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| LOCKED ON |
| The rednecks found us easy prey, like the scavengers they emulate so implicitly. A night of partying had left us stupidly susceptible to being ambushed and it took a while for all three of us to wake up at all. No amount of yelling did any good - we were too far from the camp, which was outside the 'prohibited land' we were protesting on. Being locked on is no S & M fantasy when you can smell the foul, stale, spilled beer and poisonous diesel stench that rises off the bodies of the loggers. Only the fact that we were all still half sozzled stopped us from panicking completely and being really damaged by their assault - but we had to witness each other... They rape the forests - we're part of the forest. It was terrifying - and etched into my life. I expunge their smells and own the memories when I can commit them to art. The rapist is no therapist - but now that I can only see the drives that make them do what they do, be the 'controlling', fearful beasts that they are, I feel free of their marks. Watercolour pencil |
| The Erotic Art of Mary S. Aseer |
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