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

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Audience is streets of the city.

"It's not time to wait your turn," said Girl to Herself audibly in the moments before wake up thinking of lovers.
Having located her other world, neither shame nor guilt.

I don't know what to listen for in the moment. Or whether what paranoia is.
I check for the sensation of touch, clearly naivete.

This statement is holding onto the moral of fantasy.
She didn't have a body and desperately grabbed it.

I keep thinking of backwards, leg open temple, versa vice, care about me.
"What do you, darling?" I asked, taking her audible fingers out of your mouth.

Between the days, a bit of force confusion hanging.
In the desperate abandon, all lines murmur meaning masturbate lick her hand.

Where boy was mouth, one huge lover.
My primary thinking was going somewhere else.

Asked the girl, "Is that what you want? No longer words?"
Stupidly, the actors stood up and said, "Yes!"

The flesh neglected impossible.
When did the world turn Proof & Pun?

I thought for a made up moment.
Or remembered.

* text slaughtered and transposed, spontaneously, in desire to share but in lieu to confess (explicitly)
* this, too, is not a confession, of course obviously por supuesto
* all words, dis- and re-arrnaged from only pages 138-139 in Kathy Acker's book In Memoriam to Identity
* a book I have never read but that has been sitting on my shelf for half a year

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Everything is summer today.

Texas summer. I'm muggy at best. I'm banana leaves at the upstairs morning light window. 

This is / that was
right now.


I have more than I know what to do with.
I have more than I know.

I'm having a party in less than two weeks. I slept about two hours last night.
I've been consciously trying to wear less in public since I noticed how much I cover up, unconsciously, without wanting to, feeling that I have to.

You probably wouldn't get this from photos. Various states of undress, always here.
But this is my projected self, and I pass very few judgements about that person, she her I.
I am lucky this way. For some of my friends it is the opposite.

I am heading to the beach today.
I have two entire rolls of film I want to share with you, but I am holding onto them for my shared project with Bashfulleigh instead. Holding-hiding those makes me want to shoot more. This is a pattern with which I can work.

Partially, it is summer. Partially it is everyone in Texas thinking about the good weather knocking on the state line above us.
Let us get out of the 90's at night at least.
But this is when the best things happen. Did I say I'm throwing a party?

It will have nothing to do with the photos below this, not in actual means.
Though I'm looking at these photographs as memory for a spiritual jumping-off point.

A cliff from which to spring. A cliff from which to fall.  
A cliff from which to summer.

salmon bra, chicken legs, jean shorts, teeth: The Bunny

Friday, September 5, 2014

Am Montoya was alone in my house with me for more than 24 hours before we spoke to each other in sentences.

She was the internet friend of an internet friend's internet friend.

After one real conversation, we shared a sleazy motel room and a hamburger and a malt.
She bled on my front porch and stuck a knife in her mouth. We covered her in pomegranate seeds.
She wore my hair, the shirt off my back, the color of my cheeks.
I dropped her off on a corner of a street I did not know. We sent text messages back and forth until there was silence.

(These are not metaphors though they could be.)

I have shared one or two photos, but she was (is) confusing to me.
She entered my life in a wavering moment,
caught me jumping between two skyscrapers, looking not forward or back but at my own hovering feet.

Me, un-characteristically with a less-than-solid base and her, certain and shy and literally without any place other than mine.
It was what we both needed. It was Kerouac-ian without the lucidity or the chemical concoctions or the highway lines.

It felt gratuitous to share more photographs of her, knowing that a portrait often suggests stability of The Has Been.
I never knew Am. I shared space with her. We made things together. I genuinely respected her...
But with a never satisfied curiosity.
We were both sad she had to leave town. It was as if we'd bumped into each other in line at the airport bathroom...
and nothing more.

I know better than to trust my memory of her. She changed her name before my eyes (and ears).
Our friendship was interior and coincident. Together we laughed like travelers and roommates both.

(Not long after her stop-over I moved from the house in which she visited me.
That is not a metaphor either.)

And truthfully, I wanted the keep the nature of her short visit (hours? barely!) inconspicuous in the 2-d world if nowhere else.

But now she's returning to Texas. I cannot share my favorite photographs of her. That's my best unkept secret.
These can do for now.

Monday, September 1, 2014

I have no idea what is ethical [in photography] any more.

And I've been told (you know!) that I can't distinguish ethics from morals.

Also, I've been writing poems again. That perhaps aren't terrible. That are in collaboration.
I have seven books on my desk. They are not my only partners in this.

I began writing this blog post last night. A phone call deleted every word written.
After the call, I wrote again, this time on paper with pen.
One sentence:
The figure-self is always retaliating.
It might, in other words, prompt a dare-opaqueness that always already exists.

The difference between what I like and what I impulse toward is glowing like a highlighter in the dark,
meaning not at all except when I imagine it.

I made a book. I gave it away. I gave it to better hands than mine, hands I love in spite of history.
More so because of history.

I had a crowded weekend with saltwater and a monopoly of will.  I could feel the bare bone edges of its sea.
Everything turned into singsong and increasing sense of overflow and undertow.

I recognized my closest friend in the distance, recognized their body in the bayouqquietdark
out of the thrust of flatness.
It was second a.m.
Vast material of coincidence!

Freud writes, "It is really only because we know so well how to explain it that this attitude does not seem to us pathological."
This was about the hysteria of mourning, whether sublimated or exasperated.

I am lots of this too.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Stand here, at the insistence of fantasies.


Collaborative self-portrait from the first time I met Ash LaRose:

I have been lucky enough to know a handful of people for what feels like a long time,
even when it has not been long,
even when it has not been long enough,
and hopefully, when it truly has been an exceedingly long time.

Ah, Bashfulleigh. 
To knowing and learning and making with you
for many more ridiculous, discerning years.

And to maybe wanting to share them all, in our hidden and exhibitionist ways.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Halfway through my last journal I wrote this, in unlabled undocumented quotes,

The landscape is a testimony,
a metaphorical visualization of non-linearity & interconnectedness.


Reading it then, reading it now, my right hand (im)pulses to create.
Underneath that entry, without quotes and with the same pen, I wrote: 

spatial & narrative confusion
optical illusion collapses spatial categories


I apologize to whomever and whatever work I documented without a source;
I owe you double for putting my unsayables into speech.

When someone teaches me how to approach something,
I should remember the spring and not just the flowing forth.

I am learning many things half a journal too late.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Asked & Answered


So you have a sense of what you want the visitor to go away with?

William Kentridge

No, that I never have. That I absolutely don't have.

It's an invitation to to the visitor to see if there are points of connection, points of overlap between
their memory, their experiences, their desires & what they see on the screen and what they hear.

But it's not as if: Chapter 1) FEAR, Chapter 2) DELIGHT.

It's not an emotional journey plotted for an audience.
That requires cynicism, I think, and thinking on behalf of other people.

* * *

I don't often wonder what you think when you visit me here,
but that doesn't mean I don't find it valuable.

I find it difficult to understand the translation, think it can best be guessed when face-to-face,
the assymetry of sitting across from you (over coffee or coffee table) the only way to recognize symmetry of conversation.

So if I'm lucky, I forget it matters that you come here and see things and make false and accurate assumptions.
I forget that returning matters. Mine and yours.

At least occasionally.

How you have been affected by my accusers, I cannot tell;

but I know that they almost made me forget who I was,
so persuasively did they speak.

Plato, The Apology


(And the accusers are rarely exterior.)