on a tablecloth washed in the river
Stains that are trying to cover
for each other
or at least blend in with the pattern
Good is better than perfect
Scrub till your ﬁngers are bleeding
and I’m crying for things that
I tell others to do without crying
and rip out his favorite pages
and stuff ‘em into his breast pockets
and the moon, to him, was a stranger"
On Tuesday, I took it upon myself to see how poeple saw me. I asked if they'd draw pictures of me and for the most part they were negative (although I blame artist flair over hatred). Here are the pictures I recieved;
1) This one is Kurt's. I know, it's a little bit... terrible. On the plus side; he spelt my last name right. On the bad side; he apparently sees me as some kind of serial killer with thin hair, sausage lips, oddly shaped nose, strange ears and a perverted stare. Thanks Kurt.
2) Ah, Caitlin. Someone who can, at the very least, draw. I don't look at myself very often and I see the side of my head even less, but that looks pretty 'spot-on'. I like it anyway.
3) This one is a painting by my Grandfather, John Hodgkinson. He did this for me without me asking a while ago. Personally, it scares me. I like it and I admire his ability, but it strikes a chord with my fear of the lifeless. Like a Porcelain doll; made to look so real and warm but it reality it's basically a synthetic corpse. Cold and capable of little more than representing a memory or idea. Some dolls are such a melancholy creation, with those little rosie cheeks and glassy eyes. Gah! I hate them. This painting, the eyes and mouth in particular, make me feel like the painting knows something that I don't. Lifeless stare, egoistic smirk and such a limp stance. Maybe it is me perfectly.
4) Juzen. Juzen, Juzen, Juzen. Apparently I'm a hillbilly... or maybe a mechanic that says very inappropriate things in a thick, Cajun accent while staring you down like he's suspicious of your body. You would need to think twice before agreeing to following him to the back room to "fill outchoor papa'work", especially with the way he holds that wrench... the way he holds the door open for you, hand resting against the lock and you can't see a desk inside the dark room, only a leather hammock, steel boxes and a stained sheet covered in what you hope are oil stains. Ah, little side tracked... anyway, thanks Juzen.
If you want to draw me a picture (of anything), I'd happily accept it.