Blog
Sir Spider
Three different aspects of the divine can be found in one. Sir Surrey as predator, Sir Surrey as prey, and Sir Surrey as omnipresent benefactor. With this Trinity, you can finally become One.
Learn more about his music at www.sirsurrey.com
Wish You Were Here
Found some new fonts and have been playing with them. In this particular experimentation, I was just aiming for a retro look that had a bit of sophistication and nostalgia implied. The result is a Tom & Jerry look 
Are The Terrorists Winning?
Old man reading newspaper, entranced and terrified at sensationalist headline “Are the terrorists winning?†This photo is taken by yours truly, in Bus #22 on my way to The Mission.
Sir Centaur
Art piece of fantasy landscape I did for Sir Surrey’s album artwork. Learn more about his music at sirsurrey.com/
Part of an awesome series. More to come!
Jack, Marla & The Holy Folk
Finally lost it. It was about time anyway…
There comes a moment in a man’s life in which he either continues to live his life the way it was intended, or he becomes a saint.
I am a saint. I am holy. But who’s to say I chose sanctity, when in fact, it chose me.
Are saints born to sanctity, or do they become saints along the way?
When you see homeless people in the street… you can react in one of three ways: The first way is to ignore them, the second is to spare them some change (to relieve your guilty conscience from your true lack of empathy, specially if you are white), and the third way is… by mirroring. When you see this disgrace of a person, this creature, this ghost… you see yourself. “This is really me.”
Fear.
Believe it or not, some people who look homeless, really aren’t. They are extreme urban campers. People who love camping so much, they never stop.
The Anangu people in Alice Springs, Australia share a legend regarding the Milky Way. You must keep in mind, these people are surrounded by nothing but stars, so they get to see heavens the way the rest of us only dream of. Yup, while some of us have to go to church and look up to enjoy frescos painted in some dome just to imagine the greatness of god, the “natives” see the real thing. They see god, every fucking night. And like all holy folk, they are aware of the existence of magical hours (since mythical creatures tend to favor some hours over others to manifest themselves to us pathetic mortals). Well, the Anangu say that if you manage to stay up past 3AM, you will see the big emu of heavens spreading his wings, and igniting his eyes in true celestial splendor. Well, at least that’s what the white tour guide told us.
As I began my path to holiness, I also discovered the existence of magical moments in which knowledge shifts, spirits move from realm to realm, and asshole telepathic gurus shag their invisible cocks at unsuspecting sleeping girls across the continent. My little discovery was that if you live in certain parts of the planet, and you happen to wake up at precisely 5AM, you’ll feel the same fright lost souls feel as their spiritual rotting flesh boils in hell’s eternal fire. At 5AM exact, you WILL know that you will die. But I’m not talking about “knowing” you will die, I’m talking about “KNOWING KNOWING” you will die. You will see context; you will FEEL context. You will know that everything you love, in 20 years will have stopped existing… and the smell of death will saturate the sweaty room. You know that through some weird quantum leap, in which all possible stories unravel simultaneously, you died at 5AM… and you were all alone.
Only a matter of time.
At 5AM they always come for me.
Like Francisco De AsÃs with his hallucinations, the average bum engages with the citizens of Narnya every night. Like Jesus, they physically manifest their holiness. Their stigmata are putrefactive ulcers that cover their sticky skin. Instead of nails to the palms, needles to the veins. Their Eucharist is a bacon and cheese biscuit. When the rest of us wake up to an alarm clock, they wake up to sunshine.
Marla, did you become holy too? Every time I call your phone, an old lady answers. Are you just ignoring me or did you really switch numbers?
After MIGRA destroyed my fake marriage, and kicked my immigrant husband out of the country, not only did they take my best friend, but they also took the centrifugal force behind the Green Fungus party scene. MIGRA not only ruined a tradition of parties, but a fellowship of orphans. A group of misfits who enjoy being clever as much as Catholic priests enjoy the company of children, or Republican politicians enjoy their South American prostitutes. With his absence, Green Fungus plans to take over the streets and replant a tree in every crack of hot asphalt ceased to exist. Like all great movements, they really depend on one individual. So fragile and insignificant our lives and efforts are, that any form of success or change seems to come out of plain coincidence, or the exploits of one idiot everyone seems to listen to. Take out the idiot, and his followers might disperse; but if they don’t… they’ll turn his memory into a mockery of sanity. If you were that idiot, your friends might convert your idiosyncrasies to law. Your habits to dogma. Your taste to the way. And if your idiots are really idiotic, your way becomes the only way.
Disgrace.
Emma comes over almost every night, fucks me, and leaves. Something about me tossing and turning constantly doesn’t please her. She also says I’ve picked up sleepwalking. Because of this, I no longer sleep naked.
5AM hits. I hear dog’s claws against my hardwood floor. This wouldn’t be so alarming if I only had a dog! The claws stop abruptly next to my sleeping body. My eyes search for the dog, yet he’s no longer there. I shiver sensing his presence; he touches me with wet paws, not letting me move a muscle. Something evil has arrived. Petrified I can only hear the voice in my head that says, “Be mine. Work for me.”
That next day, I no longer can walk.
I cry alone, suffocate in my own tears. No one is there for me… at least no one I want. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me… like Tom Cruise says in my favorite scientologist training video, it is all psychosomatic. Besides, the doctors don’t really try hard… I have shitty health insurance after all.
Each night, I’m terrified to let go… to descend into that state of intimacy with the other world. The veil is torn like a 12 year-old Thai hymen.
I can’t fight the drowsiness. My eyes close against my will again, and at 5AM the wet dog jumps on my bed, very much uninvited. He disappears. I stay up in panic until 8am hits. Sunshine hits my face, I’m finally protected. “Must… get… to work.” My feet touch the ground trying to pull the crutches towards me. The floor is all wet. Wet as in REAL LIFE wet. I must have spilled my cup of water at some point during the night. Doesn’t make this less creepy. I crutch my way to work and smile through a shitty day.
When you don’t sleep well at night, it is hard to perform during the day. Thank goodness for porn! Xtube.com… Megaporn.com… and YouPorn.com work way better than coffee for me. Problem is, my coworkers don’t seem to like that I roll like that. Why don’t they rat me out? Because I can’t walk… and because they social network their ass off during work hours. A mix of guilt and the middle class’ condescending attitude can go a long way.
Stalemate.
What is more legitimate? To shag off as I answer costumer service calls, or to tweet about your coworker shagging off?
After a month of doing a shitty job as a disabled person, having everything fall off my hands like the worthless human I am, they tell me to come back to the office when I’m all better. No word regarding my hyper porn addition. Something has shifted.
Night hits again, and suddenly, instead of fear… I feel some sort of excitement. The anticipation of the nightmare is not as terrible as it was a month ago. In fact, it gives me something to do in my newfound lazy existence. Strangely enough, the whole night goes through, and not a single nightmare shows up. That’s when I realized, nightmares are like rapists, they won’t cum if you are begging for it.
