This is one of the center pieces on the body paint I’m working on. It’s a “quetzal”, Guatemalan national bird and Maya sacred bird.
Legend says that during Spain’s invasion to Iximché, the Qui’che fortress city, the brave young prince Tecún Uman was mortally wounded by Spaniard vile general Don Pedro de Alvarado.
When the young prince fell, a beautiful quetzal went to rest over his chest, both died there and since that day, quetzals have their chest painted in bright red. Tainted by the Qui’che Prince’s blood.
He told me he hated cats; they were more useless than fucking pigeons. The corners of his mouth turn up, but only a little. His eyes are still empty. He told me that when he was a kid he used to catch kittens and place them in pillow cases to be tossed in the Hudson River. He would watch them struggle and finally drown. Sometimes it took a couple hours. He found it to be relaxing to imagine what it felt like to be them.
He hated cats. Maybe I really was dead when he tossed me into the river. I couldn’t see him through the bag, but he would have waited for me to sink. If he imagined my thoughts of fear, he was wrong. I thought, “I never wanted to be a mermaid.”
(I love this painting, the photos do not even begin to do it justice.)
I miss the collaborative effort that used to happen on this site. I have been rolling a few ideas around in my head about the direction that the site should go or starting my own site. Either way, I will post the idea here. If I do end up starting my own site, I will always put my art submissions here. I will also be interested in administrators. I know a couple of you who read my private site expressed interest in getting the scavenger hunt thing going again. I think it is a great idea for this site, but I do not know how the administrators would feel about me taking over this site. I will have to ask.
what can one say about blue eyes that haven’t been said a million times before, the feral shine of ice burning through all heart and matter, cuz the love we know, means nothing to his ancient soul that only knows the eternal struggle, the unrelenting fire of a battle that have lasted for eons
the birth of a universe takes time and pain
defending an unknown gate, a treasure no one else has ever saw, under the green sky of an alien cave, from ages before this age, a soft song grows inside a cocoon, a white silky womb keeps the tiny notes safe, flowing and blooming, revolving in their mighty uterus … his treasure, his burden and destination… evolves and drips tingling drops of clarity
and he stands, sword in hand, feeding himself with anger and sweat, forever fighting his violent war because the womb/uterus needs the hostile wound of the sword to keep birthing songs.
I always knew I didn’t belong on dry land, but I have been parted from the sea for far too long. I can no longer call it home. I’ll continue to breathe air that doesn’t sustain me.
I have this quote from The Dollhouse stuck in my head. “How can you remember and not remember something at the same time?” or something similar. I often wonder when I will feel like my life is my own.
Oil pastel, wax crayon, ink
Acrylic, marker, fingernail polish
If darkness, ugliness, and evil can plant a seed inside you and grow, beauty can be regrown and flourish.