Here is an “alternate Universe” version of a thing I did just shy of five years ago. It was in pencil and little of the acrostic poem was done. I made a copy of it, did some more peripheral drawing, inked it up, and added the complete (if occulted) poem and spot color.
Here is the poem, hidden lines and all, and acrostic line breakage disregarded for clarity:
Save the Lama for the Drama
Sown, when our flags and hearts are at half-staff
And self-appointed enemies would laugh
O, vested interests give pause. What for
Each involvement spawns esprit de mort
The Tragedies of living make us sigh:
How often pain seduces us to die.
E’en worse: to odd destruction we are led.
Lo: then more pained apocalypse ahead
Or altered consciousness or Disser A
Make head-in-sand-impostures take their aim.
A LOT of Aitch Why Pea Oh Ex Eye A.
Note: Aitch Why Pea Oh Ex Eye A spells Hypoxia, a condition of not enough oxygen delivered to the brain, inducing symptoms of blue-faced hallucinations.
Two people, or maybe three, or maybe two at different times. A defective chess board, or maybe a more perfect, cruciality-driven meld of game and life.
Most of this was done late December 2018. Today I made modifications. It is not new for an artwork to change with time: the whole film medium depends on that dynamic. Here you have documented static and dynamic, with two specific, but not too specific, times.
Once upon a time, in the William C. Jack Elementary School library, there was a book of mysteries for children that was edited by Alfred Hitchcock. In it Mr. Hitchcock stopped a story in the middle and told his readership that they had just been given a clue. That’s all I remember about that book, but it did lead me to another, also edited by him: STORIES THAT SCARED EVEN ME. For some reason, after I “not finished/finished” this drawing, I thought of that book. I also thought of my friend Manuel Paul Arenas, whose writings favor the macabre. I thought that it would be nice if Manny wrote a story for which my drawing is the perfect illustration. I haven’t asked him, and he probably has better things to do, but that was my thought.
I made these around the end of 2006 and the beginning of 2007. My mother acquired them, probably as gifts from me, and while my Aunt Diane was visiting this weekend and making Mom’s home more livable, she saw a box labeled “Gary’s Pots” and when we opened it there they were.
Mom is keeping the leftmost one, and at her direction I’ve put it in the middle of her dining-room table, for future use as a flower vase. The rest will go home with me with Mom’s blessing.
I’ve got the blues today. It is my late brother Brian’s 62nd Birthday. Chalk on black paper scratched my drawing itch.
is i n c o m p l e t e without the
memory of l i g h t
I missed Caffeine Corridor tonight. Fell into an exhausted sleep soon after I got home and woke up too late to get there on time, and with necessary laundry to do besides. Alas, I missed my fellow former Monsoon Voice, Susan Vespoli, whose poetic scapes can be so pellucidly magical.
Under “house arrest” while laundry was cycling, I took chalk in hand and did this mood reflector.