Concerning the works of Room 13: Osseous,

All artwork and words are original to
Hannah Carpenter Pitkin unless noted otherwise.



Militia Ape
creation of Dylan McAvenia

They Are Only Human, And Therefore Mistakes Do Occur

dictionary human |ˈ(h)yoōmən|
of, relating to, or characteristic of people or human beings : the human body | the survival of the human race.
of or characteristic of people as opposed to God or animals or machines, esp. in being susceptible to weaknesses : they are only human, and therefore mistakes do occur | the risk of human error.
of or characteristic of people's better qualities, such as kindness or sensitivity : the human side of politics is getting stronger.
Zoology of or belonging to the genus Homo.

thesaurus human
1 they're only human: mortal, flesh and blood; fallible, weak, frail, imperfect, vulnerable, susceptible, erring, error-prone; physical, bodily, fleshly.
2 the human side of politics: compassionate, humane, kind, considerate, understanding, sympathetic, tolerant; approachable, accessible.
3 in human form: anthropomorphic, anthropoid, humanoid, hominid.

fourth bus this January. in Brooklyn: walk and forage for silver sidewalks. most of the time it's gum, but it goddamn deceivingly looks a lot like quarters. eating 25 cent bagged potato chips and mini snickers. 33 cent bagels at C-Town and Associated. bodega on the corner felt bad for me (always paying in dimes and nickels), fat bagel toasted with butter: 75 cent. broke out on my chin from the poverty foods - grease and sugar are cheap in america. George street caked in dog shit, never look up, never look up or you'll have the air of mold married city dog pissy-shit partying in the tread valleys of your stupid girly heeled boots. I wore the (Brunswick, ME) Salvation Army fur coat over baggy t-shirts and jeans with holes in the ass almost every day. usurped Russ' huge green corduroy button up|down so I could hide (in it) the holes easy. no one wants to see that. it's rude. unsavory. Gaby's Bakery. assorted baked goods for little to nothing. 75 cent generous raisin scone and usually a complimentary coffee or pineapple cookie. 85 cent sparking waters with probably fatal helpings of aspartame. Coors for a little over a bone. it's amazing how much money people drop on the street. probably holes in their pockets. or maybe it's some people don't give a fuck about the two dimes in change they got after ordering up an egg sandwich. (I always called them breakfast sandwiches but was recently made aware that no one says that in new york city. it's egg sandwich. ok.) I could smell them on my walks to Glendale. which is basically a bizarre Lowell with a huge Jewish cemetery. walk through Ridgewood, past all the Mexican joints and hello Glendale white jocks playing pool through neon beer signs giving me the once over while I frown furiously speed walking through like a middle-to-older aged woman worried about the drooping where once was once was. ('Droopy was the goddamn missing dwarf; he belongs at snow white's heals, not around the ass and thighs of the Wicked Witch of the fucking East.') the frown came first, though. apparently that's how I get when I concentrate. (I think I do something weird with my nose and upper lip too. very unflattering.) walking is a prime time to concentrate. there's a lot to work out before sitting down again. in the Glendale Jewish cemetery - Mount Lebanon Cemetery if I recall correct - I walked one day to the top of the hill and looked out towards the east end of the place and curiously noted the exceptionally compact nature of that particular area in the graveyard. turning to my right, the sun came from behind a cloud. it was off and on like that all day. sickly little skin clouds, but pretty dark gray and highly persuasive on my mood. I gave a nod to the sun and continued on towards the further end of the plot and in the corner of my sky eye line I saw a flock of red balloons. must have been a birthday or any sort of event really; but none of that seemed of any actual significance. this particular sequence of events cloaked me all day. my skin was knotted |unkempt| in my gut while my insides lay stretched wet absorbing the slug clouds and the sun and the shrinking red stars. I walked on and later that night was in a better mood than the few days before. inevitably ended up watching Forbidden Planet or War Of The Worlds or some goddamn brilliant old sci fi flick. probably had a green pepper and Roma tomato bowl with multiple tablespoons of hot sauce. (peppers and tomatoes are cheap too. hot sauce is around three or four bucks but it lasts and it clears out your sinuses like a motherfucker, so I'd opt to blow a chunk of change on a bottle as often as necessary.) of course, the charity of kind souls is a charity I couldn't begin to express thanks for. probably not in English or human talk at all. I try to say it with my eyes because whatever is in there I always find to be far more truthful than whatever bullshit comes out my mouth. I'm real sloppy that way. not a great talker. problems with saying things unless I've got it all figured out and it's completely accurate to whatever the feeling is. that can be pretty hard for me. usually comes out terrifyingly abstract (& days too late) which I'm told can be pretty frustrating to deal with. jesus christ there are a lot of mack trucks out this time of night. 


In the Desert

by Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;

"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart."


Centerpiece, [Feed of Intention, Filmmaking]

busy candles

Permanent Vacation, 1980, Jim Jarmusch
Earl Bostic – 'Up There in Orbit'

Mulholland Drive, 2001, David Lynch
Angelo Badalamenti- 'Jitterbug'

Brazil, 1985, Terry Gilliam
Music by Michael Kamen

Pina, 2011, Wim Wenders
Music by Juan Llossas, Charlie Chaplin, Anton Karas, Sibelius and others

Llorando: Cidade dos Sonhos

All that is left now is the tears, and so Rebekah del Rio comes out to sing the Spanish version of a song called "Crying," written by Roy Orbison. Before singing the song, Rebekah del Rio is introduced in Spanish as "The Crying Lady of Los Angeles." This title is also the name of a legendary Spanish woman who was jilted by her husband who left her with their two children for another woman. Overwhelmed by the loss of her lover, she kills her two children and herself. In a certain sense, this is a hint that Diane's grief in the real world has made her homicidal as well as suicidal.

- from Allan Shaw's 'A Multi-Layered Analysis of Mulholland Dr.'


In One Are Two

In The Gallows of Saint Teresa of Avila

I thought I recognized her.
It was hard to tell.

I was at a place where a certain person died who for many years had lived a wicked life, from what I knew. But he had been sick for two years, and in some things it seems he had made amends. He died without confession, but nevertheless it didn't seem to me he would be condemned. While the body was being wrapped in its shroud, I saw many devils take that body; and it seemed they were playing with it and punishing it. This terrified me, for with large hooks they were dragging it from one devil to the other. Since I saw it buried with the honor and ceremonies accorded to all, I reflected on the goodness of God, how He did not want that soul to be defamed, but wanted the fact that it was His enemy to be concealed.

- from the Collected Works of St. Teresa of Avila

Third Floor, East Wing, Sporting Room

Meanwhile, who the fuck could have been late? How many guests did I tell you to expect? Am I ever fucking off target? What do you think I pay you for, you dumbscumsheepfucking piece of shit? When I say to you, when I say, 'absolutely NO ONE is to be admitted unless they're on the list. Under absolutely no goddamn circumstances is anyone else allowed the fuck in,' what, exactly, did you take that to mean? You motherfucker. You goddamn motherfuck.

[Takes deep breath. Wipes palms on suit jacket. Composes himself. Looks down. Smiles. Looks up. Makes eye contact with henchman.]

Do you know what you've cost me?

[Still smiling. Leans in so that his lips touch henchman's ears. Whispers:]

There is no excuse and I afford no second chances. You've cost me. Do you understand? And now, you'll have to repay me with something ...  hm, extremely valuable. Some call these things priceless. I call them little piggies. Say oink you stupid fuck.


The Dripping Sink ( _______'s Husk)

The point of the _________ was to understand further what Fatherhood was. My son was just a son. My eyes just two, and empty. I didn't anticipate the following sequence; the moods between the beams of a Paris, Texas realm. __________  ________ was my professor that spring. __________ had the longest hair of all the women in the room most days. She wore hers in the low pony. Th'others wore top buns like morning breakfast pastries dripping with large egos that looked more like egg yolk if you ask me. I saw nothing but samurais. Fatherhood looked like the long end of a sword held suspended by my mother's gut. I wasn't fond of that side of her. It produced a somewhat unflattering anger within me. _________ was intrusive. But something in her salted corn husk hair bled me out of my feather bed, far further than the running water wore me down - the dripping sink. The fucking dripping sink.

A Dangerous Street In The Winter For Pedestrians

daub it on the rocks, over there
grab my gin and bring it to me on the porch
i'll sway over these stones until the music starts
in the basement
on the longest street

the rhodes is a marvelous thing


accomplice |əˈkämplis|

the twins were henchmen; [informal] sidekicks.
there wasn't a one remained to be troubled by nightmarish intellect.


The White Room (or, Disrupt Of The Womb)

'Describe your appetite, or at least, the force feed. I see the thickness of the tubes, vertical. Very vertically organized. The story, what was the story about?


'Your volume is uneasy, please focus on the volume.'


In The Barren Lands

As far as it will mind to go, dammit.
That's the problem with these things. They don't mind to get nowhere.


1946 January 20 - Present

The world is getting louder every year, 
but to sit and dream is a beautiful thing.

D. Lynch


carry beam whitening the ether sides, both tall with flair, romantic feelings between them, sharp steel always reoccurring forcefully and unwanted, isn't it. two youngs dating for red breath reason, both for mother and the step who's off this weekend business-ing prominently and resourcefully. no phone call no letters, in fact pens extinct by now. some breeze heavy with tin soil trash melt the alley above the strays and loose fur pets, don't touch don't even look; rabies futuristic rabies. she lowers her pasty thumb out the pocket and soon all four others down to touch the gray. sores immediately, swollen tongue, but well hidden. clever thing wants what it was down there, twisted, angry, breathing slow. intimidating for some who don't go out much anymore, but not between. understand the stroke and weather the calm, weather the rain. at least another three hours under the garbage dream. four eyes all showing wet, all showered with ash. round again to the tall where slow light is indeed slow and spies them only after they've gone too empty a song for such a time. it's flown by now tipped off and without so much a spat farewell pattern. vapor metal doesn't melt, it follows bending, leading them home, away from the wet breathing thing, away from each other. home is this empty hallway, hoarse leather cud, heat by mantel dream.


before sleep among the last thoughts of day,

when I close my eyes this time the distance between my fists is measured by miles and there are valleys absorbed in reflection of steam and steel, absorbing itself in forms of tectonic mission unearthly crude vast expansions between my two fists with my eyes closed

I feel sea sick or motion sick with the tide my breathing is steady but warns the guests with reaching ache lungs - really no one is between them now at all and I could open them and shrink the scape

absorbing itself between crude fists now the eyes are open fists remain fists.
really no one is between shrinking the scape open steady she goes wide unearthly tin cylinders about,
one more shut before the last oscillation measured in miles of steam itself nauseous but shifting impressively

by my standards.