Hey, hey! My previous post inspired someone to make something fucked up! ::dances::
Behold! An offering from our very own Dr. Fail:
Click below, you won’t be sorry
“And I said HAAA AAAAAAY, HAAAAAAY… I said HEY! What’s going on?!?”
Hey, hey! My previous post inspired someone to make something fucked up! ::dances::
Behold! An offering from our very own Dr. Fail:
Click below, you won’t be sorry
“And I said HAAA AAAAAAY, HAAAAAAY… I said HEY! What’s going on?!?”
It’s pretty much accepted that it’s a bad idea to try to rekindle a relationship with an ex, but what about an ex friend? A friend you broke up with? Can you get back together with them?
This last month or two I’ve been trying to get back together with one of my closest friends and not making the best go of it. I just wish I could not be so intense ;__;
Now we got into a fight the other day, J + Nazgul + I are leaving for two weeks tomorrow, so I am sad that the fight has not been resolved. It is one of those where you avoid the person, because you really don’t know what to say. You avoid, and draw sores, eyes and slabs of meat instead….
Tomorrow we’re packing the last of it and day after tomorrow, I’m getting on a one million hour flight with a toddler. Man, am I going to enjoy getting on that plane, with everyone staring at me eyes glassy with fear, and the whole aircraft pulsing with a soft monotone chant of please not by me please not by me please not by me person with baby please not by me >____>
If you never hear from me again, they probably flung us out of the escape hatch somewhere over Abu Dhabi. In that case, it was nice to know you guys!!
When I was in high school, I had a teacher who used to come in, click his heels in the air and grip the teacher-podium thingie while he grinned out at us with a big goofy grin. He’d say: I am so lucky to be standing here in front of you, doing a job I love. I am a lucky man.
Back then, I used to think, what the fuuu is he smoking and where can I get some?
Now I know… he was just high off life, because that’s exactly how I feel these days!
J says I’m obsessed with ‘Die Antwoord.’ And I am, because their chaotic songs are exactly how I feel right now:
I’m an upper!
(Dwankies get popped like a sucker.)
Baka, Baka! Yippe-kai-ayy motherfucker,
I’m a big deal, yo crazy money get thrown at me,
Now I’m having so much fun dat I can’t even go 2 sleep….
(Fatty boom boom)
Ok, so neither insane (nor mad nor wrathful) sums are getting thrown at me, but I’m having so much fun, I literally can’t go to sleep, like, I lie in bed thinking until five every morning yippe-kai-ayy motherfucker! I feel like I’m filled head to toe with magical guts and sparkles and if you make the slightest nick all of that sparklegut is going to fall right out…
Because my publisher is reading my book (right now even maybe? Even as I write these words?!? Making the decision if he wants to publish it or not, but whether or not, that takes me one step closer to getting it out there and that makes me feel like—)
My bf got out of jail today!!
But anyway, I am so pumped and psyched I cannot sleep, because my publisher is reading my book, because my boils are looking grosser than anyone else’s and because J and I and Nazgul are flying to Thailand next week and… and… and…
Ok, I need to calm down. ~___~ Just wanted to wish y’all a happy V-day, whatever that means for you personally, be it Happy Valentine’s–or if you’re someone who’s like fuck Valentine’s Day, long and fuck it hard, I wish you… a Happy Vagina, Happy Vas Deferens–Happy Victory Day!
<3 <3 <3
So I go to art class tonight, get there two minutes late, which means the bitch seat is the only seat left open–this is the seat directly in front of the model.
Am I thinking, oh fuck yeh, I getta sit two meters away from a nekkid lady awesommmmm?
I get my shit out, grumbling and harumphing… then the model walks in.
I’m a positive person. It doesn’t matter WHAT the model looks like, I will find the beautiful feature in them and I will focus on it and draw it out, pun kind of intended. So what’s a person like me to do when EVERY DETAIL of the model is beautiful? Beauty overload.
Stendhal Syndrome II.
Ponytail like a platinum waterfall, black eyes dark eyebrows (dark eyed blond people KILL me) balletic neck, fragile shoulders, big thighs, skin the color of the snowfall we never got this year, EXACTLY the nose I like, tiny hands, big feet and enormous…. tracts of land.
Me: I have to draw you. I have to draw YOU? B-b-b-b-b-but, you’re someone I would want to draw anyway–if I saw you on the train, I would have all these fantasies about drawing you, or sketching you, and now you’re here, right in front of me and you’re n-n-n-nakedd-d-d-d-d-d-d-ddddd…. is this okay? Like… is this really happening? Ok, I should probably actually DO IT and not just talk to myself while you sit here….
I drop my pencil for the sixth time and start–lucky, I draw fast and the first pose is done. I think, good, I’ve got the jimmies out, now I can focus. The teacher asks the model to switch for the next pose, which will be longer. I’m one and a half meter in front of this woman and she sits down in front of me on a raised dais exactly like this:
I’m sad because I made her look not as nice as she did in real life. In real life, her lower body was larger than I managed to draw it–but if you’ll forgive me, I was sitting 1.5 meters in front of an insanely gorgeous naked sweating person, so my concentration might have been somewhat impared.
‘This pose will be half an hour!” art teacher announces.
All kinds of questions arise, ahem.
Do I go into detail?
Do I draw the nipples? (I hate nipples.)
Do I draw… the sweat?
Do I draw…
Because I’ve been going to figure drawing class for years and who knows if the girl from the tentacle comics will ever come pose for us again?!
Three nose bleeds and 20 pencil drops later, my art teacher comes around, and I hide my drawing so he doesn’t think I’m a stupendous pervert. Why would he think that, when I am drawing EXACTLY who is there, with no embellishments? Because (my teacher included) everyone in my class draws in that … hmm… for lack of a better term, I’ll call it the ‘Durer style’, a style which manages to make even the hottest people look kinda ugly. Case in point, guy next to me, who has drawn the same exact hot girl, in the same exact hot pose, has managed to make her look like this:
So the art teacher will not think upon seeing the drawing that he is lusting after her, though he probably is, that wanker.
And W will read this blog entry and he’ll laugh at me tomorrow, like he laughs every time I tell him about some girl I’m crushing bad on in my art class, except no girl has ever been as perfect as this one. <3 He’ll say ‘why didn’t you get her phone number?’
Oh YEAH, because THAT’S going to work?!?
‘Hey, heya, so you probably DO remember me, ’cause I was sighing, bleeding and dropping pencils directly in front of you all night and yeah, so even though I bet you could reduce any man, woman, child, plant, mineral, vegetable, syllable, killable on our glorious planet Earth to tears of bitter lust, do you want to give me your number anyway?
Hey there readers ^___^
I’ll try to keep this one short and just say that while we are roasting our nuts over open fires and laughing all the way (hahaha) this Christmas season–across the world… all the way in the Philippines, there are literally millions of people who are in dire need after Typhoon Haiyan, and my good friend Paintblotch is trying to help them by organizing an art-swap on the 12th of December (this next Thursday.)
If you live here in Munich, I highly urge you to check it out. I saw some of the pieces that will be available today and they are seriously impressive. [Mine is the crappiest one, so sorry ;____;.] Paintings, drawings–for pouring Slurpees, there’s a friggin’ alabaster sculpture that’s been donated–a huge painting by my good friend W–all original work issued with certificates of authenticity.
This is your chance to get your hands on some valuable art AND help support the organization called ‘Doctors Without Borders‘ in the Philippines.
Here’s how it works:
1. Purchase a ticket here for either 50 or 100 euros (all proceeds will go to ‘Doctors Without Borders’).
2. Show up at the art swap on Thursday evening starting at 7pm and use your ticket to collect a piece of donated art from a Munich artist. Donated art will be divided into two categories, roughly based on size and medium. If you like what you got, hold on to it tight! If you don’t, try to sucker someone else out of their piece during the swap game.
3. Eat the sushi I will be making and chug the booze we will be providing! Mingle with local artists and shoppers before you mosey back out to Viktualienmarkt in search of more food and mulled wine. (The location is conveniently close to Isartor.)
If you don’t live in Munich, but would still like to donate money for the typhoon survivors, there is a link on the events page. I suspect you’ve probably made some Christmas donations already, but every little bit helps. Five dollars, ten dollars.
If you do live in Munich, seriously, get a ticket! Not only will you be helping some people in serious need, the piece of art you will be getting will be worth more than the money you paid AND the sushi–and let’s not forget the isle of naked men… mmm, naked men.
Here’s a link again for anyone interested in attending or donating and thanks so much, moofs <3 You’re all great and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season.
A special thanks to W for his generous art donation and to Emmy Horstkamp for letting us use BCA Munich’s gallery for that evening (which is also her gallery’s opening night.)
The writing of a thousand pages starts with a single chicken nugget.
Warning: Mucho not orderly post.
Once a long time ago when I was still making sushi, I got really plastered at the restaurant Christmas party, so of course I blacked out and didn’t remember anything of shenanigans that ensued. According to J, on the tram-way home, I announced I was sick and forced him to get off with me and we walked the several remaining kilometers in subzero temperatures rivaling the winds of Satan’s Lair. At some point, I supposedly got so belligerent about the cold, I tried to walk up to any foreign door and open it. J had to dissuade me–don’t open that, he said, that’s not our house. But I’m so cold! I whined. (Supposedly. I’m not much of a whiner, so I question the reliability of the narrator here.) ‘If we can’t open those doors, just open something! I’m so cold, I don’t care what you open, just open it!! Just open anything!’ Poor hapless J, in the middle of the night, freezing his ass off and stuck with a wasted wanker, proceeded to take off my backpack and open it at me. ‘Look,’ he said with the patience of a thousand Ghandis. ‘I opened this. It’s open.’ Supposedly, that calmed me enough that I was able to walk the rest of the way drama free.
The next morning when he relayed all this to me I was like ‘Jesus Christ, sounds like I was drunk as fuck. How did we even make it home?!?’
J: One step at a time…
One step at a time…
You know, I always thought what was hard was simply doing something. You do the thing, the first time it’s hard, but then after that, since you know how to do it, it’s okay. The realization slowly dawning in me of late though is that actually, what may be the hardest is not just doing something…
…but doing it AGAIN.
The first time, you don’t know any better. You bound into the experience bright eyed and ready for anything, like a Husky puppy plunging into a bank of snow.
Learn a language?
Write a book?
Have a kid?
Fuck it, why not? I’ll try anything once!
The second time, you’re like a cat on ice. Oh no. Oh no no no no NO, I DID this shit once and I waded through to the other side, and yes. Hooray and yippee—but could I do it again? Do I want to?
My mom: When are you going to have another kid?
My mom-in-law: When are you going to have another kid?
Me: When Santy Claus gives me a one hour private lap-dance, that’s when!
Honestly, when I see people on the train with more than one child, I’m like O_O. From what reservoir of Voldemort magic did you dredge the strength to do all that again, like….. DON’T YOU REMEMBER?! (Also what I think about anyone who has done more than one major project…..) But of course, it’s not that we don’t remember…
I have started my second graphic novel and while on the one hand, it is wonderful to have this whole body of past mistakes I do not have to make again…. let’s just say, I’ve been listening to a lot of Eminem to stay pumped.
Let me be clear, I hate misogyny and homophobia, but right now what I need most in the world after an unlimited supply of hugs and hotpockets and black coffiee and blacker ink is for someone to yell ‘get the fuck off your punk ass pussy bitch ass and grab a pencil’–to a catchy beat. Sometimes, I play good cop bad cop with Eminem and 2pac, and when Eminem gets too harsh, I put on something like ‘Changes’ or ‘Keep Ya Head Up’, which always makes me choke up (I swear, over the years, I have heard those two songs hundreds of times and my throat still closes when I hear them…) I think, Fuck… these people (and of course many many others) used their raps to change their own lives–and they made successful albums again and again and again. Not every song of theirs is great, and some albums are better than others, but they had the fortitude to go back at it when they could have rested on their laurels and I find that incredibly inspiring. They had their negative distractions (demons) and positive distractions (family) and they did it again.
Art and writing is my therapy, so what to do when you need therapy about your therapy? I go to J.
‘I don’t think I can do this again,’ I say to him as I lay face up on our bed with my eyeballs sweating.
You know those people who are disgustingly good at everything they do and there are all these careers you could envision them being really successful at (besides the career they already have and are successful at?) Meanwhile, you’re shining bright like a potato? J is one of those people, and not only could he be a smashing masseuse or male prostitute, he’d make a damn good therapist too (and if he combined them, oh my god, what a trifecta, therapy while you get a massage and then a happy ending?! He’d make a motherloving KILLING.)
So anyway, I was staring at the ceiling and he was being my personal pro bono therapist and he gave me some wonderful advice which was: Don’t think of it as a whole project. Treat each chapter as it’s own project. That way, when you are done with one chapter, you can consider yourself ‘done’ for a while and do something else, if you need to….
It’s too overwhelming to walk the whole six kilometers home drunk, so just walk it home one step at a time. One chapter at a time.
I broke it down further, I started to think of it in terms of pages. In terms of panels. In terms of single lines and drops of ink. One after another. After another.
My honesty’s brutal
But it’s honestly futile if I don’t utilize
What I do though for good
At least once in a while so I wanna make sure
Somewhere in this chicken scratch I scribble and doodle
Enough rhymes to
Maybe try to help get some people through tough times
But I gotta keep a few punchlines
Just in case cause even you unsigned
Rappers are hungry looking at me like it’s lunchtime
- Rap God Eminem
The entirety of the song ‘Keep Ya Head Up’ by Tupac
Sandwiched between the wisdom of guardian angels J, Eminem and Tupac, how can anyone go wrong??
They can’t! And thanks to them, I have finished my first chapter…! ::dances::
You two, dear reader, if you’re out there struggling with something big, I encourage you to chunk it up, destroy the pieces, murder the verses one by one!
[So sorry though, mom, I am still not having another kid.... >___>]
So la-da-dee-da-deee, we like to pardeeee…
Dancin’ with Molly, doin’ whatever we wa-a-aaaaaant….
This is our house, these are our rules…
And we can’t stop… and we won’t stop!!
(-Bastille cover of ‘Can’t Stop’)
I could tell you how I feel, or maybe just show you?
A gallery–[warning: some self-harm in the following pictures]
People talk about their exes, the lovers and bfs and efs and gfs and people who have screwed them up–rarely do people mention breaking up with friends. You don’t break up with a friend; you move, or grow apart, or stop having time for each other. It is not an eruption, rather an imperceptible but gradual tectonic shift in life situations that usually erodes friendships. Destroy being too strong of a word. However, you and I broke up. There was shouting, tears, angry words. Cold, long, unbreakable silence. And when I made new friends who seemed like they could be who you had been to me, I annoyed them by mentioning you too much, exactly as someone annoys a current partner by talking too favorably or too often of an old one.
The kicker about losing a friend you’ve had from childhood is that the vernacular of your friendship is so entrenched, it seemed at times I couldn’t go a single day without seeing SOMETHING that reminded me of you. A cup of coffee, a certain star we’d crushed on, a person with curly black hair… You were and continue to be reactivated in my memory through sight, sound, touch, taste and smell–the places we walked, jokes we made, foods we ate, songs we heard, words we used. Like Proust and his fucking madeleine dipped in tea. A tiny trigger could put me in a mood… and now here you were after what… two years? Three now?
On the phone.
“Hello?’ you said and I said ‘hello?’ about two times more than necessary, as if I didn’t recognize your voice, but yeah right. Right? You had me at ‘hel’ ~_~ I knew it had to be you.
It’s funny, I’ve fantasized about this conversation for literally years. I wondered what it would be like, if you would ever want to talk to me again, if I would be happy the day you finally came around; if I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, or if we truly wouldn’t talk and at some point in the far future one of us would hear from a friend of a friend of a friend, ‘oh yeah, xxx? They died last month…’
That sounds melodramatic, but humans DO actually die.
Right? We are mortal??
Not just like in dem books.
I’ve spent this last month under a lot of anxiety. I’m going through a strange period of my life right now. I can’t say it is necessary bad. Just difficult. Like Akagi said, the sand at the bottom of Hell is magical sand.
A lot of the pics I’ve drawn lately have been violent, disturbing or sad. A lot of them have to do with self-harm and a feeling of doubt, exactly what you have expressed to me on the phone. I wondered while I was drawing if these pics had any value, if they were too emotional or personal to mean anything to someone other than myself. In other words, if I was wasting my time.
It’s extremely serendipitous that just as I was thinking these thoughts you called. And I heard in your voice not the desire even to be loved, though of course, everyone wants to be loved. I heard the desire to have something that demanded that you throw yourself into it, that you live, not just exist.
I won’t talk about the stuff you said, of course, all of that is confidential and no person’s business, but I will say thank you for calling me again and making me feel like I am doing something right. You managed to remind me of the important thing–that when you create anything, you are living. As you said, tasting life. And so long as you are doing that, it is impossible to be wasting your time.
“I’m sick of this John Greene generation–sadness is not romantic, nobody is going to come kiss your scars or discover you reading Bukowski in a bookshop. You’ve got to be your own hero.” -rough paraphrase of some internet quote
I actually find it pretty easy to find people who will kiss the scars, it’s just that the kisses don’t make them go away. The antidote to sadness is not always love. Often, sadness is the overwhelming ache to be useful, to be productive, or to find satisfying expression, and no, you cannot be your own hero, because you don’t live in a vacuum. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a prince or a princess or a princez on a white horse who drags you out of your rut, but you need a relationship and productive dialogue with something.
Art will not kiss your scars, but on the other hand, you can come to it again and again and never impose upon it, never fear that maybe this time your complaining and pus and tears will drive it away. You made me realize I am very lucky and I hope I can help you too at some point in the near future, dear friend.
It was really good to hear from you. <3
I am drawn to strange phobias, probably because I have a couple of them.
Warning: Holes, needles. Meat. If you’re scared of that type of thing.
When I was younger, if I was drunk or hung over especially, I noticed things with patterns made me anxious. Like manhole covers (you know the kinds with holes on them) or any kind of cluster-like pattern. In the subway stations, some have hexagonal bee-hive like shapes as decoration (!!) hah, more like patterns to drive the drunk insane, and that would make me sicker than anything. I would squeeze my eyes and try to look away…
Turns out this is actually a thing?! Trypophobia is an unofficial phobia, characterized by a fear of patterns, specifically holes in clusters. The theory behind it is that these holes trigger a primal human fear of diseases characterized by holes/lesions and/or holes that may be openings to dangerous animal hives (such as bees or ants.)
Anyway, there’s a page from my sketchbook in the Halloween spirit–have a nice Halloween, moofs and may it be repetitive-pattern free. <3
Don’t you sometimes wish you could go back? Rewrite every shitty story you ever wrote to erase the evidence? Redraw every spooge picture that seemed so kickass at the time? But isn’t there a point where you have to stop and say: This is what it is. It COULD be better, but I will let it be a mark of my current imperfection. There *is* something beautiful about this earnest, crappy innocence….
I read this by Zora Neale Hurston and thought, yes. Yes. Bleeding YES.
Bolds are my bolds.
I wrote “Their Eyes Were Watching God” in Haiti. It was dammed up in me, and I wrote it under internal pressure in seven weeks. I wish that I could write it again. In fact, I regret all of my books. It is one of the tragedies of life that one cannot have all the wisdom one is ever to possess in the beginning. Perhaps, it is just as well to be rash and foolish for a while. If writers were too wise, perhaps no books would be written at all. It might be better to ask yourself “Why?” afterwards than before. Anyway, the force from somewhere in Space which commands you to write in the first place, gives you no choice. You take up the pen when you are told, and write what is commanded. There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.
Ok, ok, ok, ok.
You want to congratulate me?
Give me a little celebratory pat on the bum?
Or say, ‘Good job, have some ham’ just to be nice to me?
Why, you ask, why do I have to be nice to YOU, moof?
Because….. the agony is over and the untold story has been told in all its imperfect but earnest glory.
That’s right. ::preens:: ::swishes::
I just finished my book. Like, yesterday.
Yep. I’ve been wrestling with that bugger like Jacob wrestled with the Lord for two years now, but I got Old Testament on its ass and finished my second novel. Do you know how hard it is to finish a book when you have a small child around snapping at your ankles? Imagine trying to juggle a hot pie, a sizable roast and five turned-on chainsaws while ravenous baby alligators try to circumcise you. That’s about how hard it is. But I did it *AND* I didn’t kill my child!
::pumps fist in the air while softly whispers::
I love it when I get shit done and no babies had to die…
I can’t blame the baby completely though.
I was doing the thing. The thing Zora N. H. warns against…
When you write a book, but each time you near finish, you realize you are a better, and more experienced writer than when you started out so you say, well, I’ll just take this extra knowledge I now have and add this thing, oh and change that thing, and just rewrite this part and redo that part and this part and that part, and change the transition here and rewrite the POV to this and dammit, and shuznut and each time you realize that you are growing so you keep fixing and futzing so as to not leave a carbon footprint of your own idiocy upon the world. That thing.
(Presuming that anyone will even read your book, that is.)
And I got to the point finally where I said, well yeah–fuck it. It is what it is. I had to get it out, I’ll probably look back on it and cringe a little, but I tried my best and I have to move on, so ::shakes dewflaps vigorously:: I told the story I had to tell and now I’m ready to do the really fun putting salt in your butthole trying to get published process… ^____^
I think one writer wisely said that the real work begins not when you start, but when you FINISH writing a book….
Wish me luck, moofs <3
I haven’t posted in a million years, but people still come look at my blog ;____;
Hey, hey, I’m not dead!
These last few weeks, I’ve been drawing literally like someone is whipping me o_o
I got a bottle of an ink color called ‘bister’ (like someone misspelled ‘blister’) and the color is something that might come out of a blister–more watery and red than sepia, and quite pigment-dense: once I made a mark on the paper, bister was NOT moving anymore–NO blotting. No take-backs.
Klimt (or at least a fictional character representing Klimt) said once that a painting is like a chess-game; you must plan out your moves. Maybe this is why I can never be a painter, I hate planning, but bister made me change my game a little, because if I wasn’t careful, there was no going back.
There was an enormous picture hanging in my living room that I had drawn eons ago lovingly named once by a slightly tippled friend ‘Shaniqua. (I think because the girl in the picture reminded him of a girl called Shaniqua’. Anyway.) It was a drawing of a beautiful lady, but the hair!!! was so technically awful, that I couldn’t look at it anymore. It was like poor Shaniqua was starting to become a symbol of every shitty picture I’ve ever drawn. So I turned the lass over some weeks ago and drew a drowning person with beautiful hair on the fresh, clean side of the paper. ::ahhhhhhh:: The hair is still shitty but BETTER shitty.
And that reminded me of how much I love ink, so I made some other pure ink pictures….
Ok, ok, you get the picture. I like ink ~______~
It’s getting cold moofs. So bundle up, draw with ink and HAPPY OKTOBERFEST!!! <3