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.