Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Postcard #155: "St. Reagan"



Eh.  Sent to someone...

Text:
I don’t know about you but I am so proud that St. Reagan fixed all the gender issues in America during his time in office. Don’t you?

god bless.

T.M.

Monday, May 1, 2017

Postcard #154: "Still Life"




Sent to LV who I felt needed to have a laugh.  

Text:
After retirement my mother worked her way through all the “active senior” art classes my local college had to offer. This was the final project for her landscapes class. My family refers to this as the last of the “normal stuff”. After she took the figure drawing course things started to get surreal. She learned how much she liked veins. All the figures she painted had obvious apparent veins on them. With each iteration the veins got bigger. She no longer drew full figures...tending to focus on particular body parts. Veiny hands. Forearms. Necks. The veins in the temples and forehead. So many varicose vein addled legs...so many. Then something broke. Enormous breasts with dark green bulging veins - broken switchbacks working up to eerily lifelike aureolas. For Christmas, my mother presented my father a painting she worked on all autumn. After peeling back the brown paper to reveal a painfully engorged close up of the shaft of a penis, the room fell silent. Admittedly there was extraordinary detail in the vessels of the prick you’d think the jute rope thick veins were pulsating. My father hung it above the toilet. It’s still there to this day.


Postcard #153: "Game"



Sent via postcrossing to BYCA

Text:
“Game”
It’s midnight, I’m off tomorrow but I am awake fighting to keep my eyes open. The video game I am playing, I beat two days ago. SPOILER ALERT! There are two endings. The planet is slowly changing all those on it…so you can activate a bomb which will destroy the entire planet killing you and everyone else or...you can also let the planet grow to its full potential which I think represents the spanse of all knowledge which instead traps everyone including the ships in orbit...presumably for eternity. Perhaps it’s a metaphor? Being a game completionist I am now playing for the last achievements. To get 100% I have to spend 60 minutes within the in game mazes. I have to be moving to get credit. I have found everything in the mazes and I am literally wandering around aimlessly because I have no aim or goal beyond simply walking around to drive up the clock. In essence I could turn it off thereby “blowing it up” but no, I am trapped… Moving back and forth within tight dizzying mazes I have already mapped out and unraveled to prove to the game I am capable of being lost.

Postcard #152: "Grimm"


Sent to Laura C.

Text: This was found and purchased at the “Grimm” estate sale.  I have no clue if it was featured in any episodes.  There was a lot of stuff.  They must have sent people out to buy stuff from goodwill's or flea markets.  Many of the items still had price tags on them.  I bought belts for a furniture piece I have been working on.  I few jackets that may or may not have been worn by Hank or Monroe.  A mug that may or may not have been in Rosalee’s hands in a morning scene.  A few flannels that may or may not have had a dead wesen in them at some point.  I have yet to finish the show...and they stopped filming and the series finale was a few weeks ago.  I do not like the show as I much as I used to earlier on the show.  It feels like the show is on its way to ending poorly.  “Juliette” is putting on her leather jacket and she is revving her motorcycle; getting in position for a sixth season shark jump.  

Sunday, April 30, 2017

Postcard #151: "Creepy"


Sent via postcrossing to DubbleL13

Text:

I don’t know why I said it.  The picture of the dog stuck out among all my political post and news reports. A picture of a small dog.  Its mouth is open in such a way that it sort of looks like it is grinning. “Cuuuuuuute!” “(: OH EM GEE!” I saw my mouse move over the words “Write a comment…” The caption reads “ZOMG! SO CUTE <3 <3”  I type the words “Looks delicious.”  She unfriended me.  Mutual friends asked me “Why did you say that? It was creepy.” I had no answer, it really could not have been THAT delicious honestly.

Postcard #150: "Winner"


Sent via postcrossing to Wowyna.

I have had this postcard forever. This is one of MY postcards that sit around and collect dust.  I have had this one since I was at the university of South Florida at least 16 years ago.  I put it in a frame and put it on my desk.  There were many times when people would ask me who was the the kid in the frame to which I would usually warmly and proudly utter "my son".  Those marks in the sender section are rust from the rivets in the picture frame used to angle the backing so it sits upright.

I scanned and sent this postcard on November 11th days after the election.  I don't know why I never posted it.  Sometimes scans get lost in my scan folder...better late than never I suppose.  I think the depressive nature hasn't changed much.  I still think he is a bastard and everyone who voted for him or did not vote for anyone are even bigger bastards.

Text: I went to bed on Tuesday night without knowing the election results. Well.  I had an idea and I think maybe I wanted escape a reality that [I] knew was going to happen. I woke up at 3 am.  Tossing and turning.  It was like reverse Christmas. I wanted to see maybe there was a non-Trump surprise waiting for me if I could just go and look up who had won.  But there was a chance I could look up who won and be able to finally sleep regardless of who won.  After tossing around for >45 minutes I looked and I was not stunned but...disappointed.  I was upset.  I could not get back to sleep I got up at 445am and got ready for work.  God bless America.   - TM

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Postcard #149: "for a bowel movement"



Sent a reply to A./A.
Politics and current events have crippled me in my armchair.  I can not have phone calls with people without devoting time to talking about politics.  Which I find dumb...more and more often.  This sort of shit is why I can not let myself on facebook anymore.  This is the sort of shit I want to type into peoples facebook's.  I can't. I am just tired of everything while being tired.

There is always a little voice inside me that strives to motivate the desire for self improvement.  The voice that sarcastically inserts the idea "Hey Tom! Instead of typing furiously into a comment box perhaps you could debate whether you should or should not be on an SSRI?"  I've always been a fan of the concept of entropy.  But as soon as reality starts to devolve into chaos now I am scrambling for some sense of structure.  Some sort of understanding...a mental algorithm to make things appear to make sense to me.  There is no monochrome.  No way to know if I am right or wrong or just repulsive.  I hope I am at least equally all of the above.

I am reading over the postcard now and I am glad I don't have her address.  I am a phony.  Right, wrong, a phony and repulsive.

Text:
"I wish I had your address, but I don't. You just posted something dumb on social media and it took so much willpower not to call you a fucking idiot.  It saddens me that I am proud of myself for that, like it's some accomplishment for not calling someone out on facebook.  I think it's great people are engaged in "debate" but as a friend of mine recently explained when discussing "the validity of facts one person is just fucking wrong and another is wasting their time on a fucking idiot who will never get it." -(J.S.) It is sort of pointless to call you a fucking idiot.  I can not insult you into engaging reality.  I wish in student government or class council I could have asked you, "Hey, do you think when you are older you are going to elect a racist, lying, sexist, philandering coward and businessman in name only to be president of the free world?  Do you think the president of the free world should take steps to ensure it isn't one?  Maybe I should seek a root cause?   Let's entertain for a single moment the unforgivable...that there is no god to repent to and we must rely on our own actions to be good people? Perhaps ultimately there is noone to ask forgiveness from?  We must own our demons and it's our children who must endure the hell that we leave for them beyond our graves."