A better life

When I see that guy whisk off his heavy whiskers in a few bold strokes, I want to try that. So what if there might be a little blood.

When I see the nicely dressed housewife squirt and then wipe away all the caked on dirt, I want to get off my lazy ass and clean.

When I see that oiled and tanned beautiful couple beside the pool with chilled cocktails, I immediately go onto expedia.com for a getaway.

When see the sleek and chiseled Calving Klein models, I know a pair or two will be my weight loss, libido-driving miracle.

When I see that sleek car speed through the city and tackle the desert and drive up a steep grade and wind on top of a high mesa, I know it’s time for me to take out that loan.

When I watch the evening news and hear of all the new medications taken by happy people, I know I have to make a list of the 27 pills I need to ask m y doctor about. The hell with the side effects.

When I read the NY Times Style Section, I realize that my $500 annual wardrobe budget just won’t hack it. My god, $500 is just a blouse or a pair of shoes.

I’m ever so grateful that marketing leads me to an ever better life.

Artscars

OK, I’m going to do it. I’m going to invent the Artscars. I think they will maybe take the form of a golden Venus de Milo or maybe of Michaelangelo’s David. I have to think about that. But selfishly, I want to sit in the front row of the theater in my tux and tails (I have one) and have the camera scan across me multiple times. Of course, the event will be hosted by an artist (know one with a good sense of humor?).

I will be nominated in the category, Best Drawing by a Male Artist. And I will win. William Kentridge will present the award (I admire him). I won’t stumble as I ascend the stairs. I will give a speech worthy of notice in the next day’s press, thank lots of people and go past my allotted time.

Then certainly afterward, there will be plenty of food and boozing and schmoozing.

And just think, you could win an Artscar, too.

Cov Cath

Several days into the incident that involved the Covington Catholic students and the American Indian drummer, a more nuanced story emerged. We are seeing that blame can’t be so easily and quickly laid, and behaviors can’t be so easily sorted out.

One obvious conclusion, though, is that blame does lie with the clumsy reporting of local and national media. In the search for a good headline grabber, the media reported, not fake news, but distorted and incomplete news. And with no willingness to acknowledge their irresponsibility and its consequences.

Drawing the figure

Among the first things we draw are ourselves and the selves around us. Facing our image in the mirror or mirrored in others is an act of self-discovery. We draw the human body with the human body. We penetrate the body we draw only as much as we penetrate the body we live in. The sensual and tactile way we engage our own bodies or the bodies of others informs the touch of drawing tool to surface. The soft and bony landscape of the body comes alive in the knowledge of the body we bathe every day. The physical act of drawing–-its energy, its pace, its tenderness, its reluctance, its kinetics, its curiosity–is driven by a human person feeling or seeking. Simply “seeing” the figure is not “being” the figure; and simply making a compelling representation of the figure is not necessarily mining the figure for all of its cultural, spiritual, metaphorical and emotional meaning.

Who gave us permission

Who gave us permission to wipe out species? Are we prepared to be the managers of evolution?

Who gave us permission to disrupt nature’s rhythms? Are we prepared for the consequences that are already evident?

Who gave us permission to kill one another? Is local and global peace the delusion of fools?

Who gave us permission to hate? Is this the poison we continually choose to swallow?

Who gave us permission to call ourselves human beings? Shouldn’t that be earned by we shed our brutish natures?

I am not dead

I Am Not Dead

I am cell and bone and blood pumping.

I am a human mix of trouble and pleasure

and good intentions.

I am daydreams of lust and fatherhood,

cold beer and being loved.

I gladly put on the uniform.

Did every damn pushup and lockstep march,

made home in a hole in the desert,

became the man I wanted.

The bullet tore through my chest,

Popping my heart like a child’s balloon.

I was wet with blood and urine.

I was dead, flat dead in the dirt.

The start of my passage was rugged.

But I was cleaned up and placed in my new quarters.

The flight home was quiet and dark,

safe under the flag.

I was glad to feel the weight of the earth

as it piled on top of me.

But even then I am not dead.

I am alive in pictures on the mantel,

in the statue in the town park,

in the memories of me that fade in one person 

and take root in another.

And in that quiet, piercing moment each day

when I come again to my mother.