Today I saw a turkey with bribe money crossing the road to hide behind some chickens
Turkey art first published last Thanksgiving
I’ve never been accused of having it
there, out there
those ladies and gentlemen
you know who they are
they know who they are
who lived their first lives as display mannequins
clothes on their forms look right
I stopped looking in mirrors that dip below eye-level
I’ll never be accused of having it
I’ll always appreciate those who do
it is, after all, an art form
inspired by ‘subbing’ a fashion class – this – my homage to iconic fashion maestro, Erté, circa 1915-1932
We cannot protect our children anymore than we can make ourselves less vulnerable to life. The best we can do is arm them with self-confidence so when their young, conflicted minds step into those ‘precarious’ fields the mantra, “I’m better than this…,” whispers like a gentle school bell, muffled beneath piles of internal clothing.
The big son is still young. He turns fifteen this week. Like many others of his ilk, he enjoys sports. ‘We’ made it through another wrestling season uninjured and now it’s on to football. The big son is a gentle soul by nature–a pacifist at heart. I know it’s impossible to ask for such a divine favor as to keep one’s child completely safe while playing competitive sports, so I’ll just ask that he has fun and only requires a Band-Aid from time to time. And of course, I also ask that every child participating in sports this year remains safe. I know it is a tall order and a selfish prayer.
Last year the big son said to me, “I’ll feel bad if I hurt anyone, mom.”
I responded quite motherly, “Then tackle your opponents with love, son.”
Happy Birthday, Max!
sippin’ shit from the satellite saucer
that’s brain milk in there
did you know?
swallow hard and wait for the
a thousand stations
to blow your mind out your ears
here comes the gong show
whoa, get your damn greasy stumps off my pristine screen
that’s surreal, jack
hey, step back from the ultra hd
and hands off her ass
you’re crapping up my visual
freakin’ sharp ass glass
realist trip I ever fell over
‘n I slept in a needle
space powder in my orfeces
oh wait, shit
man, her ass is sublimb-ded
you’re pot ROASTED, jack
SUBLIME ass and yes, it is
now repeat after me, “ORIFICE”
hey, get your damn hands
off my ultra hd
I already wiped your last scum off there
yer satellite saucer
runnin’ outta menses milk
you got one of them cage-free cows
back there in the yard
maybe hangin’ out in them cannibal plants
Another school year is coming to a close. Another year of substitute teaching done and over. Before the year completely ends, I’d like to share an old post written last year when some fifth grade boys were concerned that their substitute teacher was a vampire…
Interview With Miss A (Vampire)
Having blood-sucking on the brain (and not because of the Twilight saga–though I’ll admit I enjoyed), I searched my studio folders for Him. I scoured my old Prentice Hall files. When I was a new Mac user learning Illustrator, I drew everything employed old-fashioned hand-eye coordination with a mouse and a prayer.
That year I’d also read, Interview With The Vampire, by the immortal’s mortal, Anne Rice. Her words were composed of cold flesh. Blood flowed between the rivers of white on her pages. I hated Ms. Rice. I was in awe of Ms. Rice. This ‘Interview’ creeped me out like no other book… Everywhere I traveled, Lestat stalked me with his mesmerizing lost eyes, black sinewy veins and pale moon skin.
He was one of my first ventures into computer portraiture. I had no choice but to create Him. He wouldn’t leave my mind. He was a tormenting fellow. He’d bite me nightly and I suffer daily for it. He was the awesome Vampire Lestat. Once I created Him, He no longer haunted my dreams.
I was recently subbing in a fifth grade class. At lunchtime, I noticed a handful of lads with perplexed expressions staring at me. I approached the group to make sure everything was okay. One boy–the ring leader–studied me a moment before asking, “Miss A, are you a vampire?”
Before I could respond he continued, “Why do you have such sharp black eyebrows, long black hair and pointy teeth?” (my incisors are a tad sharp-looking).
I jokingly responded, “YES!” But, then quickly clarified, “Just kidding,” when they started wrapping napkins around their jugulars. The last thing I needed was for a child to go home and say, “my sub was a vampire.”
Later, I contemplated what the fifth grader had asked me. I thought about the boys’ nervous expressions–and I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or insulted.
Do you know what happened to the
Tidy Bowl Man?
I’ll tell you if you don’t know or can’t remember –
his career ended up in the crapper.
I don’t want to end up
in the crapper
wearing a white sea-captain suit.
I don’t want to spiral helplessly down, down, downward,
while desperately crying out,
“…it works so you don’t have toooooooooo–”
I vow to always work. I promise to never be lazy.
And I’ll always keep a plunger nearby, in case I hear the Tidy Bowl Man’s plea 😉
LoBoat Illustration created a few months ago and previously published.
Fellow blogger and friend, Deb of C-Dog & Company and I often discuss the merits of keeping our respective creative dinghies afloat 🙂 One must keep their sense of humor when discussing dinghies, corks and creativity 😉
Ah, we female birds
so plain and dull
sitting upon our nests
obliged to keep our eggs warm
and what do you do
fly off with your freshly preened
brilliant red plumage
to seduce another dull female
while we colorless squatters
do not complain
understanding the urge to wander
is in your nature
so we dust-feathered, will teach troops of earnest chicks
and you will be crowned master of ceremony
for a parade of dull females
I was just light-hearting the prose up a bit – no offense to many a good man. 🙂
Red-crested woodpecker done with watercolor marker and Prisma pencil a few weeks ago
I hope the morning conversation I had with the big son gives you a smile, before darkest night settles into your bedrooms.
Setting: This morning. I’m in my studio working. The big son is in the family room connected with teen buddies via his mystical Xbox.
Action: Studio phone rings. I answer. Nana (my mom) is on the line with a tech question. The big son handles all grandparent technical issues.
Big son, “WHAT?”
“MAX, I need your help-”
“Ugh!” Speaking into his headset, “Guys, if I die just leave me there.”
Big son enters studio. “What, mom?”
“Nana’s on phone with a tech question.”
Big son takes receiver, assists Nana then ends phone call. “Mom, I was killing zombies!”
“Aren’t zombies dead already?”
“Yeah, but they can still run really fast-”
Ah, to be dead and still run really fast 🙂
Thank you. May you dream of outrunning zombies…
Pencil sketch raised from earth yesterday.
I woke up this morning and a Green Man was in my head. I think he hails from a distant house in a far off neighborhood. He wears a crown of flattened, blue celery to frighten would be produce buyers. A ring of cheap gold – his pet – accompanies him whenever he strolls down the street seeking out those who dare to don a better crown than he…
Sometimes you just have to let the Green Man out.
Thank you. May you dream of men in the vegetables of your choice.
Green Man created yesterday, I’m still trying to figure out why he was in my head and so is the giant husband 😉
A Crayon Crime
It seemed in 1973 everyone in school had 64 crayons – everyone – except me. On the day in question, desperation had clouded my judgement. It had corrupted my creative sensibility. I was ten at the time and in dire need of 64 colors. I had Crayola’s 24 pack which included colors for growing robust apple trees, fluid blue skies and abstract butterflies. It wasn’t enough. I needed more pigment. I coveted the built-in sharpener too.
One day while shopping with my mother and 2 other siblings, fate waxing at my feet, divine intervention struck. On this ominous morning, I glanced down at the beige store tiles. My disbelieving eyes engaged my sleeping brain. My little fingers snatched up the crumpled dollar on the floor. Much to my horror I discovered it was one-half of a paper dollar, and the other half was nowhere in sight. Nothing mattered. My heart was jolting in 64 magnificent colors. My brain was a prism of planning. “Art cannot be stopped,” my greying conscience defended. While Mom busied herself shopping and shepherding my two younger siblings around cans of tomatoes, I cleverly rolled the dollar into a cylinder.
There wasn’t much time. Grocery cart loading for a family of eight was nearly done. I told Mom I needed the bathroom. I flew to the school supply section, grabbed Crayola’s 64 box then sprinted to the register hoping to make an express purchase. I handed the masterfully rolled dollar to a young cashier. I didn’t know how much the crayons cost and I didn’t wait. I grabbed my fabulous box and bolted toward the exit doors.
In hindsight, I should’ve selected the silver-haired cashier. The swift employee ran after me as did my mother. My crime was foiled on the spot. I had to return the crayons. I had to write a letter of apology. And, I was grounded.