First let me get this out of the way, I don’t claim to be a writer.
This project began as an outline for self portaits (photographs) that I wanted to make about sex, sadness and being a superhero. As I started making notes, they slowly turned into short stories. The first seven stories were turned into hand-bound booklets called CAKE WALK. That can be purchased HERE.
I’d also like to give a big thank you to Jon Kinnally for all of his support, as well as his incredible editing and profreading skills.
This project began as an outline for self portaits (photographs) that I wanted to make about sex, sadness and being a superhero. As I started making notes, they slowly turned into short stories. The first seven stories were turned into hand-bound booklets called CAKE WALK. That can be purchased HERE.
I’d also like to give a big thank you to Jon Kinnally for all of his support, as well as his incredible editing and profreading skills.
Good To Go
The Oatmeal Boy
Colonel Mustard
Señor Wolff
New Wave
Learning To Fly
The Accidental Fister
First Time
The Oatmeal Boy
Colonel Mustard
Señor Wolff
New Wave
Learning To Fly
The Accidental Fister
First Time
Colonel Mustard, In the living room, with the paint roller.
I used to have this recurring dream.
Three men wearing suits of varying shades of brown kidnap my mother and siblings, though we never leave our suburban ranch style house in Aurora, CO. They pull up the wall to wall shag carpet in the living room and there is a large rectangular hole under the floor with a metal and fiberglass blue school chair. It was the early 70s so you can imagine the style. I am lowered into the hole and sat in the chair, which is in the center. They tie my hands behind my back and to the chair with rough and scratchy rope. Next they dip a paint roller into a pan of spicy mustard, maybe it was Grey Poupon, and roll it along the back of my head and neck. I didn’t hate the way it feels, nor do I ever feel threatened by these men and their actions.
That’s all I remember. Isn’t that enough?
I used to have this recurring dream.
Three men wearing suits of varying shades of brown kidnap my mother and siblings, though we never leave our suburban ranch style house in Aurora, CO. They pull up the wall to wall shag carpet in the living room and there is a large rectangular hole under the floor with a metal and fiberglass blue school chair. It was the early 70s so you can imagine the style. I am lowered into the hole and sat in the chair, which is in the center. They tie my hands behind my back and to the chair with rough and scratchy rope. Next they dip a paint roller into a pan of spicy mustard, maybe it was Grey Poupon, and roll it along the back of my head and neck. I didn’t hate the way it feels, nor do I ever feel threatened by these men and their actions.
That’s all I remember. Isn’t that enough?