I’m republishing this entry from my old blog. Back then it was titled “Maximum Big Hundredth Collage Celebration Time!” in the fashion of those wacky Japanese show names, because the above collage was my hundredth one… unless I count my first signature, technically a collage although not a fancy one with people in it, unless I count the little, infinitesimal man that was pushing the V closer to the S.
I reedited the collage to fix his arm and give him a lollipop. Little guys need to exercise their tongues if they know what’s good for them.
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I received my latest Archaeology magazine issue a couple of days ago, and in it there’s this interesting snippet about a fifteen-foot-high statue of Hadrian (a Roman emperor for something like 21 years, and guess what his connection is with the Wall) being unearthed, albeit in pieces. The head, a section of his leg, and a foot have been found, and what amazes me is the beautifully carved work on them.
The foot measures over 30 inches in length, and when I read about it my mind took off on a sideline of its own, as it often does, and showed me a statue of myself, gigantic, my feet carved from polished stone to measure much more than a mere thirty inches, and found thousands of years from now, along with manuscripts (CD ROMS, hard drives, etc.) that would detail my wonderful work in improving the world, or a couple of countries, or at the very least, my family.
I don’t really think I’ll get my statue, and that’s fine, because I don’t truly want it as much as I want to actually leave something meaningful behind, the sort of better that is intangible to the rest of the world (although it is said that we are all connected, and I believe that), and invisible to all but a few precious to me.
How does collaging giant women and tiny men enter into that picture? Well, in no way. I understand there’s a part of human nature that wants to work and produce valuable things, and I also know there’s the part that wants to play and be idle and watch Project Runway, the two tend to conflict every once in a while, and right now I feel a bit of a tug from each side as I stare at my hundredth collage, the one I’ve posted above.
The images I create might not last a thousand years, or even a hundred. I’ll be dead in a few decades (no less than six, I hope), and by then the Internet focus on giantesses (and shrunken men, dammit!) will be unimaginably different, so I’ll just quietly enjoy this moment connected to a number that many other collagers have long since surpassed, and drink a cup of coffee to my mouse-clicking health.
More later on what the collage actually means to me. Gotta run now.
My neighbor got married recently. I was very surprised, because I was sure he was gay. Marriage isn’t an assurance of sexuality, but after all this time of seeing relatively attractive men leave his home at the wee hours of the afternoon, I though wedding bells were not in the repertoire for him. But then he up and shows up with an imported wife that doesn’t seem to speak English, one that some mean, heartless people (not me, never me) might say is too young, too pretty for him.
And one that was in the company of a shirtless young man in her house, a man that isn’t my neighbor, who wasn’t at home at that moment. It’s entirely possible that nothing is happening. That man could be her brother, or a priest whose robes are e-stinkee[/Nacho Libre] and in the wash, or her daughter’s boyfriend who just happened to sleep over, or a eunuch guard. In any case, whatever is going on over there is none of my business.
And it certainly has nothing to do with this blog entry, but I do wonder if they are sleeping well at night, if this none of my business thing is really going on. A guilty conscious makes for restless nights (or it should), and how can he slumber peacefully if he’s sniffing out someone else’s pheromones on her skin? I’ve read a few times that when cheating, women are better liars. I don’t know if that’s true, but I bet a person knows, somewhere deep inside, when there are shenanigans taking place.
And that still has nothing to do with this collage, except for the sleep thing. I love images of giantesses and their tiny men that relate to sleeping, resting, napping, and particularly of watching him sleep. I have a whole folder of material I want to collage someday that relates to the theme, and this is just one of those images.
It’s enchanting to imagine a man and his much taller companion, together in that state of trust and openness that is to close their eyes and let the mind drift, a state that is multiplied many times when the man is tiny to her, and the very breath he takes depends on his colossal keeper, his safety, his heart is entrusted to her, and to her reluctance to spend any time with other, shirtless men.
His bed is her hand, or whatever she gives him. It could be her own bed, a toy in a dollhouse, a shoe box (or even better, a shoe), a pile of undies, anything. No matter his size, she still envelops his space with arms and legs, with the wall of her body, with the breeze of her rhythmic breath, and the way she guards his sleep.
I know how wonderful it it to be with someone in real life that cares about one’s rest, that watches over your health, mental and physical, and I know how it feels to protect those in another human being, so I can’t help but allow some of those feelings and circumstances to leak into my fantasies.
In them, my Little Guy sleeps like an angel in the place I provide for him, and after the nights I let him sleep, he wakes up to the prodding of my fingertip on the side of his body, or to my lips as they cover the entirety of his body, or to my singing (which sounds something like a musical storm to his infinitesimal ears), or other alarm clocks I devise only for him.