I posted a very early picture Andrea’s, Tattoo, in a post the other day. I thought I would post a small gallery of her work for this Sunday’s feature. Andrea was a frequent contributor in early years of Pixels. I absolutely loved her work. She was our Picasso, Lautrec, and Banksy all rolled into one. Totally unique, fearless, bold, sexy, funny, mysterious, one of the great experimenters in those very heady days of iphonic exploration.

At some point, her pictures stopped coming in. I hope she is still making art. I am forever grateful for her contributions to this site and to the movement itself.

The way that the sea fails 
to drown itself everyday. And entendre alludes all those not listening. 
The way unfertilized chicken eggs fail to have imagination, 
           dozened out in their cardboard trays, 
by which I mean they will never break 
           open 
from the inside. The way my imagination (née anxiety) has 
           bad brakes and a need 
to stop sometimes. The way I didn’t believe 
it when he told me we were going to crash into the car idling 
           at a red light 
ahead of us. To know our future like that seemed unlikely. 
           But to have time to tell me? 
—Nearly impossible. I may have broken 
           several ribs that day 
but I will never know for sure. I’m okay
I guessed aloud to the paramedic. It doesn’t matter 
           if you’re broken if you’re broke
I moaned in bed that night, after several glasses 
           of cheap red. I thought it would make a good blues 
refrain. I made myself 
           laugh and so I made myself hurt— 
MEMOIRS BY EMILIA PHILLIPS, goes the joke. 
A friend of mine competes in beard and mustache tournaments, 
           even though she can’t grow one herself— 
Once, she donned a Santa Claus made entirely out of hot-glued tampons. 
It was as white as the spots in memories I doubt. 
           The first woman 
I kissed who had never kissed a woman before 
couldn’t get over how soft my face is, 
           even the scar. Once, 
a famous poet said what’s this and touched my face 
           without asking— 
his thumb like a cat’s tongue on the old wound. 
He must have thought he was giving 
me a blessing.
At the End of the Endless Decade by Mark Bibbins

Happy Sunday.

AURORA does a splendid cover of David Bowies “Life On Mars.”

It’s a God-awful small affair
To the girl with the mousy hair
But her mummy is yelling no
And her daddy has told her to go

But her friend is nowhere to be seen
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she’s hooked to the silver screen

But the film is a saddening bore
For she’s lived it ten times or more
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on

Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man, look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man, wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?

It’s on America’s tortured brow
That Mickey Mouse has grown up a cow
Now the workers have struck for fame
‘Cause Lennon’s on sale again
See the mice in their million hordes
From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads
Rule Britannia is out of bounds
To my mother, my dog, and clowns

But the film is a saddening bore
‘Cause I wrote it ten times or more
It’s about to be writ again
As I ask you to focus on

Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man, look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man, wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?

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