Thoughts On Mortality

  Those of you that follow my shenanigans on here know I recently resurrected The One True Sponge to do a commission piece. (For those that don't know, I use it to paint like this):

   I gotta admit, it felt good to use it again after all these years. Within two minutes I was using it to draw and shade, like I had never put it aside. I do remember thinking  "It seems smaller than it used to be". My other voice replied "Maybe you've grown since then". Not likely. It's obviously shrunk over the years, with all of the painting, the rinsing, the squeezing. It's all taken a toll. Not like in our younger days when we'd paint for hours at a time, not even waiting for the sponge to full dry before starting again. Using it in new, different ways. Just like I always do. Pushing the envelope. Using it to paint in red, yellow, and blue; all in one painting. A painting that never knew a brush:

(This is where I was going to show you the painting in question. I named it "Riley". It was blended with red, yellow, and blue with The One True Sponge. I really liked the result, although I never painted another one like it. I called it Riley because the face reminded me of former Laker coach Pat Riley. For some reason I have no proof that I painted it. It's not in any of the three copies of my portfolio that I keep in case one, or two, crap out. It's not in my online portfolio at DeviantART. I'm almost afraid to dig through my paintings to find it. It might not be there any more. I know I painted it. I know I photographed it. I know I posted it. Unless I'm suddenly in an alternate time line where I never did that experiment the only thing I can think of is a government conspiracy. Why do my paintings vanish from my computer? From the internet? This isn't the first one to go missing. Usually it's either from my computer or the internet. Not from both.)

Now I'm irritated. What the absolute hell?

   Anyway, my sponge is slowly dying, as am I. I suppose Vegas will give you a line as to which of us goes first. I don't guess it much matters. Live every day as if it were your last. Paint every painting as if your sponge was giving out. Or some crap like that. Draw your own conclusions. Paint 'em for that matter. If you can crack this whole 'missing pictures' case please let me know. I'd like to think I'm not slowly slipping away. My mind is a terrible thing to waste.

So, This Lady Says To Me...

  Paint me. Paint me in that style you used to use. With all the black dots. So, we work a deal, a mutually satisfactory deal, and I agree to do it. See, I used to paint pictures like this:

I had a sea sponge that I could use like and extension of my hand. I could draw with it, shade with it, bring paintings to life with it. I used to wonder what I would do if something ever happened to it. Then, slowly, my style evolved. I quit using the sponge and got all of my effects with brushes. Poor, mistreated brushes.

  I hid the sponge away, lest it be stolen by pirates, or elves, or something. But now, it was time to recover it. Bring it back to my studio to reign o'er my easel, blasting out fine art at an incredible rate.
   I left my house late one night, not telling anyone where I was headed, so they wouldn't be kidnapped and tortured to reveal the hiding place of The One True Sponge. I recovered the map. It was tattooed on the head of a close family friend. I arrived at his house, plied him with liquor and shaved his head. Memorizing the map I had placed there years ago, I pulled a wig from my art bag and super glued it to his head. Until his hair grew back that would keep my secret safe.
  I made my way across more than one state line, careful not to draw any attention to myself, and after several hours ( due to constant backtracking and round about maneuvering) I arrived at the spot. An old Native American cave just outside Scopus, Missouri. I deactivated the booby traps at the entrance, pulled out a flashlight, and started towards the rear of the cave. At last I located it, and without thinking, stuffed it in my bag. As I turned to leave I noticed several rats, mice, and bats that had apparently been worshiping my sponge. No doubt due to the internal radiance that had always been a huge part of it's charm.

  I reacted purely on instinct. I slung my bag over my shoulder and took off for the entrance. In hindsight I probably should have kept a firm grip on the flashlight, but, you know, lesson learned. As I scrambled through the darkness with those insidious rodents on my tail I made a mental note to check into safe deposit boxes at my bank. At last, after what seemed like minutes, and probably was, I came running from the cave. I jumped into my car and fired it up. Of course, since I was only a few hundred feet outside of downtown Scopus, I could only drive twenty five miles an hour. This, however, was plenty fast enough. I circled around though the edges of The Ozarks. I thought on two separate occasions that I was being followed. The first turned out to be an Amish buggy pulled by a solid black horse. The second turned out to be a smudge in my rear view mirror.
  At last I crossed the Ohio River and slipped in to my hidden "Bat Cave parking place". I laid low, listening carefully for anything to indicate there would be trouble, then slipped in to my house. My cats, sensing what I had been through, wailed and cried until I stopped to feed them. Then, off to my studio, to unpack my sponge and prepared to create my latest commission.
  I reached in to my art bag and pulled the sponge out. A supernatural green glow came from the sponge and lit my studio in an eerie glow. As I held the sponge over my head, my computer fired up and started playing Voodoo Child (Slight Return). A solid white beam of light came down through the roof of my house, through the ceiling, and in to the top of my head. As quickly as it appeared it disappeared and left behind, seared into my brain, the image of the portrait I would paint.
  I never said what I do was easy.