Sean Fahie, The Dude: Part 1

Laughter is fucking deceiving.

Mainly because I just don’t know what’s so fucking funny or what’s being hidden.

Then he laughed.

And his voice rang through the house we were in. It was a throaty laugh. Is throaty is even a word? I don’t know but if it is… it’s a perfect description of when you hear Sean laugh for the first time. If you were standing in a crowded football field and this n___a laughed, you could hear him and know that Sean is somewhere in the building.

When I met him, all I was about was his smelly MARTA tank top. It was an old grey tank top decorated with the MARTA logo and associated colors. I loved that piece of shit because it screamed ATLANTA in my mind. I felt like I needed to have it but he wouldn’t give it to me. However, he understood in that moment my appreciation for it because it was the same as his whenever he purchased it. If he purchased it in the first place.

If you don’t get a chance to know him then all you can identify him by is his laughter. But laughter can be deceiving allowing him to just look like a “purveyor of fun.” This isn’t the case. If I had to call it after knowing him for this long, I would say that he appears to be The Dude mixed with Charles Bukowski. A black man version of the two men combined. There must be some sort of zen with this man because of his ability to be constantly set to chill. I’m sure there have been times where he’s totally flipped his lid but I’ve never seen it. I would be remiss to think that he never has.

It’s just that his laughter is so fucking deceiving.

On Food, Art and Rebirth

I recently went through the beginning of a re-birthing process. All over the course of 36+ hours. If I have been walking through a dizzying abysmal abyss for the past few years, I’ve finally seen shimmering glints of the end. Quick flashes of what will be versus what could be. One weekend in Atlanta reminded me of why I call myself an artist. I’ve been telling people that I could categorize the entire weekend based on the meals I ate.

Starting with a Swedish meatball dinner in an IKEA, I sat across from Loved One anticipating a weekend of debauchery and intelligence. What more do you want? Where is this journey going? Why are you here? Questions swirled inside my brain and I still don’t need to know the answers. Five hours later, my food had digested, my brain was elevated and an impulsive stop at a hidden abandoned farmhouse off road restored my faith in my nasty habits and funny contradictions. It felt like an exorcism from the mundane I’ve come to accept as a result of parenthood.

I don’t know much about anything in this life but to live it by my own terms, of free spirited nature and intelligent mind. The artists I hold near and dear to me are the exact way. It’s taken me years to recognize and acknowledge this type of like minds. I had to hear it from an outsider to my world, Loved One. Not an artist. Not like us.

He missed out on the spicy broth soup with bok choy and Japanese sweet potatoes after he dropped me off at my friend’s house. It washed over me, calmed me down from previous hours of excitement and filled my belly with a warmth that welcomed me back into an ethereal fold. The adventure began the next day with a hunt for Takis and a cherry Coke.