The slowly twitching burning feeling in the back of the one time we kissed with the lights on when we were seventeen and there was no other way for us to shave without exposing ourselves to the flexing bulge of the hatred of out peers that cut so deeply I could hear it click against the bone in my spine that connects me to my hips that always seem to be moving when I remember dancing with you when we danced alone after the prom in the cold spring evening we both remember as the one night we were finally young and free from the feelings of responsibility for the future that we knew were pressing down on our frail minds that were consumed with fear about our social standing and out relationship to a god that neither of us understood but pretended we did just so other people would think we did so they would trust us and let us be who we were which is really too bad because it hurt so much keeping ourselves from ourselves just for the sake of a few people we would never really see again except in passing at the supermarket where they worked until they could find better jobs in places that we wouldn't go if they payed us.

Hunters hunt

As we pursue the ends, what do we mean?

I am currently trying to figure out the role of the motif of the hunter.

Imagine a being who through careful planning chooses a wardrobe that maximizes stealth. It matches the hue and pattern of the forest they tend to stalk. Then to be noticed by others of their kind they put on the most bright and opposite color, florescent orange.

This is the human condition... to fit in but to stand out. To hide and to be found. To not be bothered but to be loved.

Times and times

The formation of ideas is a web of waves of hand holds. When you sit long enough and think, there are cubbies of warm understanding that one can rest in. This is one of those times.

Post-Baccalaureate!!!!! SAIC!!!!!!

Ok, good news, I'm got into the Post-Baccalaureate degree at SAIC.

Ok, now for the sketches...

First step... experiment.

a slow buzz.

A slow burning buzz
Fills my ears and my groin.
The plane is stabbing my neck.
I will never be at peace again.
The slow shifting white noise
Cuts up my insides, and
Clips every nerve at the base.
The patterns are nauseating.
Every smell of the room tugs
At the pit of my stomach.
The recycled air
insults my lungs, and incites
Slime to grow on my tongue.
This isn't life.
This is the hospital waiting room.
This is the Airport Terminal.
This is the Plane.
Hell is the the time you wait
Hoping there is a heaven.
Hell is perfection in control
This is hell.
At least there is free WiFi.

Sketches

Clockwork

I've got it. Finally.

Just at the depths of doubt I catch the glimmer of hope.
I can paint again.
Goats.

The key to all of my philosophy, all my imagery, all my history is the goat.

There really isn't a way to explain it now because it's still forming in my head, and they are really visual issues, but sketches will be up as they are made.