Tuesday, July 22, 2014


One of my favorite people, one of my heroes but not in the sense that I idolize him. Because I don't. He's human, just a guy who is lucky to have gotten an amazing break and it's admirable. I find him fascinating, talented and incorrigible. He's a nuisance but in a good way and in fact probably my favorite master of thought because he loves to spar with me. No one ever wants to spar with me. Most people are afraid. And this makes it fun. It's not serious. I enjoy the diversion. Between happiness & heartbreaks and loves & losses he's always there to give me a ration of BS. It often reminds me of playing chess with an old person. I lost long ago before we ever started. Understand he's not an old college professor but the youngest wisest old soul I've never had the pleasure of meeting in this life. We should never meet. The world may collapse in upon itself... People could not handle it. Ha. No.

Needless to say I could spar with him everyday for the rest of my life and he knows it. I think he enjoys that. But I have to remind him to live & love instead of wasting time on these things. Because I need to live & love too. ;) 

So... Why aren't you working on something? Some rich fucker might decide to make his own art! Then what would you sell? And your girlfriend will be disappointed if you waste too much time fussing over this nonsense. What if she left? Hmm... Get back to living or working!

Here's a story about sparring!

Kisses, m.


Outside the perimeter. Sneaking up from behind. Moving off slowly. Establishing a position across from the target. Bella Voce has only one entrance. My beautiful Blanc happens to be sitting just inside the entrance sipping a glass of rouge. From this distance the markings on the bottle indicate a Chateau Briolé. Arm raises and falls within the eye line of my scope. Crosshairs slowly shift upward. I lock onto the target. Deep Breath. Hold. Fire.

The moonlight illuminates grey with a red hue upon the corner of my dimly lit table as I sip my wine. ‘77 Chateau Briolé. Excellent year. Hints of sage dance with melodies of sweet fruit. As I suspected it wouldn’t be long before my darling Onyx arrives. Handsome and quite foolish. Out a hundred meters off the rear embankment suited up with last year’s excuse for sniper gear. Should be about to shoot… Chink. The Briolé!

Broken. Glass shatters. Miss. She’s out of sight. And I’ll never hear the end of this at dinner. Unseen fragments shoot past my head. Exposed. Scanning the vicinity for cover. About a meter away there’s an opening in the ground. Switching weapons. Aim. Fire across the square as I move. Windows break. Screams release into the night. Quietly rescan the perimeter for lovely Blanc. Nothing. Blindly fire off another few rounds. Crouch. Unmistakable sound. Look up, directly into the barrel of a gun. Too Late.

What a waste! Clumsy Onyx couldn’t hit a fly point-blank. Out the building, firing warning shots past his shoulder. Barely registering he’s been made as I maneuver across the square unhidden. Another round scatters. Hitting windows and somebody’s poodle. Idiot! Circling up behind him, as he fires at shadows. Fool moves right into my gun. Too Late. You owe me a glass of Briolé.

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