francesco sambo

April 28, 2010

This artist’s work is very disturbing. Reminded me of some alien life form having nightmares.

Grape Frogg

April 25, 2010

You’ve got to love the different slant some people take on their work. I keep looking through the pixs for their perspective.

Marc DA CUNHA LOPES

April 22, 2010

Just found this work so whimsical and somehow ‘heart warming.’

December – All Good Things Must End

I was wearing my denim jacket. The one that was prayed over at Lourdes. Might have had a toothpick in my teeth. Cuban heels. Sunglasses. Asleep on my head. Leaning against my motorcycle. I might have been wearing a grin. December stood there. Elegant. Like a tall thin wine glass. Hair long, flowing over her shoulders. A long printed dress that reached down to her ankles. She looked a maiden from the 15th century. Except for the cigarette. In her smile. I had 2 helmets. ‘Would you like to go for a ride?’

I had fallen in love. With Virginia Cherrill. In City Lights. The Chaplin film where the tramp falls in love with a blind flower girl. Who mistakes him for a rich duke. And now I could see that December was blind. To who I really was. A lonely displaced poet. Face down in his own terror. She thought I was some kind of matador. The kind face of rebellion. James Dean in orange hair. I tried to kiss her. December smiled. And I was gone. I phoned my sister. ‘I know exactly why I was put down here.’

Her boyfriend met me at the top of her street. Tall and gangly. A scar for a smile. His teeth were all messed up in a sneer. A set of nunchakus in his hands. ‘I’m going to beat the crap out of you.’ I looked at him. I didn’t smile. I looked at the weapon in his hand. ‘You ain’t going to beat anyone.’ I said. And walked by. Thinking he would attack me. From behind. When I looked back. He had disappeared.

December left the country. Returned to the lowlands. And called me one day. To come and get her. I sold my bike. Bought a suit. Cut my hair. Shaved my beard. I felt a little under dressed. Bought an airplane ticket. Landed in Brussels. December was waiting with her entire family. And didn’t recognize me. Six months later we were wed. Michael was born in the rainy season. A Horizon, a Saturn, and three kids later and December still hasn’t figured out who I am. And she isn’t alone.

November – Something happened

November was always there. Like the sun. Orange. Her hair as fiery as her personality. She could not be controlled. When I was five, I was beaten up. By a kid named Dennis. November, who was a year younger than me, stalked up the street and waited outside his door.  When Dennis stepped out of his house, she socked him. Right in the nose. We moved to the suburbs. I slipped into the neighbourhood kid culture. Easily. Playing sports. Not so with November. She would not obey the commands of other kids in the neighbourhood. She would not comply. So they bullied her. Invited her to parties at houses. Where no one was home. Invited her to the library to take out books. Then slipped out and left November alone. When she showed up an hour or so later they waited. On their door steps. Laughing. They tried to make her feel small and insignificant. I noticed. But felt helpless to do anything. And then there was high school. For me, it was a long nightmare. Loneliness. Rebellion. Anger. I hardly noticed November. She spent most of her time alone. Or with one or two friends.  The ugly duckling syndrome. And then when November was about 16 something happened. Boys began to notice her. They hung around. On motorcycles. In two toned sedans. Trying to make her laugh. Trying… to get a tan?  I went off to college. And didn’t notice November for a couple of years. November decided to go to the same southern Ontario university as myself. She showed up on campus in September. With her long red hair. Her nurses cape. And a long stem pipe. She knocked everyone out. The students. The teachers. For some years now she has been fighting a debilitating disease. And yet she will not be defeated. She will not comply. November is a force of nature. Like the sun. Forever. My sister.

She was 15 when she left home. For a while she lived in boarding houses. Later she moved in with her older sister. She was 15 or 16 when we met. I was in my early 20s. I had just fallen in love with someone else. Maybe it wasn’t love. Lust has a way of clouding one’s sight. And then I had been betrayed. The details aren’t important. If they were, I would have remembered them. October had been a friend, one of a group of people that hung around together. I was in a mess. October took me in from my storm. (Friends would later tell me that they couldn’t believe how long it took us to get together, that October had been crazy about me for some time.) October and I got along well although I was never in love. I should have been. She was a terrific person, lots of fun. We moved in together. After a few months I wanted to break it off. October needed to go into the hospital. I put it off. Her operation was minor but they made a mess of it. She had some kind of warts in her vagina and when they were removing them, they left some acid inside her. She was in great pain after she got out of the hospital and put up with it for a week or several days and then went back to her doctor. They went back in and removed the acid. Something happened when she came out. Sex was the last thing on her mind. I felt guilty for my lusts. It cooled whatever feelings I had. We grew farther apart. Seperated. I went off to grad school. (see September) We got back together again. For another year. One weekend we were invited to her parents for dinner. I found myself in the kitchen alone with her mother. She had a knife in her hand. ‘When was I going to marry her daughter?’ We separated for a last time. She got an apartment above a restaurant that served cakes and ice cream treats. One Saturday evening a group of young men came into the restaurant. They were looking for someone. Or they were robbing the place. I can’t remember the details. A gun was fired. A girl sitting at a table with friends was shot. She died. It wasn’t October. But it could have been. She lived upstairs. And often went down to the restaurant with friends. I wondered how events shaped our lives. What seemed trivial could end up catastrophic. And there was no telling what events were crucial. Or if all events were crucial. Or if there was an cause and effect at all. Perhaps we were destined to go in  a certain direction. All we could do was delay the inevitable. Death seemed that way. Years later I was on a streetcar. Many things had happened to me. I’d gotten married. Had a son. The streetcar was moving up Broadview Avenue. I saw October. She still had her Irish Afro. She still looked the same. I got up from my seat to get off at the next stop. But didn’t. I sat back down. She didn’t need me in her life anymore.

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