Help End Child Sexual Abuse With Art

Strength and dignity are her clothing...

Proverbs 31:25

Author's Note: I have been enjoined from sharing the details of my true romance adventure until such time that the other party is prepared to present her perspective on the affair arrangement...

Four days after I arrived in Poland, the largely Catholic country was celebrating Corpus Christi, complete with solemn processions down the street. Three days later I had made a solemn vow that if given the chance to express it, I would show love to a woman I had only just met.

I had come to Europe to experience European naturism, a movement whose philosophy matched my aesthetic of body acceptance and whose organizational structure and leadership I had thought almost exclusively restricted to the western half of the continent. I was shocked to learn that naturism had an official home in Poland, a country not especially known for its liberal culture. I was less shocked to discover that the home was owned by a Dutchman, but even more shocked to learn that it had been largely built by Margo.

I had an American passport. She didn't. And the fact that I was driving a car with Polish license plates gave her ample opportunity to point out the difference. It wasn't just police and border guards who ethnically profiled me. Regular folks did it too. One campsite owner didn't shake my hand until he realized I was an American. By that point, I had trained myself to use a simplified English, something that more closely resembled what passes for a lingua franca in Europe these days. Something Margo was trying very hard to master.

I've never gone hungry without deserving it. I've never been systemically beaten by a parent. I've never been fondled by a priest. That doesn't mean I can't listen to somebody who has had to experience such abuse and it doesn't mean I can't try to understand. Margo and I traveled 6,000 miles together. We slept in the same tent. We had to listen to each other. A person shouldn't need 6,000 miles to do it. We should be able to listen to each other just because we want to. We should've been taught to do it. If we haven't been taught, we should be learning how to do it and learning fast.

One of Margo's pictures from our trip across Europe. — 6,000 miles across Europe with a complete stranger
**Day 16**
8/4/2011
⚖ 15༛♊²⁵/₂₄♀
Camping Club Léman
Préverenges, Switzerland
THE DISAPPEARING WOMAN, THE DISAPPEARING MAN...
a collection of modern art prints and posters
During our trip across Europe, Margo very bravely opened up to me and to the camera. It was a difficult thing to do considering the scars that she carries. I wanted to share with the world her often joyful, often sad, often angry but always liberating experience except that the Internet is full of pictures of naked women and men and full of trolls who abuse them.
I realized that what I really need to point out is not the openness that Margo and I cultivated between ourselves, but the darkness that continues to surround us. When I censor nudity, I do so in a way that does not compromise the integrity of the human body. In censoring the photographs that Margo and I took during our trip, I was quick to notice that in those pictures where Margo was at her most open, at her most unguarded and most relaxed, in a word, when she was herself and basking in the sun I was forced to blacken her completely.
Why does our society drive people into darkness? Why can we not accept ourselves as we are? Why can we not accept our bodies? Have we truly become eunuchs? Or are we capable of defying the sickness that pits us against each other? Together we could conquer the devils that abuse us.
Whether you enjoy being nude or not, whether you've been photographed nude or not, but especially if, for you, like for Margo, it's something you never thought you would do, consider submitting your own photograph to be published in a censored manner as a form of protest against the ubiquitous presence of the human body on the internet, naked or not, that is published and duplicated ad infinitum without context and without regard for the identity or the needs of the individual being depicted.

Previous Image — 6,000 miles across Europe with a complete stranger
**Day 16**
8/4/2011
⚖ 15༛♊²⁵/₂₄♀
Camping Club Léman
Préverenges, Switzerland
THE DISAPPEARING WOMAN, THE DISAPPEARING MAN...
a collection of modern art prints and posters
During our trip across Europe, Margo very bravely opened up to me and to the camera. It was a difficult thing to do considering the scars that she carries. I wanted to share with the world her often joyful, often sad, often angry but always liberating experience except that the Internet is full of pictures of naked women and men and full of trolls who abuse them.
I realized that what I really need to point out is not the openness that Margo and I cultivated between ourselves, but the darkness that continues to surround us. When I censor nudity, I do so in a way that does not compromise the integrity of the human body. In censoring the photographs that Margo and I took during our trip, I was quick to notice that in those pictures where Margo was at her most open, at her most unguarded and most relaxed, in a word, when she was herself and basking in the sun I was forced to blacken her completely.
Why does our society drive people into darkness? Why can we not accept ourselves as we are? Why can we not accept our bodies? Have we truly become eunuchs? Or are we capable of defying the sickness that pits us against each other? Together we could conquer the devils that abuse us.
Whether you enjoy being nude or not, whether you've been photographed nude or not, but especially if, for you, like for Margo, it's something you never thought you would do, consider submitting your own photograph to be published in a censored manner as a form of protest against the ubiquitous presence of the human body on the internet, naked or not, that is published and duplicated ad infinitum without context and without regard for the identity or the needs of the individual being depicted.

Samples of Fiction from Michal's Corpus

Michal's Fiction Corpus of Acceptance Literature (FiCAL) is presented under the Bare Bottom imprint. It is currently comprised of six bodies of work, each representing a different pillar of culture and incorporating a wide variety of writhing styles.

If you're wondering...

How do I use this?

Just click on a title to see examples of "fiction" from a particular work. You'll stay on the same spot on the page, only the Table of Contents will disappear. To get back to the Table of Contents just click next to the image of the Bare Bottom imprint where it says "Back to Samples of Fiction: Table of Contents."“And...?”

In the case of common words, a Table of Frequency and a Table of Collocation provide numerical information about how many times a word appears in its original or modified form and with which words. It can help to give you an idea of how common words are used and in what contexts. Find them in the "Common Words of English" part of the Education section.“Ok.”

Why a Fiction Corpus?

The popular understanding of the word "fiction" and its complement "non-fiction" is a reflection of the cultural influence of a classification system. The Dewey Decimal System is responsible for separating "fiction" from all other work and categorizing it by author's name. This has influenced the popular idea of fiction as a narrative that tends to be "untrue" and the product of an individual's fantasy, a bias compounded by modern art's century-long obsession with abstraction, surrealism and self-expression.“So...?”

My idea of fiction rests on the idea that art doesn't have to be factual to be a true reflection of our existence. Adam and Eve didn't have to exist as two individuals 700 generations ago for them to be true portraits of two human beings trying to work together.“And...?”

The Bible is a Fiction Corpus. It is a body of writing that isn't overly concerned with facts and yet its words carry weight. It was written by many different authors living in different places with different audiences in mind, yet everyone gleans something from it.“Right...”

In preparing my fiction corpus, I have striven to see the world through the eyes of others. Through the eyes of my Adams and Eves I hope that you too will glean some truth about our existence. At the very least you will learn some more about how one man can use the English language.“Ok.”

Who are you, Michal?

I'm just a guy who makes art. And if you're interested in making a solid investment in an aesthetic that supports our present and future welfare, then I will help you look for something that you can buy.“How...?”

Everybody makes. Everybody sells. Some people know how to protect their interests. Some better than others. Few people know how to listen. Listening to somebody means considering their interests as if they were your own. Going out and doing something to satisfy another person's interest is how we build a strong economy. Without a strong economy, democracy collapses.“And...?”

Buying 4Occupy is buying for democracy. Don't give your money to somebody who's ruining it. There's no such thing as cheap democracy, quick democracy, or easy democracy. There's good, solid, complete democracy and the tyranny of feudalism. Let's not mix the two. Let's not buy everything on the cheap. Let's not create another tyrant and enslave ourselves because it was easier not to think about what we were doing. Let's protect our interests. Let's listen.“Ok.”

Who's really behind this site?

Have you ever been to one of those post-it-yourself retail websites where there's a really attractive top-seller ready to give you tips on how you can be a top-seller too?“Uh...”

Have you ever been to a "job" interview where you sit in a line, walk through one door, get hired as a contractor and walk out another door, so that the other applicants don't realize that everyone's getting "hired" to work in the same market?“Maybe...”

The internet is full of people who are ready to exploit your ignorance. They are people who want to make money at the expense of our economy. They are cheats.“And...?”

I, Michal, am behind this site. Not some fat plutocrat exploiting my image. I like to do things the right way. I like to work with people who take the time to do things right.“Why...?”

I used to work for a company that didn't do things the right way. My labor was exploited because of mismanagement. That company was the United States Postal Service, an independent agency of the United States Government that is ultimately controlled by Congress. I'm mad because if the Federal Government can exploit labor, who is going to stop every other cheat from doing it?“Labor Unions...?”

Don't say labor unions. I went to my labor union and they did nothing. They ignored me because labor unions aren't democracies. Holding a free and fair election for a "representative" once in a blue moon does not equal people ruling. Democracy means open government. It means we the public need to accept the hard work. It's the only way to secure liberty and equality.“Ok.”

What's the difference between use and usage?

Definition-wise, not much. But the -age suffix is ultimately French in origin and with most things French, at least in American eyes, the immediate thought is that of something precious and arcane whose value should be judged very carefully. This is in contrast to the word France, which is associated with a beautiful place. Thus people in France or from France are beautiful, warm, kind people. Generous even. Unlike French people who suck. Unless you're frenching, in which case you're only sometimes sucking.“And...?”

Along those lines, usage means you're in bed. Use means you're just heavy petting. Also notice that common people, like common words, get used...whereas "proper" things make "appearances." Whether or not you are being exploited is a different story. Exploitation is what happens when somebody uses you or your property without listening to you. Listening is what happens when you consider another person's needs as if they were your own. You don't have to satisfy those needs. All you need to do is consider them. So many of us can't even do that.“So...?”

Help stop exploitation. Buy 4occupy. Buy a better world. Whether or not you feel you can afford to buy art, consider joining my protest. I want to guarantee every working man and every working mother on this planet a 15-day universal holiday. But I can't. Only we can do that. We have to work together. We have to accept the idea that everyone deserves time for himself and we need to build that time into a new kind of calendar. We have to give peace it's own day. We have to make love something you can't avoid. We have to make even the most miserly cold-hearted capitalist among us say that he cashed his check on Love Your Neighbor Day. There won't be any other way to say it once the Acceptance Calendar is widely adopted.“Ok.”

Back to Samples of Fiction: Table of Contents

Samples of Fiction from Death to McDonalds

An aerial view of Dodger Stadium in the foreground, with an imaginary partially submerged Los Angeles behind — A story bible for a comic book series set in a post climate-change California narrated by eight characters who live through a natural disaster that sinks Los Angeles and triggers a war with an expansionist Mexican government covertly supported by China.

Frame #5938

everyones talking about the thrist strike. what a sacrifice. what a real inspiration. a leader who cares. if you ask me its bullcrap.

Justin Bieber

15 December, 2:23 PM

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Samples of Fiction from The Gospel of Jesus H.

A picture of the planet Mars — An experimental science fiction Christology that makes Jesus the hard boiled narrator of his own early years on a bizarro earth made dark by volcanic ash and informally ruled by a man from Mars who sells bottled air.

The acute asthmatic attack is alarming both for the sufferer and for the onlooker. There is acute difficulty in breathing, and the chest assumes a more and more inspiratory position. Despite the severe respiratory difficulty, the patient remains fully conscious.

– Verse 37 from the chapter called Adolescence

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Samples of Fiction from Sex for Children

A drawing of a man between a woman's legs in front of another man in a hospital bed — A literature book narrated by a pair of siblings on either side of the Atlantic whose profoundly weird sexual experiences pose a serious challenge to their traditional understanding of mathematicians, marriage, gay young men and God.

Whenever I saw her, whenever she passed by me or I approached her, the feeling would come spurting from my loins. And I was deeply troubled, because I didn't know what it meant. It was around her that I first became conscious of the feeling. And because she was the first object of its power, I was very confused as to its nature. My best explanation was, and remains to this day, that somehow my organism could sense the body of its origins, that there was some primordial attraction taking place, or else that my visual recognition of my mother was prompting my body to send out a message, to call to her in greeting perhaps. Sometimes I thought my body was trying to return to its home, trying to pull me by my loins and jump back into the womb. That was the inspiration for some very strange imagining.

– Title 3, Regarding a Dream, Chapter 1, The First Day, Part 1, Victory & Calendar Reform, Section 5, Inflammation of the Loins, Paragraph 5

I will say that Macy pretended to be thoroughly impressed, and I daresay, I think my performance may have had a significant effect on him; in fact, it may have been the inspiration for much of what transpired a few days after we closed the show, during our first real encounter together in a long time.

– Title 1, Regarding Peaches and Bananas, Part 2, Section 6, Third Party Intervention, Paragraph 4, Clauses 8-9

She was so calm - so divinely peaceful - just like she was when everything started. I remember how panicked I was - how worried, when Albert wouldn't wake. He was sleeping on that sofa bed for so long, I couldn't remember when I last saw him. I returned home one afternoon with some fresh inspiration, and, after looking into Albert's room and seeing him under his blanket, I naturally assumed that he was sleeping. I didn't start to worry until I was preparing my nightly collation. I thought: maybe I should wake him up, believing that he must be very hungry. But then I thought: he must know when to wake and when to sleep - after all, he was the one who was tired. So I let him rest till morning. Then, when he didn't show up for breakfast, despite the noise and the smells, I knew there was a problem. So I went to his room and tried to wake him: to no avail.

– Title 3, Regarding a Dream, Chapter 5, The Fifth Day, Part 2, Science & Reform Schools, Section 7, Human Frailty, Paragraph 2

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Samples of Fiction from Tsiga Tsiga Tsiga

Bullets whizzing by a statue of Nikola Tesla — A collection of stories featuring a sexy Parisian ghost, a spooky Moon base full of vagina-faced aliens, a policeman with an Irish name, a truck full of watermelons, a flautist, and a man who has to see another man about a diseased horse.

The smoothness of the leather reassured me. I stroked it. I thought of my leg: the poison ivy I once brushed pulling overgrown grape vines from the trees: the week-long rash I suffered, whose blisters having burst, whose pus having wept dry, left that spot intoxicatingly numb, sprinkled with delightfully silky bumps, a token of pain patiently endured, an itch fitfully ignored, a small triumph of will, now faded into memory, temporarily rescued from the abyss of oblivion.

– from “Paris Is For Rapists, Too,” a ghost story featuring the beautiful world of Paris at night

Her breasts were bared. She wasn't wearing a tunic. Only the flimsy fabric of a friar's scapular covered the length of her body beneath her cloak. With her arms stretched back, two nodules of beautiful fat bulged from beyond her hems, settling under their own weight like egg white beaten to a soft peak, waiting to be folded into batter. The satin of her scapular suddenly sashayed across her nipples. It fell against the side of one breast. It squeezed itself into her cleavage. Pluck, I begged quietly to myself, the obnoxious apron out.

– from “Paris Is For Rapists, Too,” a ghost story featuring a frank discussion of a cloak

Sartorius led the way, twisting around the quadriceps, gripping the crest of the pelvic girdle, whence many muscles start their path-like gluteus maximus, rectus femoris, the three vasti: lateralis, medialis, intermedius-great ships whose massive hulls sartorius escorts down man's thigh-cuddling, wrapping himself over and around them-until he falls spiraling down the inner side, inserting himself at the tibia, the shimmering place behind which robust and shapely gastrocnemius makes his dwelling: the propeller, whom the ancients framed with gleaming buskins.

– from “Paris Is For Rapists, Too,” a ghost story featuring a frank discussion of police work

"I heard from somebody who talked to somebody who knew somebody who used to work here that most of their patrons aren't gay. What do you think of that?"

"I think it's stupid. Why would it be true?"

"Maybe homosexuals think transvestites are queer or something."

"If you want one of these people, why wouldn't you be gay for wanting them?"

– from “Paris Is For Rapists, Too,” a ghost story featuring a frank discussion of half-naked nuns

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Samples of Fiction from Sorry Ms. Jackson

Chiseled letters from an ancient stone tablet hanging on a wall — A real play. With drama in it. Talk fast. It takes two hours. Set in a guest house. In a small community. After a murder. Lots of suspicion. The characters learn to listen to each other. It's funny.

FLETCHER: You thought Norfolk had a checkered past. Being a former prison colony's prison colony is nothing next to Pitcairn.

ALICE: I would never have imagined it was like that. I thought it was a paradise.

FLETCHER: I'm writing a play about it - specifically about the woman who chopped off that man's head. She's an ancestor of mine. Maybe later we can go over a few scenes.

ALICE: I'd love to.

FLETCHER: If your neck doesn't still hurt.

ALICE: I'm feeling much better now, thank you.

FLETCHER: If you strained it, you strained it. I have to say, you have surprisingly little tension.

ALICE: It's my honeymoon. I've been having lots of sex.

FLETCHER: You shouldn't have reminded me.

ALICE: Why not?

– ACT I, lines 626-635

LUKE: What's the difference between the two?

MS. JACKSON: Bounty families are descendant from the original Bounty mutineers, who settled on Pitcairn Island-

FLETCHER: With their Tahitian consorts. I'm sorry. I meant their Tahitian wives. And their Tahitian slaves. I mean, their male Tahitian friends.

MS. JACKSON: The Pitcairner families are descendant-

FLETCHER: From three adventurers - to be more precise, from two ack-willy whalers and a soldier-of-fortune.

LUKE: That's a ridgy-didge pedigree. Too right!

FLETCHER: It gets better. Being a direct descendant of my namesake, Fletcher Christian, the illustrious chief of the mutiny on the Bounty, I am therefore descendant from the ancient rulers of the Isle of Man.

LUKE: A reg'lar Pommy!

FLETCHER: My father's mother was a Quintal. That means half of him is descendant from a drunken scoundrel who set his ship on fire, drove his wife to suicide, and threatened to kill the entire island population. That's not the side of the story we like to tell. We prefer the story of how John Jackson turned to Christianity and taught his children to read and write. Jackson, I'll have you know, was a Christian before he became a Jackson. He changed his name the moment the British rediscovered the island. My mother admires his cowardice so much, she did the same thing.

– ACT I, lines 93-101

FLETCHER: There was a girl who tried to kill me. She came after me with an axe. It reminded me of Susannah's story.

ALICE: What made you want to write a play about it?

FLETCHER: Mull.

ALICE: I'm sorry?

FLETCHER: Isn't that what you Australians like to call it?

ALICE: I guess.

FLETCHER: It's the modern artist's drug of choice.

ALICE: Even here on Norfolk?

FLETCHER: There was a time when every other artistically-inclined tourist I met asked me about it.

ALICE: Whether you had any?

– ACT II, lines 101-110

MS. JACKSON: I will go insane if I don't find out.

GREY GOOSE: It's all very simple. These two have been running a racket: a confidence game. Kokomo plays the prostitute, whose story is so ridiculous it must be true. Finding out for oneself is the challenge. If she's the best lay in the South Pacific, one should know the difference.

FLETCHER: Satisfaction guaranteed.

GREY GOOSE: Cash comes rolling in.

MS. JACKSON: I don't understand. What happens when-

FLETCHER: By the time they get to bed, they think she's a charity case.

GREY GOOSE: She vomits on them and that's it.

MS. JACKSON: Vomits?

FLETCHER: It turns me off.

MS. JACKSON: How?

– ACT II, lines 431-440

ALICE: Did somebody die?

FLETCHER: Don't ask.

ALICE: Yes.

FLETCHER: Even if your husband had died?

ALICE: It would.

FLETCHER: I've been wanting to confess this for so long. The island makes it hard. Who would have understood me if I had spoken? My mother? I pay my penance every time I hear her cry. She has no idea what part I played in that fire. I can't help feeling that, if I had stopped it, this family would never have had the problems it's had. Nobody died in that fire except for me. It was my own soul burning. As far as the house is concerned, restitution's been made. As for me, who would not find my weakness and ignore it? for the sake of convenience if not for shame. Who would restore my strength from the ashes?

ALICE: Let it be me. I will restore you.

FLETCHER: This is why I've been pursuing you. I knew you'd never give in to me. I saw your strength the moment you arrived: its grace: its beauty. I fell in love with it. I desired it - not for myself, but for its ability to release me from this guilt.

ALICE: Let me release you, Fletcher Christian. I will make you whole again.

FLETCHER: You will forgive me my crime?

– ACT II, lines 184-193

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Samples of Fiction from Miscellaneous Dingbats

The title of the book at the end of a string of miscellaneous dingbats — A story book full of short fiction stories. An interesting bedtime mystery. A fairy tale. Science fiction romance. Adult life. Uninspiring gay fiction. Horror.

My father thinks I'm being immature. He doesn't realize I'm trying to mock him. It's all his fault. Pretending to cheat on his wife. As if he didn't know it would cause a disaster. For two years my mother refused him sex. Why would she think he was pretending?

– from “The Backed-Up Toilet,” a literature story based on something that actually happened, namely to the author

On the fifth day I worked on my translation. Whenever I noticed something odd like a common idiom or a strange use of a word I considered it out loud. I started teaching grammar to an invisible class. My commentary attracted the interest of two village women. I caught them trying to look through the window. I invited them inside but they ran off. It occurred to me that there were many things in this world that might be of interest to an imaginary class.

– from “A Black Man in Moscow,” an inspirational story that describes the mess we're in as a society, though hopefully you're one of those helping to clean it up

With my next imaginary class I started debating the actions of Vasilevsky at Kharkov. I argued on one side that he should've had the courage to stand up to Stalin. I argued the opposite point as well. As I was summing up my conclusions I found two visitors at my window. They were old men. They said they had come to see the lunatic at the schoolhouse. I invited them inside but they walked off.

– from “A Black Man in Moscow,” an inspirational story that represents real life for some folks regardlesss of where they live

I've never raped a woman. I would never want to. Not sexually. I told my wife once I wanted to rape her. That comment needs to be taken in context. We were at an art gallery. We were looking at a picture of the Sabine women.

– from “The Backed-Up Toilet,” a literature story based on true experiences as I remember them