I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.

Watercolors
Gouache
Colored pencils
I miss my notebook
The one I made
Holding my earrings
He has cried with me, maybe
Looking at the sky
Can't see my feet
Passing through the trees
Remembering no one's eyes
The cars are big
Can't catch my voice
Someone asking me :
''Are you beautiful ?''
And I say :
I'm depressed
I had beautiful skirts
Colored pencils be beautiful
I like to draw myself
The ovaries of the boats are empty
I gather the sands at the beach
The sky will remain blue with the sea
I don't know why I still don't like to makeup
I think...
**** pictures increase the depression
And it's only I who must have seen
the copulation of two crows
at the university
I can hear Farinoosh and I laughing
I will not forget Shekoufe
And Pouria that curly hair boy
I used to play with when I was four
Gave me a swallow...
And I like to draw myself
In the arms of my mom 'a scarves
My scarf was green with red dapples
I used to ride big dogs at fun fair
Eating candies
Hadn't my sister at that time
I was three...
As I got to six my sister came
with the Lion King
I remember that morning with my granny,
hanging from the terraces
I thought, the snow was snowing in the summer
Just like the cartoons...
I 'be always had strange feeling for the sun
I can't describe its warmth on my skin...!
I have dark circles around my eyes
I've lost my moon-star earrings
I can't swim in the sea
I should wear scarf
And I think I will feel death sooner
Where I can't take my mom and my sister
As I know very well that my
husband's black shoes would be
much bigger than me
For the sky to rain there must be a cloud...

آبرنگ
گواش
مدادرنگی
دلم برای دفترم تنگ شده است
من آن را درست کرده بودم
گوشواره هایم را داشت
شاید او هم با من گریه کرده باشد
به آسمان نگاه می کنم
پاهایم را نمی بینم
از روی درخت ها رد می شوم
چشم های هیچکس را به خاطر نمی آورم
ماشین ها بزرگ اند
به صدای من نمی رسند
کسی از من می پرسد
تو زیبایی!؟
و من می گویم
من افسرده ام
دامن های زیبا داشتم
مداد رنگی ها زیبا باشند
و من دوست دارم
خودم را بکشم
تخمدان قایق ها
خالیست
شن ها را در ساحل می چینم
آسمان با دریا آبی خواهد بود
نمی دانم چرا هنوز میل به
آرایش کردن ندارم
...فکر می کنم
تصویرهای سکس افسردگی را بیش تر می کند
که فقط من باید
جفت گیری دو کلاغ را
در دانشگاه دیده باشم
صدای خنده های فرینوش با من می آیند
شکوفه را از خاطر نمی برم
پوریا
پسری مو فرفری
در چهارسالگی با هم بازی می کنیم
...به من پرستو داد
و من دوست دارم خودم را بکشم
در آغوش روسری های مادرم باشم
روسری من سبز بود
با خال های قرمز
در شهربازی
سگ های بزرگ سوارم
اسمارتیز می خورم
هنوز خواهرم را نداشتم
...سه سالم بود
وقتی شش سالم شد
خواهرم با شیرشاه آمد
صبحی را با مادربزرگم یادم هست
در بالکن آویزان بودم
من فکر کردم
برف در تابستان باریده است
شبیه کارتون ها بود
همیشه احساسم به خورشید غریب است
نمی توانم توصیف کنم
!!...گرمایش در پوست تنم
زیر چشم هایم سیاه است
گوشواره های ماه و ستاره ام را گم کرده ام
نمی توانم در دریا شنا کنم
باید روسری داشته باشم
و من فکر می کنم
مرگ را زود تر احساس خواهم کرد
جایی که دیگر نمی توانم
مادرم و خواهرم را با خود ببرم
همانطور که خوب می دانم
کفش های سیاه همسرم
از من بزرگ تر خواهند بود
...باید آسمان باشد تا ابر ببارد

well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.

Summer 1986 Sunday 5:30AM

Misty morning in Malibu.
Seagulls stitch the sea to a subtle
silver sky. They sputter stridently.
Each elegant gull hovers effortlessly.
Entreating each other. Echos bounce
off the sound of the surf into eternity. The screeching of many a
soliloquy akin to silence.

I sit on the pier. The water before
me washes onto the staccato legs
of tiny waterbirds who wander
in and out of the surf. Little
windblown ***** of ecru and grey
wool. I worship in the womb of
the great goddess ~ nature. I wasn't to know the Creator was watching patiently...

6:30AM
I make my unhurried way up the
pier to my car. A cheap but
comfortable convertable. Nobody
walks in LA. I punch in a tape.
Don Henley. Boys of Summer.

I take PCH up to the incline that
takes you from the beach. Pushing
the pedal slightly as I slide by the
colossal bleached cliffs of
Palacades Park. There the homeless
sleep under the benches dedicated
by friends and family in
rememberance of loved ones.
Small plaques attatched for
posterity.

My hands are on the steering wheel
at 7 and 12 o'clock.I look at the cast
I wear on my right wrist. A token
of rememberance from an angry romance. He and I parted
respectively, if not at all
respectfully. I drive.

7:00AM
Venice beach. Not yet boysterous.
But never boring. The young people
(and old) still bundled together in bed. Saturday night hangovers will
be had by most of the denizens of
Venice beach boardwalk. A grainy
eyed few wander around abstractidly. Shopowners enter
their buildings, their storefronts
almost as small as booths. Graphitti
and giant works of art grace walls
everywhere ~ Jim Morrison and
Venus in workout leggings much
in evidence.

I smoke my cigarette and drink my
hot coffee carefully in the open cafe'.
I consider the eyefest of the crowd
that will congregate here to enjoy
the clement weather.
The cacophony and the clamor.
Touristas and Los Angelinos alike
drawn In by calculating vendors
and coyote souled street performers.
I look forward to seeing the
non conformity usually. But not
today. For now I sit in the quiet cafe'.

Venice beach. Vulpine. Vacuous.
A strangely vunerable venue. The
***** and the beautiful. The talented and the ******.

A street performance pianist trundles his acoustic piano on
casters out onto the boardwalk.
I ask him if I may play. He looks
at my cast doubtfully.
"I can still play..." I tell him.
He ascents and listens thoughtfully
as I play my compositions. He really
likes them. I ****** the ebony and
the ivory with insistant fingers.
The smile on his face is irrepressable. I smile back and we
flirt in self conceous, fitful fashion.
Time to leave.

9:00AM
Radio is on in my car now. A cut
from the musical Chess. One night
in Bangkok makes the hard man
humble... I like the driving beat.
I'm going up I-10, a single blood cell
in the main artery that brings life
to the flesh of this mamouth town.
Traffic is tenuous. A boon here in
this conjested city.

I drive to Fairfax and Sunset, where
I lived with in a tiny one-bedroom
apartment with my mom. An
ambitious actress. I an ambivalent
artist.

Sunset. The Roxy and Whiskey-a-
Go-Go. Cartoon characters Rocky
and Bullwinkle casually cavort on
the top of a building. Billboards
as tall as the Hollywood sign. The
street of broken hearts for many
an actress -slash-model. They
wander about on street corners
looking haughty and haunted.
Waiting for who knows who to
honk. Their dreams have flown
away like the exhailation of smoke
from the mechanical lungs of the
Marlboro Man. Schwab's drugstore
and diner. The place where some
famous starlet was discovered.
Delivered into the arms of the
Hollywood machine. I opt to go
to the Sunset Grill.

11:00AM
I'm walking down Hollywood Blvd.
Perusing shops and persuing
pedestrian pleasures. Everyone
talks of the star-studded sidewalks.
To me they look tarnished and
filthy. Stars from a sultry smog
laden sky come to earth. The names
of some of the folks honored on
them I don't recognise.

I'm here to view movies today.
I'm definitely not going to
Grauman's Chinese Theater.
Been there. Done that. Gave the
very expensive T shirt to
Goodwill. I look around at the
proud and the plebian. The pedantic
and the pathetic. No prostitutes
out yet that I could see. Probably
toppled into bed to sleep
(for once). Deposed kings
and queens of the monarchy of the
night. The homeless hobble along
with their hair matted and askew.
Shopping carts with stuttering
wheels de reguer.

A couple of tourists with Izod shirts,
plaid shorts to the knee and deck
shoes sans socks gaze in a shop
window. It's borded by tarnished
and faded silver garlands... tinsel
Christmas tree.
"Want to buy a mood ring today?"
One of them querys his buddy,
laughingly.

I find my small theater and enter
the air conditioned lobby. I purchase
a soda and pass on the popcorn.
As I enter the theater's modestly
plush, dimly lit cocoon sanctuary
I notice very few patrons are here
for the matinee. GOOD. I finally
watch the premiere product of
Los Angeles. Movie after movie
slides across the screen. The callus
morally corrosive corporations
conspire with the creative to produce
the culmination of many art forms
in one. Cinema.

LA. Languid. Luxurious. Legendary.
Rollicking, raunchy rodeo.
Seaside city. Sophisticated. Spurious.

SPECTACULAR.

8:00PM
I wend my way up Mulholland Dr.
Another tape is playing in the deck.
One of my favorites. David + David.
Welcome to the Boomtown.

I pull over at a deserted vista. From
this viewpoint I can see the city
spread out like a blanketfof brilliance. The gridiron of LA.
Glitzy and glamorous. Generating
little gods and goddesses. A gigantic
gamble for the disingenuous and
gouache. Tinsel town. Titillating.
Tempestuous. Only the very brave
bring their dreams here... or fools
rush in where angels fear to tread.
All but the fallen angels. They thrive.

Oh! If this place could be bottled it
would be such sweet poison. I
look up at the auburn sky and back
down at the breathtaking panorama
The metropolis that is LA with awe
and angst. I carefully stub out my
cigarette and flip it irreverantly
toward the lagoon of lights.

I get in my car to drive home.
Home?
Could this imposing, inspiring,
impossible place be called home?

Well. Home is where the heart is.
And I live in the heart of a dream.
This is the city of dreams...

CITY OF ANGELS.

Soul Survivor
Catherine E Jarvis
(C) 2005

froths in lichen:
gushing on its bark,
it looks like pollen
was smeared on in
yellow gouache,
ulcers spread to lick
on to each branch.

I let it take over
in the way you
spread your arms
over bed and torso,
in the way your kiss
through the mornings
paint my cheeks red.

a loop in upper atmosphere today
with a model's figure of grass
to postpone his next canvass

this desire to retouch in a wanton lapse
his brush fitted in a cloud
and he steamed aloud  

a bubble's glow in a tip of the pen
to exclaim foment
as shape blew doctrinaire
with clasps of tarter  
where his strokes were ardor
that trend would enhance with finale
while he deeply supplanted the soul

a good too many
snaps and cracks
from the skeletal forest
a gentle brushing
from an acrylic wind
that promenades itself
on marble toes
that crack and shatter
in gouache throes of
violence that
gilds the branches in
flowing starlight
a craggy ribcage
of sprouts and succulents
that paint a scene with
watercolor irony
an eager scrawling
of earthbound rabble
that hops freight trains
and skips life away
a conflict of self
flourished in opals
and ravished in
scented velvet
a good too many
fears and
desires

All I want is a stick-up light, so I can read at night,
between my bedpost and bedside whiteboard
beside the baseboard,
outlet occupied by a black power cord,
the bookshelf, both coffeemakers,
the power strip duct-taped to the cream brick wall,
the bush outside,
the sidewalks, the brick walks,
the burnt caramel steel fences separating Washington babble
from Lyco small talk.

With one touch,
I’m lying against the wall
on acrylic-painted stretched canvases,
photo booth strips, a brick and sky scene,
gouache and ink sketches, that Giant
receipt with teal pen in the margins,
and developed photos of storm
troopers, ****** microwaves,
and forklifts moving trash sofas
around from film class.

I've said too much, I've lost my head, I've given up
I have nothing left.

The parchment paper rips down your throat.
As you tear your voice down every note,
The word “ihateyou”
**** every song.
A chill in the ear is a bell tones throng.

Believe that somethings wrong, cuz it ******* is! Believe that you're in love, cuz you're a ******* kid!

You cannot hold onto,
Stuffed blankets and pillows,
Live by a matchbook,
Head next to the gallows,
The heat from a sun has now died with the billows.
No air or ox-y-gen is capable resuscitation,
To stoke up this flame from dead coals in this bastion,
Each illusion is frozen by the heat ******* electron.
Division/deviation from a path that I abandon.
The futile, failure, falling to the knees view of a god that I do not cling to.

This songs about existence,
The pain in a distance,
Reminiscent,
Of a horizon,
Built on grandeur and heart omissions.
****** by a necropolis,
Of soul stealing black hole mouths.
Forgotten by its maker,
When the heartless chopped him to the ground,
Fraught with false oaths.

Suburbia disintegrates to ash and leaking gouache.

Bleed out.
Bleed out.
Bleed out.

You cannot see me but     I am
Somewhere           Underneath
The surface      Just underneath
About to break       Always still
Just            Barely           Under      
A gilded barege of light  Shifts    
Liquid leaves in gouache   Fall    
Trinkling             Over my face.

Sometimes you can hear not with ears, but with a skin: with your fingers on fabric, with your hair sinking thought the palms, with your muscles on anxious joints.

Sometimes you can hear not the music, but emotions. Words, voices, harmony, rhythm, — all of them are spiralling into one multidimensional Rubik's Cube; all of them are thickening into a rich hodgepodge of colours; and then you can’t understand if the drums are ringing inside of your brains or if the song itself is closing its eyes with joy.


Sometimes you can hear nothing.

And nothing can sometimes hear you.


Today you hear winter.


Being on the ground floor it’d be like being outside.

Your elbows are on a windowsill. Your droopy eyes are chained to a sleepy late-night path.

You are therefore one short step from that path: just breathe and touch the earth with your cosy socks. The earth is chubby because of yesterday’s raindrops.

Smells like roaring lorry. Hears like water and warm winter.


The colour palette is in shades of a half past four morning.


On the opposite side of your street your neighbour still keeps Christmas: the garland made of white-blue lights flickers during four finger taps, and is lit during three. One-two-three-four, one-two-three. You can almost hear ‘Fantaisie Impromptu’ by Chopin. Right. Four. Left. Three.

That white-blue trembling sneaks into puddles along with the low smiles of lanterns further down the block. The blue glow is dancing, the copper illumination is dearer.


The cat runs — grey mouse — grey stain — on the canvas.


The windows are like card backs in Tarot spread on the walls like on the tables.

The windows are mirrors, and the mirrors are caves.

The windows run with perspective.

With the cat.


Tell us, sky! Do you exist? Have you been always franking us? Both on the left, both on the right one cannot find a difference. Your colour is lullabying.

Your colour is dual; at first glance it’s pure blue-plum gouache, but looking closely… The sky is scarlet. Scarlet as a wisp of a tapestry.

The scarpestry breaks through plumouache.


Suddenly a little white twinkle hops into winter, and suddenly dies.


Your heart has grown to your tongue root and to your little alcove under your ribs, and the heart is writing-writing-writing, and is escorting passing cars, and is fuming-fuming-fuming, and is sweating like in a sauna.

It’s dribbling outside.



Homely.


Nothingly.

Think, rich and heavy, like flattened layers of gouache paint slathered onto a canvas, meant to portray peeling layers of pearly alabaster, glowing white stripped away to reveal dusty blues, steely grays, and muted purples.

Of artists blocks
and charcoal pencils
lines drawn
blackened white
with hearts the stencil
gouache pastels
in dusted hues
smudged
whetted thumbs
by moistened lips
colours gently bruised
with fingertips
stroked by brushes
firm tipped certain
outside the frame
of loves drawn curtain
softly washed
in watercolour fade
the painter plays
loves serenade
emboldened strokes
in oils dramatic
his canvas laden
replete
climactic

© J.C.

Of artists blocks
and charcoal pencils
lines drawn
blackened white
with hearts the stencil
gouache pastels
in dusted hues
smudged by
whetted thumbs
from moistened lips
colours gently bruised
with fingertips
stroked by brushes
firm tipped certain
outside the frame
of loves drawn curtain
softly washed
in watercolour fade
the painter plays
loves serenade
emboldened strokes
in oils dramatic
his canvas laden
replete
climactic

J.C. honey- tiger 09/08/2019.

where can i lay my old hands
these days
35 seems so close.

i haven't had a child
i feel like an orphan.
my music doesn't suit me
i'm too young to feel this old
i never moved to new york
i never started my band
i never painted for hours
with oils,
and gouache.
i never loved you,
i never held you like a lover,
i held my own body too closely.
i watched my hours
too swiftly
you are not enough for me

oh here i leave you everything;
my gentle comfort and the way i used to love you

ill leave you with my questions
my "can i's",
i'll take back my keys
and the decade of my woman
You made things so hard

okay, okay I’ve had enough
2003 was so long ago
And it’s all I remember.
How much more can I take of this time

on a blue theme

new with gouache

come lately


hermes delivered
they know where I live now
learned quickly
after the first mistakes

we have to be brave and strong
like always
like we done before

we draw the ways we walk
daily

now in blue

though we wiped away the second coat
of paint

Use me like a canvas.
I prefer mostly blues and purples,
Smear those colors wherever you see fit.

Sharp palette knives, soft round brushes
Acrylic, watercolor, gouache, charcoal
Pick your medium.
I'm just your canvas baby, you call the shots
And I can't say no.