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My Dreams Of Hops and the Buzz That Lifts Me

Posted by AdventVoice - January 24th, 2020


You can never take for granted the appreciation people develop for an artist. Remaining humble and understanding that in the digital age and in the ease in which art can be produced by people of all ages, will urge and artist to produce the best work they can. It also allows you to grow in ones own style. Reviewing the works, sketches, and remembering the work I’ve produced in my youth, I can see where I’ve improved and where I can go from the plateau I’ve arrived. Believing I am not good enough for a broad band publication or a six salary sponsorship from a televised platform or Youtube contract, eases the trip along this Indie (Independent Review) network.

Twenty years or more, artists have used the computer to wow audiences and in the last four years, I’ve earned a following of individuals I believe will be tremendous in the development of Liberated-Free-Thought.

Now the few who see my potential and flatter me with words such as “You Are An Artist,” or “Your ability to illustrate your dreams and thoughts and make stories from them is an awesome ability.” Those are the ones I desire to retain as friends, when I finally make a piece of art worthy of holding in an art gallery.

Racing toward this dream and making it a reality wakes me every morning, interrupts my sleep and invades conversations with those I meet on daily errands. Letters to interested clients and twitter chirps in the random outreach to those interested in good sex. Interestingly enough I remember when I first began and sex was far from my mind. Well the crimes associated with the trend was a major subject and as I continue to finalize, “Bad Guy,” I continue to take jabs at the #MeTooMovement, Social Justice Warriors, and the numerous magazines that have desired to turn pleasure and the seeking of it into a vile institution. https://twitter.com/Tai_Shani/status/1219692551244079104?s=20 https://twitter.com/Scope2Mars/status/1220134943982063616?s=20

Those that have turned Liberated language into rigorous rebellion against a platonic society make life harder for the entrepreneur, visionaries, dreamers, and innovators. Listening to NPR on January 7th was interesting because there were many deaths in a Mississippi prison and the reporter was kind enough to express, that those locked away for crimes; are not considered convicts by their families, or men that deserve death and mal-treatment. Feels good to know I am not alone in my thoughts about those issues and many are able to look objectively at the purpose of justice. I have pushed the boundaries of comfort in my latest take on “Bad Guy,” https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/bad-guy-page-8-life-lessons the few who support my work appreciated it’s unique take on light and shadows and my use of sex and action.

Sex and Action: That has been a desire of mine for comic books ever since I saw the movie, “Crank.” The idea of endorphin junkies doing all they can to achieve the high of brain matter and associate it with the high of octane action and good sex. Crank was the only movie, I thought, along with “Bank Job,” that knew how to edit scenes and flow a story together that included a good shoot out that was not dulled by the time needed to build to the climatic sunset kiss; of most romantic novels. I would pick up a comic book and enjoy the pages dedicated to mayhem and notice the sexual tension between characters would be made to take a back seat, until the action died off and the stilted sashaying of a romance scene would ooze out of the series in singular snap shots, but nothing concrete; and always rated PG.

For me mind you, romance, love and relationships, when they are good are anything but PG and I personally feel a disservice is presented to the trade of sex when we insinuate a good fuck can not be had in modern relationships. Instead we must retain the 1930’s Carry Grant and Shirley Temple, ‘hug-love,’ moments, never being satisfied with the public’s aggression against Libertarian-Literature and the intense denial of the illustrative power of dynamic intercourse between man and woman, I have been determined to no longer merely air my disgust with the prudery of society and fill the space with massive arrays of explosive sex. Feeling rather proud of myself with my current publications.


After finishing my “Cumdom,” demon: https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/adventvoice/cumdom-your-face satisfaction of my life etched across my face, especially with how smooth things came along, despite my insecurities about an appealing background image, produced for the themed art piece. It was suggested that I should put her in a dungeon but as I looked at her, all I could consider was a cave lair, where she was free to climax.


I’ve been drinking like a fish lately. Not a lot. Four cups here and there. A can, when I can afford one and my bills are paid up. It has not tied me up too much, that I can’t produce art. I am secured in my ability to drive the sixteen miles to the bar and make it home safe, after a few. It has deterred my writing, which as I drink there is a force of energy that whispers I should indulge and assures me no one pays attention to the writing, it is the art they want. “You can do that standing on your head,” it whispers. “No one cares about what motivates your mind, and hands. All they want are pretty pictures.” Sometimes I believe this voice with no face and breathe of smoke, sometimes I am sure it is only myself. Other times I am looking over my shoulder. Will I stop drinking, and spending hours away from home or work? I should. I’d be more inclined if I was getting paid. I cram in three hours of art in the morning, ten minutes at night, and still, those that ensure I am comfortable and have $100.00 a week, watch to see if I’ve neglected a duty and should be replaced. What a joke. As usual, I ask those that read my journals, or are interested in what I think, to forgive the weeks it would seem that I fell off the face of the earth and lost the will to report good art stories. That is not true; I’ve been thinking a lot about my father lately. Well the man that raised me. One who I did not know did not spawn me until I was seventeen, and believed the lie concocted by my mother of a father, until I was old enough to think for myself.

The only unfortunate piece of this tale is my mental awakening did not occur until I was seventeen. Everything that made me, prior to that day was the guiding light of a military brat. The discipline inspired by private institutions, federal mandates, and (or) what ever oversight was admitted to military schools, during my teen years. I am 31 now and I am sure all of that has changed since I was a boy. My education on the arts was heavily monitored by my father, who, though he appreciated the skill of most craftsmen and believing all had the aptitude to learn, did not believe Anime, Comics, Graphic design, even embroidery, or tattoos, foreshadowing techniques, abstract art, any of which I’ve produced in the last four years, to be marketable art. Which at times, I am sure he is right, but then there are times when I want to flaunt my talent in his face so hard. “Look father, I can make a masterpiece with the very instrument that never made you enough money to secure your marriage to my mother!”

That could be the hops jumping. Who knows?  


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