YO GIRL (that means all of you)

OH OH OH

Still loving ya honey. DEEP AS DIRE FUCK.
VIBING. Don't lose faith in the bad ass.
Them sad sack requiems to awesome: trash that. Shine hard.
Love thy fellow fellows and follow no leader to squabbling steaming dung heap.
Watch, read, and expand. Take walks. Make friends.
Walk in the dark. LOVELY.

love,

sp

(We had a new group show and book released with others in goldern SASKATOON, along with new prints for sale at PRO ARTS GALLERY. BB also debuted a new VIDEO PIECE at FLEET WOOD GALLERY. Our outfit has been offline and low key, doing festivals and screenings while being bastards at not updating on the INNERWEB. Forgive us and Love us unconditionally, please. We're the shy type. We'll be releasing the fab, but hard work's the order of the day before the flood of enchantment is well on its way. If you do need to CONTACT US, well then please do [scroll down]. We'll be doing a subscription something or other soon, so keep reading and keep sharing our distinctly phantasmagorical triumphs in conceptual art.
UH, ya know, [whispered] hell prevails.)

HIATUS? NEVER.

OH MY.
took a look.
there's a room of animals.
there's a room with drawings all over the place.
it's scary.
oh yeah, another hole in the wall now looking greasy along the edges.
IT'S A MESSAGE.
did something disappear within like a sick animal or is this another calling crevasse? 

more faxes came in. the pile is a pattern. too much damn profanity in it. it mentions some orange chump whose name rhymes with CHUMP. 
it's abominable stuff, the work of this creature and its minions. Yuck.
there's also a love letter to trans people.

we aren't slowing down for shit.
it's just a bit of quiet civil war that we beloved artists are facing. will we give up? HAH.
fuck, i got a high-five last week for yelling at some pig in his patrol car. fucking pig sped up at me at a crosswalk on the stroll home. lousy stinking swine then goes all Biff Tanner with sly mocking "watch where you're going..." like some fascist scum out of a movie. The pig was dark-skinned; pig traits travel along all the pathways of the body to taint its souls. It's a nasty power trip that seemingly attracts weak characters and unpleasant bullies into its service here in the good 'ole USA. His eyes were brimming with menace, the frustrated eyes of a murderer with free time on his clenched fists.
I yelled back, "you're supposed to look out for us" and then called the pig "the proverbial" as I turned to leave. he stayed in his squad car, angry as a beaten back rapist. 

FROM THE DESK OF SHALO P
honestly kids, fuck the pigs. 

this won't make news. it won't set the world on fire, but an old Italian fellow followed me into the store I'd ducked into for cover and shook my hand with love and spirit. 
he said "good work, they should be looking out for us, but that just isn't the case". 
his smiling eyes were a pep.

keep love in your heart and don't let those pigs get to ya. 

love,
The Management


transcribed by Dordery Marks and laid down here by a kind creature...

RED GHOST WROTH

DREMME FRIDAY : ZESTY / LIQUID PANTS

NUWS ZOUNDS NIL

HI HI HI.
It's me.

HEY.
It's UH found below.

FROM THE DESK OF DORDERY MARKS
Look up or just below blow me push the red button. Lock up or jest below me push the red button.

A song sorta felt right for sharing today. 
THIS JUST UH.
It comes with a very uh special transmission from UH YA KNOW and WE HERE amid the squalor of democracy clashing with those filthy sombitch alt-nazzies and scumfuck patrol of narrow-headed bumpkins trying to send this country to hell in an armpit. Dead America at night is a frightful sonovabitch to encounter at cold dusk. I tell ya true.

DEVASTATE, BUT FORGIVE.
AND AND UH AND.




FROM THE DESK OF SHALO P

UH YA KNOW I KNOW

why hell prevails...
Have ya read the news?
That march might get to goose-stepping, but brother and sister I gotta tell ya that I'll SLIDE ELECTRIC this motherfucker to oblivion before then.
Ya see, I got this system.

Tippity-Tap, and that's outreach.

You got to learn to let it go.
You got to know when it's all over.

And upon that horizon lies another in the haze of some morning.
Morning breaks some where, every there like an egg as the doom dawns, love.
There something mysterious and compelling about the mix of oxygen and sentience.
And if I hang by my words - when I'm alone and its dark, choked up and sensual - then I pray I get my kicks in too.

I hope you sweethearts are keeping to being speculative and zesty.
Reach into your pants and pull out a libertine.
Tell BB to keep her heart in the shadows of the black cape and her hands off my magazines.

I'm in UH hiatus. High Ate Us as one of my forlorn swore companions states as we take turns wrecking the wall and sneaking in to use the fax.

I slept beneath trees once and swam in some hot springs.
There's a big ole' rock on the California Coastline that smells like Mammoths.

Don't tell any one.
I BELIEVE IN FIRE.
I BELIEVE IN IMAGINATION.
I BELIEVE IN LOVE AS THE LOVE OF BEING FREE.

I do my best to make an effort (lest any truculent wretch flip my record) to show it rather than just say.

I'm a miserable prisoner of this unending passion for life.

See you sooon.

HEP! HEP!

sp




AND that's what was in the fax thing.
AND there were other sorta stuff that Void Fox sent. Most of it's schematics and maps.
AND now back to the program, starring a stalwart scythe of a brittle babe.

FROM THE DESK OF BB
Doo-Wa-Diddy Diddy-Dum Didddy Doo

OH OH OH

An Aside from Glowy. She ran onto the balcony and was last scene leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Poor girl didn't know the forest from the cold steel breeze.
Plus, we're getting a P.O. Box for correspondence ASAP but that stingy piece of shit fink of a MAN is on our back with paperwork. Frankly kids, fuck the fucking system. 
LOOK I'M A TROUBLED LADY and life isn't getting any, ya know, koolr.
Oh no not me. I'm actually koolr than I think sometimes.
I take it in STRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE PART TWO - this time it's personal.

I'll never let the bankers bankrupt my soul.
Without at least a smidge of free-thinking independent loveliness, the world would soundly plummet into infinite darkness.

BB


FROM THE DESK OF DO DO DO DO DO DO DO DO


...
loosely transcribed by Dordery Marks
San Francisco, California 

SLITHERING SNAKE / FROM THE DESK OF BB

The ascension of snakes is old hat to us, son. Pres-don't Orange Manure can't fire us. We cuddly as fuck.

NONE THE LESS

It's no limit craziness from that "florescent shockwave" Shalo P and the whole Television For Ghosts gang. Fistfuls of courage to all our peace-loving angels.

Shalo P sent a postcard themed-up all "Jack The Ripper". It poured out crimson out onto the floor when it was handed over - serves him right for sending a gull to do his dirty work.

CUT TO THE CHASE

New books are in the works but we're also in the studio making music and working out these dang riddles 

Void Fox keeps faxing.

More "new" soon. We're part of the resistance that keeps singing freedom. We UH love UH freedom of UH expression and will UH fight for freedom of speech for every one, even the UH damn fools.

Well, this fool here thinks all life is one and that our only battle lies with the human heart. 

Open up and take freshness balls deep, bitch.

Reach out to your brothers and sisters and trans-community. Reach out real-life interesting friends.

Skip out and live with your beasties. Live in caves full of laughs instead of like slaves seeped in wrath.

Don't sink into the Beat-Off Generation, fingers clinging to the edge of a pool of endless "YOU", like Narcissus.

Forgive yourself for chasing those lying bastards' dreams, or any old wack shit, and join us. 

Meet us out in the Wilderness with a boombox and a bag of tape.

We just want a weirder stronger sexier gender-fluid tasty creative clever common conniving future for everyone. We're into optimism, cause that's the only thing keeping these little fists from just flying.

If I rip another dress or have to shave my legs higher than my fucking knees I'm gonna go kerzy. BUCK WILD (while also probably nude and rude to boot).

ANYHUH

We always believe in artists. THEM FUCKERS SELL PATCHES OF HEAVEN!

TELL YOUR FUCKING FRIENDS 'CAUSE ARTISTS LIKE US LIVE BY THE RICHNESS OF TODAY'S AUDIENCE.

SWEAT AND BLOOD MAKE THAT GREAT MUTHA'S MILK NOURISHING AND JIZZY GENIUS.

THINK ABOUT IT. BEING AHEAD OF YOUR TIME JUST MEANS YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY GOLDERN BACKWARDS SOMBITCHES. EGAD, SQUIRE.

ROLL THAT SHIT FORWARD AND BE A STEWARD FOR PURE INDEPENDENT MADNESS. LET'S LIVE IN THE FUTURE WHILE FIGHTING THE EMPIRE.

BE AN AGENT OF THE SENSUALLY ENIGMATIC. KISS THESE INTELLECTUAL TITS. TAKE A NIPPLE INTO THAT HEATHEN MAW. TASTE THAT?

From The Desk of SHALO P

"We make no truce with the uninteresssting."  

OH OH OH

That would be crimnal,

BB

San Francisco, California 

DONK

Oh no. Who's this?
Is this UM 
MY FIST?

shh.

Look lil' dragon... ya gotta sha t t ea h.


forgive     forever


uh
ya knooooooooooooow.



come on come on come one I know you got
a prism
that's perfect
for cutting
a blade
of light.



Who's this?


shh.




From Th

WELL WELL WELL WELL

Ya know...
I made a hole in that fucking wall the size of five childs crosst.
I made the damn thing after the faxes stopped going through and I'd gone through the caramel iron nails and BARBIE-Q nail files. That damn door never made an appearance again so I made a cousin.
It is the cassowary and I'm wary that it's a hunter's moon - oh yes - and there was a shrew afoot.
BOY IS IT ETERNAL TORMENT TO CROSS THE VOID.
It was a miserable trip through wires to get to this here computer - inch by inch across an empty bridge within the walls, adjudicated upon by pious mice perhaps, but nonetheless dank as nook.
You better believe medusa is a mother of darkness 'cause that dang thing speaks truth. 
It's solid as a motherfucker too.
SOLID DARKNESS got a rhythm or two too too too too. 

The office was completely empty when I got back, seemingly ransacked if not for the bags of chips in the corners. No dodo on the runway neither.
No messages on the little fridge except "piss off", but that's an old one.

It's fine enough to scuff the fuzzy old rug by the bay window with my bare feet and flop my legs off the balcony to survey Columbus Street from above.

We're gonna see a lovely season soon.

There's a crackling of foaming madness in the air everywhere.

Nervous buildings cackle like crazy parrots. 

You better believe that you can make the world better.
You better be ready to break a wall a hole whole like three childs crosst.
YA KNOW

hell prevails,

SHALO P

DREAM FRIDAY

hey it's dream friday
and everything feels outta sight!
hey it's dreme frizziday
fizzle pop sparkle and donk!

PSST

WE'RE GONNA BLEED OUT THEM PORES OVER HERE PRETTY SOON.
THERE'S A LOT OF NEW FUN COMING, WRACKED WITH SORROW AS WE RILE UP A WHOLE LOTTA WILD. TO PARTY.

WE'RE THINKING ABOUT NEW MUTANTS BOOKS - ITS A VIVID, STRANGE CONCEPT FOR RESTLESS MINDS.
NEW TAPES ARE COMING SOON TOO, LIKE HUNGRY GHOSTS - PURE PLEASURE.
WE'RE GONNA DO SOME SCREENINGS AS WELL - MAD MAD MAD TELEVISION FOR GHOSTS BANQUETS FOR THE SENSES - FROM THE HOLE IN THE VAULT TO THE BASEMENT SHOW PROCURED BY THE COSMIC COLOSSAL VOID.
HOPEFULLY THE WALLS HOLD BACK 'CAUSE WE SHANT.

IT'LL BE DEF & DIVINE. WE JUST GOTTA REACH THEM SEARCHERS THAT BEEN SEARCHING TO CONNECT WITH OUR SWEET NUFFIN.
COMING SO-SO SOON, DOOD.

&
WE FUCKING LOVE YA SURVIVORS. THAT LOVE IS TRUE HONEST IMMORTAL - LIKE A FUCKING VAMPIRE.
IF YOU'RE FEELING WEIRD IN YOUR SKIN IT'S JUST THE BEGINNING OF SLINKING AWAY CLEAN FROM THE CRIME.

oh oh oh hell prevails,
SHALO P

FROM THE DESK OF DORDERY MARKS

I'M GONNA SMASH YOUR FACE IN.

LOVE IS THE ONLY THING I KNOW HOW TO DO RIGHT.

EYE OF THE TIGER

eye of the tiger
ye daughters of daughters
ye sons of sons
ye beasts of beat breasts
ye overwhelmed information addicts
eye of the tiger

GAMES FOR MAY 2016 / MYSTERY GAMES

WAY MAY DAY / GAMES FOR MAY 2016 / THE MYSTERY GAMES

SHALO P / TELEVISION FOR GHOSTS surely don't operate like most. 

Our stories are scattered across five corners of the accursed inter-web.

Only select bookstores, run by deranged mutant acolytes of cinema / literature, house SHALO P books like rowdy inmates in a Heartbreak Hotel / Jailhouse Rock / Caged Heat crossover starring Freddy Mercury.

Our previous indifference to internet representation had left us somewhat incomplete, 
a sort of fill-in-the-blank artist supplemented by nuanced interviews.



The truth is just a hop skip n' a jump
into the desert of the unreal.

We're just voices of reason here, focused through SHALO P / TELEVISION FOR GHOST's fine medusa-shaped prism, currently being an odd "appendices to a single room", representing various new refurbished natural philosophies to demolish them old shitty ones. 

FROM THE DESK OF SHALO P :

I'd stamp a Chuck Close painting to death to make room for a Jack Kirby any ole' day, or for a stream of Peter Greenaway / Michael Nyman cinematic compositions, the brilliance of Shana Moulton - it might suffice to have Orlan's lovely face left hanging on the wall like a mask, but straight bizness can keep its bordomz bliss to itself.

Frankly, The Underground is an incoherent term, now that everything's allegedly a click away - sorta. And yet The Counterculture is still surprisingly standing arms wide - fancy that.

Reality's still only skin-deep, in this regard - SEVEN LAYERS OF HEAVEN - plenty enough degrees for slowly separating the baking from oven.

So, it seems that we may as well come clean that we keep a lot of stuff off the internet.

It's practically another Universe to me, in a sense, a myriad of soft spaces, lost spaces, information, and unbridled pornography. Yeah, we can rely on it, but only Nothing is rock-solid, 'cept our principles, rocks, and our thrillz.

FROM THE DESK OF BB :

The Television For Ghosts library will never be completely online. It just can't. I tried and the computer vomited, nearly dying, and needed, like, a thousand back rubs to recuperate.

FROM THE DESK OF DORDERY MARKS :

Look, let's figure that folks these days seem to favor handy little typewriters, and the streets are aplumb with phony walkers bumping into people like inconvenient clouds, buffering spaces like it's a peripheral game of "walking is so easy I can do it blind-folded". This isn't going away - WHATEVER - but playing TVG off a "lil" fucking phone just isn't our sort of cinema. It sounds fucking gross. We do theatres, grand ballrooms, vibrant spaces, basements, tremulous innerspaces. Where's that ringing coming from? Hands up!!!

You're dealing with one of the smartest teams fucking EVER fucking ever fuckin.. wha... huh... uh... Where were we again? Who am I kiddin'?

Be our friend and let's assuage the aches and traumas of total information for a more palatable discourse on inter-dimensional travel through the membranes of culture and the arts in conceptual video, literature, and smarty comic strip funnies interpolating all manner of COSMIC ENDEAVOUR.

We'll have products soon to complete this discourse economically. Right now it's just a cool chat between pals, right?

The wheels are in motion, and the gears are oiled by the blood of patriots.

Let's figure this phase of the internet age as the The School of Thought period.

Folk have many beliefs and ideas. We're practically prone.

Certain ideas draw lines across lines over the horizon upon the horizon (on the horizon). 

An idea's innate beauty can be extrapolated to shatter "mind-forged manacles".

Let's keep striving for higher ideas, and keep talking to our fellow humans, when being offline means turning on and flipping out.

We're just here as your substitute to
everything else in The Universe.

hep hep,

sp

TODAY IN...

TODAY IN

OUR LITTLE WORLD

Open letter to Pals and Friends,

FROM: your gentle, and "formal" Shalo P; formally informal, NAHMEAN?

The expanding literary branch of Television For Ghosts is somewhat steadily gaining red fizzy steam.

At first, all we thought it would take was some firm encouragement and strong coffee with our collaborators to obtain the sort of intellectual synergy that could, hopefully, follow through into something worth stimulating the senses endlessly with smarty quandries, wry witticism, and moral ambiguities laid transparently, like a clever bridge between filantropic ogres with the audience as river, coming away filthy rich. But when the odds grew irreconcilably steep - not one would have guessed that all it takes is a swift swing from a menacing spiky wooden mace on a rusty bike-chain.

It revved up the menace and generally pepped up the room with its clangly chorus striking the walls while I rolled down the hallways doing the Fluorescent Shockwave, chipping the potted succulents with cloppy clash, and eventually landing on the back desk with a rock-all-night thud.

A metal part ricocheted off the old studio coffee maker near K's Corner (more of nook, really).

I left it lodged in the drywall by the stairs for good measure.

SO GO AHEAD AND ENJOY

a morsel of love from one of the more stranger departments of our Baroque Post-Internet Mystery League. 

SUPER "MUTANT" DUPER SPECIAL THANKS 2 :
Petey, Owen, Dodo, Becky, Linda, The Gardener, & BB).

PLEEZ

Allow the vernacular of our sensual endeavors, peppered with added dimension, play clever cat and canary games in this cradle / coal mine of the inter-web.

(I hope you find some light on your search along the way, nonetheless.)

Straight-up Rhetorically unposed, but speculatively en amour'd with rewriting the book on intellectual inquiry:

What is a magazine?

What exactly is a dream?

What exactly is a joke?

"Bare it." 

"Don't just look at it. Eat it."

(last two left on a lark, on its swing, near a branch.)

ANYHOO
we're overall enthralled in purposefully languishing in all fiery tongues the naked eye doth perversely recall, and from the nude mind do we find solace and embrace in caresses of clever and kind souls.

love,

SHALO P
San Francisco, California
"America's Favorite City"
May 2016

PLUS

A QUICK NOTE.

BB is off to make her best in life; on her own, and we congratulate her for the aspiration to skin the face off the world and wear it like a mask.

She's taking a break before she's back to break all our faces in a row with that ole' sledge hammer in her paws, sez SHE.

Her efforts in the "articles" below are at best, fabulously nebulous and meekly vague, like a Beethoven sonata played by fudge-dipped chihuahuas - a subtle melody gnawed on by wild rats with ruby rouge eyes.

Notwithstanding, The Youth was an utterly eternal blessing - until the animals started to shudder in her company with the eventual precipitating reports of neighbors panicking in her presence taking preference over her usual weekly duties, in essence.

After all, her resume described The Faun as "a young women emerging from the carnage of a beechcraft bonanza crash-landed in the crusty cornfields of calamities' caress". She'd state this aloud every so often as well, always coming out in a windy lustful drawl, moaning out like some ancient fuming Japanese Devil (although mostly unbeknownst to most That Kind Light doth shone def Onibaba, tenderly 'neath her snuff milky smoke murky ostrich egg off-white oyster-sized pink pill-box-hat exterior, and by that; when a young pillar of fire spoke: oh by G why N - it's BB's deep awesome truths)!

She left with arms outstretched - hands making double-dosed peace signs...

FROM THE DESK OF BB : 

"My name is BB and I approved this message!" 

Well, the message is love, and the candidate is sympathetic to harsh student loans. 

Before cleaning out her desk we found a little note to DD in a tin with a confederate flag scratched off its top.

The note read: 

"(illegible) ...didn't douse a dank doobage deed, smoking poorly burning pre-roll before the SFMOMA.

The wages of sin being cinders for any fellah making fly on the by and by, instead of eh'vry day like Nate Dogg, per se.

The professionals party all the time, sez never them that live nay-say." 

AND THEN SHE WAS GONE.

We love her and wish her the best on whatever massacre she's planning. We are Charlie Hebdo, in some obscene sense, and that could really boost numbers with some prime-time publicity, as long as she just sorta wings the boss during her spree.

See you in the funny papers (ours, preferably).

P.S. HINT HINT - GAMES FOR MAY 2016 is gonna be a quiet one. It'll still be totally totally "madness flipped".

(if not the sort alluding to the fabulously dementia-null, then mayhaps fabster rebuttlin' quarrels of straight shootin' self-denial).