I DRAW ALL DAY. I WANT TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT PAIN AND DEATH AND MAGICAL THINKING. I LISTEN TO MUSIC ALL NIGHT. I BELIEVE IN DREAMCATCHERS AND BAD HIPPIE BUSES BECAUSE THEY EXIST. I BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING BECAUSE IT EXISTS. I BELIEVE IN THINGS THAT DON'T EXIST. I LIKE TO NAME CATS AFTER FOOD AND BEVERAGES. LOOK AT MY DRAWINGS AND LOOK AT ME WHEN YOU TALK TO ME. I HAVE AN OPEN HEART BUT ITS IN PIECES. I LIKE IT THAT WAY. I FEEL THE WORLD AND ENJOY ITS COSTUME OF RIDICULOUS HUMANITY. LOVE IS ALMOST EVERYTHING, I STILL DON'T KNOW WHY.I WAS CONVINCED MY SUNBED WAS A PORTAL BACK TO ANCIENT EGYPT. I COULD HEAR MUSIC IN THE DISTANCE ALL THE TIME. I WAS OBSESSED BY ALL THINGS IN THE NUMBER OF THREES. STONE IN A SANDCASTLE DUNE, WINTER IN A RABBITS EYE, WHY THE SMOKE ALWAYS FOLLOWS ME OUT OF THE ROOM. BANDITS 2007 BY ISOLATION FLAVORED SODA
GEMINI SKY 1997 BY ISOLATION FLAVORED SODA
GOLDEN WILDERNESS TOTEM POLE 2006 BY ISOLATION FLAVORED SODA
E.S.P. CREEPS 1997 BY ISOLATION FLAVORED SODA INDOOR CALIFORNIA SUMMER 2007 IS NOTHING BUT MY FAVORITE JOKE FLORA AND FAUNA DOWN IN TIJUANA THE MEMOIRS OF NICKOLE A. PEPERA (EXERPT 2007) She slams her bony fist into the paisley tablecloth, knocking over her half cup of coffee, some gets on her legs, whitch are bare and have a few bruises on them from all of the fighting that she does all of the time.This is what her life has become, a gray not a black cat, called grapejuice sleeping on her lap, some aztec sweater coat,golden hairbraids in her hair from like spending time in the California mountains having a pretend fantasy, a beautiful life, her greatest waking hours spent crafting a drawing out of birds feathers and aarvark ink.... some self portrait of herself painted in her 28th year, that she talks out loud to for comfort as though it were god. And please...you can't forget her nightly walks to the blue coffee house where she is given free ice cream because of her smile. There are more things about her fake tiger handbag and what she carried inside, some stone of fortune, a few telephone numbers, dead hooker red lipstick.A photograph of her parents, 1979,the best one she left it behind, along with her leaf necklace, just because she knew she would come back here, to this home. A festival around her days, a milk white cavern of soft focus, go a day without blinking, a month without speaking. She stands up, the coffee dripping a streak down to her ankle."What I have to do today" She writes with a red pen on the back of a torn out page. Her handwriting is terrible...
