More From The Collection

“You’re not tied up, here comes the train

the tracks feel safe because you know ‘em

And if you stay it’s going to hurt much worse

you’ll still be left behind…”

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Funeral by Tele Novella

church xing

A small extension to my last blog:

At that wedding I met the groom’s mother. I had made my half-sister a pastel drawing of two lilies intertwined, to symbolize peace and purity and harmony in their new lives. I laid it on the gift table and she walked up to me and said, “Is this yours?” and I said yes. She told me it was beautiful, stunning, and to keep doing what I’m doing. Keep doing what I’m doing. That interaction pops into my mind every time I am in a rut and can’t think of anything worth painting or making. So even if it’s ugly, even if you hate it, even if it’s silly or simple, keep doing what you’re doing.

new york city/newark airport landscapes

ESOTERIC DUMPSTER VOL. 1 ISSUE # 2: SECOND SNOW

This week, I am going on a school trip to New York City. It will be my second time on a plane in my life and my second time seeing snow since West Virginia. It will also be the longest time I have spent away from home, and the farthest, save for the hot and hellish California trip of sophomore year.

My half-sister was getting married then, and already I have four nephews between her and my other two half-siblings. I remember being in line for the bathroom at the warmly lit and wine-fueled reception, standing with the groom while my sister was in the bathroom. I asked what was in his vape and he said "Tobacco." and offered me a hit. I had never taken anything before, mild or hard. In that moment, I grew up.

I was one of the big kids, a peer, and it felt good. The dry heat felt good. Leaning against a table, talking about the closet with a new cousin who emerged from the woodwork felt good. For a few minutes, everything felt good. My sister turned The Smiths on for me and made me dance. I was awkward, but it felt good.

I am constantly hit hard in the face by the fact that I will never be like them, my half-siblings. Never as old, never as straight. Eyes not dark enough. Haven't been hurt enough. They had it harder than I did growing up, and I am grateful that they tamed my father before I had to be alive under his roof.

They lived first so I didn't have to wonder whether I would flounder and drown in my adulthood because everyone does. I remember, when I observe their lives that success is simply happiness. They are very successful now.

Jumping forward in my Time-Traveling Dumpster to the present day, I am nervous for the trip. Anxious that my friends will see me tear up in front of Caravaggio's "Musicians" or when I see my dad in Central Park for a moment, and he asks me what he did wrong, and tells me that he loves me, even though my art teacher knows more of my life than he ever did.

A friend told me recently that getting over people is forgiveness. His mother left his family and died two years later in a car crash on a stretched Nevada highway. He seemed genuine, but he could have just been high.

I don't have much else to say, so here are some recent photos of the town, with more from New York en route to my digital camera come Thursday.

Until then!

SONGS: “Girl” by the queen of lyricism Tori Amos

and “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)” covered by creep geniuses The Doors

pictures from the south

“I think I hear the whisper of my own best friend

I think I hear the bells ringing in the square”

i was fixin to fail a breathalyzer test when i wrote this

“The city’s a flood

And our love turns to rust

We’re beaten and blown by the wind

Trampled in dust

I’ll show you a place

High on a desert plain

Where the streets have no name”

“And those thrilling highs and southern nights were always out of reach”