Happy 2nd Birthday to dear Adalynn, my good friend Kristin’s little girl, the sweetest note in the melody of her parents’ lives!
I’ve assumed the new role of columnist for Fluffer Magazine and the newest issue is now out!
Love without apology, without reservation, without fear, without safety and security and that hard shell you swore no one would ever crack. Love without boundary, without apprehension and cynicism and timidity over exposing the soft part of your flesh. Love like it’s the last time you’ll ever love because this life is much too short to waste such a precious commodity. You were born to love. Anything else is wasted potential.
We would meet in a chatroom in 1997 when were just teenagers. We’d grow close and in 1998 when my father killed himself, Mike would become one of the only people I could talk to about it. I would read his sweet words on the screen, grieving over the loss, sinking into my swelling isolation and wishing I could disappear into his strong arms. I quietly fell in love with him then but he lived in Philly and I lived in New Mexico, and 2,000 miles is enormous to two kids with no means to cross it.
“What it is…is a place where I can return to myself. It’s enough of a scramble to get to…that the energy expended is significant, and it translates into a change in my body chemistry and my psychological chemistry and my heart chemistry…”
“It has been 14 years since I first picked up a paintbrush. And I spent much of that time feeling like an imposter. I didn’t study art or illustration formally in school. I did not follow traditional pathways to get where I am. Most of what I do most days I taught myself how to do. I don’t even know most of the time if there is better or easier or “more right” way to do what I do.
And for that reason, I used to spend a lot of time feeling inferior; like for some reason I did not deserve the success I was experiencing. And worse than that: that’s what I feared others might think about me too.
But at some point, I decided, this is bullshit.”
I don’t often blog about my design for a multitude of ambiguous reasons, I suppose. Most notably, probably, is that it’s my bread and butter, and also because it seems unlikely that anyone outside the audience of the piece I’ve designed would find it particularly interesting. But sometimes, as a professional graphic designer, the knowledge of all the pieces I’ve designed that have and will never see the light of day because the client didn’t share your vision or embrace something maybe a little bit edgier than they’re used to can feel absolutely defeating.
She pranced and she skipped and she romped through the woods
On toward gramma’s house as quick as she could
When out of the shadows a wolf did appear
But our dulce mijita sensed danger was near
She cried “Come mierda y muerte, cabrón!”
And smashed him over the head with a rather large stone
Killed that wolf dead, right where he stood
Then onward she strolled, our Lola Red Riding Hood
“As a divinity always ‘associated with the tragic dimension of human existence,’ she sees in Sekhmet’s face ‘the look of someone who sees the irreducible tragedy of life which she can do nothing to avert and which, indeed, she knows she herself has helped bring about – but who does not hide from the pain.'” —Richard Stromer
“Have sex with a writer because she chooses art over money, even if she’s always complaining about being broke. Unclasp her bra because she’s 31 and still living with three roommates, squeaking by on rent, sliding by on bills, bartending a few nights, working in a bookstore, doing odd jobs, hustling; all because she’s convinced that she will create something masterful that may one day make all of this worth it. Pull off her jeans because you admire the sacrifices she makes to do what she loves, knowing you could never do the same. Fuck a writer because she shivers and starves for her chance to carve her name on the world.” —broke-ass stuart