Rie used to be my hausmate in this big, old, castle where I live with artists on the Hudson river. Rie’s art form involved rendering the bones of dead animals, found along the road. They* (*Rie’s preferred pronoun) would drag them home and bury them up in the woods behind the castle until the bones were clean. Then they’d dig them up, and sometimes boil the last bits of flesh away in pots on the big, old, cast iron, industrial stove where we cook our meals. The smell would be disturbing. Continue reading
A work still in progress, concerning a dark night on a ledge, somewhere in Brooklyn once.
Oil on canvas.
By Cat Jones
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