johnnyclassick

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

Vessel’s new mask, robe, sword, and pauldron

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

My name is Johnny classick on the Internet.

I'm almost 40 and a classic Golden retriever Libra biracial half white and Mexican with loads of empathy with a passion for the arts.

Photography, mixed media recycling and story telling is something I enjoy to do. I love to go to the gym and sit in the sun. Seeing new places and eating an incredible amounts of food. Meeting new people and learning their history while hearing people trauma dump is my love language. I want to connect to real people and help and be useful in my life time.

I'm at the point in my life where I know who I am and what I bring to the table. So I am here to meet and to create with good people and because I don't fuck with most other social medias anymore.

Fuck trump and big tech.

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

Just so you know they give you a comfy jock strap when you get a vasectomy

It also only takes a few mins and it's pretty much pain free.

Just do it.

[johnnyclassick]

It's not the best cut 😆

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

Inspired by her

The smell of smoke radiated off her body, the taste of cheap wine on her lips made them redder then the amber in her cigarette. Her eyes bright and large, her half crooked smile almost unnoticeable unless you knew her as well as I thought I did. Dim candle light creates shadows that would play with your mind. The shadows of her body, against a bare wall will play tricks on you. A frame of a perfect dame at one time.

She never stood tall, a lack of confidence at times created a water down version of the girl I once knew. Adventurist by nature, when we were young but life shank her dreams to the awful reality she currently lives in. Cheap wine, cheap smokes, cheap conversations filled her time now.

   "Back in my day" was her favorite phrase. Her eyebrow would always raise. "Back in my day, men were men" as she made a fist and took another puff of her cigarette. "Women were classy" under her breathe with a small half smile, "some were trashy" her half smile was her tale and the glance she made, made her eyes shine. As she spoke smoke would pour from her lips like a train traveling up hill, each other word was like a Native American smoke signal telling me a story that I would never forget.

We grew old, my stories could never compare. I lived scared, I over thought things. Made for less adventures but I was able to live comfortably. She was quite the opposite. Everyone had war stories but hers, hers were more then that they were battles, each she would talk about openly, sometimes would giggle at them. As if a person who wasn't as strong as her could have stood them. She was covered in scars, none that would have you think that was true. As we spoke, she would pour herself another glass of wine, the only time her hands were steady. Cigarette at the ready, the flash, the flame, the Puff of smoke would hide her from her words, but only for a second. The room was dark, filled with items of the many years of her life. After hours of talking I would have to stand. Noticing the photos that covered her walls and shelves. I would see the beauty I once knew. Blowing off the dust, remembering the lust that she lived for "Classy dame, never the whore" she would proclaim. Placing everything back just where it was I would stretch out my back, pour myself a glass and then we would chat away the night. There wasn't much in our lives at that time, but we had memories. When you grow old, those are the only things you can really have to enjoy...

We would sit near a flame less fire place, wooden chairs mostly empty would be placed around an astray called her dinning room table. Newspapers and photography filled the empty spaces where wine bottles and discussed cigarette cartons were not. Every now and then a breeze from the balcony would come in, whipping through the smoke and whispering through the photos on the table. The moon light would shine just right, appearing faint in the background. The wool curtains would sway like her dress when she would walk to get another drink from the bare kitchen. You could hear the people on the streets. A city ravaged by war, not by governments but by the city goers. They would gather on the streets late at night when the sun wasn't so bright, under the broken street lights you would often hear fights break out, lots of people would start to shout but she would slowly get up from her wooden chair and look out at them with out any cares. She's seen so much more then this. Traveling countries, war torn and angry she would sing for them. From bars to the big stages. She did it not just for the wages but because that's the only gift she truly had. She was born to stand, she had a strong soul and a braver heart. Pale skin soft as silk but was tougher then nails. Gin soaked, cigarette smoked, she always spoke with a rough voice. When I first heard her sing, it sent chills through my spine. It was forever trapped in my mind.

We sat staring off into the night sky. Drinks in hand, we could hear a jazz band play down the road. The drums would echo off the broken buildings of this awful city. The trumpet would cut through the silent night, like a drug I would fall into a deep vivid memory. Stationed in Ireland, a small hole in the wall pub is where I first laid eyes on the beautiful mess sitting beside me. I never stood a chance back then. A young lamb to the slaughter I was. A room full of strong, brash Irish man with pints in their hands and hearts filled with rage. I could gage the air in the room, I quickly realized I was out match and out gun at all times in this town. The IRA ran everything and with me being alone most times, I wasn't going to step on anyone's toes. Just wanted to wet my lips with a few sips of something strong. Whiskey neat, packed my cigarettes and that's when she took the stage and more that night.

Long golden hair down to her thin waist. Laced, red and bright. A goddess to all of us that night. With out fright she stood tall, she called out to the biggest man in the crowd, pointed to him, grabbed him by the collar and said "Give me something hard"  a Smirk rose on his face, she quickly put him in his place. "Double whiskey neat..." As she took the cigarette from his lips and push him back in the crowded bar. The roar from the room full of Irishmen still makes me laugh to this day

As I woke from that distance memory, I look at my empty glass. Once more I need to use the restroom. For a tiny old lady that would drink gin for breakfast and her daily fruits were of the gods, just bottled formed.  "Grapes at one time" she would say, as if that was good enough, never once left her seat. Crackers, some cheeses that were always laid out but never once did I see go into her mouth. She got me drunk, off the wine and the memories. "A story when you return" she mumbled as if the standing and watching me drunkly walk away was a sign that I need to provide more to the conversation. A returned Smile and a nod as I walked through the darken living room.

She rose from the edge of the earth, like flowers she bloomed in the sun creating endless beauty in the empty fields we call our lives. Like flowers she was often crushed by footsteps from the unloveable kind. Strong bullies with no love in their hearts who were selfish from birth and yet she grew again Stronger and more beautiful after each go around. You could not see it often but she was still just as fragile. She was laid to rest in flowers and the same dirty she grew up on. As a child she would run in the fields that surrounded her little house in the big open county. Dirt and mud were her shoes in those times.

Her death was as beautiful as the sunsets she would wait for as a child. Her life was as bright as the night sky when the sun would set on the edge of the earth. Colors that can't be painted, photos could not capture it either. Just like the ones that filled the walls of her now empty home, couldn't tell you how strong, beautiful and inspiring she was. Her death was the only sunset I wished I didn't get to see in my life.

She knew I had passion for the pen, but reluctance when sharing them with others. Heart on my sleeve and an itch in my finger tip. Type away the pain in the stories that filled my life. Type away the thoughts of yesterday so that I can read them another day, hindsight will change the effect of each word on the paper. Turning phrases from one days pain into inspiring quotes for tomorrow's reading. Leading me to something more at the end of each line. A story to fill my time.

As I walked back from the mildew scented restroom, unbeknownst that this was my last time to hear her rhyme, her way of turning a pharse with those drunken lips, about another story that I must have missed. I see her reaching over the balcony, the cough much worse then I have ever heard. I approach with a glass of water and she smiles and says "that must be for you my dear, drunk and on the way home you should be, it's late. I must try to sleep, this wine has made me a bit weak.." A soft nod is my only reply. I grip her weathered hand and lead her to the bed, which with a sadden heart  isn't the last time I got to see her laying in peace.

"Travel the world, take notes of the people and find a sunset" she may have seen her last but it wasn't the last one for me. I would take her words, I would take a piece of her with me where ever I go.

Ill sip cheap wine, smoke a cheap cigarette and stare up at the heavens where she rests.

On the edge of the earth is where I will find my inspiration these days...

[johnnyclassick]

[johnnyclassick]

Pop. Cut. Mend. Create. This is 100% recycled spray can. Hand made roses made out of the metal of empty spray cans replaced back into an empty spray can.

Respect the tools and display them as works of art.