A Clockwork Orange

When you’re young you see death as an end, you’re scared of it and know it’s real. Some of us see it sooner than most and it quickens our steps. When you get older you pay more attention to the actual process of living with disease and the experience of fighting, of surviving. You talk over dinner about herbal treatment, of meds, of newly approved FDA prescriptions, of not getting answers. Of winning. Of life and priorities gearing in a direction you were not willing to brake for before. Children, houses on lakes, creepy shit your parents say about your future that’s not as unrealistic as it used to be. You sit for dinner and realize your friend can’t really eat anything on the menu, the shared dessert at the end is going to see two of the three spoons and you’re not invincible to disease. She wasn’t. You’re not. You have it good. You have support and are that for someone else. It makes you wonder who would really be there, though, when you’re sick and needing strength the most.

“And Max the king of all wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all …” “But the wild things cried, ‘Oh please don’t go-we’ll eat you up-we love you so!’ And Max said, ‘No!’” Time to sail. Time to go.

Sneak peek …

Thought I was looking for a muse for my paint

Unintentionally reaching for a fuse, not a flame

I lost my lighter

I lost my model

I lost your grip as you reached for the bottle.

I thought I was searching the night for a lover

For a body or a foot to touch under covers

I lost my gentleman

And I lost my father, but

I don’t need you to think about me or bother to

need me like I need the permanent ink in my hair

I need your thoughts to move your lips

And your lips to form the words

That are half as round as the emotions you’re trying hard to purge

I know you don’t know what you want,

Just describe what you need

and what that might look like

with a side of me.

Beautiful women cover my skin, too. Minus the cig. Can’t wait for the lady on my right thigh this weekend.

Josh called, going to go get measured for my Jeanne d’Arc tattoo. Joan of Arc celebrates 600 smoldering years this month. This isn’t the image he’s inking but an inspiration for it. It’s going to be a rather large piece, so here’s to being tough as fire and nails.

We killin’ it at the Fox Theatre. Go, Farrell!!!

I do love her. So much.

… My mother used to say to distract us kids from painful situations, like takeoffs and booster shots and on-the-verge tears. I think my happy adult thoughts pull me away from the more sensitive events of mid-twenty bull. When all else fails, still exist avocados. sex. Hot sauce. music performance. beaches. jokes. pups. breakfast. drawing. blankets. beverages.