netheryonder

It Could Also Be

Just the place you’ve been looking for. Here, there and everywhere. Amongst flowers and seeds falling to the earth like raindrops, like feathers floating down down down into some sort of wrrreckage of twisted metal spines. The breath, moving slowly, oscillating even, round and round in circles as it floats past something that may have never been seen. Pushing beyond the limits of comfort into a place where the silence speaks. The words, lost amongst berries and flowers and the buzzing of spring bees. We sit and watch and wait and he says a word or two. She says something back. It goes on and on like this until the fear strikes. Rapidly and without warning. Pacing about in a brain so stopped up it could just stoop on the front stoop all the day long.

The way you look tonight is on the radio and I think to myself some thoughts I don’t share. I take back promises I made and hold them far too close. To the hip or chest or any which way but out, out there in the wild abyss. The far reaching sentence. The way we once were. It just stares back without any warning, just sits and stares with its two or three little eyes. So hard to tell from this distance. It is palpable, the it is. Whichever one may wander along into certain trapped doom, but then work its way out of the crevasse. With a lip tilting accent so difficult to comprehend. But we listen anyway. We hear the words being spoken. Yes, in this very moment now, beyond the now that was when now used to be then and then became now and we tumble forward on sticky legs, the hairs all twisted together amongst the caps of the knees. “I’ve been here before,” says one to the other. A simple chuckle, a sigh of relief. The recognizability and the comfort that comes with. Just standing right beside, like an old wife in a pretty dress. It is long and beneath her knees. Nearly reaches her elbows and her ankles. The size is not listed, it is hand made. “A fine garment,” she speaks into the mirror’s microphone. The crowd awaits her every word. But she keeps silent. Silence speaks. It speaks of the love of mountain and walking and legs and wind blowing just enough to keep this layer on. Thanks and thankful for that. “You broke her heart,” my mother would say, but she had no idea of whom. Who, wandering around downtown, has a particular handle on the type of sleep one needs to get in order to function on a daily basis. Oh, hi hi ho ho, we shall see, where we walked from the trees to the rocks to the improbably white sands of eternal. The figuring it out.

Like a puzzle piece hidden between two rocks. The only victim is the seeker. The only love is to fall asleep into our sleep. The gratitude is believable, I’ve seen it. Which e’er way you turn, be obliged by the spirits of that turn. Another language must be pursued. All of which, we can end the world and hoping enough of that was real or realistic. The door is open and there is light on both sides. The sleep is coming beside the eyes sinking back into another space. The time is right, the time is right now.

Hello Kitten

I see you in the windowsill and you meow.

I walk past and you hiss.

I sit alone at a cafe and you rub against my leg with your tail arched just so.

You feel soft and warm against my bare skin.

Hello, Kitten.

New Friend

It Couldn’t Possibly Be the same one as yesterday, could it? A forgetful gangster gliding around the general difference of jail cells and prison bars and had done been set themselves free.

“Free at Last!”

long last (in forgetfulness)

in hazy fog (this bliss less stirring storm)

(Finally!)

A mistake has been made,

What we’ve all been waiting for!

What we’ve all been waiting for, a sign of weakness on the front front door, we’ve waited (waited waited) long enough. We seen the crack, the crack in the wall, the veiny vain crack crackling down, starting to drip. drip. drip. We’ve seen the things you haven’t, the things that make you scared, they don’t phase us, we’re so gangster. Talk Real Loud, Yup. YUP. “Ya hear me bro?”

“Turn here…”

“Bro!”

Ah yes! (of course!)

that foggy way (I never knew it even got that cold in California.)

You lost me. (You had me.)

You got me back and lost me again. And now, scribbling inside a cell, the separation like laundry:

whites, blacks, and others.

“They made me sit with others, but I’m really black,” he Speaks Proud when he talks, “and I got blonde hair and blue eyes, hhhyyyhhyueah.” It sounds like that, only he Speaks it so Loud and Limber that I get caught up and miss the turn. “Bro.” Got caught. “like red-handed?” I ask him, and he doesn’t reply. It Gets Quiet. But there is this crack. Thiscrackinthewall.

It Could Be The End Of Time,

Of a long, hard day of sitting still. Who knew, inside a silver pocket, that anything could resonate inside itself? “I will not flail and wait, I will sit and watch, I won’t go backwards, I will move move move!” The distance between us is palpable, but you are coming home to me. The thoughts I hear and see and smell, the rip-roaring currents taking me down a simple street I’ve never been. The agony! The agony! Of doing what is unfamiliar, taking on these hills two at a time, listening for a voice that may never come calling again. “I’m here!” you always say, this morning, a day like every other, the sun rose, the parents awoke on the other side of the country. They went to church. I’m just guessing. It is Sunday. They used to go to church at least. I used to. Forgot. I used to forget. I use to forget. These minutia, little wands waving at me, these little bings of light dancing, these flickers, what are they could they be what what what? Is it my own eyes, the same scarred skin? I have a birthmark I didn’t notice until I was 19. Could that be true? Is it the mark of the beast like the 7th day adventists have printed on their billboards across town? On Lombard Street, near the Golden Gate Bridge, I swear I’ve seen them and I don’t mean the AntiChrists. Where are they hiding? These Seventh Dayers? Where do they say their prayers and are they as afraid and mad as their billboards? And of all places, I suppose San Francisco is least concerned with the AntiChrists. There are far too many options to get that far far down the list. That damn repetition. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. How is it that that clock can rhyme with the sound it makes? Like windshield wipers across an old tin plate? Like rainy day drops tin tin tin on the tin tin tin roof. That plate was just a coincidence. It’s tinniness. What we are really saying is the roof, that’s the trick, the whole kit and caboodle, it could just cave in. In to expectations. In to inviting. In to include someone we’ve found and known and seen before. Seen, in a Biblical sense, but not known.

You Wanted to See

What the inside of my brain looks like

Well it’s no surprise

It’s not hand made

But by bodies together

Bringing life into one

How can it be otherwise?

Fulfilling.

Full Feeling.

It’s messy in here and tangled I hear

There’s more pain and sorrow

Than any one of us could care to

admit

And yet I’m hungry and I have a little money

And this recession will make us rich

in all the things we love and lust, this

rumble is awakening-

This tremble wait and see,

A sea of storms are brewing

Here, inside this gentle electric

beast.

My brain and the f train

They might just be the same

My brain and the f train

They might just be the same

I’ll take it to the last stop

It’s my only way home from here,

These sweeping streets I’ll rise above

But not too high

And not too long

The wind will blow another tomorrow

my way,

And I’ll sing it’s next day songs.

“Hey, Hey, Back Door!” I was trying to help.

(Help!)

But driver kicked em all back out

The whole dang mess of hooligans,

Yelling and laughing into

sweet, sprinkling San Francisco

Friday

Spring is waiting

Winter’s waning

Night

Lights.

The Right Place

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, you ma’am in the back, Bowie the dog, my lovely wife, we have a very exciting show tonight, welcome to the netheryonder, repeat after me: it is as it sounds. a vortex inside an abyss. “I’m game.” she replies, and takes my hands, as we gently float above our heads into inner space, yes, oh ye, a happy place to be and want and need and know, this is the place we all must go, directed by a tiny light, aflicker in the dark/cold morning. “A choice to be made!” she screams as we fly, “Always, yes, every minute,” I think but do not say. “Not what you expected” I expected to say, nothing but silent silent stillness, sleepless in a sleeping town, nothing but silence keeps coming out my mouth. The spine loosens as we twist and turn, keeping all eyes on sights unseen, targets backwards, forwards, each way I turns my flashlight. Turned on, turned over, turned ovens side by side and shoved in as many loaves as I could. “The man is hungry,” I finally manage to say. She asks nothing, but produces what becomes my breakfast. It has been too long, not enough, moving on. Shake me, shake shake me, move me, move move me. Repeat after me, it is as it sounds. a vortex inside an abyss. reveling over and over and abundant joy lifts your certain skin until it’s all the way off, lingering just long enough to watch itself be set free, and floating, floating on beyond until these tiny layers hover apart, always up and towards the tiny light, looming larger. “It feels fun,” she recounts as she falls apart. We intertwine into bodies greater and more spacious, we feel the looming air between our bones, keeping us safe and lonesome amongst friends and family. There is this longing, this stopped up re-counting, more arithmetic and the puzzle shapes up. Moans and moans into itself, like the shadow of arithmetic burning. “False hopes,” she speaks again, but not with muscles, not with her beautiful obiculoris oris, entertwined with mine, sipping invisible clear glasses of burnt burgundy wine. “You heard,” the words she had not spoken, the question’s mark was unneeded, the answer understood. The simple exchange could be our first, won’t be our last: exchange and the exchange rate: exhaustion or work, keeping at a certain distance, keeping voices and minces and dices straight and narrow and the exact right size, nothing shaped like a loop exploding, how to explain the inflation, the space taking up, the shrinking, pulsing feeling that only one at a time can see, “Does it have to be me,” I communicate, knowing the answer full well and in spite of whoever’s self, “Who can be ready? Who can be tamed? Who will be let through and who will be blamed?” There is a secret circle, just inside a secret house, when you get to the place above the stars, you can sit and rest, but the body doesn’t mingle, the flesh and bones may die, bury them or burn them up, it’s a choice somebody makes, let’s hope they cleared their plates, the last meal could be coming, pass the butter, pass the steak, if I could heat it up in here, perhaps I would become the way I’ve wanted. If I could see the things I taste and hear the sights I see, the world inside could turn me out, inside a wandering me. Meander down a hallway, she speaks, she grins, the obiculoris oris teases so subtly, like a word I misread in my youth, and it sticks with, these memories, of whoever and flowering above, sit and sit and sit and sit and sit and – “Sit and what,” again no question, the answer is as it sounds. The math is found, it is it’s own, the view is nice but is it lonely to be the only one? what if everyone else is also the only one. The answer without the question, the selfsame morning moment, fading into dusk, watching the mind watch itself watch the sun. How many degrees? And then we float back together with our bodies quickly and gaze into each other’s new eyes. The circumstances are changed, but the day is the same. It is tomorrow always, always yesterday, always always all ways is today. “Did you have something left to say?” She politely asks as she packs her bags for a city we’ve both seen. With our two very real eyes. Felt. With our two very real skins. Back back on body, front staying put for now. Before we fall apart again, I’d like another kiss, could you oblige? “She reads my thoughts,” I say instead and hope. Worrying beyond some form that I’ve actually said what I heard come out of my mouth. The panic subsides, my heart beats quickly as my breathing returns to sacred lungs. Thank you, I think and speak, but at this moment, skip skip skip. Flit and flack among whatever could stick around. There is music oozing from these bones and I can see it. I walk right past. It is green and it smells as it moves down a silly crooked ally in a space I’ve been before. I follow my lead, feet moving automatic, “Home,” and as simple as that, I feel them move, they keep going, and ask me in a sweet voice to do the same. “Try and keep up,” they giggle at me. “I’ve been through a lot today, fallen apart and put back together, inside a place I’ve never been.” The laughter grew, from all around, surrounded, and I felt I heard, “YOU! I’ve never heard such a thing! It was we who fell apart, and you who stayed put, the selfsame place you’ve ever been, the world revolving around you! YOU! a laugh! a lark! of course you’ve found something clever, thinking you can claim these, hers or mine, why, some of the tendons have stringed themselves together, you’ve become something of the one and same, trading all along.” If I ever understood, the time for thought was now. The time for moving on had passed, plastered on a thick green wall, the music oozing, freezing the passers by. “You’ve felt it,” says my heart, “The stillness, but you were afraid and froze it up, mistaking the quiet for emptiness, it couldn’t be more the opposite, everything you know has gone upside down, when this happens, you turn to me, but otherwise, where am I? In some space above your head? Absolutely not, but the engine motor keeps running, say thank you if you please>>>;”

The Human Factory

WHO: The Human Factory

WHAT: Art & Music Exhibition

WHERE: Gallery & Bar 4n5, 863 Mission @ 5th, SF

WHEN: November 17, 2012, 5pm-12am

COST : Free

An eclectic collection of local emerging painters, printmakers, sculptors, dancers, actors, illustrators , jewelry designers and filmmakers is what you can expect as you walk into Gallery & Bar 4N5 on November 17. The Human Factory opens its doors at 5pm for Happy Hour, and features live painting and music until midnight. The event is free.

The Human Factory is being co-produced by local art collective Cloudship Creative and theatre company PianoFight Productions.

PianoFight, widely known for their sketch comedy productions, has broadened its focus to include dancers, filmmakers and artists who will help breathe life into the space at the 4N5.

This will be Cloudship Creative’s inaugural show since the group’s founding in 2011. The collective is made up of recent alumni of the San Francisco Art Institute, as well as husband and wife team, Andy & Ariel Hansen-Strong.

The partnership between the two groups stems back to an outdoor theatrical production,Roughin’ It, which is produced annually at the Tomales Bay Oyster Company. Before, during and after Roughin’ It 2011, Cloudship artists hand-screened t-shirts to order as part of the show. A little over a year and 5 t-shirt runs later, the visual artists will let their work take center stage.

Gallery & Bar 4N5 is located at 863 Mission near 5th St (next to Good Vibrations.)

The Human Factory will feature work from Lynsey Ayala, Hannah Barnard-Henke, Kersey-Barrett-Tormey, Jules Berger, Daniel Burke, David Burke, Gonzalo Desepulveda, Dylan Dingle, Molly Evans, Adam Fischer, Kellie Flint, Brian Gibbs, Danielle Hacker, Ariel Hansen, Alex Jenkins, Amy Locke, Ken Reichl, Rafael Roy, Emma Shelton, Andy Strong, Evan Winchester, & Duncan Wold.

http://www.facebook.com/events/366483410106358/?fref=ts

The Adventures of Tom Tom – Real Real

Another timely timeless update from the realm of Tom Tom. Just because his public adventures have been on hiatus, doesn’t mean that things haven’t been getting real real for Tom Tom and Leroy Tambourine. According to webcomic legend and as advertised in the softcover copy of “How to Make Webcomics” lent to me many months ago by Evan Winchester (Evan is a very understanding book lender) the standard thought is that the first 100 webcomics you make are just the starting point, a chance to find the voice of characters and solidify their world. Well, universe, according to the google search, “The Adventures of Tom Tom PianoFight”, this is the 21st web comic edition of The Adventures of Tom Tom. So take that, all, only 79 more torturously inane comics to go until things really start to heat up.

Aaaaaaand 78…

Yessss,

Andy

PS – J/K, J/K, no plans to make them less inane.

Spies Are Real Instance #437 of —

I had just begun these works and a space appeared to show them.

Spies Are Real, Whoa, Nice, Weather & Infiniti Rainbow Hands – early progress, circa early August 2012

SPIES ARE REAL

I began working on these Tom Tom paintings in hopes of fulfilling my as yet unfulfilled promise to myself to create 111 Tom Toms. The intention was originally in regards to an absurd comic strip, The Adventures of Tom Tom, which celebrated hastily drawn bunny-men happily or aimlessly travolting in their mundane to strange daily affairs.

Tom Tom was born Tom, getting weird in the deserts of the Badlands with my NCSA classmate Chance on our post-college-graduation Fear And Loathing Across the Country Trip of a Lifetime. As simple as an interaction could be, I looked to my starboard side and spied a bunny, who was curiously curious about our giant intruder human affairs. We were perched on rocks next to the sunshine & he was in the shade. I immediately and thoughtlessly dubbed him “Tom.”

“Hi Tom,” I said. Chance and I laughed, he repeated, “Hi Tom.” We laughed. This repeated.

A simple joke for our two day tenure in South Dakota’s epic foreign wasteland known as the Badlands (insert advertisement for WALL DRUG here.) : we dubbed each animal Tom and called them by name as we wandered through the weird/wierd/weird landscape. All things became Toms: Lizards, birds, buffalo, bugs, and of course, bunnies. I reiterate that this was a Fear and Loathing type trip here, leaving out the details in case all of our mothers are trolling the internet to find this. (spies are real instance # 17)

One of the more memorable moments was getting entirely too close to a buffalo who was (unbenownst to me) guarding his (then unseen by me) herum/flock of other, gigantic multiple-ton buffalo beasts.

“tom!” I whispered to the buffalo, inching within conversational distance.

“get- away ! from him- nooooow!” whispered Chance. He could see what I could not, the herum-horde of others, waiting to be alerted to stampede around the hill that I could not see around and pretty much trample a super happy human to death.

Long Story Short, there’s the name Tom, Tom.

Messy Indoor Studio Space, circa a couple of weeks ago. I had actually just taken down my checklist that I am about to refer to, dang it.

So I decided, after reading some advice on making checklists with boxes to count off getting stuff done from Austin Kleon, author of Steal Like an Artist & keeper-upper of a firmly more established website, http://www.austinkleon.com, that I would overly ambitiously commit to 111 Tom Toms, and made this big checklist and decorated it. I made probably 3-8 more comics after making the checklist, admittedly intimidated by the thought of creating such a long-standing anything. So don’t take advice from Austin Kleon? Well, maybe. I am working to check off the boxes on my current project, which involves the larger scale paintings to fill in where the comics left off.

Since beginning the Tom Tom paintings in mid-to-late-July, through a chance meeting through a friend of a friend’s sister being in the gallery I am about to mention, I stumbled into/onto a place to show these new works, a space in downtown SF by the name of Gallery & Bar 4N5, and am in the process of facilitating a group show where (at least some of) the final Toms will debut on November 17.

Passion, Fashion, Weather Trilogy. Works in Progress circa mid-august 2012. Me excited to tell whoever will listen about my new project, and here we go.

Progress. In this photo you can see the 111 Tom Toms challenge check list next to the paint can on top of the cooler in my backyard, the bottom middle of the photo.

digital dust ezra

the thought always returning,

bending,

swaying,

music in the background,

playful,

playing,

records spin on analog lines,

but not this time,

not this time.

off to work.

love, andy

Author Archives: netheryonder