Saturday, June 18, 2011
Slicing up my soul into a hundred little horcrux's over the years in my career as an artist never did fight mortality, as I had hoped. However, I am working on more popular works, lately.On Twitter, I am peaking at nearly 300 followers. If I'd said that in a zombie flick, I'd be soooo screwed. Wish they all would buy something... Zombie or not, I'm not running a damned museum.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Pulse
When born months premature, with a collapsed lung and tacicardia, the doctors put my life expectancy down in hours. As I lay in an incubator barely alive and isolated from human touch, my breaths and nourishment were supplied through a tube. I was a shivering mass of fat and bone, wired and tubed into machines designed to keep my defective body from failing me. I survived by luck, prayers, and the sweat of strangers. I would have several more heart attacks in the following days as my heart grew tired of its beatings.
My father was plagued by an undiagnosed and untreated clinical depression which he would only become aware of years after my exodus towards an independence which never became fully attained. And he was a parent who fully believed in controlling his children through the church guilt and with leather belt bruises. My only want was for his approval and respect. I knew two men in my father, his public mask and the angry, unhappy man beneath it which no one but us, his blood, ever had the displeasure of riding in cars with. Once, his foot found my kidney while I scuttled about to gather fallen condiments from of the kitchen floor. A shelf had prooven too weak for the sudden opening of the refrigerator door and, so released its contents across the room with a crash. He had taken this moment to vent his anger at the world upon me. As I rose in defiance and felt the winds of change, my heart was tired of its beatings.
My mother lost her youngest brother to a drunk driver one early morning. My uncle was a light upon my gloomy life. His joy and his thick skin had taught me how to hold my head up against the storms. His chiseled features gave me a link to my long departed grandfather, a man I had never known but had respected greatly. He was my own Lincoln monument, cast in flesh. He had been a lifeline when I was drowning in sorrow. And, I awoke to his sister, my mother, wailing the sorrow and disbelief of his parting at three o'clock in the morning on a Sunday. At his funeral, my cousin, his son, was in shock. I invited him outside to play and talk, as we had always been good friends and I felt it my duty to lessen the blow. I received a blow to the face from my own father and scolded for my disrespectful actions. My heart was tired of its beatings.
I have watched the sinking of the Titanic family yacht, after the senior members of the crew were out on their own ports of call. The iceberg of divorce hit and everyone scrambled to save their own butts. My lifeboat with my mom was crowded and short of supplies. When, for instance my birthday came around, she took me shopping... On my own credit card. A card I never used because I couldn't afford to pay back anything I bought, until my mom offered to get me a new pair of jeans and pay back what I spend on them. Once there she talked me into a whole new outfit to go with the jeans, a debt I would never be able to pay on my own. And, never have. Or the college tuition I payed out of pocket with the intention of claiming back on my taxes, but could not after she had claimed it on hers. She never repaid any of it. And, after having helped her for years only to be asked to move out;after learning that her mother molested children when I was prime target age and under her mother's care; after living with untreated mental disorders for years, I began smoking cigarettes and pot. Soon followed by cocoa bean, pain killers, and pretty much any drug landing in my hand. You see, I saw this as a slow suicide.
And, after all my heart was tired of its beatings.
My father was plagued by an undiagnosed and untreated clinical depression which he would only become aware of years after my exodus towards an independence which never became fully attained. And he was a parent who fully believed in controlling his children through the church guilt and with leather belt bruises. My only want was for his approval and respect. I knew two men in my father, his public mask and the angry, unhappy man beneath it which no one but us, his blood, ever had the displeasure of riding in cars with. Once, his foot found my kidney while I scuttled about to gather fallen condiments from of the kitchen floor. A shelf had prooven too weak for the sudden opening of the refrigerator door and, so released its contents across the room with a crash. He had taken this moment to vent his anger at the world upon me. As I rose in defiance and felt the winds of change, my heart was tired of its beatings.
My mother lost her youngest brother to a drunk driver one early morning. My uncle was a light upon my gloomy life. His joy and his thick skin had taught me how to hold my head up against the storms. His chiseled features gave me a link to my long departed grandfather, a man I had never known but had respected greatly. He was my own Lincoln monument, cast in flesh. He had been a lifeline when I was drowning in sorrow. And, I awoke to his sister, my mother, wailing the sorrow and disbelief of his parting at three o'clock in the morning on a Sunday. At his funeral, my cousin, his son, was in shock. I invited him outside to play and talk, as we had always been good friends and I felt it my duty to lessen the blow. I received a blow to the face from my own father and scolded for my disrespectful actions. My heart was tired of its beatings.
I have watched the sinking of the Titanic family yacht, after the senior members of the crew were out on their own ports of call. The iceberg of divorce hit and everyone scrambled to save their own butts. My lifeboat with my mom was crowded and short of supplies. When, for instance my birthday came around, she took me shopping... On my own credit card. A card I never used because I couldn't afford to pay back anything I bought, until my mom offered to get me a new pair of jeans and pay back what I spend on them. Once there she talked me into a whole new outfit to go with the jeans, a debt I would never be able to pay on my own. And, never have. Or the college tuition I payed out of pocket with the intention of claiming back on my taxes, but could not after she had claimed it on hers. She never repaid any of it. And, after having helped her for years only to be asked to move out;after learning that her mother molested children when I was prime target age and under her mother's care; after living with untreated mental disorders for years, I began smoking cigarettes and pot. Soon followed by cocoa bean, pain killers, and pretty much any drug landing in my hand. You see, I saw this as a slow suicide.
And, after all my heart was tired of its beatings.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Welcome to the show!
My first dive into blogging waters, and I hope I don't drown in my own honesty. I am hopeful that this endeavor will prove fruitful in my own growth. Be forewarned that I intend to be open and honest about many aspects of my life... Sometimes harmful honesty, in the wrong eyes. The names are changed, places also. However, the face of my life will remain as chiseled and hairy as my eyes can describe.
For those who will read this as a passing fancy, I hope you will enjoy. As for those who itch to be the first to cast stones, go swim in tar. Anyone seeking insight into their own hearts, feel free to peek into my own. Anyone seeking insight into me may find themselves lost in translation... Don't know more to say... Enjoy the show!
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