I really wanted to bring Landslide back onto the front line of some the latest arguments. It’s been a while since he has used his hands to speak and he was always known to clean some clocks.

https://avproductionsblog.wordpress.com/2017/11/19/the-rage-of-landslide/

Giving him a more fluid look but not taking anything away from the power presented in his closed fists, he comes when the open palm of peace has been rebuked. When reason is thrown out the window and only in submission to traditional and proven thought can tranquility be found.

Hebrews 5:11-14

I pray in time,

That you’ll see what you’ve done,

The clocks will spin, you’ll be the only one,

In the room, click-ka-boom- I’ll go with you,

I pray in time

You’ll see what you’ve become,

To our sons, you’re not alone, I’ll be the one

To go with you, just stay with me,

In the room, click-ka-boom.

Clock

Samantha Cooney of the Time Magazine wrote of Bill Cosby’s disgraceful sentencing. A process many will be asking if they really made the right decision? Were we really right to convict a man upon public appeal, be it nationwide or a minority group, opposed to verifiable evidence and to the satisfaction of reasonable doubt?

The writer suggests the DOJ declined to prosecute Constand’s case in 2005 and in 2017 which led to mistrial(s) yet refuses to tell you why. The answer, No evidence.

It is not ethical, ever, to convict a man who brings a case to “trial,” be it a fake trial or one that upholds the law of the land. Yet time and time again, since 2004 it has been proven this need of legal system to incarcerate a person without substantiated evidence and through some “plea-bargain,” “settlement,” or the decree of a rouge judge like Steven T. O’Neill, who neither took into account the reasoning behind seven years of mistrial, was due to lack of credibility in those who accused Cosby. Especially when this entire case   began because Andrea Constand in 2004 accused Cosby of not paying her for her time in his employ. Cosby refused to pay the University that sponsored him, he refused to allow the greed of a drug induced woman to lead his will and because the law suite failed, those who supported her in attacking his integrity, allowed “Here-say,” to sustain the ruling of a court order.

 “Don’t worry Mr. Cosby, with enough money and the right judge, I am sure your lawyers can turn the tide, under the guidance of a more pliable judge. One not taunted by the vaporous #MeToo Movement.”

Public opinion has fueled a Shane Bauerian Society which suggests the 13th Amendment to be the preserving article of slavery and is used in our American penal system and showcases how prisoners are driven by torture. Just as no one can prove Mercury causes Autism or that Cosby is as dangerous as the #MeToo Movement has made him out to be; I am sure there are many that would defend the Department of Corrections and suggest because prisoners lose the rights held by American citizens when they commit a crime, it is ok to torture them.

 It is just a little bit of time, right?

I want you all to look at your clocks, and remember it only takes 15 minutes to boil water and sustain some sense of fame. It takes a breath to lose it.

Alana Abramson and Brian Bennet/Washington had some strong suggestions in response to our current Judicial system, “The extreme exposure of modern politics makes the publics willingness to respect the law, harder and harder.”

 In 1832, when Andrew Jackson (D) disagreed with a Supreme Court ruling under John Marshell, he sneered, “John Marshell made his decision, now let him enforce it.”

Apparently, the court works if the public believes in it.

That is not true, whether you believe in the ruling or not, when something is made Law there is to be an order expected, and repercussions for not following it. I find it interesting how many claims to have righteous causes for their anger but are unwilling to stand up for those that are being judged unrightfully

Prompt Word: Gaurded

I would suppose that after everything that has happened since 2005 until now, I could say I have a right to be “guarded.” Only I find such emotions to come about when I happen to see those interacting in ways, that may never be for me.

 There are many who must accept my apologies for my rudeness. Staring is not a common habit of mine, but to see a mother playing with her child and never ever having the chance myself with my own. Or for people to ask me, “Are you ever going to settle down and find a wife?” Even after I’ve explained my past and present pain. So yes, many will have to excuse me if I seem guarded.

  Would not such an oppressive turn of events affect anyone similarly? If they were denied employment in public places, in government affairs, in schools, the list that deter a man such as I from achieving security in this life is lengthens and even this passage is guarded, for I have not told you all I am up against.

 Partially because I doubt you’d believe it to be important. Especially if you find me to be “guarded,” after thirteen years of unemployment, (I am 30.) or if I was employed, it was “work-for-hire.” That is normal right? I can fit that one a resume to Human Resources and they will put me on the top of the list for that dream job I went to University for?

A “wife,” will be willing to put up with a man one denied resume away from loosing his tranquility? I have come to find putting someone in a position to love, marry, and commit to a man who not only lost his daughter, but can’t find his son, who lives with a mother known for taking cabaret nudes of herself like she is Judy Garland and robbing everyone she knows for $30.00 dollars, (In the guise of peddling calendars for video game players, or what not.) I am the same guy that has a mother who may be in jail or prison in South America because of a serious case of child neglect.

 I escape homelessness, abject poverty, living in a tent for three years, and everyday due to being at the mercy of benevolence to others, I am one step from returning to that life. The friends I did make in that time may still be “Street Rats,” looking to “Fight the Man,” by asking everyone they know for a dollar and to feed them.

Would you not be guarded, if you were imprisoned for three years and threatened with castration if there be any reason to be found that you are not complaint to ever letter of the law? The very same laws determined to keep a man scratching for more, and unemployed?!

The scars of my life are branded upon my cheeks, both cheeks to be exact and those closest to me are upset because I am guarded.

That was not a question but a statement because daily I build my defenses. I refuse to believe the lie that in some magical sense If I continue to allow abusers to abuse that one day they will see my reflexive stance and not want to test how far I am willing to go to obtain the very same  moment of peace and security that would allow for one not to seem defensive every time a critical suggestion is given, an observation made. A judgement passed.

Every year we have Hurricanes in the area in which I live. Every year the storms rage, flood roads, and carry away access to electricity. We have to run a generator, which drinks gasoline like a whale, just to have energy to keep the food cold.

We’ve learned to speak to the wind and keep it back with our fervent prayers for peace.

When your backs against the wall and all of your ingenuity fails you, prayer becomes a very real-life line. Every time the storm comes, I wonder to myself, “Why can’t we be like the whale, who seems to be able to feel the surge rise and no matter how turbulent the sea becomes, he can sail?”

Phrases like: “There is nothing new under the sun,” disturb me because I feel I have so much left to learn and I don’t want to leave an explanation to supposition.

The passing of my daughter hurt so bad and because I am a man, I feel, as much as a whale does. Did you know that? Did you know a whale does not procreate like the fish, which passes over a nest of eggs and seemingly devises no connection with its surroundings? Where the fish lives on instinct, the whale lives on intent and determines its mate and with its shaft connects to the one who will carry his child.

 If a whale dies, the group mourns. As I am made to mourn now for my own.

I thought it was interesting, a whale is not to be confused with a fish-eyed being with a cold heart. It pulsates and deliberates. It challenges the storms that come and can hold them at bay.

“How much grit will it take to achieve the stamina of a whale, how deep will I have to immerse my memories of past failures before I can be assured of my worth?”  

@OrphanedAnnie blessed me today by holding me up in her prayers. She is a gorgeous fifty-three-year-old woman who sometimes feels she is not the best to give advice.

I could relate because since 2005, when the #MarchAgainstAutism began, I never thought to speak to anyone about it on twitter or any social media platform. I marched, sure, I joined the crowds and bellowed like those around me at the disgust of those who with fish-like minds, thought doing anything other than caring for a child “made,” sick by one vile attempt at “population-control,” and seeking a solution to the epidemic.

Instead of diving into neurological research, doctors encouraged families to abort, terminate, put up for adoption, foster care, anything but salvage.

No insurance was allowable.

Can you imagine, I am made to wonder how many ignored this whale in the room, when it came time to bury their loved ones, because the child was deemed DOA. No insurance company would approve to cover the cost of burial for an autistic child.

Twitter came about much later, so there is no mention of others that had to deal with a whale of an issue like an autistic child. It did run parallel with arguments of abortion. Interesting enough I have never heard of families justifying abortion under the guise of fear of giving birth to an autistic child; or because a child could be weak genetically. It is better to terminate pregnancy.  Is just not suggested or mentioned because when the child is born and is healthy it is not until the 6th month are vaccines induced. None go around giving 18 different medicines into one vial, claiming: government regulation; World Health Organization preventative by cocktail treatment.

In the case of my daughter, the doctors coerced all involved, despite my protest of such action and requests of “gradual vaccine,” induction. Coerced under the consoling of doctors who would say, “The vaccines are benign and not known to cause sickness, side effects occur in extreme cases, if the child is healthy and strong, the worse that can happen, is a mild fever, that can be combated if she stays hydrated. While her body “transitions.”

She was healthy, she did not overcome.     

The definition of Manga is very interesting to me.

  https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/star was not considered to be Manga, while,

https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/cruel was immediatly accepted by groups who have an ability to review works and come to an immdeiate decision as to what classifies as Manga.

It is an artistic style that I suppose is easy to confuse for other interpretations of inked productions but is appreently not easy to pass off in certian arenas.

I am the artist of both styles that have been presented and felt both where in the suitable for the world of Anime and Manga of asian origin, considering that is where the inking process originated from.

From my youth, my understanding properly inked productions, in the realm of illustration and story telling, came from Japanese writers, that and the  Philippines.

Over the course of my study of art and the modes of expression, I regret to say I have yet found a way to fuse this inked ideal into the African American culture. It is a dream of mine, but would it really be considered "Manga," if I told the stories of my youth from the inked representations of the Far East expression, it is a question I have been grappling with for a while and I am not sure how to really present the idea, or make it accpetable.

It was nice to find that some of my inked presentations for Inktober have gathered the attention of artists like https://www.deviantart.com/ilyaev who's piece https://www.deviantart.com/ilyaev/art/Gold-767424484 was an instant sensation with me.

There is no arguement that what she produces is Manga, related but it has an air of fine art and professionalism that has been used to raise the standard and accpetance of the genre.

There are Croatia that have enjoyed my latest piece presented for Inktober Day 11, as of this moment I can not quite say how they related to the piece but considering their love for mythgital-creatures, Naruto, and ItaAyu and the inital design of my illustration, they might have seen similarities that made the project relatable.

Mind you, I don't really pull much from the culture of Japan in my presentations because I am not from there. I am a comic lover or all kinds so I guess because I have been immersed so long in the world of illustration, some aspects of the that region emerges in my work.

Just an educated guess, really.  

I did a quick sketch of a man flowing down a river, to explain my thought on “Flowing,” just so I could spend more time understanding the expectations of the prompt word, #Cruel. 

After the news of the loss of my daughter, I was having trouble imagining or even wanting to think of a tragedy that could surpass it and to have it waiting for me at the end of this flowing river, along life’s, journey.

To be made to step out of the marsh of my past, to memorialize the memory of my daughter and the thousands affected just like her, from the incompetence of doctors and scientists who sought to bend the realities of proven doctrine, all in the name of human advancement.

 To finally forgive, in my heart, those who believed the over use of vaccines was for the good of mankind. With her passing that struggle is over. Twelve years of “blood-fueled,” rage, washed away in her shade.

To be able to finally allow the issue to rest, only to turn around or move forward into another trial, another test of human endurance.

I do believe this can be defined as cruel.

The “star-child,” of my mind, would like to believe my demons would give me rest. The Dream Weaver of my soul, knows better and prepares for the next blow.

Cruel is a world that takes the innocent and marks them as expendable. Cruel is the world that believes because I am a man, I have no right to feel anything, aside from rage. Denounce me a coward because I refuse to hold a sword around my daughter’s grave.

Cruel is the world that can send 116 satellites into space to study the patterns of human behavior, conduct 166 missions in the course of 60 years and can calculate from a desktop receiver that it takes 10 years to reach the edge of the solar system where radio waves need 4.5 hours to reach Earth; but can’t reverse the effects of “Mercury Compounds,” clogging a child’s brain. Choking her dreams.

Cruel is the thought that peace will only be held in the memory of her face.   

Some of the newest songs like Born to Die by Lana Del Ray, are used to promote the indifference to life’s trials and the use of our internal wills to surmount them.

I have always chosen not to argue the relevancy or the value of life with those set on mediocrity. Devising philosophies which seek to justify the constriction of the mind.

While I contemplate how I am to maximize the real power of the internet, an endless flow of information-entertainment-and enterprise at my fingertips and half the time I am afraid to really engage with anyone about my desires.

 My daughter dies and in truth I am not supposed to pause and remember the moments that have transpired to create this minute. I am supposed to flow into tomorrow without a thought of yesterday’s mistakes.

It is all so fleeting, isn’t?

My grandmother called me to give me her condolences and well wishes. She was angered by the cruelty of time and how we don’t share enough of it together. “Everyone is dying,” She claimed. She just survived the Hurricane Harvey of 2017, I am so thankful I was not there, it was as bad as the 2005 Katrina and people are still disenfranchised and sickly, according to my grandmother.

It is still hard for me to imagine that I was born in that swamp of a landscape that is Houston Texas and the Bayou’s of Wharton and Galveston Texas. They are always the last to receive assistance from the “do-gooders,” of the city, they like to watch the deluge flow down Interstate 59 and kids like me picked up the dregs.

Texas is a hot piece of real estate and the people from there are hot headed and have a mean temper, a lot of water under the bridge between me and Texas.

None of my family handle death well; they know it to be a part of life, it to be a hard pill to swallow, but they never knew how to let the pain wash over them and let things flow.

I was on the phone for two hours with my grandma, who I must remind you was too busy chasing the dollar, a man, and the dream of her own desires to worry about me.

As we talked on the phone, she went on and on about how much she always loved me and never believed anything of the horrible things they might have said about me. “We all tried for your daughter, and you did the best you could with what you had. It might not have ever been enough, but you knew hot to flow.”

 In my thirty years of living the woman, never said she loved me. My daughter dies, the very situation that caused strife in my young life and it seems as her birth, ended the wars we wage on hot tempered summer days, her death brought a cooling wind which reminds those willing to pay attention, that at some point we ought to just flow. I almost always feel callous in the suggestion; believing I must inform those who read my tales and are intrigued by my illustrated shorts that the fluidity in which I speak and craft my works is a testament to my flowing nature. Much to the annoyance of those that love me. It is virtually impossible to keep tabs on  a person insistent on forever moving to the next opportunity. Knowing if I had not I never would have such a wonderful life, pulsating with such excitement, my flowing ink has filled many tablets. If I keep living their will be more.

I have a friend that is from Slovenia that is a wood sprite and she did me a favor a few days ago. I had been sharing a few of my hurts and pains and how I was getting the raw deal in some business dealings, she laughs and says, “Why worry about what they think, stay here with me and let us continue flowing upon the rivers that we are used to.”

Yes indeed, let us continue flowing upon the rivers that we are used to.    

Day 8 of Inktober was dedicated to the star. Day 9 of Inktober is dedicated to something #Precious.

For a man like me, that is Freedom.

There is nothing more precious than freedom, from this idea is everything else possible. Yet to illustrate the possibilities of the delicate nature of the concept that is freedom and why it should be important to anyone is too much to cram into one panel, let alone one canvas.

So, we must shrink the scope into a more relatable image. A, “star,” is indeed precious, the night seems oppressive without the twinkle of light to guides one path.

 As I traveled as the, “lone chicken,” or “star-child,” or as an “exhausted artist,” my list of #precious items only increased.

The love from someone who understands my need to believe life did not begin or end in the 19th century. To find an organization or person who loves me enough to invest and sponsor my talent. Notice my words, “Sponsor,” not “control,” I seek advice, not dictation, employment, not tyranny.

Precious to me is the peace I’ve derived in the night from seven to nine o’clock in which I use the time to journal and illustrate what two dream weavers, loving each other would like.

My children are precious to me. My mother called me the other day to inform me that my daughter who was deemed autistic, died. A very painful experience for me.

My daughter had no control of her physical body, she could not ingest food without the aid of a G-tube. (Gastric By-pass Tubular System.) That protruded from her navel cavity. She died at twelve years of age. For twelve years her body was made immobilized by excess mercury around her brain stem, cutting off neurological function. Twelve years and no one knew how precious she was to me. Many believed because I was not in her life I had no understanding of her joys and pain, I was not emotionally attached, so I can speak of her and shed few tears. It is not so. I have nothing but rage against the minds that have caused such issues with vaccines cocktails of 18 different medicines in one vial and in the name of neurological science and the advancement of humankind, believe they are helping the world or saving lives by creating a tonic that sends a child; my child, into an epileptic seizure and blame a weak genetic code on her sickness.

They blame “weak genetics,” on a child who was mentally active, crying and demanding, vining for life, life being the most precious thing in the world, they blamed the diminishing of vibrance in a child’s eyes, they blamed “Fish eye’s” on weak genetics!

Now if it is true the eyes are the key to the soul, a signal of intelligence, my child lost her ability to relate her soul to the world. Her dreams remained locked behind ‘fish-eyes,’ for twelve years.

Her bowels ruptured upon her death and everything released her body, black as death.

“Oh, how I pray for the souls of men who care not for the souls needed to build our world! Educated fools who would inject a child 6 months on the planet with 18 different vaccines at one time as if the very air we breathe is so toxic, it is better to die than to be born to affect the world we live in for the better.”

Oh how precious is the time we hold here.  

   My mother when I was a child always told me we were “Star-Children.”

I never really took her seriously. It was like the time she told me we were related to Beyoncé, and not in the humanitarian sense but in the, one day I can knock on her house and ask for my share of the inheritance if she happens to die and leave something to family members.

  Just one of those things you hear and allow it to pass as fancy or a dream that will never be realized.

In my reflections I began to realize that she might have been right about the whole notion of being more than what the eye can perceive.  Today is a day dedicated to the notion of a “Star.” I am fascinated by the word, especially after a night such as mine, contemplating who or what will hold the world’s attention in rapture as the stars in heaven have always held an allure upon the minds of the prepubescent.

 It should be no trouble at all to remember a time when we all shined like a star.

( I went to church on Sunday and heard the oddest, yet no really, song used during the praise and worship service, Tyrese’s “Stay With Me.”) Then I came home and read about the rising star that is the Economists Magazine and their ideas of “Free Exchange,” analysis. In their Bartley, report they suggest, “individualism,” to be a weaker source of marketable security for businesses, believing “Co-leadership,” and “collective-intelligence,” works very well for them and others.

 There is no room for an over achiever or “rising star,” in their outfit. Especially one who seeks a Pulitzer Prize for their own creative relevance.

Though a lack of originality and creativity is attributed to “collective-intelligence,” they will hold firm to this process, claiming financial troubles arise when ‘administrations,’  become comfortable with zero spending and borrowing or rising resource utilization, not the lack of innovation.

As occurred in Japan in the 1990’s and the dot.com bust.

They claim the “strange position,” we found ourselves economically in America remains, and the oddest factor is that governments accept this, and the risk it entails, rather than try for something better.

I wonder if they asked our world leaders to, “Reach for the Stars,” would they listen?

With satellites and drones our government desires to police land and sea. They have yet been able to control and monitor the stars as they have, illegal, unreported, and unregulated, (IUU) boating activity. Global Fishing Watch monitors the ocean for 24 hours and 7 days a week. Making it harder for 55 countries to earn an honest living. To make these satellites worth the cost to operate them, many desire to track all boats continuously by which I am sure will be a job, designated to our new military force, the USSF.

Along with policing and monitoring our new systems will have to make way for Zblan fibers production with labels tagged “Made in Space.”

A dream since the 1970’s is about to be reality at the cost of 100bn; a space shuttle and a 3d printer. All for the sake of telecommunications, the cell-phone, and producing Fiber Optic Glass which has only been used in the numerous prisons and city zoos around the world to house, presumably innocent men and women and animals that take up too much wild life reserves space.  

As I contemplate this I am reminded that we must always shoot for the Stars, and wonder if my mother was not correct in suggesting that administrations can control land air and sea, but never will they keep the stars away from us, we are star-children.   

@SevenSeize was such an over achiver  (Posting a day ahead of scheldue) but I loved her presentation: https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/sevenseize/inktober-day-7-exhausted

Exhausted is todays word of the day and I feel a lot of the time I have come too far to ever feel even the slightest bit tired.

I really should not be so hard on myself, as I have been as of late. I mean it is really not my fault that the elders of my finite existence have little to no imagination and my prose or illustrative ability is lost on them.

 Very few of my guild have ever really sought to explain the positive aspects of the craft and when we do, unless the audience is willing to exercise their, “third eye,” then the conversation is all together a pointless one.

My hackles raise at the idea of being respected, appreciated, called upon to present more work and being given a real financial opportunity, only to be told by those that say they love me, that it’s not real, the internet is full of charlatans and to be asked, “What do I seek to gain from drawing, cartoon characters, with that rabble of degenerate minds?”

  My hand stiffens and crinkles, rips the canvas, in exhaustion.

For my inability to high jump above the standard of production and land upon the pad which would signify a cushion against barbs of an ancient mentality.

Do you want to know why the Time’s Magazine has not published a “special addition,” segment of the Greatest People of the 21 century?

 It’s really a sad notion and exhausting to consider. There is a complete refusal, an inability to witness talent placed before the masses and say three simple words, “I appreciate you.”

An African from Uganda came to visit me and I found him to be repugnant.

Here is a man that is a pastor of a church, who survived the destruction of Idi Amin, who drove their country into the ground. The man literally killed young boys who sought the education needed that would allow them to do more than plow a field with an aggie; and this African pastor comes to my home and asks me, “Why do our youth spend so much time on the internet, why don’t they learn a trade or skill, like carpentry?”

 In his country when the internet became available to the government and the average person, no one knew how to use it. Now all the youth know, yet the avenues of trade and production are only as advanced as the demand for one’s supply. Business 101.

Anyway, I don’t care if it is Africa or America, no one gets an education, achieves knowledge, a degree, a doctorate, to be made to slave away for $2 an hour, or $12 an hour for that matter.

The notion is purely exhausting and no respectable person would dare spill the drivel.

Here is an African that come to another country and asks for financial assistance and the youth that would be his supply for whatever venture capitalists plans he can envision but believes those on the interent are too worried about becoming “famous,” and to live like celebrities, that when the answer to financial prosperity, monetary freedom, retirement security, is in one’s own creative relevancy, they don’t believe it.

https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/creative-relevancy

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/battle-creative-relevancy-advent-voice/?published=t

If we refuse to accept this fact, I really fear for the state of the world in the 21 century.          

Today is a day dedicated to #Drooling. It’s rather a prompt word filled with hidden innuendoes, and thoughts, that occur from the word and I’d rather keep them to myself. I have come to feel it would be a waste of time to illustrate any NSFW’s.

 I recently received a letter from project managers of the server, speaking down on the franchise and deferring people from voting or supporting the artists.

 I may not agree with the views of the letter, but I am one artist and to draw more images of a sexual nature, will do nothing to achieve support. No matter how much people are found drooling at the showcases.

It becomes exhausting you know, to feel you are the only one who cares about the publications that made the weekends better than skip school days or holidays.

When I was a kid you could find me reading a whole volume of Excel Saga by  Shōnen Gahōsha, and drool over the power babes of the 80’s and 90’s. Eager for the day my own illustrations would inspire the youth to illustrate their dreams.

Due to the fact that I am aware, it is odd to find a man who loves women, has loved them since he was thirteen years old and has found many ways to illustrate them and not get bored. To see he entertains such a varied field of art and can be found drooling over Futas and Succubus. Of course I don’t find my guilty pleasures and indulgences in such stories to be any different than those who binge watch and drool over Grey’s Anatomy. Their were tones of programs that initiated drooling sessions when I was in college. True Blood,    Heather Graham’s vampire hunter series, Zane Novels.

Every time I think of Zane, I wonder what happened to her?

Did the continued invasion of editors upon her written material become too much and found her without an audience?

Anyway, we can say nineteen years has been dedicated to establishing a time frame for when Loco Art began. Ten years later I fell in love with Norah Jones. I was eleven and like many my age played video games, read comics, wrote my own books. Come to think of it, my time in New Jersey allowed me to fall in love with three very different but creative women around my age. Nina Valentine, Chamel Surfellow, Colleen Williams; Nina the Puritan, Chamel the Whore, Coleen the Goth.

Nina and I where fine together, except in all of our discussions we never kissed. Intellectually we were good for each other, but she had this way of making me feel unless I was willing to marry, I’d never score a kiss. Hard for a military brat that moves from place to place and never can call a place home for a year.

Because I was who I was, I had to tell her it would not workout. Needless to say, we never spoke about writing books anymore.

Chamel became a pleasant distraction, ensuring me that her desire to “put out,” would benefit us both and she would not hold anything against me, if I didn’t stay around.

I never did keep Chamel, fearing if she was so fine with a guy she only met once, what would she do if I was not around. Every time we met for the bus ride home and she allowed me to collect my share of coconuts and affection, I would slowly forget my misgivings or care about who else might have done the same.

None could touch me like Colleen Williams mind you.

She controlled my dreams and reality for two years. From 12 until I was 13, when ever she wanted me, she would only have to jingle the bell on her collar, and with joy would I appear to her. “Yes my mistress?”

“Dream Weaver, we’d like to know, considering you’re a man, what would you desire to fulfill your dreams, the Puritan: who will only love you when no one else is looking. The whore: who will love you and everyone else. The Goth: who will love you with chains of pleasure that not only keep you connected but teach well the lesson of pleasure received amidst one’s pain?”

I allowed the goth to capture my virginity, along with my imagination for two years. We entertained one another all for the sake of love.

I never did ask about a fourth option; due to being unaware such an option existed: To be loved by another Dream Weaver like me. What a pleasure indeed.   All one can do is drool.