I was just listening to Pandora Radio and heard these two songs while working on the reduction of a thrift store paint-by-number version of the Last Supper that Matt Gray gave me; we called it "The Blobby Face Jesus". I work on it about twice a year, never really expecting anything finished.This long stretch of morning dove grey weather is a lovely vanita, no?
Matt Gray (1980-2009) PBR Hero 2007, digital image
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| No more Jesus, sorry folks. |
This long stretch of grey weather is a loveliest of vanitas, no? So, I think of death; it's greyness, the quietness of it. Also, this season marks the 2nd Aniversary, approximately (which he would appreciate), of the death of an artist friend and lover of mine, one of my first lovers, and an intense and tender friend. Forgive my romanticism, we had an overly-emotive connection. And I miss that bastard dearly. Below is one of my very first blog posts, written when I got home from leaving work as a GreenPeace memberships salesman early on a grey Southern California morning; sobbing on the redline back to DTLA and my little room.I digress in the second, and obviously still sentimental vein. I came upon a Kahlil Gibran quote from Sand and Foam a couple weeks after his death, that claims:
"mayhap a funeral is a wedding feast among the angels"
"mayhap a funeral is a wedding feast among the angels"
And I, yet again overcome, cried at the realization of my first actual experience of death, and with the realization that both he and I were free now. This boy I had known as a man; who even as a 19 year old burgeoning alcoholic and drug-addict had treated situations with a thoughtful yet naively forceful judgement far beyond his years, was gone until and if we happen to meet again. He did access, poetically, beautifully, and I found him to be fair Judge; albeit one that held small grudges (and this is only human, expect it). He was a Man-child who tried soooo fucking hard to be a man; a good one, a fair one, a just and hard-working "Grown Man" (he would rant about this lyrically and often), even when we first met during our late childhoods. And selfishly, I remember how he loved, never stopping, with every courageous and peckish part of his heart, and how I knew I would never receive another fucked-up phone call from him. He was one of the first people I ever knew, intimately, in both the physical and abstract. What a dick. He always appreciated the honest truth, so... Goodbye Mr. Gray, fly away. It's nice to not romanticize adolescence anymore, and what a lesson he taught me (the value of the rational over physical impulse in regards to sex, LOL).
Yes, his clear grey eyes would have widened prettily in approval.
Yes, his clear grey eyes would have widened prettily in approval.
Matt Gray (1980-2009) PBR Hero 2007, digital image
My ex lover died yesterday morning. He simply didn't wake up from a Burrough's dream, just like that, his ticking slowed and stopped. When we first met in high school I was working at a Subway sandwich shop on Chapman Hwy (my first job as an "Artist" lol). Every night he'd come sit with me while I closed up and counted down; sketching in our little black books, telling jokes and stating insecurities. Our family anecdotes falling like crusty stalamite tears in full teenage disclosure. I fell in love with him when he drew this gelastic penis and vagina waving to each other, goofy big head and lashed eyes wide, and then later twister, and morning with the light still on.
He moved in with me at my Mum's, then we lived together on Laurel Ave. apt 2. We were hortoculturists, and had dogs in the manner of children. There weren't too many roaches. Both Picese. He was born on Feb. 29th, 1980, leap day; and missed having a real birthday 3 of 4 years. But, these were not bad days. Wonderful mesh. We shared our first real home, and played house earnestly.
Later, during the break-up I came to think he believed in a twisted Catholic truth of the masculine/feminine family, much like my father, as I watched him bloody with self-inflicted lovelorn melodrama. His eyes were gray like his last name, and he drank in earnest torture. He would call me and recite Bukowski poetry with a crackling tone. We were 19 and 20.
He moved in with me at my Mum's, then we lived together on Laurel Ave. apt 2. We were hortoculturists, and had dogs in the manner of children. There weren't too many roaches. Both Picese. He was born on Feb. 29th, 1980, leap day; and missed having a real birthday 3 of 4 years. But, these were not bad days. Wonderful mesh. We shared our first real home, and played house earnestly.
Later, during the break-up I came to think he believed in a twisted Catholic truth of the masculine/feminine family, much like my father, as I watched him bloody with self-inflicted lovelorn melodrama. His eyes were gray like his last name, and he drank in earnest torture. He would call me and recite Bukowski poetry with a crackling tone. We were 19 and 20.
He did forgive me eventually, and an understanding was reached. He was my book guru, and always available to talk me through a panic. He burned Peanut Butter Wolf and Hank Williams cds, then folded them into hand-drawn envelopes. We got high together sometimes, and he would tell me how proud he was of me for going to school, for being "Type A", for pushing and getting it done, for moving away, for making it out. Sometimes, he would be crude and insulting, a Jekell/Hyde snide and sly. But, I often took his advice saltily if not affectionately, trusting his sharp criticisms. He loved trains, paid attention to details, schooled me in loving clanking beasts, and drew letters for me to copy. He was the most sarcastic fucker I have ever known. When I heard the news I sat down and my heart beat a rabbit drum, snatched breaths, and I was pissed.
The last few times I saw him in person was last summer, all humid TN June filtered lemon light in my memory. I wore a polka dot dress to have him retouch my tattoo. He was pleased, flattered that I'd dress nicely to have him work on me. We had always shared a sense of decorum so he lifted his hat and gave me a little bow across the dusty parking lot. He told me my shoulder blades were sticking out as the gun buzzed across the points of bone, and delicately wiped the seeping ink away.
We went to Strawberry Plains quarry, pushed through water thick with alge, and saw a coyote. We talked about ornamentals and line qualities, Chinue Achebe and Amy Hempel books. After I left to come out west he moved to Virgina, Boston, then back to Knoxville in my father's adandoned airstream trailer. His dog ran away. He called me last week crying on ecstacy while driving too fast on Henley Street. His self destruction shimmered all around. He told me he'd always love me, we were family. He died yesterday morning. May he finally rest in peace.
We went to Strawberry Plains quarry, pushed through water thick with alge, and saw a coyote. We talked about ornamentals and line qualities, Chinue Achebe and Amy Hempel books. After I left to come out west he moved to Virgina, Boston, then back to Knoxville in my father's adandoned airstream trailer. His dog ran away. He called me last week crying on ecstacy while driving too fast on Henley Street. His self destruction shimmered all around. He told me he'd always love me, we were family. He died yesterday morning. May he finally rest in peace.
