Cornelius Lightfoot

oil slick decrepit
inward godhand break loose
technicolor paint across the face
chest up, chest up!

Compassion from a false prophet
lose your head to a book
frozen feet to inferno streetside
cliffside brother hold
chest up, chest up!

witness a false idol
the church emits shadows
righteous melodies
spew deep from the basement floor

remember the spectrum
bask in its grace
good hearted landlords
warm bodies
warm floor

lose your mind in a book
lift up the lightness
multi-color tragedies
chest up chest up!

the desert air smells of petrol
minute men matchsticks
don’t say too much
don’t say too much

Realization

Sipping absinthe after a day of psychic distortion I realize my downward vibration. Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel erupts a feeling of passionate passiveness in my chest. Project from the chest. My cup just drained of my last drop for the night, a cup stolen from Denny’s years ago. A self obsessed coffee late night diner impulse leads to this data point in time. How fitting. I say data point mainly for perspective of the whole. Like a candle chart our lives move forward in fluctuation. Ups and downs. Physic and physical ailment averages, creating wax and wick. My hands pull towards my chest as I feel my youthful skin grasp a glimpse of body and mind. I need honesty. I need physical connection. I think of my friends and family at this juncture. A disappointment collapses like chainmail draping with relaxed and divine decent. I crave honesty. Although my open channel for energy is inviting I feel a lack in reciprocation. Only through intensity does the lost translation interconnect between. My coffee stage is waiting. I’m riding the wave atleast until I decide to read what I have just written. In my mind I’m speaking towards the rare connections of recent. I thrive within chaos but fall into vibrations of it’s recess. Riding my bicycle a punch of perception causes my eyes to water clarifying gel with optimum prescription. Like sinking in the belief based quick sand that lies below our feet the only escape is to be still and still wait. It’s belief that I believe can prescribe my redemption. I grew bitter of all the criticism amongst my collective internet consciousness. What is it’s worth. The audio sweeps in rhythm between the ear canals of auditory sight. Believe that an imagined physic vibration lifts us from the descent. Last drag until the first sip then recall. I focus my energy and reverberate. Electric Dynamos placed by intentional awareness create forcefields of imaginable consequence. I recall. I criticize. I shift my gears. I reach now the higher frequency at which I’m meant to react. I concern myself with whether my honesty creates sabotage. Whether noteworthy or not. If spoken, published, presented, or “uploaded”, why must we be so critical with short-term judgement. Love is journey. Where is my organization, my ground.

Ingesting gel encased crystal clears; found atop the ruins of a sand castle civilization. An oil only invisible via vegas capped vision. The sand below begins to shift.

Thomas Hooper (Visionary)

Upon seeing Thomas Hoopers work I was immediately taken by his transcendental subject matter. I imagine him engraving temple doors and relics in a past life. Although today, it’s the temple of the human body. View his blog here.
∞DRAH

THOMAS HOOPER(taken from his bio page):
English-born Thomas Hooper lives, paints and tattoos in New York City; Husband to Kimberly Hooper, father to Clyde Walden Hooper, son to Mary Purfield and Martin Hooper, Brother to Peter & Eleanor Hooper. Having worked for many people including Jim Macairt, Alex Binnie, Dante Dimassa, Simon Wiegand, Mark B, Jay Fish, Thomas now works for Lori Leven at New York Adorned. Born in Hastings East Sussex, he studied Drawing at The London Institute of Art & Design, subsequently moving from London to New York City to pursue his goals in tattooing and art. Thomas Hooper, painter, illustrator, tattoo artist and an editor for Sang Bleu. His pictorial work although directly complementary to his skin-based work, sails far from the world of tattooing to explore a very medium-orientated abstraction. Mixing with ease orthodox and unorthodox painting techniques, organic textures with computer-enhanced patterns, accidental stains with geometrical entities, witnessing an undeniable although alienated legacy from Abstract Expressionism.

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Turquoise cigarette smoke enters the throat, inhaled methodology dispersed in particulate gradient. The hidden dots connect into groupings, fashioning hail. Turquoise hail without shadows below the lead. A film of pigment forms. A pilgrim figment hails a cab. The imagination curses the idea of ambition. So we see. We seed the sewn. Toppling mathematics implode within chambers of beehive real estate. The honeycomb ages into magnetic formations of dust. The obelisk writes history backwards in writhing rearranged molecules. The idea is the source. The source of ideas.

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Nikola Tesla was born today in 1856

Nikola Tesla (Serbian: Никола Тесла; 10 July 1856 – 7 January 1943) was an inventor, mechanical engineer, and electrical engineer. He was an important contributor to the birth of commercial electricity, and is best known for his many revolutionary developments in the field of electromagnetism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Tesla’s patents and theoretical work formed the basis of modern alternating current (AC) electric power systems, including the polyphase system of electrical distribution and the AC motor, which helped usher in the Second Industrial Revolution.

ToneMatrix Live Session Visual Tweak(Full Screen this biatch)

Öngyilkos Vasárnap

Dedicated to the late Billie Holiday, Venetian Snares and Hawkeyes. May Miss Holiday continually be transformed over and again.
-Alphonse J. Hudson

MotionGraphics: WhiteChairSpectrum
3D: WhiteChairSpectrum
Plugins: Trapcode

Soundtrack:
Title: Öngyilkos Vasárnap
Artist: Venetian Snares

July 4th Specstills.

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99

Thomas Edison referred to it as the “Talking Machine”. More commonly known as the Phonograph. I imagine this looping within a framed LCD panel. Shot operating a Sony Ericsson Mobile phone. Original audio from found record. This was an original hand crank Phonograph missing its amplifier horn.

A span of time within the WC spectrum, recorded with a convenient mobile device serving as my visual motion archiver. Mobile phones generally produce a low-quality video, the Sony Ericsson outputs at 320 X 240. The demand for High-Definition video has created a bar of acceptance. If this digital footage was compared to the resolution produced via film, I propose comparing this to 8mm. The charm of 8mm film is it’s inherent and signature film grain, reliant on construction. 8mm film captures at 480 lines of resolution where the SE captures at 320. Mobile video using the .mp4 codec creates artifacts, this happens because the codec groups pixels together in the compression process. 8mm film was created as an inexpensive way for everyday people to shoot home movies. The digital polar opposite of the 8mm classification of shooting is very similar to the Mobile video classification of shooting. Instead of film grain you have artifacts, created to allow everyday people the benefit of shooting video, and each format shoots within the same range of resolution. I imagine video becoming a communication delivery option within our advancing visual culture. Where the communication method resides within a complex and widely accepted visual language. The indefinite imagery is intended to draw attention to the color, texture, and camera movements. Also in unison, withdraw attention from any preconceived ideas of form/construction. The film grain was added to mimic the 8mm film quality and merge the convenient formats from past to future.