Troll Meditation II 2022
Sometime in 2017, I started to work magically with troll dolls, seeing them as physical conduits for inter-dimensional helpers or guardian beings, able to assist humanity (although with the condition of reciprocity). In 2019, I created this playful video in the style of a New Age energy-clearing meditation; in it, the trolls hold space for our healing as I sonically guide viewers to focus their attention on different body parts while water flows and colors change in the background, allowing for stimulation, and ultimately, deep release. I created this video for a Golden Dome School fundraiser, with music by my brother Jack Kredell and video production help from Gabe Elder of Physical Plant.
On May 26, 2018, I gave a talk called “The Psychic Internet” at the P2P Web Conference, hosted by the School for Poetic Computation. I produced a spell for the event entitled “Human to Machine Connection Protocol.” Speaking these words aloud affirms our inherent interconnectivity as humans, and encourages us to practice discernment and set boundaries, as we merge our energy with technology.
From 2017-2021, I drew pictures and wrote all over the walls of my first home office in Bushwick, Brooklyn, often while in a trance state. A photograph of me in this space was featured in DREAM HOUSE, A Collaborative Zine in Honor of the 50th Anniversary of Womanhouse, edited by Cindy Rehm under her creative label HEXENTEXTE. I wrote this text to go along with the photo: All Times and Mouths Open Now I painted my walls pink. Black sharpie is my answer to Harold and his purple crayon. IT’S WHAT I NEEDED TO SAY OK! OR WHATEVER THEY PUT IN MY MOUTH! WHAT TOGETHER WE SAID, OR RECORDED AS HAPPENING! I am a seance artist. I listen to my favorite songs over and over again, projecting them outwards and inwards like Loyd Dobler in Say Anything, awaiting electrocution. These sonic valentines are my fishing lures for spirits. With spirits as my witness, I relive painful past life memories of imprisonment and confinement. I remember the ecstasis of a space so shut out—so blackened—you can do the Humpty Dumpty dance back together-ing. The energy that I channel comes across as Screamo. My pink space becomes a legendary punk bathroom in the Underworld. We tap into the walls’ veins, preparing for our regularly scheduled Return to the Miracle. Occasionally, I feel compelled to trace the outline of my hand on the wall, sealing in some magic. At a local cult meeting, I find out that a comrade has shared this same address. I learn about a form of red writing on the wall, the dance parties and the drugs. When I have to evacuate this space quickly because of rat mites, it takes three coats of paint to cover over these markings. I am not sad to go.
