The Wages, An Illustrated Story | 23. Songs and Parables | Interwoven Curves


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A line drawing in black and whith, with areas of vermillion, gold, and olive green. We see the summer landscape that Brandy is staring out into become an autumn sunset in the country out side of Kingston. An orange sun decends in a golden sky behind red trees, a radio tower, and a power-line tower. The hills roll down to become gloldeng-green heaps of blankets, and tangles of sheets and pillows emerge from the blankets. Joanne and Brandy recline on their sides atop the sheets and pillows, wtih their hips continuing the tumble of curves. We see Joanne as Brandy sees her, glamorous and naked except for a western shirt that is open showing her ample cleavage. Joanne centerfold build contrasts with her biker-boy blonde hair that is tousled after their ovemaking. Joanne has multiple ear piercings, and tattoos of stars arround her wrists. A tuft of light pubic hair is just visible behind the jesture of her arm. Joanne is speaking while walking her fingers across the bed as if describing a journey or a walking bass line on her fretboard. Brandy strokes her chin in consideration while listening to Joanne. Brandy's long black hair is dishevelled too. She has a more femme style than Joanne, while her cross pendant falls between her smaller breasts. Their interwoven curves form a kind of Yin and Yang of intermixed gender signals. This is the first chronological appreance of the star tattoo on the inside Brandy's right forarm. we're looking into the scene somewhat over Brandy's shoulder, andas she reclines, her back twists over her bare bottom. Brandy's legs lead down to a pair of work socks on her feet, with her cowgirl boots kicked off on the sheets nearby. Brandy's boots have a romantic heart pattern. Near the boots, there is a plate with orange segments and peels. A whole orange mirrors the orange sun in the sky, and a portable radio with an extended attenna mirrors the radio tower. Five rectangular frames float beside Joanne's head with illustrations of her stories. 1. Joanne playing an upright bass with a bass clef above her. 2. The fist of a basher ruching toward the viewer. 3. A girl whispering a secret rumor to another shocked girl. 4. Joanne's dog Hector, playing and running. 5. Two young women's hands clasping. End of image description.

I liked to hear about her life. The golden retriever named Hector that she had as a child, and her descriptions of the beauty of the Kingston, Ontario landscape she grew up in. How she had liked math better than other subjects, and related that to music.

She would tell of her time discovering herself as a young lesbian; both the joys, and the emotional—and physical—threats she had faced. She had been out at an age where I was still struggling with my internal life, but it was tough for her.

Once three young bashers had surrounded her and a girlfriend, and one of the guys punched Joanne hard in the stomach. One said, “Oh shit sorry! We thought you were two guys!” as if a little Canadian politeness made any kind of queer-bashing OK. They fled while she shook and cried down on the sidewalk. She thought it was guys from out of town, and it could have been much worse, but it was enough to scare her friend out of their relationship.

When she was in high school, she was groped by an acquaintance who claimed he was trying to “just get friendly and fix her.” This guy was popular, so many people accepted his flat-out denials when she dared to float a few complaints to friends, and their dismissive responses made her feel like shit, and she backed down, but she did notice their wariness of him afterward.

She had been shoved into snowbanks more times than she could count, and was the topic of endless unfounded rumors. I admired her for trying to find ways of standing up for her self through everything, and how even when she was tempted to let go of who she was, she always came back to her self, and her truth.

I loved her love of Elvis and Charles Mingus, and how she related to their sense of differentness, and thought, or at least hoped, there might be a little of both of them in her.

She was interested in my stories, and sympathetic, and kind. We hadn’t had a heart-to-heart about things for a while, and I wanted to prompt her into talking with me.

She was smart, and she was so good looking. And what a bass player. She could do this beautiful jazz stuff I couldn’t even understand. Musically, I thought she was slumming with me; while I chugged away in major and minor chords, she could play elegant jazz circles around me on her bass if she wanted. She could even do the jazz things on an electric bass, which is the instrument I like for my backing. When she played, she would get this look on her like she was desperate and satisfied at the same time. It was hot. I had never had this kind of musical, and love, and sexual relationship all in one before. This was something good in my life right then, and I felt it needed checking in on.

But my mind had to return to the work ahead.


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A line drawing of Brandy Cinnamon Wages.
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