Survivors of 1980s AIDS crisis

‘After they passed, there were memorial services to plan with no real time to grieve because when one passed, you were needed somewhere else to begin the process all over again.

 

‘I kept a memory book/photo album of everyone I knew that died of AIDS. It’s quite large to say the least. Who were these guys? These were the people I had planned to grow old with. They were the family I had created and wanted to spend the rest of my life with as long as humanly possible but by the time I was in my late 40s, every one of them was gone except for two dear friends of mine.


via Survivors of 1980s AIDS crisis reveal what happened to them | Gay Star News.


 

ART we LIKE: John Baldessari

 John Baldessari’s Goya Series [1997]


The titles of Goya’s series of etchings “The disasters of war” were reappropriated by artist John Baldessari in 1997 for his contribution to that year’s Venice Biennale. Black and white photographs of mundane objects are reproduced by the artist on canvas and accompanied by Goyesque titles (some taken from the originals, some invented by himself).


via True to Form: John Baldessari’s Goya Series (1997) | SOCKS.


 

untitled

by D. A. Krolak

I’d like to wipe the disco off my feet. It just sticks like a wad of gum. People with the expression so dumb. Lives of empty useless potions. where do they buy these notions? Is there anything more important than wardrobes and alcohol? They are driven by some unseen idol. Pondering is useless, I’ll confess. Reduce your life to the minimalist hedonistic passiveness. Urges which empty you of any hope for a future. The tools you acquire are abusive to others, abrasive to yourself. No treasure is left in pleasure (if you endure). Why, so many lemmings, still jump into this sea, is well beyond perception. They receive no blessings, that aren’t dangers in disguise, during the inception. Glide, Slick, Slip, and Sway. Don’t worry someone else will pay. Vices, are careless devices, with victims just castaway. Isn’t it mad, dashing for something one dreads. These are the lies rapturing in youthful heads. The rush of individualism, combed with comraderie, squeezes you into a tight mold, with an endless hold. Now doesn’t it feel cold in your little head, now that everyone’s left you for dead. Wish you hadn’t said, that which left you unwanted. It’ll matter none what you’ve done, friendships are easily begun, going out is fun. May my place in those little circles quickly fade. As I relax in the small town shade.

Loss or deprivation soaked tear and bloodstained wrapped wounds of inner souls crying for the last of the lost psyche-stealing imagination machines. Gigantic broad black wings, that is what is consuming me. Daylight has not a chance of even fading its covenant. For inside those moon-soaked shades of love, that is where all my friends shall find the moments of ever-lasting happiness that they left with me.

It is on the water, darker than any seafloor, that these wings surround me. The crest and surge with the beating wings is more than I have known, and strangely familiar. Smooth polished pitchblack passions. This is a strange sickness, a vile romance one cannot emerge from for fear of losing touch with the one thing that makes you whole, your wretchedness.

The temple and I pray to my ears, so that deafness will not be known in a world of everlasting sound. The swoop is more then I can bear, please let me up, you are hurting me and I don’t want to play this game anymore, It is no longer make-believe, and I am not having fun, you are suffocating me.

I proceed with caution not knowing what else to say. I listened and no armies answered my call, no rescue team. No heroes, just memory and all it can hide or reveal. I would fight back, and do harm if it wasn’t my god-like love that was hitting me over my head, pounding his cold hard facts into reason and reasons like- Get up and take it like a man. But i am the boy. the son. your son. i am hurt and words will be my weapons as i learn to recognize the true sound of love.

The sound of goodbye. The one I had to utter from the womb. To a father who would not get drunk, abuse me, hit me like his old man hit him. Or call me sissy. Like Grandfathers did.

A doubtful goodbye that I was not granted the day he died. The choices were always made in my best interest. Here is where my best interests are laid to rest. On my chest.

No I did not like the games,  as a child, I was forced to play. I played them all so well, with ease you might say. The best games are called survival, ’cause if you lose, well the cost is great. So you play to win. To get out and forget.

© December 3rd, 1993 | All Rights Reserved