Self Portrait

I'm working on my self-portrait. It's an assignment for my drawing class. The medium is charcoal. Powder charcoal, charcoal pencil, vine charcoal, compressed charcoal.

It's weird that my other drawing teachers didn't show us all the different types of charcoal. I found out about charcoal pencils on my own. I saw them at Barnes & Noble on New Years Eve and bought a set. I could've got them cheaper at Michaels but I didn't know anything about art supplies back then.

So I'm working on my self-portrait. It doesn't look like me, everyone says. It's too dramatic, too angry. Maybe it's how you want to look, my friend says.

It FEELS like me.

That should count for something.

My drawing teacher will say it would be a good painting.

She said my eyes were following her around the room from the paper while I was working on it in class. Black pupils. Charcoal is black.

scope

Scope lived in the apartment below mine. He had a long-haired calico cat just like I did. He had a virgen de guadalupe tattoo on his left forearm. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. He owned two pairs that I saw. One pair was brown tortoise shell. The other pair was black with a silver skull and cross-bones in the middle.

Cross-bones style, Cat power

o come, child, in a cross-bones style, cuz u have seen some unbelievable things.

Scope turned me on to social distortion. He said I'd also like NOFX because they were melodic.

The last time I saw him before he got kicked out, he was hanging out with a younger guy with short blond hair. His name was Steve. Steve said he used to only listen to gangsta rap but Scope turned him on to punk rock.

goodbye, mom

My mom calls every Sunday. WE have the same conversation.

This time when she calls I will not answer. I will not answer when she calls back on Monday. On Tuesday I will tell my psychiatrist of my decision. He and my therapist will be my only support until I meet new friends,

I am 30 years old. I have not spent a single day not thinking about my mom.
When my dad got custody of us after the divorce, my grandmother told me that when we weren't there anymore mom would just lay on the bed and cry. I was 8 years old. My younger brother was 4.

I am taking a college-level art class. I know I have a lot of talent and my own vision by the comments I get from my teacher. She says I have my own unique drawing style. She can recognize my drawings by just looking at them without seeing my name.

I'm at work, so I won't write any more.

I am not going to talk to mom.

I am going to cut her off.

Just to prove I can.

I will not talk to her tomorrow evening.

I will see how it goes when she doesn't hear from me.

If she really loves me, she will understand.

She will not think it's fair.

I will tell my therapist about this.

I know I said I wouldn't write any more before. Now I really will stop.