One of my recent "digital action paintings" is featured on The Attic Which Is Desire. The painting, titled Foreign Policy Recidivism, was achieved through rapid and intuitive application of Photoshop selection tools, color alterations, and filters piled atop one another.

Like a Jackson Pollock or a Clyfford Still might intuitively "dance" with paint to produce abstract expressionist images, I hope to emulate instantaneous decision-making and image-forming in the digital medium.

The Attic is a haven for art and poetry, open 24 hours a day, world-wide.

To An Imaginary Lover, An Exuberant Poem

Were you expecting this to be a sex poem?
Because it is
It’s about how I don’t want to have sex with you
How I find you beautiful from sky to floor
From curve to curve
From your arc to your tangents
To the notches of your spine
From your sandy splayed toes
And tree branch irises
Your oceanic laugh
To your snowflake hands
I want to walk with you
Hearing that laugh
I want to see your furrowed brow
As we struggle to talk
Dig the right words out of the loam of thought
I want to hold you
Around the waist
Or the shoulders
Silence saying everything
Saying that I’m listening
Saying that we’re in accord
Not in our ideals
Not in ideas
Nor opinions nor tastes nor favorite colors
We are in accord of a different sort, a different variety
We don’t have to agree
We don’t have to gain moral leverage
Or slap down the upper hand
We are here, at this moment
In two separate bodies
This is not a love song
It’s not flirtation
This is admiration and honor running over
Curiosity overflowing
I can drink from you without kissing
And fulfill my thirst
So spin me on your loom of ideas
Weave my essence into your yarns
I am a canvas of tectonic textures
Volcanic, pacific
Wild and writhing
Waiting
Pursuing
Being waited for
Being pursued
Life is collaboration
Unconscious focus
The memory of blinks and breaths
The memory of blood cells
The carbon dioxide that seeps into trees
The prehistoric ferns and cracked machines
Rust, dust, waste, rubble and dead leaves
All etched with prophecies
The map
The answer
The truth
Elusive because it’s obvious
Redundant in ubiquity
Redolent in embryonic antiquity

Need my questions
I’ll need yours
Can you hear me?
See me?
Are you in this room?
Are you real at all?

I want to be in a musical comedy with you
Under-rehearsed
Perhaps ad-libbed after many glasses of wine
I want to be in a dramatic reinterpretation of heroic events
I want to be buried alive in a stroke of orange paint
I want to flow through forgotten underground culverts
Discharged into oceans that laugh
Waters that buoy me up
Every wave flashing late afternoon sun
Unfiltered starlight
Or morning’s pigments
I feel it in our veins
I breathe this in our lungs
Would I vanish, if you ceased believing me?

Drive carefully, friends -- Mom Nature is full of illusions. There are beautiful ones like the fall spectrum of oranges, reds and purples. Then there are potentially deadly ones like Black Ice.

Natalie and I had left Traverse City around 8:30 p.m. the evening of December 27th, headed for Lansing. I followed my usual route, taking M-72 east through Kalkaska, swinging south just outside Grayling onto M-93 and taking it nearly to the gates of the National Guard base. There we turned east again onto Military Rd., taking it a few miles to where it joined up with the freeway, US-127.

It was misty, and the mist had been settling onto the road surface, accumulating and freezing as an invisible film of ice.

The salt trucks had been out ahead of us -- the road was covered with little white granules that rattled off the car's underbody. Just south of Houghton Lake, we caught up with one of them and passed it. We were going around 60-65 miles per hour, and had cleared the truck by about 30 yards when all friction on the road surface disappeared.

My 1991 Volvo 740 Turbo wagon began to go into a spin. I have pretty good ice instincts -- I took my feet off the pedals and steered into the spin, correcting it. And if there had been any dry pavement at all, that would have worked. Instead, the car spun the other way, towards the median. Again I corrected and again the car continued to slide, now toward the righthand side of the road. The car left the freeway, went into the ditch, and into a dense thicket of saplings and trees.

We impacted some of the trees, but not hard enough for the airbag to deploy. There was the sound of breaking glass. Miraculously, neither Natalie nor I were injured at all, though steam was pouring out from under the hood, so I shut off the engine. The salt truck driver stopped and came down with a flashlight to check on us.

"I thought for sure you were going over," he said. He called the State Police and a wrecker, who showed up shortly. We sat in the State Trooper's car as he filled out an accident report and the towtruck driver cut some trees out of the way so he could winch the car out of the swampy patch of ground we had come to rest in. The front right tire of the Volvo was bent out at an unnatural angle, the hood was bent, but the right side of the car behind the passenger doors had gotten the worst of it. The rear right quarter panel was caved in and the window above it shattered out.

As we sat there in the patrol car, a minivan that said something like "World's Best Elvis Impersonator" on it pulled up, and a man in street clothes (but with sizable sideburns) stepped out and asked us if we needed any help. The officer said no, but I thought that was nice. Thanks, Elvis!

"Well, I'm going to write you a citation," said the officer, "for violating the basic speed law. Even though you were going less than the speed limit." Great. Just what I needed, I think as I look out the window at the shiniest car I've ever owned, crumpled and wedged into the trees. "You see, if you had been driving 70 mph and nothing had happened, that would have been a safe speed. But since you were driving 65 and got in a crash, that was an unsafe speed." Huh?

Well, I bit my tongue and thought I would fight the ticket. Both the officer and the wrecker driver were of the opinion that the car was totalled. I'm waiting to hear from the insurance adjuster, but I'm afraid they are right.

Natalie and I spent the night at a Quality Inn in Houghton Lake, and my friend Ande picked us up on his way downstate from Traverse City the next day. While I'm sad about the car -- I'd had it only about three months and was planning to keep it for several years -- I am extremely thankful that no one was hurt. I couldn't forgive myself if Natalie had been injured. I also have a lot of gratitude for the salt truck driver, the State Trooper (despite the ticket), the towtruck driver, the Elvis impersonator, Ande, and the night manager at the Quality Inn who was very kind to us.

I also owe a big thank you to my car -- it did what it was supposed to do and protected Natalie and I. If indeed it is a total loss, I will miss it dearly.

So watch your step traveling: you can be driving slower than the speed limit and still get in dangerous situations. I'll be wishing you safety this New Year's!

If you're like a lot of people, you still haven't bought or made me any gifts for the impending holiday season. "Why not?" you may ask yourself. Well, the simple answer is that you just don't know me well enough -- you don't know my tastes, reading habits, clothing sizes, etc.

That's OK -- I prefer gift certificates. Music stores and book stores are always a good bet. I could blow quite a chunk of money on music and books. But if you've seen the way I dress, maybe a clothing store would seem a more caring choice.

I know, I know -- it all seems so impersonal. So here are a few personal gift ideas that will make my eyes light up:

1. Anything orange -- 25 watt orange lightbulbs, orange underwear (any style), oranges, or orange tubes of acrylic paint.

2. The latest Modest Mouse CD, "Good News For People Who Like Bad News." Much as I enjoy it, I have yet to throw down cash to own my own copy.

3. Homemade stuff -- bread, cookies, beer, wine, furniture, anything goes really.

4. Art supplies: canvas, acrylic paints, brushes, stuff like that.

5. Write me a poem, compose me a song, paint me a picture. Quit saying you have no talent -- that's bullshit. Talent is like a garden, it grows if you pay attention to it.

6. Spend some time with me. I really already have all (well, most) of the material stuff I want. I'd rather go to a concert with you or just go get coffee.

Thank you for helping me help you. The old axiom is true...it's better to give than receive. So put that into practice by giving to me! All seriousness aside, I wish all of you a safe and fun holiday with family and friends, and a peaceful new year.

-- Peter

Some fun stuff happening with my musical interests...

First of all, I'm assembling a compilation CD of independent music. It's a diverse mix of lo-fi and hi-fi, raw and polished, calm and cathartic works from as far off as Brooklyn, NY and Austin, TX -- and as close to home as down my street in Lansing. You can read all about it, listen to some mp3s (they change every couple weeks), see some of the proposed album artwork, add yourself as a friend, leave comments, etc., at the compilation's myspace profile here.

The CD will be called "First-Hand Accounts, Theories, & Their Repercussions," and will be the initial release for my It Takes A Village To Make Records project. It's not so much a record label as it is a partnership between musicians and visual artists.

Secondly, my long-running musical recording project Stargrazer (incidentally also the name of my graphic design company) has also launched it's own myspace profile. You can check it out here.

This weblog remains the main space to keep track of me and my artwork, but if you're curious to see what else I do with my time, check out the tunes on myspace...

...and help Rupert Murdoch achieve total media domination.

Disposable, Incoming

Late night 2:17 AM
An obligation to write
Wine-soaked and weary
Profile pictures, avatars and weblogs

The news is predictably bleak
They got away with it again
They swept it under the rug
Threw it out with the bathwater
Spun it into cloth of gold

Fleecing the gilded ram
To weave a web of lies
To cast the net far and wide

My soul cries out
From where it lies discarded

My essence distilled
Into pixels and links
Observed by a barmaid in Austria
A 17-year old in Schenectady
Diluted and stirred
Electrons shredding
Synapses firing blanks

Here I am
Where dams burst asunder
Here I am
Where bank vaults implode
Here I am
Where trees are taller
Grass is greener
Where the yuppies have the money
To be hippies
And the mountain bikes and the
Bean sprouts and the
vegetarian-fed hens
Fatten moral foundations
Idealistic superiority
Well-read and cultured
Surety

Here I am at the protest march
Where shirtless boys hone their drumming skills
Where girls in bandanas daydream of Robert Smith
Where bottled water washes down the dust
Beaten out of the ground
By the angry tattoos
Of english majors
And journalism interns
Folk music scholars
And abstract painters
Vegan chefs and hybrid drivers
Whose bumpers proclaim
"No blood for oil"

Here I am in the pixels
In the picture tube factory
As far away from a self-righteous weblog
As from the skin of a bongo drum
An acoustic guitar
A hemp shirt
The trappings of
The stylists of
The merchants of
Dissent

Here I am in Times New Roman
In lighted letters
In binary code
Instant messages
Incoming faxes
Outgoing mail

Safe
Anonymous
Secure
Cynical
Critical

Here I am making you squirm
Making your Odwalla curdle
Spoiling your tofu surprise
Monkeywrenching your sunshine

Critical
Cynical
Insecure
Eponymous
Unsafe
Unsatisfied
Ill at the thought of one more
Meaningless moment of
Armchair philosophy
Ill at the thought of one more
Pixel in a field of snow
One more signal lost in white noise
One more voice in the wilderness
One more tree falling in the forest
One more well-fed idealist

(for Tim Lane -- thanks for all the inspiration and input, P.)

Natalie's been busy making tons of blank
notecards for you to keep in touch with your
friends and family. She uses techniques such as
stamping, beading, sewing, metal appliques,
retro adhesive plastic, cork, foil, and glossy
enamel-like paints that tempt the eyes with
color and texture.

There are many imaginative designs to pick from.

If you want to send me a note, you should use
one of these cards. Here's where to order them.
They are sold individually, come with matching
envelopes, and shipping is FREE!

Peter

Is Boring 10.26.05

Bones float in red muscular jelly
Your bones, my bones
Bound up in sacks
Which we smooth and powder
Paint and pierce, tattoo and tame
Spending inordinate attention
On scraps of fabric to stretch over
Ribs and hips and collarbones
Lest we be caught without a label
Always dreaming of disrobing
Dropping these colored leaves like trees
To stand naked and branched
And famished for approval
Obsessed with nudity
My nudity, your nudity
Because anatomy is boring

So we go out to pulsating clubs
Our gristle lean and throbbing
Mind leashed to a 4/4 beat
Ears trussed by extreme volume
Steps fettered, numbered, lettered
Dancing to the Charleston Chew
The Jitterbug Perfume, the iPod Shuffle
Moved to commercial exhaustion
On lanky puppet strings
Whose names all begin with DJ
DJ Fatigue, DJ Malaise, DJ Kevin
DJ Orange Plastic Tupperware
Moving us up and down to the beat
Spidery fingers on tone arms and sliders
Channeling black vinyl grooves
Without which we would nod our heads
Like hipsters at indie rock shows
Slink sweatered into shadows
To bloom on the walls
Witness mutely without comment
Because music is boring

Take my bones out tonight
Desire me for my connective tissue
My soft palate, lungs and cartilage
Talk to me with your tongue,
Move your lips, stretch your legs
Sketch the path of your viscera
With a thoughtful finger

My skull says
The stars are not boring
Wine is not boring
Conversation is not boring
Art is not boring
Poetry is not boring
Singing is not boring
Eating is not boring
Animals are not boring
The ocean is not boring
Movement is not boring
Dreams are not boring
Righteous indignation is not boring
The evening dew wetting our hillside bodies
Is not boring

My skull says reality without TV
Equals what we do
When we own our minds
Our livers and lives
Heartbeats in time with violins
When diversion emerges from within
Flowering and bursting forth
Flooding rooms, crowding scenes
Stretching out smiles from overuse
Painting our own museum
Staging our own lives
Daring to make French fries at home
Daring to sing outside of the shower
Daring to film the neighbor’s cat
Or birds on telephone wires
Daring to publish books full of commas
Because my stomach can’t hold another tater tot
My ears can’t harbor another pop song
Because my limbs are tired of the gym
And my eyes are filled with billboards
Because this current, convenient, proud culture
Is currently, conveniently, proudly boring.

For Sale:

1987 Volvo 240 DL Wagon
dark blue-green. 199,000 miles.

5-speed manual transmission, AC, CD player, heated seats, power locks
runs great! all electronics work.

all new fuel injectors, new mass air meter, new blower for heater/AC, new heat pipe (warms engine/throttle in cold Michigan weather), good tires (about one year of driving).

- engine well cared for, serviced regularly.
- needs brakes.
- some body rust, driver's side dent.
- located in Lansing, Michigan.

a much beloved car for the Volvo enthusiast.

$800 firm. (booked at about $2,000)

(Photo by Natalie. Roses by her mom.)