Dispatch issue one

DISPATCH

ISSUE ONE

Editor-in-Chief B.B. Sunshine Art B.B. Sunshine Writer(s) B.B. Sunshine Hair and Make-up B.B. Sunshine Coffee and Whiskey Catering B.B. Sunshine

Long-Letter-From-The-Drunken Editor

T

he trajectory of my life has been a mad, bent one. I honestly never thought I'd make it this far. Dead by 18. Lots of things have been thrown at me: bullets, put-downs, knives, storms, flames, illness, madness, Iceland. Gods and humans and the unpredictable nature of their behaviors. These have all tried their best to end me. All have failed.

Thankfully.

So what am I left with? Stories. Experiences. A kind of truth. Something real and burning that can be passed on to others. Something that is intangible, yet can be held onto when everyone and everything, even the sky, has slipped away.

Yes, since I was a child, I have faced a lot of adversity in my life. The past three years have been especially difficult for me. But I still feel that I could have done much more. Created more writings, more paintings.

I also could have done more to help others. I could have traveled more. Loved more and cried less. I let many things and people get to me.

In this issue, I included a prose piece I wrote nearly one year ago titled “The Call�. I recently came across it again and it brought me to tears. Because all this time has passed and I've done so little to fulfill that call. And now, beginning with this issue, I am doing my best to fix that.

I am also working on a plan to move to Europe within the next two years. Possibly London. I'm not sure if it's possible for someone to outgrow a place like New York, but this may just be what's happening with me.

I can't quite put it into words. Yet. All I know is there are many changes, many experiences I will be flinging myself into without the usual obsessive research and planning of a manic investigator I've grown accustomed to.

What triggered this new phase of crazy for Mr. Sunshine, you ask? Well, as I said, I've had many experiences that were unkind reminders of my mortality.

You'd think nearly slipping off a snowy cliff in Iceland would have finally awakened me and inspire me to get my shit together, to become fearless. When in actuality, that experience made me softer and more anxious than ever.

No, it was a bout of food poisoning that did it. It forced me down onto the dusty wood planks of my cottage floor; summoning the most heart wrenching ghosts and memories I'd ever known. And all I could do was sweat, whimper and stare into myself. I couldn't even be considered the walking dead, because I couldn't even walk. I couldn't read, or watch films, or understand music. Only suffer. Dream feverish, red and blue tinted dreams. I promised myself, if I survived, I'd do more. I'd work to become whatever I was meant to become.

I was a very different person in a very different place in my life when I first began this journey.

Without this community, without this way of expression, I would have never been able to accept myself, my deeply flawed self as much I do today. I would have never found the confidence I needed to become a better writer, a better artist, a better man.

I would have never kept writing, or published my book The Muse of Love and Pain, or won a poetry grant and spent a life altering month in Vermont, or applied for graduate school or attempt a novel. I wouldn’t have survived the emotional and physical struggles I’ve endured these past few years. I wouldn’t have known the uniquely beautiful women I had the honor of loving.

Thank you to all of my readers and friends for offering your light in my darkest hours. I don't believe I would have made it through if it weren't for your help. I can't tell you enough how important this has been to my journey, my growth as both an artist and a human being.

I am still uncertain of many things in my life and future.

What I am certain of is that I wouldn't have made it this far without you. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your lives.

As Bukowski once wrote: It has been a beautiful fight still is Here’s to the future! To the uncertain but brilliant horizon!

- B.B.

DISPATCH

ISSUE ONE

Much like the blood red berries that stained the skin of your pale and perfect fingers I nourish you as you devour me

It's the moments in between that bother me.

Between jobs, between meals, between paintings.

Between poems, between stories, between songs, between destinations, between lovers.

(Not in a good way, in a lonely way.)

The in between: It's a dreadful place to find yourself. And yet, it's necessary to the act of finding yourself. It's how you get from here to anywhere. But between the beginning and the end, you must wait. Wait and wait and wait. Wait on line after line after both visible and invisible line.

A few minutes or a few hours pass and that feeling starts biting at your skin. You know the one. The feeling that you will never reach the front of the line. That the rest of your life will be just one endless stretch of waiting.

Inside the space between now and later...

There's simply too much goddamn time for confidence to dwindle. To rot and become uncertainty. Uncertainty becomes anxiety.

The piercing anxiety of not knowing what's next.

The constant question that is now: oh, what will I do with myself now?

I sit and wonder: Is there such a thing as too much freedom?

Would I be a sober, better, happier, less nervous man if I were confined somehow?

Restricted by chains, or a return to poverty or the loss of legs.

A visible disadvantage.

(Unlike confinement by depression.)

Less options. Less temptation. Less distraction.

Less chance of doing something dumb.

Less would be expected of me. I'd have a reason for getting nothing done. And in the exceptional event something was accomplished, the achievement, however small, would result in praise and applause.

"Great job, son! We're proud of ya kid!"

My apologies. sometimes, my mind stretches to ridiculous degrees.

Bad things are important. They're chum to the creative beast. Especially to the poet, the novelist, the painter, the wanderer. Suffering equals inspiration. Pain is often good. Pain is something we can use.

Bad things don't disturb me. Insults, awkward sex, dog bites, bee stings, diarrhea, car wrecks, inflated insurance rates, taxes, mysterious rashes, death, general misfortune - bad things don't bother me.

bothers me.

I'm talking about those thick chunks of time where . This isn't about necessarily wanting good things or bad things to happen. This has nothing to do with trying to stay positive or expecting the worst from everyone (which I often do anyway). I just want something to happen.

Anything, really. As long it's something... . .

Something that can be made into something else. Into something more. Something potent.

Undeniable. Honest. Sexy. You want to know what's sexy? The truth. Give me the truth. The truth is neither good nor bad. It just is. The truth is .

Give me something I can write about.

Something that hardens cocks and shivers clits. Something that can be crafted into verse, into lyrics unforgettable, into art irrefutable. Something meaningful. ... ... . Even if I bleed out to my end and die from it – I want the event to happen. I want my mind to deconstruct its development in every distinct detail. Right up until the end. Everything: the weather, the stink, the sounds, every face, every voice, every splinter of furniture involved. This is my one true responsibility. My only obligation.

So let's stay out late and drink and yell and dance and fight and find inspiration in the worse parts of town, deep into a Sunday night.

Even if we all have to get up early tomorrow. if we all have to get up early tomorrow.

Let's start something. Even if we never get to finish.

I'm tired of waiting.

Gown I am winter covered valleys I am splintered church pews I am murder of crows featherless I am sliver of waters bottomless I am child abandoned, motherless Unclean and clinging to the ribbons to the black fabric of my creator's gown

From Iris #1

Her: She’s completely wrong for you.

Me: How do you know that?

Her: She’s not me.

I can’t remember the last time I was this immensely horny.

There is an endless montage of naughty moments with past lovers that rushes through my mind without mercy.

Nipples licked. Long fingers sucked, the hardness of bone pressed against my tongue. My face: buried in cleavage, buried in dark hair, smothered in bright pink asses, sweat-drenched deep indigo asses. Heat. Beautiful heat. I miss that heat the most.

No one around. I can’t shake off the frustration. I am hungry.

Love-starved Love-starved I am so hungry.

It’s not even 2 in the afternoon, and I’ve already masturbated twice.

- Journal entry 6/10/15

To Dad #1

And in my search to find myself I find myself alone

Some

I dre

times

I am

Epiphany Along the darkest cedar, I reached for the raven (Desperate for his darkness, helpless gestures, thoughtless) but he was too far down the branch too close to the edge and I fell so very far,far too near the pyre But you were there alabaster arms, marble hands reaching for my limbs which were truly bones awful, bleached things You were there, but not to catch me, no you only wanted to touch my flesh, my strange shadow like shape just once before I was impaled and ablaze That is when I knew you were never meant to save me but to be a witness to my fall to my sacrificial ending

The sky was especially beautiful today - June 22, 2015

I wish I could

Soothe you somehow

I don’t know how to swim

So what?

Sombra - 1

She found a hole in the world and slipped on through

The Call

L

ately, I find myself staring off into the clouds outside my Manhattan office window dreaming of winter. I see snow, even when there is none falling from the sky. I watch the most pink lips and dark eyes hanging low through the fog, hovering over me, just out of reach.

I sit and stare for hours, hands gripping the edges of the desk, a way to remind myself of the position I hold in this reality. The truth of my place in this very location. Of my identity. Or rather, my lack of an identity.

Much of my passion has been crippled. Even before all of the things I mentioned earlier occurred, I hadn’t written or painted much of anything since Vermont.

The residency was helpful in many ways, but harmful as well. It provided me a glimpse at another life I could live. Or could have lived. If I could just let go.

It made it excruciatingly clear how truly unhappy I am with my environment, my career, and most importantly my character. And I have been unable to think of little else since.

The Call Nothing gets done. Cases continue unsolved. And I don’t care. Not anymore. Fuck this cubicle life. All of the phones and chatter and typing dissolve into silence. And I care for nothing. But to begin again.

Even my boss is beginning to realize the difference.

He called me into the office and told me I’ve been “distant” and that my “demeanor has changed” since my return from Vermont. But it’s much more than that.

My behavior hasn’t just changed. I’ve been altered.

Reprogrammed. Severed from one life and attached to another. Realigned. Dissociated. Offline. But still alive somehow. Awake. Eyes widened to the width of the universe.

I don’t know exactly what the next step is. But I am certain that I need to make serious changes to my life. Soon. Changes that will make my life fit the shape of the man I have become. And forget the man I was. Because that man is long dead.

The Call I may take a leave from work to gather myself. A few months. Travel some. Europe. California. London.

Iceland, of course. Who knows, senor Sunshine may even be moseying on through your parts real soon.

Have a couch I could crash on for a few days? I’ll make you a painting. I’ll write you a story. I’ll even take my mask off for a spell and share my whiskey with you.

I’ve also been considering applying to MFA programs for Fiction/poetry. Or maybe I’ll just lose myself in the Australian outback or disappear into the mists of the Himalayas. The world is waiting. It’s been calling my name for a long, long time. And I will ignore it no longer. Time to let go. I have to let go.

- B.B. Sunshine (entry 03/22/14)

corduroy park

Sombra - 2

All things sacred come from you

From Bella #1

!

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bb.sunshine

http://society6.com/bbsunshine

https://www.etsy.com/shop/bbpoetry

Bigblacksunshine@gmail.com

Love isn’t just about euphoria; it can be angry, mad, destructive - even tragic. It involves every dimension of our being in infinite ways and degrees. We are attached to love because love is attached to everything. Blurring the lines of poetry and fiction, this blend of gothic verse and fable is an ode to anyone who has traveled through the darkest roads and deepest waters to find love.

Now available on Amazon in e-book and paperback. Prime members can read it for free!

(B.B. Sunshine’s first collection of strange poetry and prose.)

Thank you all once again for taking the time to read my words and gander at my art.

Special thanks to the lovely Julia for lending her beauty and black and white photo to this project. I recommend you all follow her on tumblr (ocevnchild). She is quite awesome.

I’d also like to extend a special thank you to M(melissaarellanoart - tumblr) and Rachel (indiscordium - tumblr) for taking the time to test drive the zine and put up with my madness during its literal, feverish production.

More to come!

- B.B.