So Very Lonely

Nuff respect for Donovan

Donovan - Season of the Witch (Official Audio)

Johnny

pencil drawing, glendale, 1977

I used to drink entirely too much. Not something I'm particularly proud of but it's just the truth.

I used to go out carousing with my friends on weekend nights terrorizing the Los Angeles metropolis in drunken drugged out all night insanities.

It was fun, actually. Later in life, it stopped being fun. But when we were young, going out at night and being crazy was great fun.

I made the above drawing after one such night with my comrade Johnny. We had left a string of terror down Sunset Blvd. that night, and after we got back to my place, in the wee small hours of the morning, Johnny passed out on my couch. There he sat like an angel, but trust me, behind that gentle face slept a maniac.

And me? I was never too drunk to draw.

A few minutes after I drew the above drawing I felt a bit looser so I drew another one that better captured the spirit.

pencil drawing, glendale, 1977

Oh, for the record, I stopped drinking in 1995.

I had an appointment one morning with a judge who gave me a chilling ultimatum that scared the shit out of me and that I wisely heeded.

Cold turkey.

Thirty years now.

Sometimes I can't believe I survived my youth.

Thank you Judge Sawyer.

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Bob Dylan 1965

I love this man

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Lost in time

black sharpie on paper

Los Angeles 2013

I think this was the last Sierpinski drawings I did. I really enjoyed making these drawings. The sierpinski triangle is a drawing technique that one, or at least that I, can become utterly lost in. Hours can go by with no other thought than "draw."

So lovely.

Like a good drug.

I should do another one.

Chet Baker - Almost blue

This song kills me.

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So very lonely

Black sharpie on paper

Los Angeles 2016

De Kooning once said, "In order for art to work the finished piece needs to at least look better than the original blank canvas."

I think de Kooning said that.

Maybe I imagined it.

In that case I said it.

I don't know.

The Rolling Stones- 2000 Lightyears from home

Surrender

pen and ink on drawing paper

Calbayog City 2024

The ink does what it will. I just try to help.

Lost cause - Beck

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colored pencil, los angeles, 2021

After a painting by Jan Bogaerts

Inside of me there's an impressionist lying in wait.

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Time is something

Black sharpie on board

Monrovia 1996

Time is something that happens on the outside but not on the inside. On the inside we are always.. always.

Eternity is not something we earn.

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This morning eternity called.

This morning eternity called.

She is waiting for an answer. 

I have her on hold.

“Cole, they’re here!” My wife called to me.

I stepped outside the house and saw Ramil pull up in his center car.  I knew the pig would be in the back where the passengers usually sit.  Ramil pulled up alongside of me and we gave each other our warm wordless greetings.

I walked over to the back of the center car and looked in.  There on the floor lying quietly on its side was an adult pig.  All four of its legs were firmly bound with twine.  I looked at the pig’s face.  It was calm.  Its eye stared up at nothing.  I could see it was breathing but nothing else.

Up front on either side of Ramil were two of his kids, Marisol and Ramil Jr.  They both looked back at me, eyes wide with excitement, and then they looked down at the pig. 

About then Datu pulled up on his motorcycle and motioned for me to hop on. 

“Let’s go.”  He said with an easy grin.

I hopped on the back of the bike and we all sped off into the Filipino night.

Is “perfectly good” any more perfect than “perfectly bad?”

I suppose that is a legitimate philosophical question and I presume the answer is “no” but I still find it unsettling.  Of course, that’s just the human in me.  Always wishing for things to be good.  Or at least for things to make sense.

Calbayog City at night is exquisitely chaotic.  The dimly lit streets are alive and jammed with motorcycles, tricycles and hordes of people all crossing the street at once.  And noise.  Motorcycle engines, blaring horns, music blasting.  The smells of cooking street food mixed with smoke.  Datu’s motorcycle followed closely behind Ramil’s center car with me holding on for dear life.

We came to a stop at an intersection and waited while a sea of humanity swarmed around us. A young street kid came up to me and motioned hand to mouth with pleading eyes.

And we sped off..

Shortly we pulled off the main stretch and turned down a narrow back street.  Halfway down the narrow street the center car turned into an even narrower alley, and we followed.  Tall dark buildings loomed on either side us.  A few windows were lit in yellow light.  Presently the alley opened up into a driveway and we pulled in.

I got off the motorcycle and went over to see how the pig was holding up.  The kids got out as well and presently a few other people were there milling around speaking Tagalog.  I looked down at the pig.  It was breathing heavy and the whites of its eye showed as it looked back at me.

Suddenly the pig tried to run. It thrashed around furiously trying to gallop with its legs bound, squealing loudly.  The pig’s outburst made the kids laugh.  After a moment the pig quieted down.  It lay motionless again with heavy breathing.  And wheezing.

Ramil and Datu came over to the car with a couple of men that I didn’t recognize.  We all gathered around and looked down at the pig.  I noticed that the pig’s underbelly was lined with two rows of large nipples.

“Girl?”  I asked, surprised.

“No, boy.” Someone answered.

“But look.”  I pointed at the nipples in confusion.

“Boy” They all assured me.

“Transgender.”  I joked and everyone laughed.

Except for the pig.

Is “perfectly good” any more perfect than “perfectly bad?”

Personally, I’m going to hold off on answering that question. 

I will say this though, if I have learned anything in this life it is that nature is completely indifferent.

I guess that’s also a type of perfect.

The kids moved around to the front of the center car.  I joined them to be out of the way as the men got to work.

Several men reached in and grabbed at the pig.  The pig screamed and twisted its head around violently as hands grabbed at its legs and tail all pulling hard.  The pig’s mouth opened wide showing teeth, and it tried to bite.

“Watch out for those teeth,” I thought but the men were all laughing in the excitement.

After much pulling and fighting the men had the pig up to the edge of the car and then with a final heave the pig fell unceremoniously to the ground.

Quickly the men unbound the pig’s legs and then they tied a single rope to one of the pig’s front ankles.

The pig stood up with the rope tied to its ankle.  It looked dazed.  The men gathered around the pig talking.

Then one of the men pulled on the rope tied to the pig's front ankle and the pig stumbled forward.

I watched in awe.

The man pulled again, and the pig stumbled forward again.  This time though the pig recoiled and dug in its front legs and began bellowing loudly.

But the pig's resistance was futile.  The man gave another firm pull to the pig’s ankle and again the pig stumble forward.  A few more steps.  Bellowing and squealing as it was grimly led forward.

And I thought about those trucks, all in a line, filled with Polish prisoners.  Traveling slowly through the dark fog, into the Katyn forest.

When the trucks had pulled to a stop the men were led away.  One by one.  Into the forest.  Hands bound behind their backs.  Blind folded.  Some must have resisted.  Some must have yelled.

“Cole.” I looked up.

Datu was motioning for me to come.  The pig was being led down a narrow path between two buildings.

I followed behind and watched the pig as it stumbled forward, slowly making its way through the dark narrow, into a yard, where it met its final master.  A little girl.

The girl looked like she was about ten and she was standing there waiting for the pig.

The man handed the rope off to the little girl and she began leading the pig toward a little metal cage.

The pig saw the cage and would have nothing to do with it.  It turned as if to flee and the little girl hauled off and savagely kicked the pig on its side.

The pig was shocked and momentarily turned back to the cage but then it turned again and tried to flee and the little girl kicked it again.  And then again and again slowly kicking the pig into the little metal cage.

I still have eternity on hold.

I know she’s waiting for me, but I just don’t want to pick up the phone.

Not yet.

I still have some things left over and honestly, I don’t want to take anything with me.

The next day was my daughter’s birthday.

And the pig’s final appearance.

My daughter is three and it was a gala affair with a freshly roasted pig taking center stage.

And folks, it was delicious.  Not gonna lie.  A treat really.  If you ever have a chance to eat freshly roasted lechon do so.  It really is good.  And the skin is crispy.

Like super duper bacon.

…………………………….

Afterword.

Peter, the ancient Chinese told us.  They told us that the only reason why we have beauty is because we have ugly.  Even though it drives us mad, what is, simply is.  And try as we might the best we can do is raise a royal middle finger up to God and scream FUCK YOU!

But we all still love beauty.

Calbayog City 2022

Orchestre Poly-Rythmo

black pen & colored pencils, los angeles, 2013

Lines go where they want to. That's life.

There is no such thing as an incorrect line until another line is drawn next to it.

Colors, on the other hand, are like flavors.

Alpha Blonde - Jerusalem

black pen & colored pencils, los angeles, 2015

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