Dream a Little Dream

There’s only two hours left. I can get through this. I only fell asleep once…I won’t do that again.


Counting down…

One hour left and Friday 13th will be over. Maybe somewhere else in the world, it will still be a bad luck kind of day. But this day has slipped away and I don’t mind at all. I fell asleep earlier this evening, and Marcus Miller scared the living hell out of me.

I swear, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.  I’ve just been really tired these last few weeks.  Going on a few restless hours of sleep every day takes it toll. 

Go ahead, do it. I can hear your eyes rolling from here.  Say it. He’s not a creepy dream person and what’s your problem anyway? You got your slashing bloody bad guys mixed up? Someone else from years ago took over the nightmare scene and obviously you aren’t well schooled on horror, are you?

I adored Freddy as a teen.  I was the recipient of many an eye roll from friends and classmates. I snuck Fangoria magazines into my schoolbag and “studied.” I had many of his nasty, catchy one-liners memorized. I took a straight razor and carved his name across my forearm.  Luckily, looking back, I didn’t think to turn those bleeding letters into a full-fledged prison tat, or I’d still be saving my money to this very day to get it removed. Ahh, memories.

Freddy killed teenagers. I was a teenager.  My parents were horrid. So what do you think I would daydream about..?  Well, anyway…

I have a modest knowledge of horror.  I have intimate knowledge of misery. 

So, I fell asleep earlier. I had listened to a particular soundtrack several times today and that voice…Marcus Miller…he was in my head and when I fell asleep the motherfucker just kept talking. He kept talking, and I felt a hand slip around my neck and squeeze. I could smell dried blood and I could feel breathing and I kept hearing something akin to laughter.


I woke up, this time. 

There’s no one around. My living room is dark. Everyone else is already asleep.

I’m just overworked and not well-rested, and this is not an obsession. I’ll be fine. You’ll see. I’ll be fine.

Boarding the Crazy Train

TOKportraitPeople throw the word “crazy” around so casually these days, don’t they?  If you do something hilarious, “Girl, you are so crazy!” or if you are on the evening news for stealing a car and ramming into the local Gas-n-Go, “What was that crazy guy thinking?!” or even if you are bored…”I am going crazy!”


Last night I boarded the crazy train, again. I slipped the disc out of the bloody-masked case and slipped it in, shaking my head at my own foolishness. It was late, I was tired, and what better way to relax than to watch Marcus Miller slaughter the foolish sheep and to hear the rich, disturbed voice pour into my ears, choking off my ability to move? Yes. Crazy.

Finishing the movie, I lay down…trying to fall asleep — every time I closed my eyes, a bloody machete came directly toward my eye and I would jump. That fucking machete. What a great night of sleep I had. Thanks a lot, Marcus.


The man who is TOK is not a gigantic guy, he’s built well and trim, and I initially looked him up before having seen the movie, but I’ve since forgotten what he looks like except he’s blonde. The mask kind of imprinted in my head; sure I know there’s a guy behind the mask, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. There’s every emotion, stripped down and exposed, in one perfect voice designed just for TOK. How can you accurately describe that sound? It hurts to hear it.

I loathe him. I absolutely loathe him. I can’t stay away from him. Such loathing, such hatred and admiration and fear and love and loathing — its a new kind of fear. You know the fire will hurt you, you know it’s hot and that you shouldn’t touch it. Why, then, is your hand extended..? Why are the flames licking your fingertips?

Because of my upbringing, each time I think of a few select scenes, I blanch. Automatic flinch — can’t help it. I see it in my head and immediately I think, “No, that is SO not right…” or “Oh damn that is really really wrong…”

Physically I shook my head, clapped a hand over my mouth…felt tears welling up. You watch a child go through those tortures and you  might champion such an insane beast rising up.

Even if it’s so wrong, even if I flinch, each bit has its place in the horror that is Marcus Miller: The Orphan Killer. It wasn’t meant to be a pretty story.

I would not stand to fight him. I would run.



TOK & Chaos


Ahh….Marcus. I was afraid of him before I was ever properly introduced. It’s true. Something in the stance — something in the way the grotesque mask seems to stare through you…make no mistake, those glitter-covered vampires over in Hollywood have no chance. THIS is barely controlled chaos and I can identify with that…and there is not a more uncomfortable feeling in the world.

Controlled chaos… that’s a nice internal description.  Most of the time the atoms and cells and ghosts that make up the ‘me’ everyone sees… its all churning and moving and drumming around inside this animated, blood-filled creature while all the other animated, blood-filled creatures pass by in a haze of Hello’s and How-are-you’s and no one is the wiser.  It’s easy to mimic a regular person with a regular smile and a regular life. Why not? I don’t make a lot of waves, I don’t make the nightly news. I just start the little undercurrents and I don’t mind.

Controlled chaos is a way to see the world when you’ve seen too much, heard too much, and sometimes you might want to escape into something unreal, despite its harshness or its possibilities in becoming reality. I feel okay with that. I’m okay with the double entendre that is my life.

Now let me step back into that other side and stare into the ugly face that is TOK…and translate his image into one that people will stare at and wonder if I’ve lost my mind.

Dragging the Axe

Aug. 18th, 2013 –

I was determined to watch it. I was so afraid I would hate it. I kept telling myself while waiting for it to arrive that I would watch it, I would listen and watch wide-eyed the entire time.

Fresh Kill
Fresh Kill

It came in the mail and all because I developed a new obsession, maybe a slightly healthier obsession than some people have with…y’know…whatever. Drugs or relationships or saving the world.

I had only seen clips of The Orphan Killer. I had tried to obtain it by other means and was unsuccessful, and I didn’t realize in all my ADHD glory that I could just go to theorphankiller.com website and order it directly. After having talked at length with the writer of the movie, who also had a starring role and who filmed it himself…I was so worried that I would finally sit down with this disc and absolutely hate it and then that would suck on so many levels because I really like the way this guy operates, and I loved the photo work I was doing. Quietly, I ordered it online and waited. What if I hated this movie?  After all, I’m not who I was 7 years ago.

Seven years ago I gave up most horror when I got pregnant with our son. I clung to my beloved Pitch Black star, Vin Diesel, but beyond that I let it go. I had been letting it go anyway because I work with kids all day, and not just any kids, but kids who have usually been through hell and need a nice normal person with a nice smile and a warm hug and a goofy sense of humor. So I let it go. It wasn’t hard – I just had so much going on that I couldn’t hang on to everything forever…

When I investigated this guy, Matt Farnsworth, I found disturbing bloody pictures of that handsome guy I had been talking shop with and then I found The Orphan Killer and I started doing my art thing and I got curious and finally…finally, last night, I sat down and watched the movie. All this time, all these photos, all those little movie clips…they didn’t prepare me for the carnage, or the emotion.

I can’t possibly tell you all about the movie here, and if you aren’t a horror fan then you don’t want to know and don’t care anyway.

I loved the movie.  I had that sick, twisted feeling in my gut because sometimes when bad things happen to people, those people do unspeakably bad things.  Its a vicious circle. Farnsworth managed to tell a story that few people dare tell, and placed it within a genre that seldom sees genuinely bad people brought to brutal justice by the worst means possible.

These photos keep me occupied during the time I used to gaze, bored, at facebook.  I feel this pull and because my method for editing involves all hands-on, I touch every part of the photo, using my fingers on a touch screen to manipulate the colors and moods. TOK in all his madness has helped to alleviate mine. I love it.

I love it.