I'm Traci Lynn Matlock.
I live and work in Houston, Texas.

Mostly, I shoot old-fashioned film.

I share more: here

And I always like email:
turningthequickcartwheel at gmail

Sunday, October 26, 2014

(For a forgotten reason I previously labeled this photo from earlier this month as Protect You In Prison.)

Thank you, all is well, I am absolutely fine, am over being dramatic.
I had two hard days but nothing outrageously terrible. I purged it here and worried a few of you.
I should have put an asterik or two on the emotions and how they related to being written at three in the morning.
My sincerest apologies! 

Mostly I am a bundle of.

Friday, October 24, 2014

The second hand unwinding:

I'm not okay. Which is okay. It's okay. I'm okay. The situation is okay, the night the ending to the night.

Everything else I want to write here is melodramatic. Is hyperbole. Is you will get your feelings hurt in the morning.

Where do I store this if not here?

I first wrote: Where do I stare if not here?

I could have written: Where do I share if not here?

Here in the tunnel dark, the lights receding, the packing sealed and made to look like what's beside it, hidden:

How do I tell the difference between the person I am and the person I want to be?

I have a natural reaction (which is aggressive and hurt and insecure), but that's tiresome and cliche.
So I try something else, something with more respect than my gut reactions feel to the person across the table... 
But I'm posturing. I feel like a fake. I feel like a good person and a fake, which is worse.

Maybe the test is how it makes me feel an hour later. When my blood pressure has normalized.
When I've listened to sad songs and wallowed, tucked my head in my jacket in this cold room.

I feel like, to be my best self here, requires letting go a piece of me I'm scared to lose, maybe not ready to lose.
This is moving forward, isn't it? This is what it feels like? Sadness at leaving your hurt/anger behind?
Moving toward understanding someone who is hurt too, who is not trying to hurt you, who is loving you.

Knowing what I should do and say and feel and half doing those. What an asshole I can be.
I keep almost writing fakery.

You fall, I don't catch you, time after time.

I'm just sitting in the sun / the dark with my legs ajar like car doors.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

It was raining. The woman in the red did not think of herself as the woman in the red.


Writes André Breton in Nadja:
I am concerned, I say, with facts which may belong to the order of pure observation, but which on each occasion present all the appearances of a signal, without our being able to say precisely which signal, and of what; facts which when I am alone permit me to enjoy unlikely complicities, which convince me of my error in occasionally presuming I stand at the helm alone.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

On removing hesitation from the present moment.

Her worst fits of abstraction
evidenced an altogether different skill.

Friday, October 17, 2014

On ungranted full access.

It's a struggle with where I find my Lucid. 
Lucid meaning

comprehensibly, linearly narrative / dreamily luminous often to the point of being insensible

Each time I share photographs here, I first

invert / invest / devest / suspend / divert / demand / command

them with my personal emotional context,
to the point of a fully blown balloon that

will / may / may not / won't

With that noise we can only describe as 

pop + hand signals + horror trauma magic look in the eyes.
And then with my best 

remember-the-page-numbers rationale / peak-around-the-corner-first intuition 

choose the photograph that seems to have the most ability to expose itself,
the most willingness to be

see-through as sixty-degree bathwater / opaque as Formica kitchen table.

The most lucid. 
The most yes, not now.

The most disappearing observing somnambulatory 
yes not now.

It's part of what I like about being on the receiving end of corporeal punishment.
The difference between the tool and use of the tool become
 not thought about in the slightest.

I don't even know if I'm referring to

the tool / the you / the her / the him / the me / the them / the day / the where / the reason / the unreason.

As soon as I share the photographs here
they withdraw from visibility.
Then they become 

not as much mine / more mine

because they are also yours, disappearing.
It is only erasing. Objects as erasers.

I as erasers.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

'This dream bears no relation to the subject.'

I had unusual fabulous value.

If I wake some kind of machine,
one penny in the slot instead of two,

consider it performance.
A tiptoe play. 
Impressions are made with a certain violence.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

'The optical middle where the two strokes join.'

One aspect of writing is The Eye.

And they eye wants to look at an orderly set of marks on a page.
The eye wants pattern, the eye wants order, the eye wants relative perfection.
Thee eye wants something that is reliable that it can count on. 
The eye is a very conservative part of reading. 

self-portrait, last year
self-portrait, last month

On the other hand, you have The Hand. 

The hand is the radical aspect of writing.
The hand wants to write faster and faster.
Writing changes because we're writing faster and faster all the time.

Kris Holmes, creator of (amongst other things) the typeface Lucida

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

I taught my first entire week of classes since hurting my knee.

These are the firs two self-portraits taken on my new/old camera.
 They were shot on the way to teach in the mornings.
In them I am:

suspcious (of my own body and general talent)
worried (regards my memory of names, motions, delayed self-judgement)
late (to accepting consequences)
revelrous (is that a word?)
in-transport (physically, spiritually)
back-to-back (in days)

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

If you want to control an emotion it is quite an amazing tool.

ahh smells so nice smells
full of little collages little directions of

just getting in a taxi
it suddenly takes a lot of the viewer

this moment of i wanna do something about this feeling
about emotion and how

it depends on what you want to control
but i knew i wanted

something that goes on top
and also talking about pleasure of

this voice is a soft shadow on your face
more surface idea of what's real

your mouth as well as in your brain as well as
i was really want-thinking of what i meant

but how do i express the sensation of the taste
and suddenly memories that connect

look there
the men are stealing the raspberries

instead of having them always playing this reality
we need to feed ourselves

of the sun of the the taste of it in
your brain your voice your smell

film it demands so many of your senses
how do i do it of course it's very hard

as the maker you can be quite controlling
didn't realize i was petal come closer

outside a room with birds flying around
see what i understand i think

a room meant to be the tail of an animal
and then i cut it off and then

i was lucky to have voice pillars very Roman idea of
what's not birds inside

i had a bit of sun pleasurable
my face it was so mouth

ahh you are naked ahh taste sweet little bit sour
this is where the power comes yes


Laure Prouvost makes me:

Emotion Feed Myself

(words from above stolen via every word Prouvost says in this video)


Friday, September 26, 2014

The us in hydrous.

Something cold, like water, touches our face. 
The monster in the night is a laughing Medusa.

Gaston Bachelard

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

If I were a radio or flee to nonfiction.

A sensation of glassblade rearing.

Perfunctory background within the terrible incoherent.

 I never cared for flowered lawn taxi asphalt but they had stayed so long.

For the theater, disrobed in masses of agree but to the truth.

 A bitter sentence wrestling.

Leisure pleasure pans and pots and fear of clumsy servant loved.  

Something you once and forgot playing to the crowd. 

A sundown caricature. A fifth of the same in the end.

It is the slow motion helpless two bare hands. 

You are this is therein.

The poet said, Ceilings directly at you.

One line elapsed.
  Its absurd incoherently historical might.

Sensation of look for it break your heart.
It is handed to you from the corner of your eye.

Minutes exchanged glances. 

 Moving through your bound with ribbons.

Belly to belly described it.
It is -- only then -- and then.

Along the beach, the beach.
Translation all at once and there it is.

I have often steamed blue, half like a song for hours.

Tonight couch, funerary marble my thighs.

I could not distinct. My elsewhere certainly barely ink.

I chopped the narrator, I, came upon lively as I wrote.

I dislike as romantic the suggestion.

 The cautiously comes back and with tongs.
With hammer plain and urgent like a child.

The sun had many another.
I had been repeating for hours.

Recall to me that day uncomplicated crossing the streets.

Not my her body the wall behind in half.

Once, I wildish cabin.
Open my eyes a stunt.

I remembered putting down.

To me that day, he goes because he must.
 Wide open redeem among touch each other.

How lively trancelike one finds you.

Then this.