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This morning I retrieved an unused sketchpad from upstairs and began a new page. There were three different-sized things on the dining room table and I used them to make three circles on the page. I sketched face in the uppermost circle intending to draw a world-weary author, female; it evolved into what looks like a slightly feminized version of Roy Thomas of comic-book legend.

At this writing I’ve surrounded the circles with three acrostic poem spines, “Morning Borning,” “Toe Tag” and “Customer Feedback.” Some dark grittiness seems to flavor the draft of “Toe Tag.” (I’ve just finished the ultraviolent and remarkable Cruddy by Lynda Barry, and just watched the quite-violent In a Lonely Place starring Humphrey Bogart. Cruddy paints a gritty, dark picture of a young person’s dysfunctional life; In a Lonely Place paints a gritty, dark picture of a talented, sought-after writer with a maniacal temper. Both were well worth experiencing but at intervals flat-out unenjoyable.)

I will probably try to finish this page as soon as I can and then move on to a new one, more simple, less busy, less dark.

A few posts back I attached an image of a Lynda Barry portrait in progress. Today I attach a different image, hommage-ing and burlesquing Ms. Barry’s drawing and calligraphic styles to a modest degree, and tell myself to revisit the subject after taking one of her creativity workshops. Taking one of her creativity workshops is the latest entry on my Bucket List.Image

Here are the words to the acrostic:

Loose lips & CRUDDY’s wisdom to absorb
Yon Deathtrail is New Mexican, old Maya
Neur-author’s pea-green DEMONS! give what for
Dark-sided Truth’s found through her creaking door
And ERNIE POOK’S COMEEK will never dry

If any reader should happen to know Ms. Barry, please convey this message: “Best regards from an admiring fan to a true-voiced genius.”

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Here there is not the usual poetry, but rather a celebration of tonality in graphite. It is also celebrates that the original Ampersand design hippogriffed the e-t-c of Etcetera.

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Lynda Barry is a hyperaware, grit-dealing, truth-wielding patron saint of misfits. I have been an adoring fan of hers for over 15 years. (So have Tom Robbins and Matt Groening.) I hope to fill the right side of this work in progress with a poem worthy of her, but that must wait until I finish CRUDDY, her illustrated novel. I started the book when my daughter was eleven or twelve; she’s 23 now. The book slipped through my fingers, back to its owner, Marty K, way back then; he has reloaned it to me. Stay tuned for completion, followed by completion.