Army

In response to Dependents.

Army, magazine on colored paper, approx. 9" x 9"

Dependents

(In response to As Above So Below. While the writing for this project has been non-fiction up till now, the following post is fiction and all proceeding posts will be fiction too, unless otherwise noted.)

“He leans on her too much,” I heard my grandfather say through the vents, soon after my dad had left. “I can’t imagine she has much regard for that.”

I was shocked. I got out of bed and put my ear to the ceiling, trying to listen more but my grandmother only said “Mmm, well, only the Lord knows, I suppose,” before they started talking about some TV show. And then they left the kitchen and went to bed.

My dad had just left after visiting my grandparents and me on the coast. I didn’t think he leaned on me. I always thought I leaned on him. I’d lived with him for a few months after I dropped out of college, helping out by mowing the lawn and washing the floors and stuff, but I felt bad I was mooching so much so I asked my grandparents if I could stay at their place instead. They always seemed like they wanted company, and they were only an hour away from the city anyhow.

I didn’t know what my grandparents were talking about. I took out a bag of chips from the stash under my dresser and sat on the floor eating them while I texted him: Dad, do you feel like you lean on me for things? I got a call from him a second later but I knew he’d be driving so I didn’t answer it. Call me when you’re off the road, I don’t want you hurt, I texted. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry, I added. Just think about it while you’re driving.

As Above So Below

In response to Reversals.

As Above So Below, ink on bristol paper, approx. 4" x 6"

Reversals

If the literary critic Edmund Wilson is to be believed, San Diego was at one point in time the suicide capital of the United States. "On the West Coast today, the suicide rate is twice that of the Middle Atlantic coast, and the suicide rate of San Diego has become since 1911 the highest in the United States." He wrote in 1932.

"The Americans still tend to move westward, and many drift southward toward the sun. San Diego is situated in the extreme southwestern corner of the United States; and since our real westward expansion has come to a standstill, it has become a kind of jumping-off place." Wilson, in a fit of morbid fatalism, chalked some of this up to an attraction of both physically and mentally ill to San Diego. "The sufferers have a tendency to keep moving away from places, under the illusion that they are leaving the disease behind. And when they have moved to San Diego, they find they are finally cornered, there is nowhere farther to go."

Unsurprisingly, San Diego is no longer the suicide capital of the country, and California is ranks 43rd in the latest figures, so I think it's pretty safe to say Wilson might've been a little melodramatic.

Migrator I & II

In response to Shut.

Migrator, watercolor on watercolor paper, approx. 5" x 3.5"

Migrator II, watercolor on watercolor paper, approx. 5" x 4"

Exposure

Churches early and present talk of "purifying fires" but I always preferred the idea of a purifying cold, myself. Cold is, in many ways, a distiller, an equalizer, forcing on the same heavy coats, nullifying all individual smell, and making dance out of everybody's breath. When I say cold, of course, I mean cold as in a low temperature, and I do not mean rain or snow or wind. Those romantic symbols of winter are about as awesome as Christmas music: It's mildly exhilarating the first time it comes along, but even then the dread of the upcoming months is creeping through your skull.

I never thought the cold was quite as annoying as was the warmth that went into it. I put on four careful layers to head out into negative digit-weather, but soon I enter a warm store and it feels like Texas in July. I don't think it's a coincidence that frozen body parts don't really start hurting until they're unthawed. Cold is numbing, it's the warming up that's painful.

God Doesn't Believe in Miracles I & II

In response to Forever.

God doesn't believe in miracles I, ink and watercolor on watercolor paper, approx. 5" x 5"

God doesn't believe in miracles II, ink and watercolor on watercolor paper, approx. 5" x 5"