drivel

drivel drivel drivel
all i produce
hour after hour
day after day
just drivel

for example: all previous posts

art v model

There is necessarily an imperfect relationship between the artist and the model (i'll be referring mostly to my experience as a photographer's  model, though my ambitions toward being a drawing or painting model will give me more experience in those arenas soon through the art warehouse next door) that, though not always violent, always implies an almost primal sexuality - whether is it violence between each other, or humiliation vs ownership, surrender vs slaughter or even self-sacrifice joined with sacrificial priest, either the artist is photographing his model to confess his love for her, his obsession, his inescapable struggle within her seduction, his surrender to the muse that will ruin him - force him to give up his beliefs - make his work sell for money he hates to people he hates even more....
Or if his model is giving herself, through him, to the greater cause of broadening the definition of art, if she's putting herself in a situation specifically because she gets off on being obliged to the will of a man she never could have imagined, or even if being printed on pages smeared with the sweat of high school boys replaces her high-school love of filling a designer handbag with things no other person wealthy enough to own it would ever carry - a Kate Spade clutch filled with tiny bags of cocaine rocks just ready to be lain on a square of foil (tucked inside the bag's make-up mirror pocket) to be lit (w a lighter inside the bag's lipstick pocket) from below and inhaled through a bic pen with it's ends chopped off (stashed in the bag as well), a McQueen handbag with vials of pills tucked into tiny silk-weave pockets (with their other pockets filled with lipstick tubes empty of color but packed with sterling silver paraphernalia sets), and a half dozen subtle Gucci bags, one for each occasion or season, each hiding an emergency stash and the necessary accessories of each necessity - never because she needed money for those luxuries, only because she finds the dichotomy of a girl like her being so gross around such people, only because she finds it funny that they believe her when she plays like she does.
The artist and his model know that their relationship would not exist if not for the need of a third party - the viewer of what they produce. There would be no reason for their unending sacrifice to each other, their exchange of sado-masochism would be useless without the voyeur, the viewer holding his breath to see if the tension of a photograph can be resolved if he stares long enough.
He needs her, but he knows without her there will be always be another 'her' yet she, she needs him, is praying that the Art she see within him will be enough to get her out her tiny niche in time and propel them both forward, farther, as far as they can if they can just get their charges to connect, to project their intimacy into a world that only the two of them know, at that moment, lacks it completely....
All art is a surrender, of the best of the artist, and the best of his model, to a cause greater than either of them could ever be, but they know, if they can just reach through time a little ways by connecting to the greatest truth of the other, that the pain of their sacrifice will provide a glimpse of truth greater than any pain they could feel.

the meaning of christmas

must be sending gifts to that hot blonde (yes, i am back to blonde, thank god) that you're stalking.
so i recommend you go to this address http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/ls to access my amazon wishlist, and make all my holiday dreams come true :)
thank you, and if you leave a return address, you can expect a hand-written thank you note with a little surprise inside!
xoxoxooxx

christmas wishes

Magic Christmas wishes
Shooting out of your eyes
A candy cake full of snow dreams
A stocking full of smi-i-i-iiiiiles...


http://amzn.com/w/3LXV9YLOK3440

Written on 10.22

You've got your zipper down
like you want something.
Knock on my door, middle of the night -
I was dreaming of something.
Something bigger than you,
Better than you -
My dream was realer than you.
Now you're jumping over my porch,
Do you think you deserve something?

You should know,
One invitation is not
A standing invitation.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

the 5th anniversary of the loss of my virginity

It was my senior year of high school, on the night of thanksgiving. i had just turned 18 about a month before and had known him since the end of the fall rowing season - about 4 weeks prior. he was a student at the local community college and had his own small house in a neighboring suburb. i was introduced to him by some friends who'd been going to parties at his house on the weekends. i started going with them when my weekends freed up, and we developed a bit of chemistry. i started going to his house on weeknights, after going home from school for dinner and homework, then straight from his house to school in the mornings - to "theology" class - the same course in catholic doctrine we had to take every year.
anyway, that thanksgiving i had dinner with my family as usual, then went to his house for his annual thanksgiving party (he had an annual party for every holiday. even the national holidays of other countries). This period of my life, these 5 months, is the only period of my life during which i drank beer. he, unlike myself, LOVED the shit, and had me running out for a purse-ful of cold beers from the case outside every ten minutes.
i liked that it was my job to make sure he always had a cold drink. i trained myself to have one ready when i could tell he was close to finishing his current one - i'd switch out the empty can with the full one while he played cards and wouldn't notice. it was my way of making him rely on me, of ensuring that he'd get to used to me and want me around. this is when i developed a strategy i continue to use to make a man i want want me back. i learned to make myself not just a part of a his life, but a subtle improvement on his life. i was there with the cold drink before he realized that his current drink was empty, about an hour before he was ready for bed i snuck off to clear the clothes from his bed and make it - i was not intrusive. i did little things that made his life a little easier, but always in ways he didn't notice, i improved practically insignificant details that he'd never thought to improve, i could find things he thought he'd lost... i even drove him everywhere because he didnt have a car.
My friends warned me about him before i ever met him, that he was a "player," that he kept a handful of girls on rotation, and that he wouldn't hook up with a girl without fucking her - no making out and blowjobs all night. but, and remember i was a baby when i reasoned this, when we first hooked up he went for the condom but settled for bjs when i told him i never had nor was ready for sex. so, "see? he's different with me. maybe he plays those other girls, but look how considerate and sweet he's being with me. he must really care."
So after four weeks, i decided he'd earned it. it was thanksgiving and we were all getting drunk - and then falling down and passing out and wrecking shit and making a mess of his house so he decided we should go to bed and i told him he could do it.
He fucked me for about 10 minutes before he passed out. it hurt. i didnt cum for the first time until years later.
let me reiterate what happened: not only did i not cum, i had to slide out from under him and his penis out of me, because he PASSED OUT.
My first experience with real sex led me to believe that sex was terribly painful for the person on the receiving end and fucking boring (to the point of actually falling asleep) to the opponent.
This may explain some of my relationships to those among my readers familiar with my personal life and why i keep picking men with daggers where their hearts should be.