Mr. Seeley

The fuel that makes my ideas burn always come from my experiences growing up in a small town named Ashton. For some unknown reason I always come back to this place. Not because of the unbelievable tranquility that lies at the end of the Snake River Plain, not because of the enlightened persons in the community, or the limitless freedom one feels growing up is such a place. It's because despite where you come from it always feels like home. I’ve heard the same love and adoration from the mouth of a kid growing up in a crime riddled urban war zone. I hear it from people growing up in extreme poverty, in regions of the world that have very few resources, not even clean water in some instances. 
So what is it that made me become so attached to this place? The positive and negative influence of several key people from the area. As a child, as a teen and now as an adult. So who are they? Could I make a list and realistically inject honesty, objectivity, and all the necessary components necessary for a truly genuine archive that will forever float in this age of technological space? No. I can't.  One name that undeniably deserves to be on this list if this list is ever produced is Mr. Dick Seeley. The school principal whose iron fist ruled the halls and grounds of the formerly great structure of wood, rock and steel. A few years ago it was reduced to rubble and is now a blank in the history of the Ashton landscape. Other than the image within my mind’s eye the only thing that reminds me that it ever stood is the marquee and the large pine tree which stood just to the right of the main entrance. Several of the other buildings are still standing as well as the remnants of the football field but the tree and marquee force the memory out of seclusion.
One of my first memories of Mr. Seeley was 7th grade; I was standing next to my newly decorated locker when he approached from behind. The normally easy to distinguish sound of his cowboy boots was drowned by the noise of the hallway chatter.  "What do you think you are doing with this filth hanging in this locker?", the harsh tone one octave higher than any other adult in the vicinity, the unique sound of the lisp in the S's, the silence that over took the hall which was seconds ago vibrant with the sounds of teens preparing for their next class. Frozen with fear all I could say was “nothing", the verbal lashing that came forth to my less than clever response was painfully embarrassing and left a bruised ego. Worse was the witnessing of the ego deflation by my school mates. 
The locker contained a sketched version of Iron Maiden's Powerslave cover and many 80's hairband photos torn from the pages of Metal Edge magazine. Eddie not being the most saintly looking creature and the 80's rockers all looking like masculine faced prostitutes posing for some raunchy porn mag. A porn mag that preferred what looked like transvestites in leather pants, scarves, and hairspray over the normal fleshy fanfare none the less. All of these images probably left his aged brain swirling with questions. Probably the same thing I feel when I see torn underwear exposing butt while the belt loops hang somewhere below in some form of lazy rebellion.
Our run-ins would include several verbal altercations, suspensions and later on the last recorded paddling in North Fremont history. Maybe even state history. The paddle was of the oak variety with holes and handle just like you see in cartoons and antique photography of eras far beyond our comprehension. So it went. The feud, battle, the war between us. To the mind of a dazed and confused teen he represented oppression and the flame snuffer of creativity and imagination.  This man was the reason songs like Another Brick in The Wall by Pink Floyd were written. Cut them and mold them all the same, make them follow the path of least resistance and smash the belief that you can rage against the machine and feed off of it as well!
It was in the year of 1992, between February and March, when I returned to school following a three month hiatus that I became clearly acquainted with his tyrant of a man. He pulled me into his office and requested a sit down. Like two warring mafia families we sat across from each other in his office which I had frequented in previous years. This office never changed during those six years. The bulldog poster to the left of his angry mug offering a witty set of words to promote uniformity and compliance still made me smile as I recalled the many snide comments that followed every visit to this place. The lisp in the S still present, the seriousness of his tone still unchanged, the absence of a smile and the directness of his message never clearer. He offered his office as sanctuary from the internal and external battles I would soon face. This was the first of several sit downs in which this man offered me advice about being a man and about being true to myself. He was describing himself. He never lowered his standard for me or anyone else because everyone is capable of achieving greatness. It was because of his belief in me that I attempted a dark horse graduation of high school and abandoned the predictable teen drop out scenario portrayed in after school specials.
One day I may run into him and I will offer up the gratitude I have for his willingness to be hard despite his plunging popularity among students. For his fortitude in the face of change, he never gave a ribbon for fifth place, no trophy for participation, no pat on the back for giving up, no special treatment for lack of effort, and more important he never gave up on the thorns stuck in the side of North Fremont High. He only gave what he was capable of giving and nothing more. In short he was real. The safety and security that came from the words of wisdom were not rehearsed as I so often hear today. This need to cradle and coddle people while in the same breath lashing out at them and pushing them towards the authorities to deal with just doesn’t make sense to me. Mr. Seeley wasn’t Mr. Sensitivity but genuine, he wasn’t Mr. Calm and cool but effective, he wasn’t Mr. approachable but he was respectful and if teaching the children how to live in this big bad world was the goal, well, goal accomplished.

Calm like a bomb

All together in a shrill worthy of Hollywood B horror, the crowd feverishly pushes and jostles for position as the lights go out. In less than 10 seconds the slow rumble of the bass overpowers the normal beating of my heart, I feverishly grip the rail with little success. On one side I see several small girls pushing their way through the crowd as if they were 250 pound Marine commandos cutting a swath through the jungle. To the other side a star struck man in his late thirties or early forties. Mullet moving in slow succession with his outer layer of couch surfing blubber and a half measure out of sync from the music.  The hair on the back of my neck now standing at attention, fear and exhilaration blend with physical exhaustion and light headed ecstasy. A cheese grater motion attacks on all sides, mullet man now slightly dazed and smelling of day old beer and sweat surrenders and makes an escape but can’t move but maybe a few inches  in either direction. Not likely what he saw or experienced at the Lynard Skynard concerts of the 70’s.

Pushing and pulling force a 90 pound girl to the floor, all in unison we sway with one hand on the nearest person still standing and another on the 90 pound girl to keep her from being trampled by the crowd. With every ounce of energy we slowly pull her back to her feet after several minutes of slow motion chaos. As her face emerges from the depths of the crowd we witness the damage done. Blood flows freely from her face, not aware which orifice is spewing this crimson flood and not caring we push her to the barrier and force her to the security guards. Composure gained, cheese grater in full effect, mullet man on the verge of collapse, we continue to push, pull and sway.  Three songs into the full set I bail and find my way to the sound stage and nearly collapse myself. I hang on the rail protecting the sound crew until I am able to breathe without the urge to puke. The song being performed: Calm Like A Bomb.   

Photo credits go to: eyball.fm

Rubik Master training sheet!

right click, save image, open, enlarge.

No more peeling away the stickers for a quick shot of success! Become a Rubik Master in 20 moves and cheat your way to success.......I mean this guy did the work for a reason right? Of course he did! Explore your world........

King

I watched the "I have a dream" speech and his final speech with my kids this morning. Freedom is precious and I shall never forget the price paid by so many individuals. I will live to the best of my ability to promote freedom and support those who fight for our freedoms.  Thanks to all who live and die for freedom.

King: sharpie on heavy weight paper, unfinished 2011

Denial Junkie

When the powers that be erupt in a glorious display of emotions I will know that we have arrived. But let’s face it; it’s going to be a while before that happens. In the meantime let’s explore and see what we can find for ourselves. In terms of solutions to universal questions just forget it. The real truth to unanswered questions often lies a few feet from where we are looking and often we are stepping on the answer with our clumsy feet of intuition. The answer is never buried but exposed. The truth is real not false.  The fact is usually a self-inflicted lie to numb the area of pain. It’s soothing relief inching its way up our spine as we succumb to the silent seduction of internal denials. Lies are an amazing anesthetic. Unfortunately like a well-deserved epidural for a birthing mother, all good things must come to an end.  And we welcome back the pain with an explosion of confetti at the parade of fools. Waving the hand with a waxy smile pretending we hold the reins of control for the sake of others. Wave my friend and I will wave back. Let us find our way through the streets of life and always be cordial to one another, not as genuine souls but as plastic personalities dripping of lead based paints. Embrace me and I shall do the same, and when all else fails there is always the wisdom granted to the elderly. If we make it that far we at least have this to forward to.   Please pass the syringe. I need a dose.  

Art piece titled Mr. Jones: pen and color pencil on legal pad. Completed during a a juicy lecture from some noble being . I'm sure of it. 

The Funeral: Continued

Part II

As I walked away that day I felt a sense of relief. Little did I know this would only begin the painful process of acceptance.  Process and acceptance both being independent of predictable time and space and completely out of my control.   

This morning I had a flash memory of Kyal as I scraped the grounds from the edge of the coffee maker, not knowing why, I began thinking about a road trip we took into Montana when we were 18.  We stayed in a sleazy motel in a small town near Bozeman. As we arrived at the hotel we were graciously greeted by a large Native American man wearing a complete western cowboy outfit. We asked him about the obviously run down motel and dismal town, he pulled his trench coat open like a well-rehearsed Central Park flasher and showed us a large gun tucked into his pants. “You fellas don’t have anything to worry about around here.” he said. Unfortunately we missed the safety message he was trying to convey in his “welcome to Montana boys”.  I got very little sleep that night thanks to the couple next door who obviously loved each other very much. The following day Kyal feverishly scratched lottery tickets that were not yet available in Idaho. He complained of the noise from the previous night and we laughed about the giant cowboy with the with a gun.

 Good times are easy to remember. Good thoughts are easy to access. Sad stories are difficult to tell and loss is never really loss since it sticks so stubbornly to one’s mental hooks.  The story of Kyal is a sad one. It is a story of a man who died at the hands of a schizophrenic step brother whom he deeply loved. The brutal nature of his death made it very difficult for many of us to cope, especially his wife and kids.  The years have passed by so fast yet the memories stay firmly in place for me to pick through. So I have picked through the rubble to bring a vision of Kyal to 140 weight paper in the form of sharpie and marker.  Here you go my friend. You will never be forgotten.

Borderland Beat

I was reading the newest, juiciest, noticias brought to the masses by a group of underground journalists and renegade photographers or maybe its the same person. Truth is I don't know. Hidden identity from fear of cartel violence is enough of a reason for me. They offer up a pen name and that's about it.  What I do know is that this site is extremely graphic and the guys or gals of BB who venture into this war zone have a pretty impressive set of stones. Anyway, the point. Although I shy away from most political topics this is a topic that needs to be observed. If you can stomach the images have a look-see, if you can't then don't even go near this site. The info purged through the BB moles may be biased but so far I am convinced they are legit.

As I was cruising through the site I came upon an image of the Policia Federal of Mexico and the image was a bit unnerving. So much so that I had to sketch it. Here it is. I understand that they conceal their face from fear of retaliation but they look a little scary. Can you see a small child going up to one of these guys looking for his/her cat stuck in a tree? Probably not. The number? Well...... figure it out.