#atsap art

[tony-caito]

The one and only @artsy-moonwalker has blessed me with this gorgeous lineart of my Father Burnham triptych sketch and I need everyone to sit in awe w/ me 🖤⛪️

[tony-caito]

do you have another preview for atsap while we wait for the next chapter? i’m SO ready

You know what—I do!! A journal entry from when Father Burnham was still plain old Bo.

Slight Spoilers for ATSAP Chapter 4 ahead!!!

~~~~

2-20-2008

I always pictured it happening in math class.

I think people tend to think math is antithetical to art, but to me, numbers are just as poetic as words. Math requires symmetry, math poses infinite questions and presents an equal number of solutions to be formulated and worked out. I think poetry and comedy are the same way.

Others might think calculus is where artists go to have their dreams killed.

So if they were ever gonna call me out for my songs, why wouldn’t it happen in math class?

Mister Burnham (me, by the way. My offense is somehow weighty enough to warrant a “Mister”, but not the dignity of my first name) is summoned to the administrator's office over the loudspeaker without ceremony (the jeering and scattered laughter of my fellow teenage boys)

Somehow, it still feels like a death march.

Brother Mark watches me sulk in through his Jeffery Dahmer glasses.

Ma is waiting there in the office for me too, wearing her nurse's scrubs. I sink down in the open chair next to her and ask if anyone we know has died.

Silence.

Brother M clears his throat and begins by turning his computer screen towards me. There’s a thumbnail image of a lanky kid in a blue tee hunched over his cheap keyboard in his too small bedroom.

“We all know what this is about Mister Burnham” he says. Sure, we do, but the kid on the screen isn’t Mister Burnham, it’s just Bo. In my mind that’s a pretty crucial difference, but I know I wouldn’t be here if they could make that same distinction.

“Why now after two years?” I ask as humbly as I can (not very). “Unless we’re here to celebrate it hitting a million views.”

“We’re not, Bo.” No nonsense from my mother. Naturally. This isn’t a joke.

“I know, Ma.”

Brother Mark, sounding like a joyless Yogi Bear, a lobotomized Tony the Tiger scrolls through the rest of my channel and says, “These things could easily jeopardize your future Robert.”

I, the nasally idiot with the wavering courage, put on my best Big Boy voice and remind him that I’d already been accepted into three ivy leagues and NYU.

It’s not a compelling enough argument by half.