Friday, May 31, 2013

We Are The Wounded (from "Obscurious", for Randy Bunde)

"We Are The Wounded" from Obscurious
The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book 1
Version 8: Page 114
2011

In 2010, I met a man named Randall "Randy" Bunde. I tend to gravitate towards people that have a calm, sensitive presence. Randy was a tall fish in short water, with a gentle sensibility and pain-infused wisdom that you could read on his slight brow. He'd weathered much over his 48 years--a heartwrenching divorce, distancing of his kids, and Colitis, a chronic condition that limits the effectiveness of your gastric organs. Few realize how impossible life becomes when your pipes don't work. You can't eat well, drink well, sleep well, function well as a normal human being. Pain is your center and your constant; discomfort and internal stress are your daily truths.

He knew my path well, as he walked a similar road in the early stages of his declining health. While I was fortunate to find a way to achieve equilibrium with the curses, he was not so. He went from pouch surgery to cancer in various places, seldom finding the healthy plateau that the chronically stricken wish for.  Last March, he passed away from complications of cancer, initiated by the ulcerative chronic state that struck him years before. While I was healing, he was falling apart--the two of us true dichotomies of chronic results.

Today, my friend would have been 50 years old. I wrote this poem to him and about him while he was still alive, a tribute to the war that those people who have chronic health conditions wage every day. Every minute. Every second. Every bowel movement, and every glass of water that doesn't go down well. We are all wounded, in different ways, and it is true madness that we as a species can't find a way to take care of each other, as needed. We have become as disposable as our consumer mindset.

I had no idea that Randy would exit from my orbit so quickly--a second lesson to keep close: life is fleeting, so treasure the precious moments that you have with you true friends, family and loved ones.

Happy birthday, Randy. Lightspeed, my dear friend.

in sickness
or in health
is not a choice
we have, but
a bond we all share
to care
for the fallen
and the wounded
of our world
for we each walk
on either side of that
crimson line
where decay becomes
the color of our days,
where there is no detour
and there is no escape,
one morning risen,
the next mourning,
a wake,
we all break down and
eventually lose our way
and even the chosen
must pay with life
for their grace
you are no different,
no better, not great
and at some point
you too will fall
into sickness and
require assistance
to stand up
straight



Thursday, May 30, 2013

The Artemis Contract (from "Obscurious")

"The Artemis Contract" from Obscurious
The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book 1
Version 8: Page 3
2011

I will aim to create
what has never been
with eyes that see
differently
with words that speak
of twilight reverie
with the darkness
of a full eclipse
with sun and moon intersecting
at the archer's tip
until the light
returns
one day
to the shade
i will silently
away



The Compass (from "Obscurious")

"The Compass" from Obscurious
The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book 1
Version 8: Page 3
2011

This is blasphemous
work.
These are dangerous
words.
Consider with
caution.
Contemplate with
conviction.




Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Copyright Page (from "Obscurious")

The Bonesetter's Revenge [Book One]: Obscurious
(COPYRIGHT PAGE)

Copyright 2011 Artemis Sere

This is a work of brutal, truthful, sometimes sarcastic and often dark, fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination and/or madness and are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business entities, events, cretaceous amphibians, slutty pop stars, twisted political figures, heartbreakers, soul collectors, heathens, biker chicks and/or dudes, religious entities, corporate fat cats, child-molesting theocrats, wannabe musicians or tried-to-be artists, or locations, known, unknown or entirely imagined, is mostly coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or invented, without permission in writing from the publisher of this document.

All images and words copyright Artemis Sere
and Antithesis Press unless otherwise specified.

Special thanks to Otep Shamaya
for her inspiration. Please see the
credits page for more
acknowledgements.

Version 8: 4/11/11
ISBN 978-1-4583-2389-7

web:   www.setinbone.com
email:  setinbone@gmail.com
facebook:  artemis sere, the bonesetter’s revenge
myspace: myspace.com/setinbone
twitter:  setinbone@twitter.com
portfolio: artemissere. deviantart.com





Monday, May 27, 2013

leftpathred series



leftpathred series

he believed he descended from Icarus, his arms meant for feathers, his span built for flight. he longed to soar into the fiery skies and ride the tides of wind to a different distant world. through science and surgery, and with macabre and deranged tools, he fashioned himself a into blackbird.  

but he discovered that monsters pay a heavy price: those humans that leave the right path of light and civilization for the longitudinal path of darkness and mutation never find their way back.  they become lost and left for dead, wild and forgotten

on the leftpathred.

central colors: slate, black, white, red, sunset, fire, crimson
central theme: abstract, surrealist visions of off-path horror and decay and disconnection
styles: 16x20 canvas, dyed with black and red ink, acrylic overpainting; 
details: will include three transitional versions (dye, acrylic and digital) of each piece; series of 8, each illustrating a different story with different central images; will attempt to paint with left hand as much as possible.

(pieces to be included here as completed)

1. into the still
Central imagery: black silhouettes of branches and a central tree atop a sky of fire

2. the stalker's sentence
Central imagery: silhouettes of falling leaves, migrating blackbirds

3. dismembermental design
Central imagery: abstract dissected blackbird

4. the fool's toolbox
Central imagery: bloody tools of dissection, implements of carnage and surgery

5. leftpathred
Central imagery: hands, bound and bloodied, responsible for the murder, branches into bloodies veins

base layer


6. anatomie
Central imagery: shots of human anatomy diagrams and a blackbird diagram

7. dirge for the savage surgeon
Central imagery: visions of surgery, sutures, scars, stitches, carnage

8. as the curses merge
Central imagery: branches, arteries, blood, bone, and a wicked hybrid of blackbird and surgeon, mutation, metamorphosis



Tuesday, May 21, 2013

DeviantArt SlideShow of the Art of Artemis Sere


DeviantArt SlideShow of the Art of Artemis Sere

My primary portfolio site is at artemissere.deviantart.com. I've been populating it with my pieces for a couple of years now, and have a decent following.  If you Google "Artemis Sere", you should find my DeviantArt profile as the top result.  There are some stats below about my current state of existence on DeviantArt, in case you're in the mood to be entertained.  I invite you to visit my profile, friend up, exchange artistic influences and styles...  

Or order a print of my works, if you're interested. All of the art on this site is created by me using various mixed media styles, and fair portion of it can be printed and ordered off DeviantArt. I'm not a narcissist, but I am building a Serenity Gallery of my own works, and have ordered many prints of my pieces off of the DeviantArt site. They produce a great product, and are a welcome partner for me. If you find a piece of work that you like, and I don't have it available for order on DeviantArt, I can easily set it up for you.

I am also on Flickr, Tumblr, Instagram, Pinterest....  All over. I look forward to connecting with my friends, fans, followers and other artists. That means you. 8)

Here's a neat slideshow of my works on DeviantArt. Enjoy! Thank you for your participation in my orbit.





5.21.2013
artemissere has 6,624 pageviews total and their 462 deviations were viewed 50,110 times. Artemissere watches 384 people, while 113 people watch artemissere.
Overall, their deviations received 488 comments and were added to deviants' favourites 3,852 times, while artemissere commented 1,133 times, making about 1.18 comments per day since joining deviantART. This means that artemissere gave 23 comments for every 10 received.
The deviation with the most comments is on the horizon of faith with 74 comments, and it is also the most favourited, with 893 favourites. The most viewed deviation is on the horizon of faith with 9,309 views.
79 favourites were given for every 10 comments.
Every 2 days artemissere uploads a new deviation, and it's usually on a Tuesday, when 107 (23%) of deviations were submitted.
The busiest month was October 2010 when 190 (41%) deviations were submitted.
The majority of deviations are submitted to the photography gallery (324), while the favourite category was abstract > surreal with 183 deviations.
Comments per deviation: 1.05
Favourites per deviation: 8
Views per deviation: 108
Comments per day: 0.5
Favourites per day: 4.01
Deviation views per day: 52
Pageviews per day: 6.9



Monday, May 20, 2013

elsee in flames


elsee in flames.
acrylic on canvas.
copyright 2013 artemis sere.
serenity gallery piece 01301



Conquest


Conquest

Harmony is foreign to us. Given all mortal possibilities and limitless opportunities, we choose greed. We speak of natives and naturals, expatriats and ironclad patriotism. We divide by state lines, align to banners and prophets to perpetuate our ravenous hunger.

In God we trust; in each other we suspect treason first, use reason as the second line of defense. Battle-hardened and mettle-tested, mere survival is a treasure that we glorify as victors at the top of the current chain. We align resources against each other, the Art of War our manual for supremacy.

We idolize our gladiators, build vast castles to watch them slay our enemy.

Thumbs down, so say the masses. Life is sacrificed for our amusement and crusade. We cheer loudly with violent spittle, sport the heralds of the winning side. They say,

"Better luck next time."

But there is no luck involved with these human conquests, no mercy, no conciliation, no humility,

No harmony. I think most intelligent people have a shallow understanding of the concept of equilibrium. True harmony is an exercise of balance and moderation, a restricted spectrum of highs and lows. It is a unique discipline that humankind sacrificed to climb the evolutionary ladder.

An efficient conquest requires appropriate resources and tactics. Once, we employed these skills to stabilize a planet that was wild to our advance. Once the natural world was controlled, our expansion was guaranteed.

Across peaks and seas, plains and savage terrains, we pushed our dominion.

"As God wills it", they say with holy blades and ironclad crusades, crafting human refugees with every assault and absolution. Generations forget the past and the sacrifices in the name of Benevolence, Scripture becomes policy, harmony is compromised for compliance. Mytholaw creates extremism, elevating gladiators to princes and politicians. We become the beast and the sheep in a common field.

Endless war is assured; the conquest for the Grandest prize given to a Word that keeps our armies marching:

Greed.

Lulled to sleep by the disharmony, we accept and respect the ruler that shakes in greeting with one hand, and breaks hope with the other. Nothing good can come from this savage slumber. All of the generations of evolution has led us to become slothy soldiers in someone's else's war. After all that we've achieved and endured, there is one  lesson we can't seem to learn:

The real battle is within, not in the fleecing of another mortal's skin.



What You're Worth



What You're Worth

It's the first profit check that I remember seeing. I know there were others with my first book, but I don't recall them. They were significant, for sure, but this one stands out the brightest of them all.

A resounding thud on a piece of recycled paper. The profits of the release of my second book couldn't even fill a tank of gas. Hundreds of hours and dollars later, twenty years in the building, it started as a stalled vehicle.  Far and away better composed than my first book, the second was crafted as an alien adventure into the metamorphosis of the wounded chrysalised into artist.

A xenomorphous trip. 36.13 later, there is little fuel in the engine, confidence siphoned by silence and burned carelessly on the road to nowhere.

I couldn't sell this rickety thing at a secondhand store. Or perhaps one in a foreign land where abstract dreams and infinite escapes aren't so abhorred, misunderstood or diminished. I supposed my stance puts me on a different shore than most. I suppose I am antagonistic and antithetical to some. I have have burned many bridges along this path.

I am conscious of these things, but remain unphased. Resolute. Re-powered.

Driven.

We cry for freedom, but for a few stripes, remain homogeneously same. Deviance distrusted. Aliens marched from the walls. Paranoia the pitch in the patriotic bricks.

The nice paradox is that I do what I do regardless of approval. I will achieve peace and success when I've appeased the creative voice in me, not via denominational validation. We are not gods. We are not heroes. 

We are not as bright as we think we are. We are 500 generations away from primitive degenerates, and arrogantly think we have the right answers at this point in history.

Right and wrong mixed with myth and carbonation concocted into disastrous brews.

You know what I think? Fuck the fame. And the fortune. There is no lasting equilibrium swimming in the drink. What you're worth as an artist involves a vast river that stretches far beyond this time and generation. The humans that you help find path, relate, guide, criticize, love and hate, influence and abide, push and pull, redirect, reflect, touch or motivate are the tide and time for the artist.

The weak creators create in their own image; the strong design beyond, to an image that does not yet exist, one that never did. The vain God looks in the glass and needs to duplicate himself; the humble creator divines a creature of freedom, and allows for blasphemy, chaos and wrong answers. There is no God here, no celestial accounting system, though the Federal Reserve Bank is as close as we've got. There is growing intolerance, a global divisiveness, rooted plainly in things we cannot see, mostly due to the infantile nature of us.

What are you worth? Or how much value do you assign to yourself? Others assign to you? Will your great inheritance be disappearing dollar signs, or a vault of experience and wisdom?

In a robot-minded future, your craft will be what values you, and how unlike the artificial intelligence you are, how deviated from the common you can drift, how magical your menageries.

Ten years ago, a different creator would've been derailed by 36.13 in sales from a book release. This evolved artist will not be judged by someone else's assignment of what I'm worth.  In the end, I'm not in this to make friends or fatten my wallet; I'm in this to birth orphans, to shape chaos into existence with screams and scars and raw energy, to set free vibrant embryos of truth and reason. This planet deserves no less from a species that cannot find equilibrium with itself or its home.  

With every new and genuine creation, I am redefined.

Revalued.

Rich, by my
design.







Thursday, May 9, 2013

Sweat + Sacrifice = Success



Sweat + Sacrifice = Success 

is the math painted on their wall. With blissful exuberance, she tosses wildly, apparently happy to be part of the equation. He stares buff and confident at a conquerable horizon.

I run in place for hours, and never seem to get the result they sell. A matter of time and perserverance, I remind myself. But mostly, it just seems like I'm wasting time on this wheel.

Sisyphus would be ashamed at our fitness inventions. Ixion, too.

We live under the illusion of Heaven, operate with the ruddy gears of Hell, cycled in an endless war that pits us against each other.

I watch the cascade of the faces of the dead on the news. Violence in the name of faith, messages written in the blood of the innocent, and I run faster, away from the creature we're becoming. The markets trade the golden hearts of our fallen, classy sacrifices to greedy gods.

The world is against you now, the fringe becoming more comfortable than solace with a misguided people. 

Some of us remain as windows to a different human world, where murders aren't marked by the passages of fairy tales, where product sales aren't the personal sum of success, where we don't hum along to the deep cacophony of the blinded chorus, and tomorrow isn't a repeat of the sullen patterns of the present. 

Portals to a different place, panes to a brighter space.

I trace a fast and dusty to path to there--come cramp, catastrophe or casualty.

I cannot stop this running in place, speeding to nowhere, spokes rusted from the 

race.