9 year old Bon

Once upon a time, a 9 year old Bon was bullied into a two week coma. Afterwards, while my facial bones healed, I painted to kill the hours. My mom stopped me from finishing the black layers* on these because I was going to mess up the hospital bed and they ended up in the trash can unfinished. 


Little I knew my cousin sneaked the little paintings out of there (then forgot all about them). Skip forward 30 years to a month ago. They were clearing up space in the attic, came across them and my uncle thought it would be a great idea to mail these to me to commemorate 30 years since my face crash. 


They do smell weird and they are making me cringe a little, but thank you crazy diamonds family of mine, you saved me then and you save me now. Also, thank you 9 year old Bon for waking up, what a ride has been so far, you little hard nut. 


(*I have now filled in the block black layers as originally intended)


These are my favourite form of entertainment, it has always been.

Since I can remember, I sketched my family based on colours and textures, unknown to me that I was impersonating their voices on paper. They all thought my notebooks were a hot mess until my nan started recognising patterns (same people in different pages). I believe my synesthesia comes from that side of my family, her sister apparently had similar (chaotic) notebooks but at the beginning of the century nobody had paid much attention. Nowadays they probe you through childhood to diagnose not-crazy, just funky-wired.

While everybody in preschool was having a go at stick figures, I would argue that the yellow triangular lines and scratched paper folds were clearly my mom, but a bubble head and 5 sticks had nothing to do with her. Consequently my teacher used to display my 'abstract' works as how-not-to-draw your family. Fun times.

I still wonder what part of a stick figure is not an abstraction.

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Details from 'Into the Gramophone' Series © BB Nielsen 2008


I thought I would introduce my ways of poetry with a vignette. My words are uncomplicated and automatic. Short stories and poems mainly, 20 years later I have compiled around 200 pages of poems in a book titled 'Fear the Poet', which will be available soon.


These are my daily charms. Verses from Neruda seem to always sneak through my daily crevices. There are a couple of bracelets, one given to me by my family a few yules ago, made with Mauritanian stone beads, which I had as a necklace I never took off as a kid. What I love about those is that no matter how (if) you crack them, the inside follows the outside pattern throughout. It's not just little ripples, it's bright coloured full circles, stars, rhomboids and dots and parallel lines, all perfectly made by nature, which sort of explains how I see inside my head.

The other bracelet was given to me by a friend of mine I very much admire, the brains behind Soze Gallery in dtLA, the bracelet is by Onyx and Chains and everytime I glance over to check my non existing watch, it reminds me that it is 'Time to Shine', as her saying goes. A green beetle in my pocket, allegory to the Heart chakra and my link to California. His & Hers 'soulmate' rings and my golden double necklace holding a sparrow, a clock marking 10 minutes to 2 and a feather. The latter for the pagan/native-American beliefs of connection to the skies, the spiritual plane, the sparrow as a homage to the first poet (Gustavo Adolfo Becquer) that got through to me (at 13) and saved me from 'undying love'. The poem rang true because I could see sparrows out of my bedroom window and his opening line referred to how they would return year after year. Glad I was only a teenager for only a few months. And finally, the clock. It points exactly my time of birth, which was 5 full days later than expected.

And down the rabbit hole and forevermore, 'I shall be too late!