I'm the White Rabbit; everyone wants to follow me yet no one can catch me.

There's about a million things I can think about right now, like what would they want from if they can finally have me in their clutches; fame, riches, salvation, favors? It's always been that way in my life; I've an object of desire ever since I was born and not exactly for my looks, that of which I'm not complaining about.

How badly did I want to jump tonight yet some inivisble hand did its best to pull me away from that. No, it wasn't God, it was Edith.

RABID IN THE MOON.

"Dear, what ever are you doing outside?"


"I´m waiting for the Moon to come out so the rabbit can play with me."


"The rabbit?"


"Yes, he lives there, that´s why..."


"There you are! Where have you been all this time? I waited for this moment my whole life..."

(continued)...

THEATER

"I noticed that there is a recurring dream nowadays and I was wondering if you could please help me out interpreting it," I said while shared the rest of the night with Edith in a peculiar artsy bar located on 22nd St. Since the place had a strange vibe of odd and old fashioned at the same time it felt so surreal that it was perfect to be more introspective about nonsensical dreams.

"Go ahead, be my guest!" answered Edith effusively.

"Well it starts of like this; I was asked to do an interview for a magazine by this particular woman. She was quite tall and had this sort of old fashioned hairdo, very 70s like..."

"Wow..." she said sounding truly engaged.

"So then I was to meet her somewhere like a museum, there was another friend by her side. Instead she took me to a movie theater, and we went into one cinema but I noticed that it had a hole in the all which led to another room, like a secret one..."

"Oh..."

"And then as I entered it felt so familiar that it reminded me of  something that scared and my immediate reaction was to cover my eyes like when you´re little and you got to see a scary movie for the first time. And then the tall woman said, "It´s alright, there´s nothing to be afraid of, you just have to change the way you look at things, start over. Now what do you think that means."

Edith gave a deep sigh and took a sip of white wine, " It´s not so much about what it means, it´s more like digging up a repressed memory or a part of your life and the way that you remember it is that it was basically scary..."

"Let me guess, the knowledge of the supernatural?" I said with a little sarcasm.

"Yes, but it´s more like meeting an old friend and you piled it up or boxed it somewhere because it made you feel embarrassed or humiliated, and it´s nothing to be ashamed of. You see, admitting your sexuality´s been good, that you have a strong imagination is good to, but there´s still something else you need to successfully embrace in order to feel better."

"I see...why doesn´t any of these things surprise me anymore?"

"Because you´re becoming more familiarized with them, it´s an internal battle, sweetie, you have to love yourself each and every day of the week," she said as she pointed to my chest, "don´t you forget that."

Loving myself meant reconciling with every other part of me, such as The White Rabbit. Maybe he WAS my dark side but I refused to let him out because he was uncontrollable sometimes...yet he was never evil. I drove him into the darkness to make him look like a major shame. The major fear was that if I´d trade places with him Edith would suffer as well.

I remember vaguely at school a slide about a Mexican painter called The Two Fridas. In a way it was a tribute to her other self. There was the woman who was chained to a ladies man and the other was her imaginary friend, all dressed in white.

I never thought a woman painter could be so intense and passionate enough but at the same time she went through an incredible deal of pain. Maybe I should paint my other self,whether I liked it or not, black and white rabbit binded for life, how simple.

"You´re right, Edith, you did it once again."

"Did what?"

"Now that all my paintings have been sold I feel like this is the beginning of a path I´ll have to walk through..."

"You sound so serious, is something the matter, this should be a good sign, right?"

"Yes...someone said to me not so long ago that a rabbit would never hurt me, what I´m concerned about is if it might hurt others."

"Don´t be ridiculous, how bad can it be?"

"Well, then I guess it all depends on me; it´s up to me to find out who´s the villain and who´s the hero in this huge theater."

CONCERNED (continued):

I resorted to the comfort of my studio. As I felt the moonlight flooding the room I opened my new ´magic book´and read some more:


The artist is the hand which plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul, getting back to Kandinsky.

It so turns out that what seemed to be the biggest mindfuck I've ever experienced in a way had happened before. I was not so sure if this unknown path but if anyone else knew better than me was The White Rabbit.

I can't even remember when I crafted him. He came out in my hour of despair. The term imaginary friend has been so misconcieved over the years. I remember very well the first time I watched The Exorcist the last thing Regan saw before she was possessed was Captain Howdy...wait. I remember now...he only showed when I "was" sick but then again Mother presumed I was all the time. And I hated her for that, how much did I hate her for that! The question is, how did I repress these memories, was it because of The White Rabbit? Did he wipe out those nasty episodes so I could start over?

Then again, the ghost of 'that' girl has no interest in me whatsoever, au contraire, she wants me to give in to my spiritual side while the rest of the mortal world expects to see Adrian Black.

"Adrian...Adrian".

"Oh! It's you, woman, what are you doing in here, did you get lost or something?"

"God, you're so mean! You don't want me here, fine." She was almost completely dressed in black, except for this short blue sweater that went well with her round beautiful blue eye, what could I say, she inspired me.

"No, please don't walk away, I'm sorry if I offended you...come here."

And so I wrapped her tightly in my arms and I felt so comforted as well, yet there was an odd feeling that I'd had to treasure this moment as much as I could, seeing her wear the locket I gave her last Christmas reminded me even more of such a thing.

"I see you still have it, " I said.

"Of course I do! I don't forget that easily, remember?"

Oh great, now she was using my own words against me.

"Why, are we celebrating something? ´Cause I'm not that kind of shitty boyfriend who forgets anniversaries or little things like those.

"No! Of course not."

"I'm sorry if I've kept you abandoned all this time, it's just that..."

"I understand, you're devoted to your work, that's your biggest affair and I don't discuss that but, could it allow me to steal for a few hours so we can spend some quality time together? After all, it's a weekend, you know."

"So what did you have in mind? You know, actually there IS something worth celebrating...all my paintings have been sold."

"Oh my God, really? Why didn´t you tell me this?"

"I never make a huge mess out of this, usually I just hang around with a nice bottle of Merlot, but tonight we make an exception, because we did it together, I couldn´t have done without you, and Feivel and Mr. Blackwell..."

"Shh, I understand, this is just between you and me. We´re in this together now."

I loved it when she talked dirty.

terrible glaring eyes


seven spirits of rebellion




diaki

CONCERNED

Mr. Cohen has been after my father for quite some time it wouldn't surprise me that now he's after you. In the meantime it would be prudent that you read this.

Sincerely,
Caroline King.

And that's how I was talked into literally devouring Concerning The Spiritual Of Art. It seems as if all the answers, well, almost all of them were embedded into this book giving me a new reason to get up in the morning and to feel more powerful than ever.

He sees and points the way. The power to do this he would sometimes fain lay aside, for it is a bitter cross to bear. But he cannot do so. Scorned and hated, he drags after him over the stones the heavy chariot of a divided humanity, ever forwards and upwards.

It sounded more like a prophecy, very much like the little dead girl said, "Find the Thousand, find the Thousand..." she said. I sincerely don't know who the Hell they are yet, whether they're my true friends or foes but somewhere in between the lines I found a hint of that concept, it says:

"The new torchbearer of truth will find the minds of men prepared for his message, a language ready for him in which to clothe the new truths he brings, an organization awaiting his arrival, which will remove the merely mechanical, material obstacles and difficulties from his path," quoting Blavatsky, a member of the Theosopical Movement.

How did Mr. King come up with all of this? Because the girl showed him the way. It was rumored that the fire caused the factory up in Hell's Hundred Acres, the one I was researching was blamed on a member of that secret society. Clever, blame it on the misconceptions of witchcraft, why don't you?

Anyway, it was never proven by the law, however how come that child knew so well about the Occult? This book was written on the first decade of the last century and Blavatsky had already gained some fame in New York. This very spot was critical; it did leave a trace behind.

Now, according to this, Caroline's father decided to reinterpret Kandinsky's and form a new society of artists named The Thousand, however his project had failed due to lack of interest and the fear of being labeled or pursued. He did have a strong belief in spiritual and visionary painting. I was just about to become involved in all of this.

Freddie, who among other things was a huge art lover was desperate to solve the mysteries behind the making of these works, for he was absolutely that they were performed under certain circumstances, things that I could have done including but not necessarily substance abuse. If so, all these theories would be dropped, so he asked me if I'd kept a log of these activities and what better way to prove it than through my diaries, what better evidence than that?

On the other hand, Mr. King was less careful, he had been more spontaneous since there were very few examples of what he did, he only followed the methods or guidelines described by Wassily Kandinsky, his works always followed the shape of a triangle, a sort of growth, always either going upwards or downwards. Funny, my shapes were spirals, like the one in The Thousand and a sort of hexagon like in Ritual.

There was a lot of ground to cover, still, I did feel tired at all. Before I realized it was Saturday. Mark had come over to do some updates on my website and I did feel like talking about my little mishap back at Droogie's, so this is what he told me.

"Seriously man, how the fuck did you get involved in all that shit?"

"I'm sorry, what shit?" I said a little bit distracted while I was feeding Scraps some baby carrots.

"You know, you did tell me ´bout Stefan."

"I warned you about Stefan, that's what! Damn, couldn't he just settle for someone else, I mean, what the Hell does he see in me?"

Mark shook his head, "Oh, I don't know about that, cuz ya know I don't speak fag..."

"You don't have to, being bi is so much more complicated to explain than being gay, it's like they think we're always confused that they expect that we need to define ourselves eventually."

"Mmmhmm, yeah, whatever dude."

He sees and points the way. The power to do this he would sometimes fain lay aside, for it is a bitter cross to bear. But he cannot do so. Scorned and hated, he drags after him over the stones the heavy chariot of a divided humanity, ever forwards and upwards.
Often, many years after his body has vanished from the earth, men try by every means to recreate this body in marble, iron, bronze, or stone, on an enormous scale. As if there were any intrinsic value in the bodily existence of such divine martyrs and servants of humanity, who despised the flesh and lived only for the spirit! But at least such setting up of marble is a proof that a great number of men have reached the point where once the being they would now honour, stood alone.
--------------
In every segment of the triangle are artists. Each one of them who can see beyond the limits of his segment is a prophet to those about him, and helps the advance of the obstinate whole. But those who are blind, or those who retard the movement of the triangle for baser reasons, are fully understood by their fellows and acclaimed for their genius. The greater the segment (which is the same as saying the lower it lies in the triangle) so the greater the number who understand the words of the artist. Every segment hungers consciously or, much more often, unconsciously for their corresponding spiritual food. This food is offered by the artists, and for this food the segment immediately below will tomorrow be stretching out eager hands.
--------------

The solitary visionaries are despised or regarded as abnormal and eccentric. Those who are not wrapped in lethargy and who feel vague longings for spiritual life and knowledge and progress, cry in harsh chorus, without any to comfort them. The night of the spirit falls more and more darkly. Deeper becomes the misery of these blind and terrified guides, and their followers, tormented and unnerved by fear and doubt, prefer to this gradual darkening the final sudden leap into the blackness.
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The new torchbearer of truth will find the minds of men prepared for his message, a language ready for him in which to clothe the new truths he brings, an organization awaiting his arrival, which will remove the merely mechanical, material obstacles and difficulties from his path." Blavatsky

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The artist is the hand which plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul.

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Painting has two weapons at her disposal:
1. Colour. 2. Form.