Coming Back To The Project

I am finally coming back to this project after a long break.  My goal originally with doing this work is to express some artistic ideas about myself and sexuality, but privately.  While I was doing that I realized that I should probably go and get better at drawing if I want to be serious about it.  That meant going to an art school for about a year, and that took up too much of my time once work was included in the mix.

To be honest, the art school didn’t really teach me too much.  It was mostly a rip off, but I did learn a few techniques and that it’s alright to be slow in making art.  All of my previous teachers had this odd notion that moving fast was somehow connected to “looseness” or “expressiveness”.  These teachers would tell me to move fast, don’t think, and then I’d make a shitty painting and they’d critique it thusly.  I honestly believe that style of arts education is designed to give the art teacher more shitty art to critique.

The other school taught me to take my time and go slow.  The teacher didn’t teach me too much about how to do that, but at least gave me the 3-8 months it takes to do highly detailed drawings of things.  Once I had learned enough at this new school I quit and will be back to doing this kind of art again, hopefully with a bit higher quality.  We shall see.


The Pace

A small gesture across the rim of a coffee cup leaving a slight clue to the arousal.  That slowly melting ice cap planted on her face, globally warming to my humor, my dork, my affection, and shrugging off any thoughts of my inadequacies and insecurities. A slight shift, aft, starboard, up, in her seat because the heat is building, feeling and thinking about me, what I’ve got, what I say; There’s that filthy look, those rosy petals that bloom and expand to meet and greet the deft flick that has my taste.  Consternation at the opening and cramming that’s to much at first, then boils the bunny that will probably die tomorrow.  A quiet place to lie her head slightly tilted left, a solid grunt of dropped weight on the big toe, then a yelp as the push forces the silence out.  Quiet and calm, gentle sun bending across nose, cheek, pillow, hips, then feet.

Two days of this, this, uh, thing, you know that we can’t really name.  Two more days as it forms and gets a timing, then weeks of more.  More quiet time, more pulling together the sinew holding together the braced barriers erected after many days with many others who couldn’t form the communal pool that holds us now. No breath, no forgiveness, or acceptance can erase it.  It falls to rubble slowly, chipped away at seconds of seconds of boredom and accusations that endlessly revolved around me being broken for not being broken.

Three point one five four times ten to the seven and it’s done. Almost pi, but not quiet the same. Less than tau would have been better.  More of everything would have been the best. So now it’s three point one five four times ten to the seven and it’s done.


The sequins on her dress were tattered and broken, a small remnant of when she was pretty and dutiful to the slave of beauty, shaking them in a dingy room with a slimy pole and smelly assholes passing soggy or crispy sagging bills into her pants. Nails covered in dirt, or shit, dress probably has even more of it, her face sunken and gaunt stripped of all fat by the meth she’s been hooked on since the days of dancing and twirling, keeping balance in shoes nobody should wear because men who scratched herpes sores or diabetic feet would hand her a few bucks for looking hot. The 60s were the best. Drugs and men and freedom to be who she wanted, an artist with the oil paint on her hands the way the feces lies there now, her lithe body slicked in a blue light flesh and sweat tight and supple, now just a weathered rug you’d ignore in a doctor’s office before getting a boob job.