Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The Story of the Flowers

and sometimes the chains of love and the plenty, the old pig and meeting that pig in the river enslaves us..ah! the dream...the death of the father. the weapon of woman. the portrait of man. dear boyscouts, now be pleased to be seated. sphinx, image maker... this is your wedding and only your memories will remain.


Photos Saudek

I am in the midst of unpacking a few treasured books I have managed to carry from LA to the deep South with me. I spent every last penny I had shipping these books. Unemployment pennies may I add. I found my Saudek book...it is a lofty treasure and I knew I couldn't part without it. It was like Sophies choice during that time of leaving for me, that was when I became a warrior of the Gods and my lamp took bright light again. I parted with 2 little lives (one of my cats - 19 year old  was put down as she was ill and the other that  I found a new loving home for) I will try to refrain from the past and keep in the present but this book still brings up so much for me. I'm not sure I can even speak of it now that I've started except to say it, in all of its glorious splendour was worth the weight, tales of love and ruination. I come closer today but then again visions disappear in the west...and then I chase back to recollect all that old tart vanishes over. It's been a very long day into night, no sleep. This book out of darkness arrives from a card-board shipping box that was lost in the depths of the closet I let it rest in for the last 9 months...it takes me by the hand,  leads me home back to this thought:  I don't think I need another violin teacher, as a child, I undderstood nothing of that appauling theatre of love. I never did. Then the fire. The burn. The loving of myself. And now that I know even less than before I know more.  What's it all mean? This. This reunion between my east and my west and then I know.


This ain't no Teenage Jesus & the Jerks. 
This ain't no John Coltrane.

I'm glad Kate is still with us....50 Years of Snow (((+)))) Jeff Hiatt treated that piano with such depth, polish and air that sometimes when it's hard to select the 'great' from Kate I revert back to this one as the whole album remains so unsettling and yet still so comforting to me.
 It's as though I can still smell the homecookin' 

 Happy Birthday Kate
You helped me shape much of my artistic vision
 in this crazy, madhouse of a beautiful life. 
This womans' work -- YES. 
A vision that's true and founded is really all any of us need!

Saturday, July 27, 2013


I was in deep meditation when I found myself in a very large and very old southern style mansion -- The kind found in the deep South of the US, where I was born. It had hundreds of doors that were chalk white with lead crystal door knobs. I then saw the SUN opening and closing doors. Some doors opened very fast and closed very fast and some doors slammed fast and hard. The SUN then spoke to me and said in a feminine voice: Tell my people that I am closing doors in their life and opening new doors for them to go through do not be afraid as I am closing doors in their lives and I will open new doors for them to go through. Then that same SUN said to me, I know your works and I have set before you an open door, and no one can shut it; for you have strength, have kept the word with me , to yourself, and have not denied the GOD LIGHT in you. Whatever this means resonated in me and immediately reminded me of a passage from many books I've read which the themes are based on the door and knocking the open and the close. YES - I stand at the door and I knock. If anyone hears this voice and opens the door, I will come in to her/him and dine with thiem, and she/he with me. I came to the conclusion after thinking about this meditation that time is up and yet there is still time, but there is no time.

WORDS copyrite Wendy Rose Watson 

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

53 Miles West of Venus

A soundtrack. My favorite pen. A No. 2 pencil. A Notebook. A digital connection. A non-red planet. A personal assistant named Olive. A plymouth satellite. A dress that's been bleached by the moon for my meeting with the sun and a good ole rusty axe that I found in a shed in my fathers back yard. YEP. CHECK PLEASE.

Saturday, July 20, 2013

Church of the Victorian Cult: Milk

Church of the Victorian Cult: Milk: I sit on this drowned porch with a light shining above...my diluted glass of red milk wont conjure you, nor do I want it to. Milk from my b...


I sit on this drowned porch with a light shining above...my diluted glass of red milk wont conjure you, nor do I want it to. Milk from my breast, baby. And L is for Love baby...I know what you do and I do what I do too. Bells are crawling along for you on your floor, too. I won't and don't wait for you . Dirty. I stand. I'll say it again ..no, I don't stand for you. I am a devil (wo)man to hell with you and so be it -- to hell with me. Lipstick -- beyond my writing -- to the naked into and above you.

Words copywrite-Wendy Rose Watson

Friday, July 19, 2013


I am beyond tired of getting messages in my inbox that tell me to communicate, connect dots, clue the reader in and don't fall for that shit about 'oh the artist is not responsible for readers not getting it', what? I was told fish and bird...s can write and that is what it appears that I am doing. That being a WRITER means to rewrite/edit/complete pieces/ publish/compile....that that* is writing. Messages telling me that I'm not suppose to tell people I'm writing, that that* guff only goes over w/the art damaged fringe and I am more talented than that? To even consider my writing is damaged is your loss and YOU can fuck right off, shove that PhD up your bloody ass. Don't like that I use swear words from time to time...oh well, I am a force that you cannot control and I refuse to control my writing. Go ahead and think that I am a damaged writer if you like. I'm not here to please you, serve you, feed you or bring the box office home. This is my life and I will continue to create and project what resonates within and without me.

I am fed up with the ears and eyes of old men trying to dig graves and dream up wars for the inspired to die in. Unlike you, I do not expect anyone to read my writing, I'm simply writing because it's a way out of myself and also into myself. It's a channel I tune into and an expression I use as a medium. Edgar Degas was born today on July 19 in 1834 so I will reflect on what he once said that stood out to me about creating - "Only when he no longer knows what he is doing does the painter do good things" and as a painter of words I do not give a fuck about what you think I need to do, should do or not do. You're not living my life, you don't know how to take chances and YOU don't know me. YOU don't write with fever and soul like I do so how would you know, you have not lived through this. What gives you the right? I'm not a goddamn news reporter, frozen inside whose here to deliver the subject matter in a stone cold voice nor am I writing Breakfast at Tiffany's. Don't try to figure me out -- you can't -- you may try but you will never be there, inside of me. I write to communicate the deeper seed that lives inside, I write for many reasons -- one is so that I will not end up like YOU -- dead, frozen, lifeless and seemingly chained inside. If people get lost with my words or in my words and cannot focus (like you also said) then that isn't my concern, they are just not people who connect with my creations. I'm not trying to gain public appreciation and YOU have lost the plot.

YOU who sends me messages at all hours I appreciate the fire you drum up in me but I do not strive to be like YOU. I have human respect for all but I don't need to see your way as this is my road, my dance and I am the driver, I am the dancer of my own words and yes, by the way, and in case you didn't know I know what's good for me. Don't think twice. Fever, passion and channeling words are just a natural part of my way...stick to your methods and I'll stick to my intuition and birth right. My voice is a strong song and you will not be able to teach it or calm it. It is none of my business if you hear me or not but whatever you are hearing so be it. Your life must be spinning out of control to spend so much time reading my entries -- do yourself a favor and go write about that and then maybe you won't have such an incessant need to try to sway me your way and then, instead you'll be able to offer up a ripe slice of words for your reader. Truly, we are a different breed. I haven't lived this long to sink down and let rules and regulations and voices like you try to guide or enforce your ways onto me. I am a woman, not a girl like you also called me. There is no wrong or right, especially when one writes from the soul. The writer I am suppose to be and am is one who is free, writes with abandon and refuses to live in caged thoughts. YOU who send me messages and lays your writings and rules on me can't stand that I am free with my pen and burn the box. No, your world is just NOT for me...and no we don't have to share it. We may breathe the same air but your world is not the air that I wish to breathe, I prefer my own, thanks. Labeling me as feminist because I have my own ideas is also insane. It's true for you though, whatever you dream up about me, as you just can't handle it, you can't handle me.  I'm a force who refuses to be a slave -- a slave to your slavery; A place where many recognize themselves in their commodities and find their soul in their automobile, their degrees, their split-level homes and kitchen equipment. NO. THAT'S JUST NOT ME.

The Dance Class (La Classe de Danse) born July 19th 1873 - Edgar DegasSee More

Thursday, July 11, 2013

The Eye

When that fierce tornado strikes your house you will know it - there will be no place you can run for cover and you won't be able to escape...you will beg to be let go and you will be called to make your way into the light, you will crawl out of the darkness, if you are fortunate. Some are hit with that kiss but not blinded - suppose you could say that I am fortunate that EYE wasn't blinded.

I now have 3 eyes -- one in each hand and one in-between above and below.


Words Copywrite - Wendy Rose Watson


We Don't Care: The Moon Is On Fire (and we once called it the sun)

You don't need to understand our process and posts - that's up to us...not you.
Close your eyes and imagine it.
Though you may have joined the cult , we know none of you.
It would be ludicrous to say that we do,we only know of you as
not all those whom are called friends will be able to come to this line of thinking, some have to go fishing in order to understand the catch. Maybe that is why you are here, reading this.
That statement in itself may or may not make any sense to you but what do we care? 
We are not here to "make sense" of your world. We make sense of ours and those that connect will connect and join forces with us because they have been down a path that is similar to ours. 
This is not a paid advertisement, tt's free, just like you should be.
The moon is on fire and we once thought it was the sun was, too.
Words - Wendy Rose Watson on behalf of the CVC

Thursday, July 4, 2013


Happy Independence Day! 
 May you all have work that inspires you 'cause getting down to real living is what it's all about.
Workin for the (wo)man ain't no good thing but sometimes
you gotta pay your dues in order to break free.
A high salute to all that continue to find a means to an end
 Break free
No Bullshit, Inc.