Tag Archives: art

Out Came the Sun…

…and dried up all the blood,
and the little tiny Nazgul came out to feed again….
(Fufu’s preferred version.)

I hope J doesn’t mind that I made his tail a little less luxurious than mine. Breakfast at our house… ^__^ I drew something cute!! J: But why are we all crying blood? Me: Because the food’s so good!!

That is a pic of us eating my kid’s favorite food. He loves egg on top of rice with furikake (the japanese flavor-MSG sprinkle thing?!) basically more than anything. Since he often gets little pimples (that he then picks into full-blown sores) the dragon in law has expressed worry. “You need to stop feeding him eggs! I’m telling you, those sores are a reaction to eggs!”

I can’t seem to explain to her that the original blemishes are usually very tiny–it’s the PICKING that causes the sores–and that if we stopped feeding him eggs, he would have only souls to eat. Not very nourishing.

Crazy, but it’s been three years of Fufu-meat. Little sack of farts turned three this last week o___o. He can (sort of) use the toilet now. He can talk! Behold, this perfectly intelligent conversation we had last month, at three in the morning!

Fufu (wakes me up): R, wake up. Nazgul is sad.
Me (groggy): What? What are you talking about? Why are you sad?
Him: Nazgul is sad. Nazgul needs to go to the Nazgul doctor.
Me: Go to the doctor? Nazzie, it’s three in the morning. The doctor is asleep. Why would you have to go to the doctor?
Him: Nazgul’s butt is broken.
Me: O___O

[I may have broken my ass two months ago and I may have not always suffered the most graciously and silently.... hence his phantom broken butt....]

But look at how resplendent he is!!

Little Nazgul with sores

Portrait of Jazzie. WIP. Ink. My kid is ALWAYS covered in sores, which is great, because I actually LIKE drawing sores…!  But look at how cute he is ^^ He loves strawberries. He calls them Jawberries. and Christmas tree is chemistry. It will make me so sad when he can enunciate properly….

And one last watercolor sketch of the Fufu... ^^

And one last watercolor sketch of the Fufu… ^^


It’s been a great three years, Jazzie, so happy belated third birthday. ^___^

May there be many more breakfasts with egg and broken asses and may you live
to be 106!!!!!!

-your loving Ryszbag


Visibility Day

Sorry to be making too many posts this week??

But I realized today (March 31st) is International Transgender Day of Visibility (I like Visibility Day better, but hey. I didn’t name the holiday.) So….!

visibility new small

[WIP  but it fit for today ^^ Click to see the subtleties. It's pretty cool actually.... Can you hear my mom's voice? 'Those look like girls, but they're BOYS, aren't they?!?!' For this picture, it really truly does not matter....]

Why have such a day? Because the only other day dedicated to trans people before was the Day of Remembrance, to remember those who had died for being trans (mainly trans women of color). And I guess someone thought, hey, trans people DO smile now and then. Maybe we should have a day about smiling and celebrating, not only mourning.

So I’m here to smile and to be visible ^____^ And you know I’ve gone on a lot of gender rambles on my blog, but rarely do I talk about MY OWN stuff. I’m trans, but maybe not visible?

[Side note: the word 'trans' is actually pretty problematic, as it groups together a shitload of people who have nothing to do with each other other than being not-cis, but for the sake of this day and this argument, I accept the word trans and I sit under it.]

So why visibility? Why does it even matter?

Because while I’m no gender-abolitionist and I’ve made some (not all) peace with whoever I am, I see people who haven’t yet made peace, or people who are putting it together, and kids who are being taught who they are before they can decide if that’s who they even want to be.

I say ‘decide’, but it’s a Hobson’s Choice: Take the first horse, the cis horse (cis, ie, not trans) or nothing at all. Reluctantly, trans kids take that horse until they see that being who they are (trans) is actually an option. Hence the importance of visibility. If you don’t see it, you suffer in silence. And for non-binary (not clearly male/female) people especially, it can take much longer to find people they can relate to.

And people are being taught that being trans or being non-binary makes your life into an inhospitable environment. And that is sad, because it’s all too often TRUE. [Or has the potential to be true many many times.] Not because there is something inherently wrong with trans or non-binary people, of course. But because there is much distrust that trans people can lead a life like anyone else or be happy. Parents say ‘It’s not that I don’t want to accept you, but this will make your life so hard!’

Nobody says it’s the inherent and already accepted social pressure to CLEARLY and ALWAYS be the one and only sex you were assigned as at birth that’s the problem. ‘Transness’ is the problem.

Fuck Gender Rolls, Gimme a Gender Baguette

Are you trying to turn your son into a girl? Is that why you grow his hair long?

Nope, I just think it looks pretty. He’s not a girl, he’s a boy with long hair.

Or a pretty boy.

But while we’re on the subject of girls, I’d like to live in a world where people are not so  threatened by femininity or even the SYMBOL of femininity in an otherwise male being. I can’t talk about transness without rapping about misogyny and transmisoginy. Please bear with me.

99% of trans problems and actually much of homophobia, I would say, is based heavily on people fearing femininity cropping up in people not ‘forced’ by the circumstances of their birth to be feminine. So, a person assigned female at birth (in common nomenclature, a ‘girl’) is allowed to be feminine, because she can’t help it or something?! But a person assigned male at birth, a man who is feminine, or a pre-transitioned trans woman, is pressured away from such behavior. The pressure can range from teasing, all the way to beating, sexual abuse–and death.

And since sexual orientation is also all based on how people perceive your gender, and sexual attraction on how you perceive your own gender and that of your potential partner, you can see how the whole thing is very tangled and complicated and affecting of the rest of your life.

‘Just be who you want to be, man! Just be that person! Like, what’s with all these labels? Be whoever!’

Yeah cool, except be who you want to be only works as long as who you want to be corresponds with who everyone else thinks you are/wants you to be.

You are born, a doc glanced down and looked to see if you had a little piece of meat between your legs or didn’t (nothing else could give any indication to your ‘sex’, as children until four-five are totally androgynous and many remain so until 2ndary sex characteristics kick in) and yet, based on that information, the grooming starts immediately.

The clothes you wear, how people treat you, what you are allowed to do and say, who you are allowed to express attraction for and socialize with–who you will kill fuck or marry–every day, a thousand tiny influences channel your behavior as a child to correspond to how society at large believes someone with a one cm (or lack of) meat between their legs spotted by the doctor the day they were born behaves as. I don’t know about you–I find that pretty scary.

But what’s the alternative? The system is already there.

I can’t put my little boy into a tutu and a ‘fuck your gender rolls’ shirt and a long glorious side ponytail the first day of elementary school and tell him to give ‘em hell. As much as I would love to. By the time he reaches junior high, he’ll have more issues than Vogue. So, raise him definitively as a ‘boy’ to make sure he never gets teased or confused for the ‘inferior’ sex?

Fuck, I had a man tell me once it was wrong of me to let him wear an orange shirt. Not pink. ORANGE.

“It’s orange,” he said, like it was matter of fact. “That’s a ‘girl’ color. You trying to turn your son into a girl? You’re going to confuse him.”

Are you trying to turn your son into a girl?

Wait a minute, wait a minute, COLORS turn people into something? o_o

And please stop saying ‘girl’ like it’s a bad word. But NO, I’m not trying to turn him into anything.

He has a male name. I call him ‘him.’ Yes, his hair is long… But it looks pretty long. He wears red and pink and yellow and blue.

He likes cupcakes and Hello Kitty and Pixar Cars and sparkles, and police cars and tractors. He likes boy shit and girl shit, and people shit and no other kid he’s played with so far has cared. Kids will care only when people teach them that there is something ‘wrong’ with being at all like a girl when you were not diagnosed as having two cm’s of babywang between your legs the day you were born.

Sorry. ::sighs:: I’m ranting. But you see, it upsets me. It upsets me when I think of all the little boys out there who LIKE to be boys, but simply sometimes would want to play with a doll or try on makeup for fun without it MEANING something deep, demeaning, disgusting, ‘be a man, stop being such a fucking girl, stop being so fucking gay–all starting with, don’t wear pink or play with dolls or have long hair, because that’s what girls do (or kids who grow up gay). [Undertone: femininity is inferior and to be stamped out when it is not 'necessary'.]

I want my kid to be able to have long hair and still call himself a boy if he wants to. Omfg.

It upsets me when I think of all the little girls who will grow up hearing that who they are and what they like is second choice!! Steeped in this not-so-concretely SAID but palpably felt inferior feeling. And that no matter how much lipservice and sparkles and girl power, deep down, everyone still feels it and knows it.

A friend I respect deeply said to me once: “I know this is wrong to say, but between you and me, I think of women as inferior beings. Second class. You feel that too, right? It’s not that there aren’t individually strong women–but as a whole, you know?”

Because I am male, that was okay to say to me. The feminine parts in me screamed out though. No, no, no, no, no. Fuck you, Fuck you, for every girl, fuck you.

And as much as I hate the idea of ‘forcing’ my kid to be anything (especially since if he turns out gay or trans, its going to be like, oh yeah, because YOU”RE GAY AND TRANS AND YOU FORCED HIM INTO YOUR AGENDA!) , still, am I not obligated to raise him in the way I think is most right?

Teaching boys that little girls are shit and teaching little girls that they are second choice, actively or passively, is NOT RIGHT. To me, and I hope to many others as well.

And I’m like… hey, wait!  If it’s okay to actively raise a kid in the straight and binary agenda, it is equally okay for me to raise a kid mindful of the following things:

There is nothing wrong with being a girl. There is nothing wrong with being a boy. There is nothing wrong with choosing to be a gender, or gender combination, you were not assigned to at birth, but all that about what one is or isn’t is pretty arbitrary and as often as not, serves as a tool to make people feel like shit about themselves. As if there weren’t enough reasons. So! I’ll try to wrap this horrible ramble up and just say:

If you are a trans girl or lady, you are the strongest and the most beautiful. (◡‿◡✿) You fight the double fight.

If you are a trans guy or masculine aspiring person, you’re all the fox princes and mermen, and I hope you don’t ever forget what it felt like to be thought of as an ‘inferior’ being.

If you are in the middle, both, neither, switching around, genderqueer, what have you–non-binary fist pound!! (That’s me too ^^. Well, I’m a guy. And I’m trans. But I am probably not who you’d think of if I said ‘trans guy’.)

To all trans people, in and out of the binary, I hope you have a great spring, and rest of the year and to all the kids growing up, trans or not-trans, while I don’t know what to DO with all this gender shit, or how to combat it, I figure I can try to raise someone to be a respectful, open person, and keep my own eyes open and learn and be mindful of trans people who are having a rough time, and I can wave my hands and say on this one day, hey, I have a nice life and I have a kid, and I have people who care about me–and I’m trans. And I’m happy when I see children and teenagers who are so much more informed of this stuff than I was when I was a kid and teenager–they inspire me and they make me hope. So for them, I want to say, please fight, because I’m too fucking old to make any change, but hey I’m an adult and I (kind of) made it out okay? I see you today and you see me.

We’re visible. Po-to-weet!!


[Shit, now it's April 1st here, but hey. You get it. :D]

If you’re really into gender baguettes, here’s some more reading.

Inky Void

::sigh:: I was just saying today to J, ‘I’m resting on my laurels.’

What laurels? He asked. You may very well be asking yourself, dear Reader.

girls in space

Lonely Star – My kid is currently obsessed with space, so I drew octonauts in space!!!!!
Brown ink. ^__^ [PS: Is this pic done? Part of me wants to add more space debris or something... but I also like the clean fear in space.... hmmm.]

The laurels (more symbolic than actual triumphs) I am resting on are as follows:

1. The operation got done. (And I spend a lot of time staring at the results and feeling stupendously happy.)

2. My publisher finished my bigass book and responded that he is interested and will get the wheels turning now regards it. O___O (::hyperventilates and falls over::)

Book and chest. Chest and book. Two things that had been weighing on me like a hairy sack of strawberry ice cream all of 2013, and now, both are in some stage of resolution.

And that’s good…. that’s wonderful! But…these last two weeks, the inside of my brain’s felt like this:

We're the fuckin' animals: Coffee time with Mr. Bear, Fox Boy and Mink Boy.

We’re the fuckin’ animals: Coffee time with Mr. Bear, Fox Boy and Mink Boy. Black and brown and red ink.

Book three sits patiently in the poorly ventilated waiting room of my brain, reading back issues of People, drinking cup after cup of cool coffee and not giving a bleeding fuq. I don’t have discontent to kick me into gear–*I* have to kick myself into gear…

A new sketchbook and a block of enormous inkable paper and an entire bottle of walnut-colored ink AND a little octonaut turning three in two weeks!!

Things to do now: 1. get shit done on book 3. hire a clown. 4. teach my kid the Way of the Toilet…

music listen

Learn how to count, lala lalalalala


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….

On the back of an art block: The more nervous I am, the more meat and eyes I draw….

The operation was a success. (oil pastel on the back of a sketch block)

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!!


Happy Lucky V-Day

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!

Nobody really knows what shit St. Valentine went through to become martyred... for all we know, he was covered in boils.

Lucky boy, because the better I feel, the nastier my pictures get. Nobody really knows what shit St. Valentine went through to become martyred… for all we know, he was covered in boils.St. Valentine + Boils

I miss those candy hearts that said things like 'fax me.'

I miss those candy hearts that said things like ‘fax me’ and ‘u sux.’

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!!

If J ever goes to jail and he comes out, I greet him like thisssss...

If J ever goes to jail and he comes out, we say hello like thissssss…

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!

Yay cuddling, yay!!

Happy Vector Day. I hope you spend it with someone nice.

<3 <3 <3

Stendhal Syndrome II

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?



Me when I see I have to sit directly in front of the model. Because that means a lot of crappy boring head-on poses and/or poop foreshortening. And naked people are whatever. Naked people.

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.

art model 2

Tonight’s model five min sketch — no, this is really exactly what she looked like. O__O


Me when I see the model.

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:


As you can see, they’ve turned the heat up considerably.

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.


Me when I hear art teacher announce pose will be half an hour.

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…

do I

Hell yeah I’m gonna draw the sweat and labia!

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:

durer baby

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?

For reasons?’


Call me!


Ye Olde Art Swappe

Hey there readers ^___^

Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife 2. – long-haired boy and octopus (brown ink).
Okay okay, so you’ve always wanted to eat my sushi and own one of my tentacle pictures… the night of Dec. 12th is your chance! ~___~ This is the piece I am donating. Sorry for the horrible photo.

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.)

2nd Time Around – Chapter I.

The writing of a thousand pages starts with a single chicken nugget.
-Abraham Lincoln


‘Do people with blue eyes like…. even have a soul?’ Probably my favorite question ever asked me by a Japanese person. It’s like, heck should I know, I don’t have blue eyes? >___>

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.

It’s me
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.... >___>]

Dear Friend II

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’)

death and all

Moleskine sketch – Death and all his friends. [I started out drawing a bunch of fucked up heads and then realized they correspond to the things I am scared of, including depression, suicide, self-harm, vomiting, negative body image and weird pieces of meat. Make it big to appreciate all the detail >___>)

Dear Friend,

I could tell you how I feel, or maybe just show you?

A gallery–[warning: some self-harm in the following pictures]

the cutters red st seb new color detailconnie red smallrough night moleskinsafewordjon crophyenatumblr_mtwm896nri1rn4weno1_500

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.

Trypophobia! or Meatbook

Trypophobia! or Meatbook

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