Son of a Sun

When he was 3
When he was 3

Nearly three years ago I drew my son. Took me thirty minutes only because I wanted every detail to be remembered. I burned a whole in the original canvas, trying to make him come out of the paper. I wanted to hold him so badly. As I look into those eyes I remember everything and I yearn for the day that I can say, “When you were born nothing could, would, ever keep me from you. You are very special to me and well though your mother is a trollop I did do my best by you, No I do not have gold or silver to give you, no I do not have a mansion or I have not been to the moon. I did write a book that told the truth and never will you have to worry about your Identity for “I” Identify you. My beautiful son. See you soon.

I can do so many wonderful things with my hands. I have always wanted to share this gift and now I have the ability to I truly pray others will join me! Others will cry with the voice of the advent and tell the stories that have been left unsaid. If not for your sake, then for the sake of those that are to come. This is what is known as legacy. The image above is not where my journey began, but it is when the amethyst began to shine its deep dark purple. The perfect light for this traveler.

The Sweet Kiss of Memory

 

Memories Kiss
Memories Kiss

This piece is a story all it’s own. Selling for $1500.00

When I was running around with the Occupy Movement; the 99%, we would make head ways, we would break down, But through it all we were making change. Not just for ourselves but for all those that took for granted there God given rights to the pursuits of happiness.

The woman before you was my Godsend. Though many of you may not believe in miracles,  most of you have looked at religion and an active faith and called it fiction, or the delusions of a childish mind. I have come to laugh at these dictates, I have come   to see you all as hypocrites that constantly use the Lords name in vain, even when your prayers are sincere, there is no truth in you. Then you mock my truth, how angry I have become. Most of the time it is my own family that angers me because they were suppose to be in my corner, no matter what; and I have found that, it is the wondering memories that have been in my favor more than anything.

She was nothing to me, just another woman as all the others and then she saved me and I could do nothing except thank her and pine away for a friend that I will never meet again. Her ruby red lips where the rapier sword the stopped cold four to five police officers from tackling, beating, tasering, and trying to stomp on a man that looked like a bank robber. Though, my word is all that could proclaim my innocence on that score. Her vivacious lips did far more than my fists.

“Excuse me, honey please come with me, you don’t have to be here, we have money, we have a place to stay, I bought you shoes, see, look!” Bursting through a crowd comes the excitement of a dark haired, pasty pale beauty. Scott-Irish by the look of her green eyes. Sharp in contrast to her jet-black hair. The four police officers are stunned by her need to get to me. I was stunned by her courage.  She ends her tirade in a sweet kiss.

This kiss sealed the deal for the four police officers, we were just two kids at the Miami-Dade Mall again; not occupiers, not suspected bank robbers, not travelers, not a problem to anyone. It did not matter that she was white and I was black. It did not matter that she was younger than me and that we did not know each other from Adam. It did not matter that I was about to be rousted for no reason and she saved me. That kiss was so sweet, that nothing really mattered and innocence prevailed.

“Have you made it a habit of saving all the charming men you come across with a kiss?” I ask, my godsend. I dared to look the gift horse in the mouth and she was offended, which was her want. “I saved you…I don’t know why I saved you, just felt right.” She stammers as she separates her ruby reds from my lips. She picks up her duffel bag and I am again appalled at the fact that her kiss and words of caring saved me from having to Fight.

“Really, I have been running and dodging dirt bags like them for two years and just your love was enough to keep me out of a good rough and tumble, What a joke!” She cocks her head at me in surprise. “You mean you wanted to fight them, They were bigger than you.” I spit on the ground and pull a smoke. The last of my supply, Smile politely at my black haired angel. “I am a sinner who deserves this hell he has created for himself, trust me I am thankful for your graces and need to help, Only I have learned to relish in the gauntlet of this life. They won’t let me work like a “real man” and thus, as a real man, one must find work where he can. I reap the bodies of those that stand in my way, As I reap the terres and weeds from the earth. I have learned that with these hands one must Reap what he sows and I have sown only seeds of Strife and thus it has been so.”

She turns on her heel, looks over her shoulder with a smile as she walks away. “Well, I know a dead man when I see one. I will be praying for you, I saved you once, try to stay out of trouble, you owe me that at least.”

“That is funny coming from you, Your all by yourself and quite happy to go around kissing strangers and you tell me to stay out of Trouble. Sigh, Here’s to seeing you around Kid.”

That was the last I saw of those Rouge Colored lips. This story is priceless to me and so is the Image. How much would you sell the memory of the woman that saved your life with a kiss.

Perspective

So today I was asked how would one retail art? I ask, is not art any different from the perfume you wear, or the music that is pounding in your ears. Is not art what was used to create the very mediums filling your eyes and ears with the sounds or sights you take for granite. I am appalled at such silly questions for some of the greatest Comic books or Murals were created from a very word that pounded in the ear of the listener that produced the video game your next door pest of a child plays.

From the hands of an old soul
From the hands of an old soul

When we truly understand how interconnected we are we should not ask how something can be supplied but why is it not. I wrote an article before this one explaining why such a Venture is important to me and it was taken off the line. How childish. I laugh and I smile for when I am told no in one way I will bang on doors in another. Have you not been listening to the sounds and words of Anthology. This is a medium of dreamers. Half of you have a product but will go one using the same mainstream fluff that everyone else uses to sell the very same thing everyone else is selling and need a new look on a market brand and low and behold a man comes to you and says, “At WA I have a niche in where I would like to sell you an imagine for 10% of your net worth, use the image as you see fit, just remember my name is on it and I be happy to make sure that image responds to your product how ever you like. In fact most of my images come from my head and I would more than happily supply you with market value material at no real cost to you other than you wearing my tee shirts…” I have a sigh of heaviness because I am tired of people seeing a good thing and watching it fly by them.

Toodles Dreamers.

Anthologist

I am a seeker of believers. Men and women in a dream that is bigger than one’s self though the story began with “self”. I am a seeker of men and women who have a need to share there tales and experiences in creative ways that will stand the test of time.

So many writers and editors have been publishing novels and novellas of a thousand or so pages that have been read and not a single life lesson was determinable; for if it was, we would have less indications of mother’s turning in there unruly sons. We would have less fathers berating there daughters for loving a man that reminded him of himself when he was that age. We’d have more supportive individuals, for we would have read the stories or fit ourselves in the shoes of those we have outcast.

There are a lot of starving artists out there that fear there perspective will not be appreciated because the mural, they put on the wall was good only for the moment. I love art, I love the conversation a Claude Monte would inspire and no I never felt I was a Claude or Van Goh or even in the scale of my favorite Comics.

Though at 16 I was given the shot to produce short stories for Image comics. I was offered 60,000 just for a few story boards from my head. When I showed my work to my family and the contract they said, “You know things on the internet might not be real.” I had put in the work and the time and studied every frame and inking ability of that time, it hurt so bad to be told it might be a fluke so I flunked.

I say these things with a heavy sigh.

Our dreams are much too precious to allow the doubts of others to end them. These words ring so true I feel good for saying them. Every time I produce an

image or reproduce what is before me, I remember that no one taught me and that my hand alone is the grafter and God my master. Thus because it is god given; my talents, I wonder how can I give back?

Are there any other gifted artists? Are there any other story tellers, dream weavers? Surely I am not alone in this universe?