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Aaron Malakai
8,083 followers -
Itinerant artist (FL, NYC, SF, NOLA, TN)... look through my albums, you'll actually find my art.
Itinerant artist (FL, NYC, SF, NOLA, TN)... look through my albums, you'll actually find my art.

8,083 followers
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Aaron's posts

You know, it's been a long time since I've been on +... I've been through a lot of things that I'm still working on ways to present publicly: homelessness, hospitalization... artistic block; still working on it all.

...but it feels like coming back home.  I like this place and have missed it and the people I used to be in better touch with.

I'm still surprised that more people haven't made the switch to + from facebook (although I admit I've stayed on FB more consistently, mostly out of necessity; staying in touch with people while I was going through my trials and tribulations.)

I have a lot of free time on my hands these days and hope to begin writing and producing art again.  Looking forward to being back in touch with many of you.

I think... I might be back ;)

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Me... and my shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadow, strolling down the avenue...

+Carolyn Curtis / +Wenchkin 
Are you still doing tank-o-lanterns?  

I was chatting with an old friend who is now running a successful bar in Florida and brought up your lanterns as alternatives to a store-bought fire-pit.  He's very very interested after I showed him your wonderful album.  :)

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It must be 5 a.m. ... I'm finally getting sleepy.

First... I will make it so you can never unsee what I have seen tonight.

Damn you, Interwebs... damn you.

Damn you.

We cannot unsee you.
I've had odder nights, but still, this is a bit special.
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Wow... "Originally shared by..."

Well done, G+... well done.

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I may actually be returning to a manageable state of sanity it seems.

Long story and all...

This image seemed fitting for it though.  I was thinking I'd add some addendum to the message behind the text (something a bit inspirational and uplifting), when I added it to the post, but the more I put those words into fun symbolic logic argument formulas, the more I realized how perfectly stated they already were.

So very glad, after such a sporadic/extended period away from the baby G+; to see it has grown so much richer (and a bit more crowded) with new life... a lot of it seemingly artistically-minded people in all areas: social, visual, musical, poetic, comedic, et cetera ad. nauseam.

After such a long time away, it's been comforting to come here to sift and save-for-later all the things I've been reading over the last month or so (Yep... I've still lurked here now and then.)

But the best part are the feeds from the cornerstones, the people, I first met in this 'ere country.  I can't list you all but I sure did miss ya'... Artistic Welders, Zombie Masters, Bodhisattvas of Philosophical and Experiential observances, Asshats who rawk the attitude, Social/Political/Geekdom Pundits, Dog-Loving Gardeners of Inspiration...

...and a lot more types of Asshat than I could count (colon, capital P).

I guess I have to do some new paintings if I wanna be all popular again and shit here, huh?  ;)

Keep inspiring 



I shouldn't post this... it's a rough-draft at best.  Thee are repetitive words, grammatical errors... I hate those things.

But it does come from my heart.

Darkness often opens a key-hole... desire to be free of it often conjures up a key.

His bare feet made barely a whisper upon the polished marble stairs as he began, for the thirteenth time that day, his decent from the mundane tower... an opposite to his climb up from the sub-cellars where he slept and kept his meager belongings... thirteen stairs each... up from the chamber, across the dirty living chambers, and back down--thirteen--before he could reach the light of day he saw so rarely these days.

The light poured through the bars of that lower cell allowed to willing captives in such an inviting manner; light, warmth, the ring of foreign tongues, the smell of roasting meats.  It would be easy enough to turn the latch and walk through it and yet he stood at the bars and chose two of the four poisons he had carried down the night before.

The blood-mage looked across the blinding, white and black paved avenue to the other prisons that held their willing captives.  There were no locks upon the doors, only symbolic bars... easily opened yet deathly quiet of the groans and squeaks of being opened.

There were invitations, on this night of celebration, he'd been invited to... yet he backed away from the unlocked bars and filled his cup, wrapped his paper about the second poison and stared out, numbly.

The chamber that lay on the same level but required a walk up thirteen stairs and back down thirteen stairs held all the tools and feints and magic he would need to ride along the air again... all the strength he needed to push the unlocked door open and still he chose the poisons instead.

At some point they would kill him or drive him from this fugue state... he was almost comfortable with either path.

His familiar, old and haggard, roared from the level above him... not half as shadow black as it was in his youth when they'd bonded but still powerful enough to hold his life.

The blood-mage let the tip of his knife etch a thin line along his thumb... if only to feel something physical enough to put the shadows at bay.

How long had he moved from one prison to another?  From the beautiful and rocky forests of the southern states where fish-feasts hung from branches every flood and no fruit sprang unless forced, to the faded green palanquin that sat, flea-infested, in the small road that led to his willful prison.

He was used to prisons now... too used to them; they had become a comfort, a luxury after riding the roads of beggars in his jade palanquin, begging liege from poorer folk for the price of the foil crown upon his head.

Now he must use his knife... yes, this quill pen; his cup filled with poison, the wand that pushed a cancerous smoke into his body every time he raised it... 

He looked about himself... in panic threw off his thin, cotton robes to search for it.

for them... the quill was not there, nor the knife... the staff he'd left somewhere behind... and the cup was empty of poison now.

With his gut resting upon his hips, his cock shrunk in fear to meager proportions against his thigh, his heart empty and his lungs and blood filled with the black ichor of the poisons he took daily, he lifted his weight from the pillow he knelt upon before the light that spilled through the bars and they opened...

Another slave walked through the doors with flowers spewing petals upon the ground as she walked past. She addressed the aging magician's familiar of silver and ebony as she opened the door to the second cellar... he begged for food, as he always had, and climbed into the comforts of its blue pillows as he was ignored... stretched his long claws and fell into a rest that only the old and older know.

The blood-mage... former magician, looked on this all.  

He climbed the thirteen stairs again to the hovels where his bony panther slept upon his blue cushions and dumped the cup of poison into the silver basin.  He walked another thirteen steps down into the sub-cellar and stripped himself of cotton shirt and silk pants.  

He stared at the grotesquery of a body that had once been fashioned to love and please and be pleased then snorted disapproval at what he saw reflected:  a placid, tired, blotched old man.

Wrapping nothing but a towel about himself, he walked up the thirteen steps again to where the baths were... and he washed the misery from his skin and soul.

Today he would part those iron bars and ... rest? fight? conjure?

Only the coming night, with it's sliver of a waning moon, could tell if he would resign himself to man or take up again the five tools of the magician.  One moth he'd sent was dead years now... three others had returned but they were daughters of the messengers he'd sent from the high tower he'd once kept in pride then lost in pride, poison, dissolution... the promises of love.

The foreign lands they'd inherited loved their prince but hated him... and once he'd left the golden land and its rivers, they hated his return.

He was wallowing now... like a cow moaning lament over no new grass; how tamed had he been that he thought that kept-life a treasure?

"Better to set your jaw" he thought, "...rotten as they are you can still take a bite of what you want."  The Cricket had never said those words but, for twenty years they had been implied.

I have a story to tell... every person in it is a knight, a maiden, a demon, a frog.
I have seen queens (that's for sure) and princes... dark creatures and fucking unicorns.

I have never seen a friend or stranger ask me for what I cannot give... and that makes me a lousy friend because I have asked many a friend and stranger to give me comfort when I couldn't provide it for myself and ...

 I have lost friends because of negligence, homelessness, and sometimes because I was a selfish asshole.  I think, as a joke, if I lived way-back-when I might have chosen a chocolate starfish as my banner... to remind my heirs what an asshole I had been and cajole them into taking another banner someday

There are things beyond that which I've also seen... forgotten stars on hilltops with friends and family; little creeks no one has seen in decades.


As much as you may think me anything less than awful, remember this:  I have been a brute in all my tiny-ness, I have been an asshole 400 times more than every time I've been nice to you.

I have been a cheater and a liar... and I have also been cheated and lied to.

We're the same breed, you and me... stupid fucking humans.

Brilliant, hopeful, striving humans.

When I first started studying anthropology I was immediately drawn to the cultural wing of the arena... then the linguistic (It's technically easier to learn a language if you study the culture from which the language derived as a foundation for the formation and structure of speaking)...

I had to take a biological anthropology course as a requisite. I'd always sucked at the finer points of science; not the interest or conceptual understanding but the MATH of it all.

...and then I discovered entomology... and the world expanded and also got a little worse (I'll elaborate in a minute).

I went into an advanced biological anthropology course for forensic anthropology. This would normally be applied toward studying biological material for the purpose of unraveling the past... foodstuffs still found in calcified stomachs, bio-degeneration of all manner of things to figure out poisons, natural deaths, how people and animals lived and died.

...and then there was a fly.

There was a fly (see if you can google it or feel free to ask me personally) that only lays its eggs at a certain point of decrepitude... what does this mean? Well that's what shuttled me into forensics. Looking back at everything now I should have stayed in the field... I'd certainly be making more money and have much more interesting stories to tell at the parties I could attend given that I was making more...

but I digress...

The fly...

It will only lay its eggs in fresh flesh. Any sign of rot and the fly will move on to greener pastures, so to speak. This actually is monumentally important, I found out, in determining the time/date of death in the wild... depending on the humidity, a body rots at a fairly standard pace... 

Evidence of the fly's eggs as opposed to mid/full larvae could pinpoint the time of death to a day... a specific day. Even the larvae (maggots) couldn't live in the flesh for more than 2 days... any longer and they would be poisoned, not having the digestive enzymes necessary to process meat any less fresh... and you'd get dead larval cysts or rotted larval corpses... THEIR state of decomposition (given humidity) could help you pinpoint a time or day of death within 4 days... 

But then there were the beetles that come after... and they will ONLY nest in a corpse after 5-12 days of decomposition (again, given humidity.)

My mind was blown... I could pinpoint, on a calendar, when someone had died (in the wild at least) within 3 days if I only paid attention to the behavior of the multitudinous insects that are there to break everything down on very strict schedules.

I remember moving on to our first "field trip" which was a ... how to put it? A conditioned corpse. A lot of us passed the examination.. more than I thought would, honestly.

Then there was the field corpse... already examined by coroners and police, we were given a rare privilege of (at a legally evidence-un-disturbing distance) examining an actual case (my first experience in same-said was a case dubbed "sandy" which I may tell you about later... a forensic joke, really... I was actually working in a photo lab, not studying forensics.)

I don't know how I recognized him, actually... the estimate of DOE was roughly1 1/2 - 2 years but Keith had only been missing for 5 months... It was a rainy year and the skyrocketing humidity in the Santa Cruz foothills had not only played a role in decomposition but in the behavior of the insects I trusted.

It took another two months for his funeral in which his partner was accused but never brought up on charges... 

I was pretty brilliant in my class.

I never went back.

I am so tired of hearing "you" have "shared" a post with "me"

Just because we "circled" each other way back in the day doesn't mean I need to be notified of shit I'm not reading anyway.

Totally looking for a way to turn off notification douchery...
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