A growing queue of things I know.

I am going to try taking this "art" thing a bit more serious.

Bought a url. Boyfriend is going to jazz it up for me.
Now I just need to get organized
and have my work viewable.
Here is my attempt.

Acrylic on canvas.
35x23"





Detail.

"They asked for it."

I have been roaming around on craigslist for the last hour looking at jobs, cars, and of course, personals. It is interesting to read what people's opinions are on the subject of Brianna Denison's murder verdict.

Some back story:

James Biela was convicted of raping and murdering Brianna, which happened a little over two years ago. He was also found guilty of three felony charges, including the rape of a woman in October of 2007 and the rape and kidnapping of another woman in December of 2007.

Brianna was only nineteen when it happened. She was on break from college visiting friends and family in Reno. She was kidnapped while sleeping on a friend's couch near UNR.

Her body was found 26 days later, in a field, beneath a discarded Christmas tree. She had been strangled with a pair of thong underwear.


James Biela has been sentenced with the death penalty.


-----

While many posts talked about the controversies of the death penalty, there was one that caught my attention:





(Apparently we're all whores and asking for it).

Beyond the wrist.

I am still trying to figure out
what to do with these hands.

Typically shaped to fit a particular room.

I have been rolling around on the carpets of Denver, the closest I can get to functioning properly while everyone wears their name badges pompously around their necks with notebooks and pens and plastic cups of water that never empty. You’re over one thousand miles away and all I want to do is put my hand in your mouth while you yawn. And you tell me you would walk here if it were practical, but what is sensible in these circumstances? When my stomach folds in, reminding me of when I slept away from my mother for the first time and didn't understand yearning. I distract myself by trying to find analogies that involve food to justify my aching for you. You think about me every other second, and I sit in a convention room thinking about how your teeth seem to keep getting whiter ever since you went to the dentist. The poet says I should get to know these people now because we will all be dead soon, but your love is criminal, and the repercussion is my uncompromising indifference for strangers. I am going to send you a picture of the view from the 18th floor while everyone makes way downstairs to the lobby bar. The ten dollar vodka sodas spill on their name badges and everything you do belongs in a song.





(From current BA show).