"Photo-Apotemnophilia" by Forbidden Light

Divided by glare, I'm lost in the shine.

Splendor and oil slices me in half.

To be amputated by light...

...is to have an encounter with God.

     The prefix 'photo' means light and 'apotemnophilia' is the clinical term for those whom desire to be amputated.  This fabricated term seems appropriate for my recent photographic experiment.  In the tradition of my favorite photographer, Gonzalo Benard, I've been practicing the art of self-portraiture.  Using items present in my household, I've been having so much fun constructing visual statements.

     Slathering on a thick layer of Castor oil, I wanted to see what would happen if I stood right next to my light source.  No flash.  No digital effects.  The light reflecting from my heavily oiled body wiped out a segment of my body!  I fell in love with the amputating effect!

     Frontally facing the bright light created an illusion that my waist was very small while maintaining muscular backside.  Using a tripod and a timer, I simply faced the light pointed my ass towards the camera. (LOL) I would love the opportunity to continue this glare experiment with other models with different skin tones and body types.

     Another aspect to this experiment with light & oil, I also smeared some oil onto the lens of the camera and had fun hiding behind the blur.  The result struck an accord with me, because I've always felt more aroused by creative censoring than hardcore images bearing everything.  Creating fully exposed silhouettes, I had some material that was subtly erotic (and fit for Facebook!)

Multi-Demensional

With sex on my breath, I pray to The Holy Spirit.

I write God-breathed psalms with the scent of ass under my fingernails.

I dress myself in the finest linen
Without rinsing the fluids from my flesh.

I'm multi-dimensional

and it's okay.

Mystery

     While being a conscious being, I am still a mystery to myself.  There are facets of my nature that language fail to describe.  Certain features will never be translate into the physical world.  My hands aren't designed to build the monuments lodged in my head.  My lips are unable to pronounce the secrets of my soul.  The more I learn about myself, the more I discover that the depth of this mystery runs deeper.

I believe this to be true for us all.

     I traveled the world, seeking a comprehensive reflection of myself.  Stressing my ears, I struggled to hear my name uttered within the noise.  Squinting my eyes, I could see something shimmering in the darkness...I hoped it was the truth.  I wanted to see my face so badly.
     I have to learned to savor this mystery.  Instead of boiling myself down to a sum, I surf on the dark waters finding freedom in its fluidity.  There is so space to create within the void.  There are so many colorful harmonies in the silence.

There is much pleasure in remaining undefined.

    

'Inflate' by Anthony Maule

     

Two Miles with Aaron

     The two miles between my home and the lake was more challenging than I expected.  Shoulders burning...  Shoes betraying every step...  Constantly switch arms to give the other a break.  Tonight was the night I took custody of Aaron and I was compelled to capture him.

Aaron, Chandra Garsson's first sculpture,

is more than just a piece heavy with symbols,

but a symbol of heaviness.

     A baby stroller, coated in dust and paint, carrying a myriad of baby limbs.  Sitting in the center, the handsome head of an adult man.  Its handle is anointed with a crown of crayons.  Dangling at the top of this haunting piece is an infant's garment: delicate and dirty.  I thought, "At one point, I was small enough to fit into this shirt."

     The two miles between my home and the lake was more challenging than I expected.  Four wheels evolved beyond their purpose to roll.  Seven lifeless arms reminds me that mine aren't any different.  Shifting and expressive eyes giving this sculpture soul.  More reason to find this piece haunting. 

     Lugging him to the park at 2 o'clock in the morning, I had the idea to shoot him at night.  Leaving my wallet and cell phone at home, the spirit of caution weighed heavily on the atmosphere.  My camera was the loudest thing happening.  If it weren't for the distant streetlights, I'd be totally blind.  Police cars continually crept passed as I carried this baby carriage around the dark lake.

Risk is fertile ground for brilliance.

      The two miles between my home and the lake was more challenging than I expected.  The more inconvenient Aaron became, the more I realized what he symbolized.  I realized that he wasn't the first child I've had to lug around.  I believe Aaron represents the burdensome blessing of an artist.  Novels collecting dust.  Recordings stuck in my fucking head.  Forgotten images that will never see the light of day.  These children haunt my ever waking moment.  Walking with Aaron in my fatigued arms opened my eyes to my own weightless burdens.

    
I, too, am disturbed by dense dreams.
However, I keep marching towards my dreams of density.

Sculpture by Chandra Garsson/ Photographer: Forbidden Light

Why Save the Daylight?

     I am going to pay for this in the morning.  Spooning... Sucking... Kissing on his neck...  I love the traditional, woodsy scent of his cologne lifting from behind his ear.  Holding him from behind, I am embracing and impaling him.  This sweet moment has lasted well past 2 a.m.

I'm already brainstorming plausible excuses for my tardiness.

     His fingertips are performing a very subtle form of magic.  His hips, slowly winding against my lap, is taking my erection deeper within.  His naked back against my naked chest, my arms wrapped tight around his torso, fulfills me on a level so quenching.

     Melting into the evening, we blend with the resulting morning.  I was the sunrise and he was the horizon.  I tore into him like the dawn-shredded sky.  Spilling over like late-night passions into early morning appointments: damn, I'm late.

Why save the daylight?

     Let tomorrow worry about itself as we savor the final morsels of yesterday.  Let's wring the last drops of nectar from late night's sweetness.  Let's devour the skin, pits and seed of this fruit called "today" before its consumed by tomorrow.  It will never taste the same again

'Two Hearts' by Exterface

Auto-Sthenolagnia: I wish a motherfucker would...

"Get it up there, boy!"

"C'mon! Push that shit up!"

"One more fuckin' to go! Don't be a pussy, dude!"

(((SLAP!)))

 

     Staring into the mirror, I almost dropped a 40 lbs dumbbell on my foot.  I was already distracted by watching the reflection of these studs bench press, they were clearly on the road to perfection.  Watching one guy struggle and grunt as the other shouted with a prison yard's tenor absorbed by attention.  Witnessing the spotter slap the guy in the face made me almost lose my shit!  The loud, reverberating smacking sound.  The sweaty muscles flexing as he reached down and popped him one.  The stern look on the cocky motherfucker's face.  I almost broke my foot because all the blood rushed from my biceps to form an erection.

 I love strange mixtures like these.

     Black people have this saying, whenever someone has the potential to infuriate us, we'd think/say, "I wish he would."  We wish for the opportunity, a time where an ass whuppin' is appropriate.  We think of all the horrible stuff we would do in response and "wish he would."  While one side of myself, born and raised in Detroit, said, "I wish he would slap me in public!"  Another side of me, the raging freak, really wished he would!  I wanted to be the one under that barbell, I wanted to see that stern look from underneath.  I wanted to feel that jolt of adrenaline assisting me to finish that set.

     The funniest thing about this: I seemed to the be the only one in the gym that noticed.  I looked around and no one else batted an eyelash as the abuse continued, "Push that weight!"  The guy on the bottom grunted like he was transforming into The Hulk.  (((SLAP!)))  "One more rep! Don't bitch out on me!"  Maybe this is a normal scene at the 24 hour fitness?

     Although being slapped in public is humiliating in itself, I could see the undercurrent of encouragement. Being stricken does have the ability to disembody, relieving a tendency to psych oneself out.  This kind of pressure peering down on you seems conducive to breaking through personal plateaus.  Isn't this the same pressure used to build soldiers?

     I think I could really get into a forced bench press scene.  I need a personal trainer with a sexy, mean streak!   I would prefer a more private setting, so he could motivate my masochistic side more thoroughly.  Slap my face.  Punch me in the chest.  Pull my hair.  A private setting would also allow me to have a reservoir for my arousal.  It would be interesting to not have to choose between flaccidity and breaking my foot.

Bound Gods

     We love seeing him like this.  His gentle, blue eyes weary from the battery.  His slender, nearly nude body hanging exhausted on a crucifix.  Christ's malnourished belly revealing the abdominal muscles rippling beneath the bruises and scars.  Lo and behold, The Son of God!

There is a soft spot in our collective hearts for masochistic gods.

     Shiva smiles so sweetly.  Pinched between the earth and The Soles of Time, his body is crushed for our sake.  His nude body is the only thing between us and certain doom.  Absorbing the steps of Kali's death dance, Her thirst for destruction is quenched.
     I believe the depiction of these deities are the product of libidinous iconographers.  Looking through the scope of kink, I find it ironic that there is this reoccurring theme.  The bound sacrifice.  The pleasure found in the perishing.  The cheering audience.  Perhaps my mind is in the gutter, but it all sounds like an elaborate, deadly version of "Naked Kombat".
     I can't say for certain why these elements continue to find themselves in sacred texts.  But I do feel the need to experience this for myself.  I believe there is a space where fetish and spiritual practices can intersect.  I believe The Holy Ghost, sex and candle wax can co-exist in a purely religious experience...without fucking a Catholic priest. (LOL)

Art by Sadao Hagasawa

Weapons of Worship

Find me another woman like her and I'll become a polytheist.

Teach me how to duplicate this moment and I'll be no Earthly good.

I firmly believe there will never be another.

     My spine curls under her weight, pointing my ass towards the ceiling.  Her fingers, digging deep into hamstrings, forces my legs even further apart.  I am turned into a trough.  Hissing...  Whimpering...  I grip my ankles until my toes turn blue... She's eating me as if famine was at our door.  Darting.  Probing.  Slurping.  Snorting.  The sensation of her nose sliding across my hole drives me mad!  I can't catch my breath.

Find me another woman like her

and I'll stone you to death for blasphemy.

     Intensely sucking.  Gnashing.  Gnawing.  Her tongue stabs in and out of my body.  (((SLAP!)))  The room fills with white light... Sensation returns to the left side of my face...  Her hand returns to the feast.  (((SLAP!)))  My legs continue to quiver.  My hips thrust themselves into her thirsty face.  (((SLAP!)))  I fear and hunger for her next strike.

     The sting on my cheek fills me with an erotic brand of fury.  I felt the license to moan beyond consideration.  Pulling myself apart, I invite her tongue into my deeper depths.  (((SLAP!)))  My vision turns hazy, I'm intoxicated by her blows.  I savor the sting of her service.

Teach me how to duplicate this moment

and I'll bottle the quality of confusion.

  

To be praised perversely...

To be place atop a pedestal and punished...

To be handed decadence and destruction by the same palm...

     In this night, I discovered the degree in which I desire surrealism in my sex.  Unexpected erotic forces...  Paradoxes of pleasure...  Battlefields and sanctuaries merging in my bedroom.  Weapons of worship anointing my temple with wounds.  I need to be destroyed and rebuilt by my lover.

In this night,

I discovered the degree in which I need her.

(Art by Sadao Hagasawa)

Plastic

 

What do you do when the plastic feels more lifeless than usual?

     Stretched to the limit by inanimate, soulless objects, I‘ll do anything for a dose of living flesh.  There is little consolation when your company can’t relate to you.  What do you do when the plastic feels colder than usual?  I'm craving the warmth of body heat more and more.   

Conundrum:

I feel more natural stuffed than empty,
but spirits are more elusive than toys.

     Anatomically correct.  Strategically inflexible.  Conveniently voiceless.  It’s ever-present, static support has lost its charm.  I’ve found myself longing for dissonant preferences… inconvenient sensitivities... Erections that bend if I don’t squat carefully… Pussies that goes dry when she distracted.

I want love as real as life.

     It’s a gorgeous collection, I know.  They sit, shining, on my shelf like sexual trophies.  Tall, gorgeous athletes.  Spunky, chubby cheeked waitresses.  But, I’ll trade everything in toy chest for something real.  Stretching the limits of soul this time.

What do you do when plastic have serve its purpose?

"Valley of the Dolls" by Steven Klein

"The King of Sorrows" by Chandra Garsson

I've acquired a sculpture

crafted by the genius hands of

Chandra Garsson

     Masks have always interested me.  Masquerade Balls.  Halloween Costumes.  Bank Robberies.  A person reveals more about themselves with their selected masks, than by exposing the face given to them at birth.  A face of flesh and blood indicates where a person origin... A mask indicates where a person desires...

     When I was gifted "The King of Sorrows", it struck a chord with me.  I was deeply moved, because it had translated an unnamed aspect of my identity.  The twisted and disfigured face...  The precious and valuable tears...  This sculpture instantly became a symbol of my hidden nature and the fruit I bear.
     It is my attempt, to bear my stench, noise, ugly, pungency and pain to illustrate how beautiful the result can be.  It is also my attempt to have works of art that cries on my behalf.  Having this piece on my nightstand will be a profound reminder of this truth.  I feel charmed already.