Sure, I’ll go to the baby shower, but I’m not playing any stupid games, and I’m not eating any cake, I’m just trying to do my art, bitch ! You’re gonna steal my video camera? Well, then I’ll write, cuz I’m just trying to do my art, bitch. I’m not going to wax my mustache, shave my pits, or tan my legs, just because that’s what the media shows you, I’m just trying to do my art, bitch. You think Ben Richmond is an artist just because he got his ear pierced, bought a home next to Steven King, and made a bundle selling prints of lighthouses to rich assholes with no sense of taste or style? “Do you hope to be as good as him one day?”, fuck you, I’m just trying to do my art bitch.
Sometimes I feel like a rat stuck in a maze, but this world is so beautiful, all of nature a metaphor for the human experience. Representing what we feel inside …… The dead fawn at the side of the road, the endless stars, the eagle flying high, even the blood thirsty mosquitoes. Our consciousness and ability to make art is “suppose” to be the highest notion on Earth, so move over, I’m just trying to do my art, bitch.
And still in my dreams, I can smell the stench of the homeless man. “Come on baby, dry your eyes, we’re only human”. So his ability to be homeless is suppose to represent my freedom? Not me, not MY freedom, not MY America the fuckin’ beautiful that drafted my father to Vietnam, made him an alcoholic, and hence my life one of misery. So I do art therapy, and you think I’m strange. Am I just avoiding life?
Or perhaps my emotions and thoughts are a little more “evolved” than yours? I’m just trying to do my art bitch.
I bought a thick book called Women, Art, and Society, and it is boring as fuck. Not me, not MY art, in which I pour out my heart, my wit, my vulnerabilities. Do you want to see? Do you want to know? Well, I’ll do my “thing”, stream of consciousness, “the flow”, trance mediumship right here, right now, for the remainder of this writing, so you can both see and know…….. I’m just trying to do my art, bitch.
Frozen eyes all stared at the female laid bare. They lit a lantern as if they were lighting up a joint. Is this life just a game? A stage? As Shakespeare put it? Time pushes forth like a stubborn mule. Flowers bloom only because of the buzz, buzz, buzz of a bee that stings. Acoustic guitar strums my veins like the perfect sunset. Wishes blown upon candles seldom peak.
Do you know the poor boy from school? The one who always wore pants too small for his legs? Met him years later in college. His pants were still too small, but he smiled and came with me to a rock show, to see his roommate, a philosophy major, get on the mic and drive the big haired girls wild. Rumor has it he is a computer genius now. I hope he’s wealthy, happy, and still makes his own soap. You never know what lies in the soul of the person sitting next to you. You never know, unless you take the time to ask.
He called me wallflower and inspired me to deconstruct. Not concerned that he is twenty years older than I. Fantasies have their place. “Why do you photograph dolls?”, she asked. Look, I’m just trying to do my art bitch. But they are creepy, she states. “Well, life scares the shit out of me”, I answer. The truth lies somewhere in the middle.
The stench of the homeless man, and Shannon singing amazing grace at everyone’s funeral blink quickly, sifting my mind at night. Truth is only love, only love can be truth. For it’s the only thing we can be certain of. Just went outside to smoke, into the 90 degree heat, two white butterflies made their way past my sight. How perfectly delicate and fragile. Cheesey as it may be, the ugly worm turns into the loveliest creature on Earth. What God of ours paid for this virtue? It is all that ever was, or will be, it is love, and love is the alpha and omega.
Twelve years of Catholic school and he has a tattoo of Satan on his leg. Aww, the things you hear on the television. Remembering moments of clarity. Tears of joy and tears of pain storming my heart. Vinegar on French fries at the amusement park still on my tongue. Courage comes in rare moments. A horse drawn carriage or sled is what my grandmother took to get to school. Back then, they chopped the heads off of chickens with their own two hands.
Proclamations of dignity seldom come, so we make monuments to remember them by. I’m just trying to do my art, bitch. Wasting away the years, I have no money in the bank, just a storage unit full of treasure. I’m awaiting for the pirates to come. Waiting, and waiting and yearning for recognition of my sacrifice. I use to know the alphabet of sign language when I was a teen, and would spell out my frustrations behind my back as I walked the halls of a small village. Ignorance has no place at my table.
Servantry comes in many forms, and is often dainty. So I’m writing a book, using ink to form language instead of pictures. I think I may be a Renaissance man. I say man because I am very hairy, and there has yet to be worship of the female gender in modern society. Screw the barbi doll, I hung mine on the cross. My friends were offended, yet one had the sensibility to note that I had combined two icons. And yes, what about Jesus? I cannot wrap my legs around a God who made a son for all to prey upon. My how it filled their hearts with hate. Stupidity, complete stupidity. Yet I make the sign of the cross when I feel desperate. Do not dislike those who pray to Jesus. I am glad for their efforts, but sorry it is tied to such darkness.
Blinded like a horse, we see and know only our own experiences. All original stories, like our fingerprints. I remember the day I puked in my mother’s box of Christmas decorations. They symbolism is endless. My gay brother and I roller skated and fell in love with the same boy. Fossils of memories faded with time, await only our return to the other side for clarity.
………….. AndI’m just trying to do my art, Bitch !
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