posted and written by caroline picard

something i’m working on/messing around with….

When someone dies you adopt what they didn’t finish.

Upon the death of her biological mother, Lydia inherited many ghosts—the ghost of her mother, the ghost of her mother’s mother, the ghosts of her mother’s mother’s mother. The influence of these spirits led to any number of confusing interior sentiments. Upon the death of her biological mother, Lydia was pulled in many invisible directions.

Nevertheless, she had felt the ghosts before her mother died—hanging around like buzzards in the hospital room. As Lydia trimmed her mother’s fingernails, she felt the ghost of her grandmother fanning herself on the spare, plastic chair in the corner. Her grandmother felt to be bored. The aura of her boredom permeated the room in pyschic waves that were, surprisingly, deflected by Lydia’s own physiological impression. Lydia was aware of imprinting something new on her mother’s consciousness—her mother who lay, prone, suffering. The sweet old bat was skeletal beyond recognition with feet too-large and pigeon-toed and numb; her head looked giant in proportion; her belly swollen with lymphatic fluid; her lungs they cried like mawing cats when she breathed, filling as they were every hour with more lymphatic fluid.

Grandmother Ghost sat still in a yellow suit, nyloned legs in black pumps tucked up under, unmoved, chewing gum, ripe with perfume.

Her daughter needed and needed and needed and Lydia saw all the hungry holes in her mother’s heart, riddled as it was with starving toothy mouths, each one whining it wanted to so bad badly. Because the ghost-mother never fed them, not one of those mouths—
no no no
That dear grandmama: instead she had long ago planted the seeds of those many mouths in her baby’s heart. She planted them when Lydia’s mother was a little girl, before Lydia was born.

How? you ask.
When the child has reached the age of two, slice into the lower part of your gut, just above the ovary, in the lower intestine. Cut beyond the epidermal, past the muscle. Collect the pitch blood in a glass jar. Stored in the fridge, it’ll keep many days. Over the course of the child’s second year, you are to put a teaspoon of this coagulated paste in each and every meal.

The paste is full of small parasitic eggs. These eggs travel to the child’s heart and one out of one million will roost there, hatch and graft onto the child’s heart. They are eternally ravenous, impossible to sate. They feed off the bloodstream, intervening at the place between the left hand (where energy is drawn into the body) and the right hand (where energy is put out). They feed off that energy. In feeding they desire more. They shit into the blood stream. Their shit collects in the lower intestine, where, over the years it ferments and bubbles. The residue of that pitch steam intoxicates the interior mind, enhancing intuition and self-deception.
Like her grandmother, her mother had a hungry hungry thing for a heart.

Good thing Lydia had bits of bread in her pocket and she fed the little mouths of her mother’s heart over and over and over again, placing these small bits of bread—a little wet and spongy—she placed them in her mother’s left hand where the body drank them through the epidermal layer, into the bloodstream—to the heart.
Additionally, Lydia sat still, lullabied, pet, spoon-fed, consoled, wiped the sick from the brow of her beloved. Tenderness. Patience. Separation.

Those things she’d learned from the man she visited in the dark room, the one who sat with her as she wept under blindfolds. The secret man. He had given her a purse full of breadcrumbs.

The ghost of Lydia’s grandmother was not tender, but sat in the corner in a yellow dress, younger than Lydia had ever seen her, the ghost sat blowing stray hair out of her face, waiting for her daughter to die. She often sighed, and sometimes disappeared entirely.

When her mother urinated the room went rank with the smell of gasoline.


posted by Caroline Picard

Here is a link to Devin’s reading!

here are some images from two new spaces that we looked at….

and the upstairs….where we might possibly put the gallery space?

and the creepy basement…

Or. The Other Space. With a pre-existing bar (which would be amazing, of course)–

and the other upstairs apartment that would function as the gallery-space (there is also an apartment behind the bar which could, ostensibly, be the bookstore-space)

Free Sound Portraits

August 25, 2010

posted by caroline picard

read more about this by going here.

August 21st – September 10th.

Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, 6-9 pm

Saturday: 10 – 7 p.m.

Opening Reception September 11, 2010, 7-10 pm

What Did You What Me For?

August 25, 2010

posted and written by caroline picard

I received this postcard in the mail (the image further below was on the other side of the card) and, as a response to Sarah, I decided to create the following…

Who is Olaf Borge?

Olaf Borg is not the fellow who threw himself off of household rooftops.

Nor the one who sailed on his one-man ship in search of the sublime, in the fashion of those priests who sailed away on upturned shields in order to meet God proper–

The priests who sailed into unknown seas, into the nothing, most drowned, fulfilling themselves that way. Doubtless they all went mad with dehydration, though some some of the most curious caught a  current that bore them along from Ireland’s coast, through delusion, onto the banks of California.

They must have assumed they’d found a real paradise. They must have stripped down, wandered about looking for the Tree of Life.

Without a God, it was the most lonely and bewildering place to land after a journey.

–The one who sailed the one-man ship he left with a chorus of amateur singers everyone applauding art project  turned  suicide.

Olaf Borg never took such things so lightly. He was, on the whole, a happy man.

Unlike his brother, he did not aspire to be a Tony Stark, chasing after the windmill of some imagined masculine identity. Rather, he bit his nails, spitting a little as he spoke due to some ingratiate enthusiasm.

He admired big ideas but didn’t often posess them.

His last words, “What did you what me for?”

posted by Caroline Picard

I got this note from a friend of mine who runs a small low-fi record label called Colonial Recordings. I thought it might be of interest….

Hello!  I wanted to send a note to say:

a) I’m still working on the first Contras tape reissue.  I have all of the files digitized and sounding as nice as they can, but am still working on the art.  Not working in an office  sucks for one reason: no more unlimited access to the photocopier.  Still, I should have something ready for you all sometime next week.

b) I’ve set up a couple of Soundcloud pages, both of which let me post a set amount of audio.  One is filled with recent bootlegs from shows groups Jess and I are in (it’s updated after each show).  The current crop has sets from the Contras, Motorcycle Money, the Science Jerks and Cosine.  The second one is going to be for bootlegs of shows Jess and I have gone to but were not a part of.  Right now there’s a tape collage thing I made for our friends in Radical Dads, and a set from the CPP’s Chris Andersen’s new comedy rap group, The Happy Rappies.  It was just set up today, but I’ll pad it out with other recent tapes, and will update it as new shows happen.

Both pages are set up so that you can download MP3s of the posts if you like, or just stream them.  The Colonial-centric one will be updated over the weekend with tonight’s Shamblers set (should be good– the slowest song we do at this point is a cover of Bodycount’s “Copkiller”), which’ll knock out the oldest one… you get the idea.

There’s also a full recording of what is still my favorite show of 2010 over here:

posted by caroline picard

A friend of mine posted this link on my facebook page and it made me very very happy.