Tag: art

~Sappy Daze~ Day 16

Sappy Leave a comment 
From Your Secret Admirer Probably

I like your smile:
the way it crinkles your eyes at the end
like an elderly person’s 
despite your youthful face. 

It makes me dream 
we’ll grow old together,
like your overworn white tee 
that I wore too:
I liked how the shirt smelled of you.

Your scent makes me hungry.

I can keep my hunger at bay by listening 
to my favorite piece on repeat: 
a cacophony of a symphony 
performed by our starving bodies. 
The melody of our groans and 
the rich vibrato of our stomachs
harmonize beautifully. Our laughter: 
the percussive and catchy beat.

I think we should become music majors. 

That way our starvation for 
one another will forever 
play in a cannon 
more famous than D.

- Sappy

Crooked Fool: Are you angry yet?

Cydney Marie Leave a comment

Witness.

I was young, crooked femme, buzzing with energy, a nova of anger that was pathologized, bad-ified, otherized, punished…

A performer adapting to the endless energy and life force late-stage capitalist performing arts charge as the price of admission to a club that will blacklist without hesitation. I was easy to work with. Disciplined. Energized regardless of fatigue, a vessel down to my fingertips, twisted body best when unnoticed and unclaimed.

I am a rebel in circus garb, prepared for the tower to fall, knowing my role when it happens.

A clown questioning the colonized, controlling, punishing logics of the state, somehow more threatening in a red nose, but not always thought of as such.

Arlecchino, Brighella, Colombina, Pierrot surviving, working, playing my way through a system designed to keep me wanting, needing.

The crooked, hunchbacked witch who served literal communion to an actual demon in the scariest place there was. The gods rewarded me with a red nose and a spine full of titanium so that eyes, breath, spine will forever be grounded and protected in the act of cursing systems that need to crack, crumble, re-puzzle.  

But remember, it’s just a show…

I am the deformed artist who was told by a psychic that I mastered dark magick in a past life and by a spiritualist reverend that even the darkest creature goes to the light.

I am the one who spent years seeing THIS quilted together in dreams, and now feeling the living, pounding, vital force in those hazy green, buzzing and burning images come to life.

I dance in darkness, a ghost in the making, a demon falling madly in love with my mangled form, the footsteps in the night, screaming the angry children out of sleep because they are the ones who know that something is not right, and that something is not them.

I am, apparently, The Bad, so why not play games with the worst of the worst, week after week?

And why not argue where I can? When nice accomplishes nothing, I can at least still play the game – wrong if I choose.

As an annoying clown once said to me, and as I once said to someone who talked down to me like I was a noisy 27-year-old child, cheating is a mode of play.

Apparently, there are those who genuinely hate crooked, hunchbacked witch clowns. And they’ll dress up their deep, burning hate like light, saying I’m sick, unfriendly, whatever, because they know they can’t say Bad.

Except now they probably can.

I will play the game with all the Bad ones, overdressing, playing ferociously, cheating if I have to. If they want a demon, I know a few. If they try to cut off my rough edges, I’ll crack their rigid walls and dance on the rubble, and everyone loves to dance. Eventually they’ll join.

Slainte to the Bad ones. When this ending happens and this tower crumbles, we will dance in the flames and build with our disfigured, tired bodies in our own image. The vengeful gods will die. And there will the demons be, in the light, turning to ghost with Mad, irrational love and screaming into the dark in joy and rage as our dance party goes on atop the elements that once made us. Who’s the demon now?

Are you angry yet?

You should be.

Witness the Small Life – Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Mia Lambert Leave a comment

There’s always a pull between a pencil and surface that you just can’t stop. I’ve been calling a lot of people recently and I’ve always noticed my need to fidget or be active when I’m on the phone. 9 times out of 10 I have some paper and a pencil or pen next to me and somehow my hand finds its way to drawing doodles and scribbles and then some. My favorite places are those with words and sentences and even whole essays splattered across its walls. From bathroom walls drenched in gossip columns to hidden graffiti under a strategically placed flyer, I love seeing the endless possibilities found in lines on surfaces.

As I’ve been thinking about writing this week, I’ve also been thinking about the beauty of handwriting. I’ve always been victim to those complaining about my handwriting (“Why do you write in cursive?”) while also graced by many a compliments (“You’re handwriting is so graceful!”). I always took these comments at face value and considered my handwriting as weird or abnormal. In my time thinking about writing as marks on a surface, I’ve been able to appreciate the oddities of letters and the uniqueness of one’s approach to these letter forms a lot more. Someone’s writing tells you so much about them, of course, but also how they approach communication. Sharp and quick lines show how emphasis on speed and necessity of no wasted time for that person, whereas thick and heavy curves can show how someone takes their time to leave an impact with their words. The ways we choose to communicate with each other whether it be verbally, physically, or something else entirely represents such a large part of our person. Like I always say, communication is key! The way you decide where and how and why you write connects you not only to those you’re writing for (yourself, a class, a stranger) but it’s a snapshot of that exact moment you chose to lay those lines on a page (or a wall or a board or even a window). As we live in a world where convenience is king, the time it takes to handwrite something says a lot about the way you chose to share with the world. I think we should encourage ourselves and others to write more. After all, the pen is mightier than most things really.

To take into the next week:

Ins: Waking up before dawn, kombucha (always), charcoal, blackberries, overnight oatmeal, productive meetings, mittens, brown sugar, scan beds, surrounding yourself with true friends (always).

Outs: Chapped lips, hair in the drain, glossy paper, scary mechanical noises, less than 7 hours of sleep, letting dry skin get drier, a lack of lamps.

My task for you all: Watch your hands as you write and draw and create. Notice how you grip the pencil, how the swoops of your Gs intersect with the crosses of your Ts. Watch someone else write. Find the wondrous quality of sharp against curve and how the blank space makes it all come together. And do a little bit of vandalism. Because why not?!

Critter Comix Week Ten!

spiderman Leave a comment

Dialogue: “Wow!!”
“Those are the hottest dogs I’ve ever seen!!”
“bro..”

I really really enjoy the dynamics between these two, I think they’re a really fun combo. The logistics of this one are a little odd, but its not like hot dogs are made of real dogs, I guess. My friend gave me the idea for this one while we were studying. (Good luck with any exams! Seems like everyone has a lot right now.)

~Sappy Daze~ Day 15

Sappy Leave a comment 
The First of Many Love Poems 

We should make love in a bed 
of ticklish holly and narcissus; 
that way our child will be joyful
-ly lacking your lack of self-esteem.

I wish you could see how I see you, 
especially with my rosy forget-me-
not tinted irises. That way you’ll know 
our time together has & will always grow 
eternally, though our bodies age annually.

- Sappy