But is it Art? #2.1 He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss) - final sketches and finished piece

Here's the last few sketches for the newsprint man and woman, and the final and framed piece. The show goes up tomorrow at the Silverbow.

But is it Art? #2: He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)

He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss) Sketches + approx. 1/2 of finished piece

Here are some sketches and what I have completed so far of "He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)", my piece for the AWARE at the Silverbow in April. Stay tuned.

But is it Art? #1: Creation Story

"Creation Story" Watercolor & Ink * Me with "Creation Story" @ the Canvas

Just a quick post about my piece in the March PULSE show at the Canvas here in Juneau. Now it's time to go work on another piece called "He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)" for AWARE's April show at the Silverbow. I'll post pics of that piece when there's something to show.

Poem #1: The Closest I Get to Magic

This is an older poem, probably originally written around June 2005. Edited again today.

"The Closest I Get to Magic"

purple music from flesh tasting mouths;
this is the closest I get to magic.

secrets are revealed clumsily, hastily.
quick, in one motion,
rip away
all fear, all modesty,
like a bandage.
lick, love, learn new intimate openings.

trace circles on tight, cool skin
inscribe mysteries along the notches of the spine
taste a few more drops
of whatever makes you thirsty:
one last long salty suck from the sea.

run your hands over warm flushed flesh
bathe yourself in the afterglow
spread it across your landscape in palmfuls,
touch the slightly jutting bone of your hips -
and remember.

I dream
of future days, of looking back,
of how I will see you:

timid eyes and smile; curled coyly beneath sheets;
hungry, fasting flesh;
how I tasted you
and your perfect imperfections;
the shades of color
that flowed across your skin -

the shades of color
that flow across your skin
as your eyes move
across this page.

Entry #2: Untitled Stony River Project, Part 1

"No matter what happens, no matter how loud someone is poundin' on the door tonight, don't let them in. OK?"
I stared blankly at John. He stood in the door of the classroom, keys in hand. This night, Friday night, was the first time anyone had locked up the school.
"What's going on?"

* * *

Wednesday morning in Stony River started the same as the rest of the mornings had that week in early April, at least as far as I could tell. I woke up at 6am in the high school classroom, the sun only just beginning to stain the snow and sky a soft pink. I tied my sleeping bag into an awkward little roll with a bit of rope, carried the giant red pillow back to the resource room, and went to the kitchen to make some tea and instant oatmeal, the smack of my bare feet echoing in the dark and empty gym as I passed through. I ate standing at the double basin sink, spooning Quaker Oats and sipping Lipton and powdered milk while I read the school lunch menu for the umpteenth time.
At 8 the students began to trickle in, usually in pairs or groups of three. The students were never all that talkative, especially in the morning, but there was something different about their silence today. Their conversations were carried out only in short whispers, their movements only the bare minimum to prepare them for the day. I wanted to reach out to them, to strike up a conversation, but they were guarded and reserved on even the most mundane of topics with me. I understood why, too. I was from outside the village, a student teacher out on a week-long rural exchange - another white visitor in a town of Yupik relatives, used now to seeing people like me pass quickly in and out of Gusty Michael K-12 School. The odds of me being able to draw the students out on what seemed to be troubling them were nonexistent.
My host teacher seemed to notice something was up too. John sat his desk, occasionally watching his students over the top of his glasses as he sipped at his thermal mug. He watched but said nothing, and he asked no questions.
Our answer came with the Troopers that afternoon.

* * *

Alaska State Troopers Press Release of Thursday, April 12, 2007
Any charges reported in these press releases are merely accusations and the defendants are presumed innocent unless and until proven guilty.
Location: Stoney River (sic)
Case number: 07-27299
Type: Assault II
Text: On 04-11-07 at about 1200 hrs. Bethel AST received information that Roman M. Lubczonek, 49 of Stoney River (sic), was stabbed in the abdomen with a 11 inch kitchen knife by his wife, Virginia in Stoney River (sic). Investigation has revealed that Roman, Virginia and Pete Zauker were drinking alcohol when Virginia became upset when Roman refused to share what alcohol was left. Roman was laying on a bed when Virginia left and later returned with a kitchen knife and stabbed Roman in the abdomen. Roman was transported to Anchorage for medical attention. Virginia was arrested and remanded to the Yukon Kuskokwim correctional center for assault II, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. Received and posted Thursday, April 12, 2007 10:40 AM

* * *

"You remember that guy who got stabbed the other night?" John asked, scratching his beard with his keys.
I nodded. After the Troopers had come and gone, John had filled me in on what he had heard.

* * *

A friend found Roman Wednesday morning in his bloody cabin, using the little remaining alcohol as a painkiller. Roman told his friend and the Troopers that it was all an accident, that Virginia had been cooking and he just ran into the knife.
"Which is just a bunch of crap, honestly," John said. "For one, who is cooking at 3am? For another, it's not like he just got poked in the belly with a paring knife. This was a big knife, and it came at an angle, like it was trying to get under the ribcage." Said John, adding the appropriate interpretive motions with his fingers to the commentary. "How do you accidentally run into a kitchen knife with your belly and and end up with it pointing at your heart?"

* * *

"Well, Roman's back in town and he's trying to stir up shit. It looks like he brought back some alcohol with him, because he just showed up our place drunk as a skunk, demanding to know who called the Troopers on his wife. The little shit started making threats toward Wayna and I, and then he wandered off with his buddies on his sleds. If that little shit wants to start something he can go ahead and try it! I've got my hand gun, so I'm not too worried about some little punk like him."
I nodded, and then looked out the wall of windows to my right, completely lacking in curtains or any other way to block the view. It wouldn't matter how much I ignored any pounding on the doors. If someone just walks by that side of the school, they'll see me camped out along side the bookshelves, and it would be all over.
"If you don't mind, John, I'd like to stay over at your place tonight."
John nodded. "That's fine. As a matter of fact, you might want to see if you can fly out a couple of days early. Life's certainly not going to get much better around here any time soon, and I think that you got a pretty good taste of the conditions out here."

Old Favorites #1: Dancers

The banjo player moved away from the huddle near the vacant drum kit, back to his beer bottle and center stage. The bassist waited in the background, adjusting the position of her instrument. The mandolin player and the guitarist drifted in from the left and the right and from their own bottles. The banjo player clasped his hands behind his back and leaned into his microphone.

“This next song is an ol’ Stanley Brothers tune, called ‘She’s More to be Pitied.’ It’s a waltz, so we expect to see some dancin’ on this one!”

The band counted themselves in and their music spun away, notes and chords sliding over and against one another as if stumbling through water. In the crowded bar the boisterous clatter continued, the patrons wrapped in smoke and beer and laughter. Sharp cracks of billiard balls punctuated the intimately earnest conversations of the drunk. Clumsy hands clapped shoulders of friends and strangers; lopsided smiles leaned across unsteady lips.

“Too much beer and wine, too many good times…”

The twanging vocal harmonies of the banjo player and the guitarist straddled the din of the bar. Their music transformed into a shell, a skin to shield the revelry.

A woman near the band rose from a table and extended her thin, lined hands to the man she was seated with. His smile saturated his grey-bearded face as he stood and followed her to the middle of the pinched dance floor, their hands twined together. She turned to face him and they laced their arms around each other, slipping off into the stream of sound.

“She needs to be loved not despised…”

They swirled and spun alone before the band, ease and muscle memory stepping into their places. Communication broke down to the pressure of eyes and the trailing of hands on flesh; messages were tapped out across the telegraph wires of skin. Bodies became waves, steps and spins became thoughtlessly dynamic; they rode their own currents.

“She once was the belle of the ballroom, she’d a made some man a sweet wife…”

An audience stumbled into existence around the edges of the dance floor, sucked in by the dancers’ undertow. Easily enraptured, the audience watched the dancers shed decades with twists of spines and the precise placement of feet. Strands of hair and folds of clothing became animate, their embraces echoing the deliberate motion of famished fingers and eager eyes. Her dust brown dress meandered through spins and twirls, caressing the calves of his boot-cut jeans.

“The lure of the honky-tonk wrecked her young life…”

The mandolin shimmered and clattered over the top of the other instruments, the player shaking every last note from his instrument as he wrung its slim neck. The inebriated audience hooted and clapped, their glassy eyes turning to the action on stage.

His eyes never left her as he led her into one last slow twirl, the ebbing tide of the music washing them closer together. She let her head come to rest on his shoulder as they shuffled slowly in each others arms. The band gently pulled themselves back in, winding down to the final notes.

“Too much beer and wine, too many good times…
The lure of the honky-tonk, wrecked her young life…”

Applause spurted from the crowded bar as last note drifted into the rafters. He pressed her fingers to his mouth; the audience returned to their busy conversations. She smiled, gliding back to the table, his hand at the small of her back.

The banjo player took a long pull from his beer. He pushed back his black trucker cap, wiping his sweaty brow across his sleeve. The guitarist and bassist stood by the dormant drums, bringing their instruments back into tune. The mandolin player crouched at the side of the stage, engaged in the spidery business of replacing a broken string. The banjo player pulled his cap forward, gulping from his beer bottle. He slid back to the microphone.

“Well, it looks like the mandolin is out of commission for the moment, so we’re gonna do a little banjo tune for ya…”

Entry #1: the sun is shining but the rain is coming

Below is my first entry, a very rough draft of "The Sun is Shining but the Rain is Coming." It needs a lot of work, but I imagine a more polished version will turn up on here one of these days. As it stands currently it moves way to fast and shallow for my purposes, but the magic is always in revision for me. It's a story that I am working on in response to this painting by Misty, which I helped her name:

The Sun is Shining but the Rain is Coming (Oil Painting)

“Where are you going?”

“Out. I just need to go for a walk.” I said, not looking up as I tied her shoes.

“Your dad is going to be home from work soon.” Mom said, leaning against the frame of the kitchen doorway.

“I know.”

“I just put the chicken in the oven.”

“So I’ll be back in an hour and a half, ok?” I snapped as I stood up from the stairs, pulling on my worn out red sweater.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just need to get out of the house for a while.”

I grabbed my backpack and Discman off the floor and slipped out the door before my mom could get in another word. I shrugged my backpack on my way down the driveway and on to Brandywine Avenue. The early autumn sun was warmer than I expected, so I pushed the sleeve of my sweaters up past my elbows. I slipped on my headphones, and Blur’s self-titled album chugged to life by the time I hit the corner onto Ticonderoga.

By the time I hit Strawberry, most of the stress and restlessness that had been building up all afternoon had a melted away, and I was mouthing along to “Country Sad Ballad Man.” By “Your So Great” I was on Jewel Lake and a straight shot to Carrs.

When I got to Carrs, I made a beeline for the drinks section, picking up a bottle of Coke without stopping to look around. I went two aisles over and spent the minimum time it took to find the shelf with the roll of Spree candy. I grabbed two rolls and headed back out, taking my inaugural sip of soda as I went through the automatic doors. The secret to a successful shoplifting expedition is to not be secretive; you need to walk out the door like whatever you are carrying rightfully belongs to you.

On the way back home I decided take a turn on to W. 88^th and to Chinook Elementary. The playground was empty as I crossed to the sledding hill, lonely in the September evening. I laid on my back at the summit for a while, letting Blur play itself out as the weakening autumn sun tenderly warmed my face. On the horizon, dark moody clouds crouched on top of the Chugach Mountains. I closed my eyes, relaxing as the increasingly crisp breeze pushed around me.