As it is November, I focus upon celebrating abundance. And in that regard, my strange relationship with this uncommon boy springs right to the foreground.
Awhile back, I thought I’d given up on love. I couldn’t remember loving the living enough to even know what it is anymore. But somewhere along the way, having kept a tiny flame of faith in what it really is, rather than just what people say about it, I came to find it again with a boy who has been my best friend for years.
I’ve written before about this guy. And I’m pretty sure there’s more than one painting of him somewhere on this site. There are certainly plenty of them in my studio and on his walls. I met Daniel right after I moved to New York, when both of us were going through some “interesting” times, and we’ve been constant sidekicks, through thick and thin, since then. He’s been there for me, no matter what, every time I’ve needed him to be. Every time I’ve needed someone to talk to, someone to laugh with, someone to snuggle with, someone to wander with, someone to nerd out with, someone to play with, someone to provide needed perspective, someone to have grand adventures with, even someone to talk me off a ledge somewhere.
For someone who never studied Buddhism, he’s one of the best Buddhists I know. An excellent teacher, “an excellent finder,” and an excellent friend. Continue reading
Yesterday, yet another race horse died on the track at Saratoga. Sayonara Rose was only two years old, and she ran her heart out. Whipped and beaten, she was run to death, and died on her way back to be unsaddled. “Took a bad step, had to be euthanized,” according to the industry.
Often, when a horse dies running, 2 bit gamblers sitting in the bar swear at the horse for not “winning,” while it lies dying on the track.
That’s horse racing. End it.
Incidentally, in the afternoon that she died, a friend’s cousin sent me a series of snarky, dumb assed messages to tell me that I should not be speaking ill of the people who caused this horse, and the fourteen others who died in the past few weeks at Saratoga, because, as she stamped her foot and insisted, she LIVES in Saratoga, and some of those people are her FRIENDS.
So, in the event she reads this post: Your friends are assholes. Tell them to stop killing horses. And don’t you EVER send me another piece of propaganda falsely claiming those jerks “love” their horses. No they don’t. If that were true, they would not be running them to death for their amusement and profit. And when the horses can no loner run, they would not be sent off to die in slaughter houses… like they are.
Anyway. This is the latest in the Saratoga Ghost Horse series, commemorating the dead.
The collection will be shown on September 1 at the Romaine Brooks gallery in Albany, New York. Please join me for the show.
As the carnage continues at Saratoga, the collection grows. If you’re in the capital region of New York, I’ll be showing this collection on September 1, First Friday, at the Pride gallery in Albany. Please come and see.
By Cat Jones
I used to live on Lark Street, in Albany, New York. Since I moved away, I learned – through the work of independent journalists – that some of my neighbors belonged to the “Proud Boys,” a racist, homophobic, misogynist, xenophobic hate group. That makes sense to me, given some of my experiences there. To be clear, I met a lot of good people and made a lot of good friends on Lark street. But I also witnessed and/or experienced (sometimes personally, sometimes vicariously) a good deal of oppression there, in the name of making the world comfier again for already- comfy, straight white dudes. And, as I was going through old photographs from a year or two ago just now, it occurred to me how my interaction with just one neighbor, Mark, who lived upstairs from me and who has appeared before in my writing (as “Jim,” for example, in this story), illustrates some of that everyday oppression in microcosm. My interactions with Mark tell a story about both the tight interconnections between forms of oppression, and the relentless, everyday harassment the rest of us experience at the hands of Angry White Dudes (AWDs) every time we assert a right to any cultural space. Continue reading