soulforms    steven dewey galleries    strange attractor
you may want to steal these copyrighted antique spacestation notes
The Strange Attractor and the Sexy Shamen are God, Steve and I, Brian. God is pulling all things into itself by means of mental activities such as
holographic vision. While reuniting under the guise of a Happy Van which Goghs real fast into the hell fire, the dark lady with the blue hand blows her
brains out with her own invisible finger. Thus we accidently rediscovered ourselves to be the original Surrealist movement in which Burroughs, Warhol, and
a variety of other debaucherists of the flesh found themselves fitting in quite nicely with our savior of art, Salvador Dali and the angels disguised as hippies
in their newfound heaven of cut-up immortality. Steve insists we have taught them a thing or two about deconditioning and reconstructivism. Here, Timothy
Leary is liquid LSD and Terrence Mckenna is still the prophet, though donning a very different form than that pesky old monkey called a human being he
had to lug around for forty some odd years. He had a nice unidentifiable head like the mysterious Set animal of ancient Egypt. He rants and raves and still
misleads us all into aimless revolutionary consciousness, somehow expecting God to forgive us for participating in the chatastrophere of worldly and
spiritual rebellion. We all have heads of some monstrosity here.
"Hazrat Inayat Khan said that when he entered a mystical state and traveled to DIVINE REALITIES, the beings he encountered also occasionally appeared
in half-human, half-animal forms." (Talbot,
My wife looks like an alien gazelle with super long horns and changes into Kali and a variety of other goddesses whenever she feels like seducing and
killing my soul. My friends look like the devil. I guess I'm no better off; I am marbelesque with white hair and flourescent blue and pink veins running through
my stoney idol of a body, thunderous lightning pouring out of my eyes and mouth. The funny thing is, this is all real. We didn't even know which one of us
was the Strange Attractor at first, and then we realized the Sexy Shamen is plural in this context and God the IFO is the Strange Attractor, the Eschaton,
drawing all things, especially including ourselves into itself. It is called Allah, Jah, Wakan Tanka, Brahman and many similar things like spirit of God, Great
Spirit, Holy Spirit, etc. It is also called Jesus, Y'shua, Pahana, and Krishna. Krishna is what it looks like in human form. When we were arguing about which
one of us was Jesus and which was Pahana, Quetzlcoatl and Mescalito appeared briefly to demonstrate our reflections in their higher identities. The forced
responsibility of these events is too much for us and we proceed in pure perplexity to do our art as though it were to fulfill some great service to the sacred
Earth, much in the fake tradition of artstar sandpainter Jackson Pollock, we claim to be "The Guardians of the Secret".  We have no idea what we are
doing half the time, and suddenly carry out yet another unresolved chapter of the comic tragedy of our dreams, uh, I mean life. But we are neither
Sophisticates nor their mockery, we are beings with unseen shapes, unwanted, forbidden creatures of a 3rd Eye-mensional plane beyond this little 2D
graphic. We are seen with special goggles, one blue and one red lens. We are crazy wise fools. Coming soon; a chapter in which we elaborate on our
collaborative "Altered States of Art Walk" in which we will either have documented proof thereof unless we burn it with ourselves. Everything is true.
Altered State Art Walk: Blueprints to insanity by the architect Steve-headed monster, narrated by the transexual dragon mason

The Rebelation of the International statue of Punk Liberachi should be exhibited here, in the context of our newfound nation, the
"Altered States of Art Walk", which is something we had planned to do all along, but fell into self induced comas instead. The
prophecy of the Happy Van which Goghs real fast into the lake of fire and fries, became not a sexy woman with her dark eyes of
poisonous desire, but an androgynous Vaisnava version of the Christian monk who is drunk with us in the Ocean of her eyes, the
Kava capsuls which have possessed us with sleep and nice dreamons. Here s/he is in the light and darkness of our confused
identities of love and suffering consciousness. A refraction of opium addict brides with golden red auras in  black satin hijab.

Maybe s/he will come with us to the moon; "Let the moon devour whoever will feed her." "Let it be what it is..." Kalipa's Ma said.

"I don't want to say too much", Steve exclaims, "until we actually do it, so we have no expectations and just dissolve our egos in the
deconstruction and reconstruction of our enviornment while people point and stare, calling us wierdos! I'm trying to write a
manifesto of the whole thing but I keep getting out of writing mode, and you need to record the stuff in type all the time anyway. So I
want you to add your thoughts too, I mean, we just have to... I mean, talk about fame, you want to be famous, just walk around forever
doing it, letting everything transform around you, saying to yourself, oh, thats a light post, that's something else, I'm going to climb
up it and when I do you're going to have to ask, now what, what should I do? And then maybe we have a couple props and the
mannequins come to life again like they did in our dream, oh that wasn't a dream either. Its all about fake fame and people saying,
Hey aren't you that guy that does that new art which isn't even art? And yeah, its every art movement at the same time taken to a
hyperspacial version of Dada... it's been done in a sense, but I'm talking about overcoming ego, you know, like performance is the
only thing I can keep rolling with cause its spontaneous and I don't know where my role is with this damn computer shit. Its not like
anyone goes home and looks it up, or do they, and they just don't tell us? No one wants to talk about art anyway, they just think its a
stereotype and we are so exhausted and unentertained, we just joke about how we are in hell all the time. Just draw people
devouring their coffee cups in Fiji and do the Gauguin thing, we might end up back at the abandoned studio painting again, wishing
it were a functional gallery, if anyone could even get along for longer than two weeks. Everyone's an alcoholic girl now. Losing all
connotations, mind manifesting hallucinations which is what we do when we create together, and reconstruct reality and feel the
hype which turns the statue of liberty into the Eschaton anniversary. Twenty four hours is just a start, what next cross country to the
point of the whole point is... DECONDITIONING!"

Then the Eschaton throws the Talisman mural in our face. I love it, I don't know what to say. The opportunity will present itself.

He goes on to say, "Mondrian would paint his walls to fit his paintings, to dissolve the boundaries and continue the world of his art
into his life." I have such idols and filigri, such cubist imagery everywhere, and burdensome visionary perplexity of the Godhead.
It is as I once said, "What kind of creatures are we, literally? Kinnarae, real life sci-fi characters, diseased art blessing machines.