Yellow Dog

At the very end of 2004, a dear friend of mine, brought with her from a Journey Around the World a little blank book she got for me in Guatemala. I started making little sketchy drawings in it, every one about a yellow dog. I was inspired by the gift, the brown paper and the dog that was lulling around the office I was working in at the time. The playful, good-natured, animalistic dog contrasted phenomenally with the boring, evil, pretentious and deathly atmosphere of the place. The dog became a symbol.

The first drawing appeared on January 6th 2005. I stopped in October of that year. In 2006, I had had some new adventures to incorporate the dog in and made a few drawings. In 2008, I picked it up again but my drawings only reflected the hatred for drawing I had at the time. I stopped the book. One drawing (the one of the dog howling at the moon) was made in 2012 – and I can not remember the  state of mind I made it in. Since then, the book lay forgotten and unfinished.

Recently, I heard that the actual old yellow dog had died. This kick started my imagination and passion to finish the book. The dog had died! Now it could live on dead in my drawings. Of course… the second part of the book, the second phase of live…

Excuse the poor photographic reproduction, please… done with just a hand-held camera and some quick snapshots of some of the drawings, from the beginning till the one from last night. The book is almost full… the dog can now be taken up in the mythological world of demi-gods.

 

 

 

The Magic Island

Making a voyage through my island room, crouched over and camouflaged by a hedgehog’s cloak and primeval smells. I carry an iron stick, wear circular tusks for full effect… We embark to view the 21 spirits hiding in my place. Feel the staring eyes! The power of the mirror! Their trance and dusty drums... Behind the dreams, the blood begins to pound in a sparkling sheen... Taboom, taboom, tadoom!

While Mary’s in the bathroom, the clown is rubbing shoulders with the pig, to love the filth. Rhythms benign and pulsing. Come, ride that scarlet goat with me, around the trancelike skies in honour of the 401 Lwa and of Louis Beauvoir, the old houngan. We ride to the motley fortress of the greasy women, to smile and growl. Bluish green vapours swirl over the murky teats in the fire of the night…

The Grand Don shakes his bell over the package at his feet, my baby carrying the trident and the crown. And the altar holds the coffined Ken & Barbie, unearthed from some darkened cul-de-sac behind the charnel house. See, the mermaids cross, the horned man, four bottles of gin and bones from the seven ossuaries, my saints, my snakes and ropes… A jackal’s howl, six strings held in peace and shine...

Egou is the evil god, the one who causes accidents. I am sprinkled with water… Yao! Yao! Yao! All hail the Church of the Solitary Brotherhood, lodge of Regal Chivas! Tie the rolling dice to my ear and place the bottles well packed under my chair. Dance a seven-headed dance on knives and blood!

It is like that I make my way through the room, creamy, green and laughing. A rendezvous just to see in me… All at once, the inner courtyard turns into an inferno.

 

 

 
 

 
 

 
 
 
 

 

 
 

Coral Island Dreaming

You take the coarse pieces of shell of two or three eggs that you saved from an earlier egg-eating occurrence. You put the shell in a medium-sized stainless steel bowl with a rounded bottom. Then you pour in about two inches of regular tap water (or when you're feeling flamboyant, you can substitute with drambuie) in the bowl and make slow circular motions... the sounds produced are just like the sounds a gentle surf makes on a tropical beach full of coral rubble... By the End-Bulbs of Krause!

(Poor Man's Illusions #1, Flirtation with the movie business #24).

Warped

Not too long ago, somewhere during the height of summer, I bought an LP record of Jacques Brel reading the story of Babar accompanied by music of Francis Poulenc. Unfortunately [isn't it peculiar that, somehow, all of my stories make this turn]... as I said, unfortunately, I may have sat on it in the car driving home, or perhaps I had placed a heavy bag on it. Whatever the event, back home I discovered that I had warped the record unplayable and was sad.

I stored the record in the cupboard and took it out again only today. And lo! It has straightened out and is perfectly playable again! Brel's majestic voice as clear as mountain dew! The Poulenc music the perfect companion. Not that I can understand the French story just yet of course, but it's a happy end all the same, and I know how much you people love that.

Cooked Down

Lonely at the top? Au contraire!

The Secret of My Success

Denial is my super power.