Return of The Mustard King

In the movie Blow starring Johnny Depp, there is a scene in the beginning where he talks about his parents. His father, played by Ray Liotta was a hard working upstanding citizen, who always put his son first. Depp’s mother played by Rachel Griffiths, on the other hand, did the exact opposite, she put herself first. This is where I’d like to focus my point. The mother always left, even months at a time, without saying a word to anybody. What she did when she left, your imagination can take over, BUT when she returned, Depp’s father always took her back in. Never questioning her about it, and even scolded Depp’s character is he didn’t at least fake some affection toward her. My point is that I’m Ray Liotta.

If you are among the two people who read my blog, you will have noticed I haven’t written a smidge or so much as a signature for the last week or so. I’ve always believed reading happy sunshine and daisies garbage would rot the brain as much as videogames or vulgar rap songs. That’s the thing though, I was happy. Smiling, even. Real ones. Everything in my life that was in disarray had cleverly fallen back into place. Well, it had fallen into more advantageous spaces that allowed sunlight to be reflected through the entire room, like an Egyptian (Rothamsted) light-trap. I saw everything, And was given a second chance to do things. I was more composed, I was calm, I was smooth, I was a 1945 Chateau Margaux.

I’ve purposely used past tense in the last paragraph because inevitably, that’s where it always goes. Everything in life becomes past tense, for better or for worse. I had no warning because my reassimilated girlfriend reassimilated herself into not being my girlfriend, again. Purpose of the blow story was for Rachel Griffiths role. She just up and left without a word, and so did mine. She always came back, and I always took her back. I don’t know who she thinks she is anymore, but I’m unable to defend her anymore. Everyone says this and that and I stick my neck out, risking to sound like an idiot, which I’m happy to do, yet only because I actually believed myself. Do it once, shame on you, do it twice, shame on me… Do it 5 more times after that, I’m clinically retarded. She still hasn’t explained anything even after I stayed with her as she cried about being lost in space for a whole night. Not because it was my duty as her boyfriend, but because I was the only person who knew her and her secrets. I’m sure she has more, but she also doesn’t know that those are going to swallow you whole.

It was another photographer that induced her leaving me. Not seduced, but gave her the push she needed. I’m okay with that. I’ve been working on a theory about the recent influx of photographers within our feeble generation. And here is my assessment report. A majority of photographers today, don’t wield the art of photography for art. They wield it because it feeds off the energy from the vain. Most photographers are men, and most things they photograph don’t have a penis. There is a great rapport of energy and interest in photographer and model, and both connect like puzzle pieces. One needs to feel good about themselves by having everyone’s eyes chemical react in the brain a signal which gives surging pleasure throughout the rest of the body. Where do you draw the line in fine art photography and softcore porn was my question for the longest time. and the answer is that there never was a line. Almost like how priests justify banging little boys. They intrinsically know it’s wrong, yet they’ve convinced themselves it’s okay.

Anyway, I know this is a rant and ramble blog but i’ve been a bit out of practice. Don’t worry, I’m making my way back in, with a vengeance and with all the new things I’ve learned and toys I’ve got. The world is coming at me like a train, and my hands are tied, the least you can do is give me a cigarette.


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