All things to all people she was. But many of those things were soaked in sincere affection for the lucky ones who held her acute attention at the time and in that moment. And all the while, she was constantly on the run, like the terrified bats out of hell, from brown eggs and the waft of warm morning coal from the front room back home that she hated until she went back to visit.

Beyond The Fray Cassandra Violet

Bruce Springstein - I'm on Fire (Anthem for the Chimp Brain)

Chimp-Brain men have no self control and pose a threat of child sexual predation. This very strange, yet beautiful song dives right into the subject and creates a dark anthem to those dangerous men. I observed the young women in the crowd singing along with Springstein and once again I'm left puzzeled by it all.

Not So Sure

I'm not at all so sure that surely goodness and mercy shall follow anyone all the days of their lives. And who really wants to dwell?

Thelonious Monk - Rhythm-A-Ning (Brussels, 1963)

That Parole Hearing That Morning

Shadowy solutions flank all problems. I remember waking early one morning with intense, crushing melancholy bearing down, nearly pinning me to the ground, in the midst of which was my obligation to drive to MCCX in Wartburg to provide assistaance to my cient who was up for parole. I recall the pain that throbbed as I was compelled to look at the interstate ahead en route, even through dark glasses and a tinted windscreen, whilst I suffered. Suffering in motion dynamic. I arrived at the reception area and met with my client's sister who immediately detected the prominence of my my heavy burden despite my weak attempt to hide it. But I got to work, which has always landed temporary redemption. After the presentation of my suggestions for the kind of structured home plan that I knew from experience the hearing officer would appreicate, and the "acceptance of responsibility utterd during my client's testimony, it became time for my summation. I remember closing my eyes and and allowing my suffering to set loose. The acute truth that emanated from my mouthpiece, which my memory still refuses to record, drew silent shock and awe from the prison staff and all the others, I was told such that when I opened my eyes I immediatly knew that the almost otherworldly honesty that drove my words had been very well received, with one guard commenting something about "straight from the heart." I felt so goddamned awful that day and look what happened. I did not recover until later, as is the routine of my chronic burden. But, for a moment, I hit the fucking thing out of the goddammed park. So it is true that both the rod and the staff can indeed comfort. I shall not want. All my wants, spat out, jettisoned into space, made all the difference. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days I have left of my life, but they won't, and that's okay, too. Breathe, my child, it will all be okay, until it's not again.