White Lies

I. Lines run richly holding the explanation of this year and the burden of one decision (only to regret its beginning) These are the patterns that sew themselves to us. That explain our lives as X, Y, &c. Your years of struggling, my indifference. These are what make us Us. These are the fathers in which we confide, in which we grow
worthless.

II. Depression is not glamours. Tired, weak hands are not desirous. The things we want, that we can't seem to get for ourselves; those are limitless. A never ending siege. A never ending surge. And for what? For words? For the illusion of death? For the fear of confrontation?

III. For years of suppression you still are a frail young thing. I know your secret. For decades of care you sure are a weak little one. I know. For ages of dread you still hang on the arm of stoicism. I know it. For sometime now you've been going astray, going nowhere, going long, getting old. Letting that black shadow keep you alive. And I know it.

King of Cups

"Careless we are with ourselves. Giving away the best parts to whoever asks it of us, it's a shame really." The tall girl let her legs swing loose with ambivalence, "If you think about it," she said, "Human beings are very fragile creatures." 

"Yes, I know." He replied. 

She let out a low giggle and pushed off from the embankment landing easily on the gravel below. 

He watched her from the corner of his eye, "Where are you going?" 


She turned, expressionless, "Going to run-a-muck. And you?" 

He bent his head forward, the black hood obscuring his face completely, "I dunno." Piqued he replied, "I thought..." 

he let it trail off, the words were pointless anyway. 

"You thought what?" She took a step toward him. 

"Nothing." 

She frowned, "Well obviously you thought something." 

"No," he scratched the back of his hooded neck, "it was nothing." 

She wrinkled her nose, shifted her weight and stared back (attempting to will him further along), but he didn't lift his head,
and he didn't speak.
She raised an eyebrow,
she crossed her arms,
but he continued in his silence,
keeping his eyes to himself.

Old Work

I found some sketches in book I picked up in New York last time I was there (like 4 years ago). Some of the people I recognize, others are friends of friends or strangers off the internet (Facebook, actually, has provided me with some good material over the years. It may sound creepy, but it's true).

The end of 2014 in pictures (I just found these. Couldn't resist.)

Ezza Rose Band house show! Halloween 2014

Thanksgiving 2014

Lars and I went for a little hike in the hills; beautiful day, much to be thankful for.

This week: Savage Love.

I had the honor of sketching for Dan Savage's column "Savage Love" this week. I feel okay about the image, but really un-ok with its inspiration. I'm not going to post the letter-response here, because .... *shudder* no. I'll give you two key words, however, so you can decide if you want to track it down yourself: "clitoral hood" and "syringe."

This week in Alaska.