Gloater

I'm down here but I need to be up here.


Miracles happen, but you talk like they won't happen here. They're an exclusive minority, an outlier in the realm of belief. There's your mustard seed. There. Right there. Thanks, God, but now we'll take it from here.

Pull over. I'm walking.

-----------------------

YMCA: For an organization that lauds its Christian morals your members sure don't mind making off with my stuff. If these were episodes of The Lost Room someone at the Y has gained The Swimming Goggles and The Shampoo That Protects Your Hair From Chlorine. You suck, guy; enjoy my crappy swimming accessories. --Or it's more than likely two different guys, because it was two different YMCAs.

To be fair it was my fault for forgetting those items in the shower. Damn, but I'm forgetful in there... And what, pray tell, was I doing in two places at once?

Eyebaal Goes To Black Outline World

One day Princess Eyebaal went to Black Outline World. It was awesome. The End.

That Cloying Scent

The Good Lord has sent Jeff to hound me about a perfect art show opportunity. Despite my clever defenses I am finally given over to this one. Who knows why it is I drag my feet on these things?

So now I have to come up with an idea. The show prompt is simply "Monster Mash." It's light-hearted, and perfect for the October season, especially with Halloween coming up.

I love Halloween. Probably my favorite holiday. I've got a birthday around then, so I always felt a certain ownership of said holiday. There's revelation in the ghoulish spectacle. Something light, but edgy. Good stuff.

Cryptic, no?

Southpaw

I was notified that I smell like a wet dog tonight.

...Hmm.

Time for a bath.

In and Out of Shape

Balance.

Just looking for a little balance today.

Everything, All at Once

Pilfer, wrack, and ruin.

We listened to an audio-course all the way back from the Carolinas this week. It was "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." It was informative, if not a little depressing at times, to hear about the centuries-long struggle for power that resulted in hundreds of thousands of (roman) deaths as legion fought legion for the dictatorship. Shocking stuff. I had no idea how regular the forces of that empire engaged in its own bloodletting through deceit, assassination, and full-scale civil war.

All for the promise of power.

For 99% of those in the game this ended quite badly, usually with a dagger in their back and/or head on a pike. News to me. I'm glad I wasn't alive back then. Thankful to be hidden away here in an Ohio suburb for the time being.

Goodbye Gravity Star

I've been informed that I need to start journaling again. When I asked whether or not that included blogging, the answer was a firm "no." So disregard this post as it's part of a vestigial motion, a superfluous gesture that just happens to coincide with something more meaningful.

At the least let's use this post as a mile-marker of sorts, a reminder of what we all hope will be a significant change. Something is molting, wriggling out of its skin. Only time will tell if anything useful emerges. More than likely it's just the same organism, but with new socks.

Yes, yes. And on and on.

We were in the clothing store today. There was a customer assistance phone hanging on the wall there. On the little postage stamp-sized screen there was a single sentence. It said, "Message for you."

For me? What's the message? I think I need to know. Maybe it's something comforting, like "God loves you." or maybe, "Life will work out. Don't worry." Any of those would do.

Just give me some good news.

Tomorrow, Today

I've noticed a correlation between times when it's raining and the frequency of my blog posts. The same holds true for when I am ill. So today is double-trouble in that it is both raining am I am recovering from a bug. So I dust off the blog and take it for a stroll.

Dear Planet Earth:

You are beautiful. Everything about you is wondrous, down to the little weird things like dirt, mud, and rotting leaves. Even in your mundane aspects I can find merit. When I spend any amount of time amongst your splendor it never fails to leave me with a feeling of peace.

You are a good planet. I'm sorry we keep ruining you with all the horrible detritus of human civilization, things like oil spills and toxic waste to name a few. Let's never pretend for a second that our current way of life does not come with a cost.

We'll wreck your ecosystems on a whim if we think there's something of value that can be squeezed out of it. We cause extinctions. We are your most destructive biological inhabitants. Viruses ain't got nothin' on us. We're too in love with the sound of our own voices.

We're sorry. I promise we'll try harder from now on.

With all our love,

The Humans

This Winding Road

So no new posts in these past few weeks. What's new to tell? Work is work; relationships wax and wane; life rolls on.

And the semicolons will be there in all their illegitimate uses. Ah.

Lately I've taken vast enjoyment from noontime. It's my happy ritual: wake up, get coffee, see who's on instant messenger, and peruse the web for anything new. By the time the coffee is finished, I'm ready to start my day. Glorious ritual-- possibly one of the only perks to teaching a night class-- is sleeping in.

Take me to the beach. I need it. Badly. I need to smell the ocean, to get pulverized by those big waves, and walk away feeling triumphant. Lord, why did you put me in a landlocked city in a (mostly) landlocked state? Lake Erie doesn't really count. It's cold up there... and it's all freshwater. Ew.

Sidewalk of Dreams

Sidewalk, I can walk on you for miles. You start at my doorstep and stretch out to every corner of this little town. Every house that I pass has the porch-light turned on, and the telltale blue flicker of a television playing out its stories behind each set of curtains.

I wonder why I don't watch more television, then I realize it's because I spend my free time sitting in front of a computer screen. It's all the same then; everywhere I look, we're watching screens. When I've got a moment to spare, I'll check my cellphone for messages: another little screen, but this one fits in my pocket.

Consequently I use my cellphone as a type of 'soft' flashlight when I go stumbling through the house at night, not wanting to turn on any lights since there's always a person sleeping on the couch. Don't want to wake them. And always a different person each night, which strikes me as another novelty of this place.

Another novelty is the communal coffee pot. I've timed myself to wake up fifteen minutes after my wife's father, so I can descend on the fruits of the coffee pot with none of the involved work (little that there may be: pour in water, coffee grounds, push button-- but whatever). "Gentle Opportunist" is the name I used to give myself, proudly beaming. That is, until I stumble in to find that the coffee has, in fact, been made but none is left for me. And then I feel insulted, snuffed, as it were, by fate, and/or my housemates. How dare they.... ?

What does it mean that we look into screens all day for work, recreation, and utility? What would be the response if I traveled a hundred years into the past to visit an ancestor; and he asked what we did all day in the future, and I answered, "We look at screens! It's awesome!"?

These sidewalks, they remain largely unused from what I've seen. But at least they're handicap accessible.


it is what it is

Ghetto Marquee

Came into school early today to get some work done, namely hiding behind a computer screen and devising cruel technical demonstrations for my students. *diabolic laughter*

Also going to a town hall meeting in an hour to hear about what Ohio law-makers are planning to do about human trafficking and sex slavery both locally and internationally. Should be an informative and productive event. Our pastor is one of the speakers tonight. I'm curious to hear him talk. I'm guessing a public forum would be a bit of a jump from standing in front of his congregation.

Anyway.... gonna go find something to eat. Chalk this class planning session as a moderate success and try again tomorrow.

Letters to the Void

I find myself less inclined to write about my feelings these days. Funny how that works: the things for which I've been pining get shuffled back into my life and my response is to shut down the transmitter and retreat to the most furtive and dark basements to mull over events there.

Anyway, I couldn't grasp these feelings even if I wanted to; they're slippery little fishies, a flash of glittering silver scales in the sun. Running with that metaphor, here's one that leaped clean out of the water and into the boat. It flopped around for a moment then just lay there, mouth gasping for air, bug-eyed and alien. What the hell am I looking at here?

This one walked right off the paper. Couldn't stop it if I wanted to; a creeping construct of literary refuse. Thankfully I have friends who are more than willing to dispatch these idle notions before they can do damage. I watched in maddened glee as they were struck down, one after another, burned by fire, hacked apart by a variety of cutting implements, and refuted by clever puns.


here comes the three-hole-punch!

Sitting on Stone Steps

Word to the wise: skipping meals and sleep combined with downing coffee all night long makes everything look edible. Why does the very act of typing this give me a weird deja vu fit? Odd.

Also, in unrelated news, my computer is working again. Came home to find it functioning good and proper. Amazing. I was on the cusp of reloading the OS.

Apparently I won some small victory in the ongoing psychological war against the machines... for now. Stop texting while you drive, dummies. I can't fight them on my own.

So get this; today for class we critiqued my students' projects. And about an hour into class the network fails. All but one computer, off in the corner: this girl's account magically stayed active. She was my lifeline. I rerouted some resources (i.e. fancy way of saying unplugged; replugged stuff) to her Mac, and behold! ... it worked for about fifteen minutes. Then that stopped working. More rerouting ensued.

To stall for time, I announced some greater force was at work here, undermining our every effort to have class. My students suggested it was God, and leered, hungry to see which direction I would goad the conversation. My reply was stern, haunted: "This isn't the work of God. There's a real malice behind these IT failures. Some dark force is responsible... EVIL!" (cue laughter from students)

I played this game with them throughout the evening, every time something went wrong, (yes, even mouse failure) I masked my total lack of control over the situation with some joking. 'Look at this hand; not that hand. Ooooooh shiny quarter.'

So a pretty rough night, but good. On the brighter side, I'd imagine teaching a drawing class would be boring as hell compared to this circus.


love this job

Hey, Neat!

I am happy to report I am now saddled with cutting edge digital art-making technology. :D

The digital drawing tablets in my lab actually register the amount of pressure you apply with the stylus. Squeeee!

To put that in perspective, I spent most of last year drawing with a mouse.

So this is the big time.

Shimsham Peanut

I had to take down my show this weekend. Michael stepped in and saved some of the pieces from destruction, which is cool. I took some pictures of the work finally. Here is a closeup of something that got saved.

It was happy news that some of these were allowed to remain intact. Never got around to writing that artist statement for you. Not sure what could be said that hasn't been alluded to either in this blog or vocalized in person. And never personally liked reading artist statements in past exhibitions: usually an 8"x 11.5" sheet of printer paper slapped on the gallery wall; blocks of text that you have to crane your neck to read, and even then there's too much going on around you to concentrate.

No, wait. I take it back. That piece of paper taped to the wall has its uses. There's some point at many openings where you dip into the awkward moment, where you've finished up one conversation and the next waits to find you. So, drink in hand, you saunter over to the wall with the artist statement. Squint your eyes to read. Ah, Times New Roman, so we meet again. Good, good. What's this, a sentence ending in a preposition? Bah.

After a moment of reading-but not really reading-I remove myself from this wall and go back and look at the artwork, as if new vistas of revelation are about to open up. "Ah, it all makes so much sense now! Of course!" Thank you, little piece of paper. Thank you for showing me the way.

Shallow Seas

The hull of our little boat scrapes along the top of these alien shoals and comes to a stop. What a strange place. I can't get my bearings; I see no significant landmarks, just empty blue running off to where the horizon meets the sky.

But this is solid ground, albeit a few feet submerged. I climb out of the boat and my bare feet meet the reef. Walking is difficult. The coral is jagged and I stumble several times trying to find purchase.

I look back at the wooden rowboat, and see the giant sandwich I left there. It's a hoagie, and over two meters in length. Why didn't I eat that hoagie? There's no way I could take it with me. The mayonnaise will surely spoil in no time. Poor sandwich.

I walk on, leaving behind boat and sandwich, and disappear into the horizon.



Mmm?

Granted

Today I drift happily on the winds of change. Come what will, I'm thrilled by the prospect. Change. We're all changing. I can't believe my eyes. My ears. What I'm seeing; what I'm hearing. It's all good news. Our little corner of the cosmos is blessed.

Cool.

It's late in the afternoon. Close to the rollover for evening, and I am still wearing pajamas. How does a thing like that get started? Can a man still accomplish mighty works in his bedclothes? We will see.

Jon showed me how to make a larger brush in GIMP today. The default brushes only went up to size 10, which is too small for my purposes. With this newfound knowledge I went to work making a bigger brush. I ended up building a brush of such immensity that it would destroy the world should it fall into the wrong hands. Luckily for you I am a gentle tyrant, and will only use this new-found power in neat blog pictures. Aren't you the lucky one?

Deadlight Lifeline

It's time for another adventure, kiddies. I'd like an excuse to go investigate a mysterious sound, my flashlight dancing off the tombstones in a sinister place. A twig cracks underfoot-- but not my foot-- and now sure I'm not alone in this place.

Ironically, it's just Reggie. My flashlight falls across his proud, beaming face and I feel like strangling him.

"You tryin' to give me a heart attack or something?!"

"Sorry, I had to run back to the car to get supplies."

"Oh, umm, good. I-- hey, wait. Where are the shovels?"

"Shovels? I thought you were joking about that." He shrugs, pulls out something small and plastic.

"Damn it, Reggie. Get it together man. And-- what are you doing there? What is that?"

"Fruit cup."

"....."

Unbelievable. I turn on my heel and walk away. My flashlight reveals tree branches ahead. I duck and make my way into the undergrowth. Progress through the tangled weeds is slow-going. After five minutes I'm out of breath and sweating. I stop for a moment to listen for Reggie, but there's no sound. Maybe he's gone back to sit in the car. Who knows? I turn around and jump out of my skin to find him standing in front of me.

"Stop that."

"Sorry."

We walk along for fifteen more minutes, finally coming out of the forest into a clearing. Voices can be heard nearby. I switch off the flashlight and crouch low. The undersides of the trees ahead are awash in the reflected glow of a fire. I grab Reggie and pull him onto the grass, "Get down, you dummy. I think this is it! We've found the cultists, and it looks like they're doing the ritual tonight. We'll have to keep our wits if we're going to stop them."

"Golly!" He splays out on the ground in an exaggerated attempt to look sneaky.

We crawl forward and hide behind a fallen tree. I risk a peek over the top to see the events beyond. And immediately stifle a cry. I fall back into cover, shuddering, near panic. It takes all my fortitude not to run screaming into the night. Those things, those terrible things. How? How are these things possible? I can't comprehend this evil, how could we ever begin to presume to defeat it?

It only took a glimpse. I saw them all there, all the villagers, dancing around the fire. Gibbering awful incantations to the nether gods. And the things they were doing. What were they doing? Writhing, morphing, taking on new, grotesque forms under those death masks. The impossibility of it blasted at my sanity, leaving me cold and despairing. I collapsed and wept aloud, sobbing into the grass. Oh, oh.. We have to get away. We have to run. Get back to the car. This evil is beyond us! We have to get away! Get away!

Reggie took in my reaction, and frowned in confusion. At first he suspected I had been struck down by a physical projectile, and then the truth settled in. His perplexed state changed to one of alarm. He started breathing harder and harder until I thought he was going to hyperventilate, his eyes never leaving me.

Abruptly, he jumped up, turned to the cultists, and yelled, "Hey! HEY! You guys gotta come here! Quick! I think there's something wrong with my friend! He's having a heart attack or somethin'!"

----------------------------

Two hours later

----------------------------

"Damn it, Reggie." I break the silence, slurring over a busted lip. He drives the car down an empty country road. We are both splattered in blood and slime.

"Sorry." He looks over at me apologetically, and tries to avoid seeing the place where my shirt was torn open. "That... hurt?"

"Yep." I stare ahead.

"So... was... uh, was that a shoggoth?" He gestures back the way we came.

"Yes, Reggie. Yes it was."

"Oh." He glances at the rearview mirror. "Well, at least it doesn't seem to be following us anymore. But sorry for, well, you know. I thought you were having a heart attack back there or something."

"Oh yeah? Or maybe I was just overcome by the eldritch horror? Or maybe some idiot who jumps up and lets all the cultists know where we are?!"

"Sorry... It looked like the shoggoth had eaten most of them though."

"Yeah, haha. I guess so. What was that you threw into the ritual circle anyway? I didn't see much because the stabbing knives were blocking my view."

"Fruit cup."

"Ahh... nice. Well, good work, Reggie."

Shambling Gambling Rambling

"Are you real?"

"Yup."

"Wowww..."

---------------------

No power this morning. Or afternoon, I should say. My schedule is an interesting little counterpoint to hers, the difference is that I find time for sleep. No idea how she does it. Maybe sleeps in her car between classes. Maybe in class. Who knows.

I wonder if people get sick of hearing it: my surprise at watching my wife turn into something new. It's a daily thing where I run to someone and blurt out, "She's stopped eating! She's stopped sleeping! This is not normal."

A larva thumping around in a cocoon. I see brief flickers of what is to come, and there's no doubt in my mind it will be awesome. The first semester was hysterical, suffocating, aching torment. Every week was a crisis. This second semester is less so. She's in the groove now. And what a groove it is.

I'm pretty sure she draws all her energy from the space heater. Like an obedient dog, it never leaves her side.

Wherever I May Roam

Woke up today with the roaming itch-- the urge to scour a new section of the planet, somewhere that has yet to see my face. So I looked around on Google maps and found this huge island in the South Pacific, just sitting there, waiting for colonization.

I have to find a way to Australian. Meet some Aussies. Swim in their famously shark-infested waters to see what all the fuss is about. Visit Tasmania. Have a look-around. Nothing big.

Ah, but lack of money: the Great Financial Barrier Reef. Maybe time to start writing grant proposals. Heck, maybe someone's already offering residencies to fly artists from Wet & Agricultural Ohio into the Desolate Interior Wastes of Oz to kick around and get inspired.

I'll look into it.

Shakedown

"Now put on the blindfold and walk backwards."

"Alright. I guess I've trusted you this far. Might as well give it a try."

"Good boy."

------------

Looks like the exhibition at the Nonstop space is going to stay up for another couple of weeks. It's a two-week stay of execution for my work; as the discussion goes, "Where would I put it?"

No, better to let these totems and trinkets "vanish" than to rot away in a basement corner somewhere. I've learned that lesson. As much energy as it takes to wipe them off the face of the earth, it's surprisingly much more difficult to save them. Hauling them from one place to another, only to watch them gather those time-honored wreathes of cobwebs. Nah, never again.

Good. At least that's settled and out of the way. This daily expository aids me more than I previously gave it credit. Good boy, blog. Good boy. Heel. Sit.



no peeing on the rug though.

Blurp

So another miracle was visited upon me this week. I'm employed-- teaching. Teaching art. Teaching college-level art. A bloody miracle.

I'm happy, which is an understatement. I'm positively giddy. People see me this happy and they are confused. They ask, "Is this is a full-time gig?" "Is it permanent?" "Does it pays well?"

I respond to those questions in order with "No. I have no idea. And no." Which leads to an awkward moment where I feel I have to qualify my excitement in some way.

A better explanation of what I'm going through is to think that I've spent the past 3 and a half years waking up only to feel a little bit like I'm drowning, that I'm missing something. That I somehow failed to get my 'ducks-in-a-row.' And the doubts: the feeling that all the years I spent in college were wasted. And the rest of my life will be spent banging my head off a door that will never open.

A couple days ago that door popped open. Almost of its own accord. And now's my chance to make a break for it. I'm going to dive in, grab hold of what I can, clutch tight, and pray to God that it works out.



thank you.

Aggression Pact

"Ah, beautiful symmetry."

You inhabit 9x9 virtual inches of space. You are composed of three layers. Your favorite color is that of an exploding star. And I could easily grow to love you.

Last night was a wonderful change of pace. Good to spend the evening in a different room with different motivations. But I skipped the opening. So much for hobnobbing with the art crowd. Instead, we sat on the couch, drank beers, and watched television-- of all things!

You should have seen the two of us there, standing like confounded children, impotently pressing buttons on the remote. Trying with all our might to make this device activate.

Finally, we had to seek help; our savior swooping in to key in the correct sequence to bring this electronic marvel to life. And suddenly, there it was! Like in a dream.... television! Wonderful television!

Fly by the Seat of Your Pants

"Today is impossible."

"Yeah? Who told you that?"

"No one. I figured it out on my own."

"Ah, your wisdom knows no bounds."

"Yeah."

-----------

It's funny that the things I make never quite turn out like the way it was in my head. I was dwelling on the work from this past exhibition, thinking about what it meant, the things I was trying to tell you, and still it didn't come together as planned. Not necessarily in a bad way, just different.

I hit close to the mark, but not dead-on. I'd imagine if it all clicked together, a dimensional rift would form above the exhibition-space and begin to suck up all evidence. Which would probably be okay by me.

I hate these colors. But when life gives you ugly, you've just got to deal. Even when it's vomity green, bloodclot red, and WTF purple all mixed together. My life is a virtual 9 x 12 inch space of endless blank layers. Someone break out the gradient tool and ease this existence.


stop reading this blog.

Hollow Hallowed Halls

"Are you feeling okay?" [concern]

".... Yes." [pause] "I'm just not sleeping well these days."

"Ah, you should try a fan. Or a white noise machine. That might help."

".... Sounds like a good idea." [pause, caught halfway in and out of the bathroom door. Search for something else to add, rub a self-conscious hand through a mess of hair, close the door]

---------------

Let's go back and rewrite history a bit. Take out a few things I said here and there. Eliminate a few defining situations. Mark a few objects for removal. How would it affect the outcome? Are we wired to our decision-making by synaptic connections alone, or is there some greater driving destiny that hounds us?

I like the latter. Makes me feel important; all warm and fuzzy inside. Gives me a proverbial label-maker to click out excuses for myself, something to sticky all over my forehead, to look in the bathroom mirror and say, "Oh! Of course that explains it all!"

My destiny is clear: I'm supposed to be a pirate captain. Or maybe a shampoo baron.

Hygienic Barbarian Raider?

Whisper In My Ear

"Yeah, well...."

You are in my dreams these days. Getting more and more aggressive. Leaning into me. Whispering in my ear. We're standing amongst paintings and drawings hanging on the walls of a classroom, and I am cold and wet for some reason.

Ah, yes. It was the water fountain. Someone had sabotaged it. I came along, bent down for a drink, and got water sprayed in my face. Cold. Very cold. In my moment of blindness I crashed into a professor as she was coming out of the restroom. Another typical day.

In my wildest dreams, there's a flicker; a spark, a moment of clarity. That microcosmic nod that would obliterate my day... in a good way, I mean.

Instead, I wake with a start of discomfort. A ping of surprise, looking around and expecting some glowing beacon, some corporal vestige of the dream to which I can cling. Something real. But there is nothing.

Until then...

Light-Blind

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"Now what?"

I passed some birds on the way home today. They were just sitting, chilling in the middle of the road, happily pecking away at the ground. Only something was strange about the situation, almost surreal, in that they didn't even attempt to get out of the way when I drove by, didn't even flinch as my car passed within a couple feet from their little beaks. And I'm no bird expert, but these weren't your lazy carrion-eater-type-birds that wait until the very last instant to fly away, these were the "other" kind. The kind of birds that flee from everything on a good day. So something was wrong with these birds. Their little brains weren't getting the all-so-important message that they were gambling their lives away.

And whatever bet was going on between them, I later found that the road-birds were on the losing end. I drove by again to find them still sitting in the road, just chillin'. One or two of them had been destroyed by the inevitable passing of a vehicle, their fellows oblivious to the doom. All the while I'm thinking, "Dumb birds. Get up and hop twenty inches. Get off the road! For the love of God, save yourselves! Do something!"

Moral of the story pending...

Eater Made Manifest

Today I reveal myself to you in all my terrible glory: the eater of small things, the interdimensional devourer foretold in the fevered scribblings of Reggie Lovecraft. Look on my infinite maw of gibbous horror and despair, mere mortal, for this is the end of your pitiful existence.

ROAR.

Funniest Thing

Ha ha ha.

.....

It's not that funny.

And I'm not really laughing anymore.

I Need My Happy Place

+++---post deleted because it undermines the delicate balance---+++









So where's my happy place?


scales fell from my eyes. gross.

Leash and Noose

Getting tired of bruised purple-blue? Good, because it's still my favorite color scheme. Unabashedly, I roll out another one where some bizarre creature is doing something-- possibly ninja-kicking some scribbles, or break-dancing. I dunno. We'll have to put it to a vote, though I prefer to think he's harvesting something, maybe even picking a wittle fwower.

It's snowing. I'm trapped inside. Glee! Because what's trapped in here with me? Work table! Tools! Caffeine! And a lonely bottle of Magic Hat's 'Not Quite Pale Ale' whose remaining lifespan is being measured in hours. Tick, tock, tick, tock... Sad little beer. No worries. Soon you will go on to join your brothers. Mwah hah ha ha.

I daydream about you reading this, maybe sitting cross-legged in a field, snow drifting down to settle on your shoulders while you click-click-click on a little laptop computer. Or maybe on a beach at night, where your face is lit ghoulish white from the screen, waves crashing just out of reach. Toes digging in the sand, and the breeze is actually a bit more chilly than you anticipated. Maybe you're in your secret underground lair, where you've taken a break from hatching your evil schemes to just surf the net and see what's been going on.

Sinister laser-eyed guard-dogs drool on the rug as you click-click-click.

Time to Repair

This morning I woke up with superpowers. And then I subsequently lost them a half-hour later. I'll spend the rest of the afternoon trying to get them back. Then you'll see something neat. Something along the lines of jumping over buildings and throwing cars and getting cats out of trees.

I need you to come over here and repair my disposition. Fix me up enough to send me lurching out to whatever events are going on this week, set my head nodding and a smile on my face. A genuine smile, not one of those squirming fake ones that are both exquisite and painful to behold.

I worked by candlelight for about an hour last night. It was a novel idea, though I kept having visions of something catching fire. Fortunate that real life is far less dramatic than the stories. No fires. No breaking glass. No Frankenstein's Monster spasming to life and tromping through the laboratory to wreak terrible vengeance.

Implied kinetic motion. That's what I've been telling people when they suggest my sculptures should have movement. The intent is to suggest movement. Having these things hop around would cause all sorts of new problems. I've got enough worries. Although I suppose there is merit in employing some sort of self-destruct mechanism, where the work implodes after the show. After you've seen it. Anything else though, and it would be an opening of horrors: art piece that roars to life, assaults guests, scoops up the swooning maiden, crashes through the door, and trundles off into the night.

For posterity, the verbs in that last sentence were roars, assaults, scoops, crashes, and trundles. That's amazing; now I have to build it.

Long Burn

There's a candle burning in my mind's eye, very far away. It's a beacon in the featureless night, visible for miles around.




Are you getting enough sleep?

Lightningfish Cartwheel

I am out of words.

I wonder what you're doing right now.

Me? I can't sit still this week. Find a reason to drive. Drive anywhere. Drive everywhere. Just put me to work.

I'll build more of those things for you, but only if you come see them.


next thing.
no thing.
nothing.
and next to nothing.

Laughing Cactus Wasteland

I had been driving so much these past few weeks that it became a natural thing to ride in silence. I'd listen to the radio, and whatever CD was in the player that I never bothered to change, but mostly keeping my own company. Good time to think, either outloud or in my head.

After the show, I went home to rest. And shocked to feel trapped there. I missed driving, of all things. It was no longer a chore to drive, but a time of solitude, sailing across agricultural vistas, alone with my thoughts.

So I took to the road again. Drove down to West Virginia to see my dad this week. My drive down was uneventful, save for getting a message that a job opportunity fell through. So a typical day.

Distance. Silence. Despite the lack of any outward sign, there's plenty here under the surface. What am I looking for?

Lightning Crumb Warfare

Successful weekend. However, I fear that I may sully the memory with attempts to quantify it through writing. I'd like to leave it as is: a warm glow permanently etched into my chest. Yes, the show went well. Thanks to all who came to see the work. I drove home with a dumb grin on my face, feeling reasonably content.

What's next?

For You: This

The days this week have started to blur together. Coming home at 3:30 am in the morning has become expected, and I no longer have to explain myself to our baffled hosts as I come waltzing through the door in the wee hours.

"What were you doing out so late?" "Why are you carrying that glue gun?" "Who are you?"

Good questions, all. Those what-why-where's have been plaguing me internally as well. What am I doing?

Well, it's akin to vomiting. Stuff is coming out of me. Colorful, interesting things, though I don't remember eating any of it. And it's all for you. So it's more like a bird regurgitating food for her young. The food goes inside, gets changed, and then comes back to you in a more palatable form. That's kind of what I'm doing for you, encoding thoughts and words into a new format for you to absorb.

But how can I even be sure you'll digest it in this form? Who's to say you won't be equally baffled by what you take in. What if you choke?

Horrible thoughts raining down on me now. Doubts, mostly. People keep talking about ghosts in recent days. Uncanny coincidence, but I'm guessing it's the weather playing havoc with our minds, affecting our dreams. Some nights I get pretty creeped-out working here by myself. There's something terrifying about abandoned interior voids. Mark that one up to primal instinct: "What sort of unholy terror makes its dwelling in this cave? Let's go hit it with a rock!"

Eyes dart back into endless space every few moments, scanning the darkness. The tingling sensation of being watched while I work. Every far-off noise amplified. And yet this is where I am most comfortable. Away from people, the din of life. Here is where I can see everything connecting us. And despite the distance between us, it's like you're right here with me.

you're coming, right?

Build You

Words fail me.

Sorry for the lack of them today.

This opening is next weekend, and there's a lot I want to get finished between now and then. It's already a good showing, but there's so much more I want to cram into it. I want you to see it the way it was meant to be.

Hope you can make it.

http://nonstopinstitute.org/nonstop-gala-opening-fundraiser/





where did all the time go?

Beacons in the Deep

Today is a day that finds us besieged by invisible terrors. If anything positive could be said about such a situation, at least it forces one to remain in a perpetual state of kinetic motion: running, biting, screaming. And as it happens, wildly thrashing is a good cardio workout. At least until something comes along and takes a bite out of you; and all that rhetoric about weight-loss gets colored with a darker irony.

It was a sleepless night, with much tossing and turning. What actual sleep there was to be had was either fitful or pretend. (you know, fake sleep is a party trick devised to trick large predators) We're outnumbered by them on these dark nights.

There's an absurd amount of communication going on between us; me and my cryptic speaking, and you with your non-words and non-speech. On one end, a stream of babble. And on the other, static.

I was supposed to go meet some artists tonight, but I'm feeling kind of burned out. Instead, I think I'll hang out at home and have a quiet night to myself. Now the question becomes: wine or coffee?

The coffee cup is intrinsically linked to to all other coffee cups a person has ever held in their hands. With that connection there is remembrance, fondness, and the hissing roar of an espresso machine drowning out all other sounds in the world. By contrast, the wine glass is firmly anchored in the here and now, and dares you think on the past and future only at your own peril, lest you fall victim to one of nature's more despicable hangovers.



what's today's flavor?

You Are Happy

I thought there were some important things rolling around in my head that needed to be typed out. Unfortunately I lost the conversation thread somewhere on the drive home so this will have to be another one of those blog entries where I'm casting about in the darkness, trying to assemble an impression. Damn sudden short-term memory loss.

The forgetting might just be part of my process; it would explain how all my camera batteries died the moment I tried photographing the result of today's exploits. My subconscious mind is trying to prevent information from leaking out. No doubt it's some kind of media blackout. So if you want to know what I've been up to these past few weeks, come see for yourself. See what I've been building for you.

I have no clue where all this new work is going to go after the show ends. All these little shrines will need a home. I've already thrown away so much; it makes me sick to think I'm going to have to tear everything here apart. That keeps happening for some reason. Ugh. Spare me that fate this one time.

but at least you are happy

Turbulent

Snow when I open my eyes, snow when I close them. Snow everywhere, far as I can see in any direction.

While I was momentarily grateful that the studio proprietor plowed the parking lot, I soon found my way into the building blocked by a five-foot high wall of snow. On the best of days, I am a natural navigator of rough terrain, lithe and sure-footed. In 12 inches of snow, that grace is exchanged for a loping series of hops, and all the awkwardness of a day-old calf.

Trying to forge around the obstruction, I fell into a drift that came up to my knees. Aaaaarrrgghh. So now rather than getting work done I'm sitting in wet socks, trying to find some way to dry my shoes.

Cold feet aside, I found a cup of coffee and that makes everything okay; because coffee always reminds me; alway; always: always reminds me-;: and then the remembering makes everything okay.

i know why i am here; thanks for that

Suffice It To Say,

It dawned on me a few minutes ago that I've always had difficulty drawing hands. This may have something to do with their shiftiness; the hands rarely stay in one place, and even when they're out where you can see them, the fingers are all squished up into a ball.

So more often then not, I skip over the hands when I'm drawing.

Anyway.

I'm procrastinating today, working on my 2nd cup of coffee and piddling around at home when I should be an hour and 15 minutes west of here, gluing stuff together.

But it's cold out there and warm in here. I like being five feet away from our space heater, which is roughly the size of a big suitcase, and constantly lulling me to sleep with its perpetual white noise.

Oh well. Off to work.


good to know you're doing well

Strut Your Stuff

It's Another Day and I have stuff to tell you:

I had a dream last night where I went back to our old house in Salem Center, but the house was a metaphor for my head, and all my emotional baggage and memories had turned into several ghosts that were haunting the place. Each ghost had a specific room that was its territory; and they spent their days systematically tearing everything apart like wild animals. So you could imagine how happy they were when I walked through the door.

So this dream consisted of me moving from room to room cleaning up and making ghosts happy. They'd never leave the house, so in a sense would always be with me, but were more or less tame by the end of the story.

In waking life, I wander dark corridors looking for a pair of warm socks.