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.

the Tally

I received a letter from UCLA today.
I didn't get into their grad program for painting.

I didn't get into Yale.

I got an interview with School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
It went horribly.

What now for art? What shall I paint?

Well I am doing a painting for comedian Maria Bamford. I hope to have a show in Late April or early May.

Right now though, I hate art. I've been drawing all day, and I feel nothing. It looks good, it's just lost some of the magic.

Everything has lost it's magic.

I feel the great chasm of time weighing down on me. Can I make a difference with my art? Is anything I make just one more painting in a sea of paintings? Aesthetic doesn't matter. Skill doesn't matter. Concept doesn't matter. Every time I put mark to support, I am adding nothing. My own voice is even lost to me. My paintings are nothings even in my own life. The meaning they impart is lost on everyone, save a few. The world moves on. One in a million will even take a minute out of their time to even consider the content.

I will go to grad school. Someday. But why? What can they tell me? Should I believe the ancient poet, and know that truth is from within? Is there even a truth to find? Even if I found it, how can I express it?

The skin on my wrists is thin. But it seems stronger and more resilient than my soul at this juncture. My work has died. Was it even worth anything to begin with? Is catharsis a justifiable existence? I am such a wreck.

I spent my birthday alone once more. My social life reflects my impotence. No matter how much effort is put in, the return is zero. Is this my canvas? No matter the ammount of work, the canvas remains unchanged. A painted surface. The gesso is already perfect in it's absence, what can I add? The canvas itself mocks my ever move, fighting and clawing at my every move. Every move is a draw.

Can a picture change the world anymore? Can a still image mean anything in a world saturated in images? Any image can be made. Hell, it is made. Zero sum. There is nothing new under the sun.

If I am unable to take and make love to the canvas, how will I make anything? If I don't spill blood, sweat, tears and semen, I can create nothing. But this is a world satisfied with nothing. My premature ejaculated ideas hang on the canvas as a curse freezes in the wind. There isn't a cure for this slump.

The paint that still occupies my fingernails mocks me. It secretly says that I am a painter. Yet what have I done worth a flying fuck? I cannot create. If the canvas doesn't love me, wont let me close to it, how am I to give it a child? If the very world of art hates my inner being, what good am I too it?

This isn't a dialog, this is a crappy monologue of caustic one-liners directed at my temples. Art is the same cold bitch I always fall for. Beautiful, but completely uninterested in my constant work and devotion.