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, 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.
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.
 

Sunday, September 21, 2014

All the heartbreak songs have too much context.

 
Instead, an emptied reflecting pool:


Be careful not to share your every favorite item of comfort.
You may need some solitude away from that which is your grandest.
She said.

Yet in picture language. Part land sight distance mind scene.


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. 
See?


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.