writing is a bitch... at least more often then not-- a sense of duty, or of a chore, not unlike doing dishes or mopping the floor.

i did it so much for so long that when i got away from it it seemed liked a state of grace. and then i find myself looking for it again. and what does that mean? probably nothing more than a painter's sense of urgency to express something outside of the visual world. a need of language-- a yearning for the crutch of the literal and pretentious word.

at this point in time and this point in my career, what need is there of language in the guise of vocabulary to discuss art and, indeed, paint? the paint is there on the support, mysterious in and of itself.

bereft of our day to day follies of politics, media and abundance, i have painted myself into many a corner and have come out all the better for it.

there are time considerations to consciousness and the most considered have been those with floral allies and in the studio. in these precious spaces i am whole. i am the searching, nomadic layman slowly and methodically making my way along the hieroglyphs...

consciousness... what an unusual concept to consider. how much time do we have here on this spinning  stone of water and jungle? how much indeed? time enough to consider the books we haven't read or the dishes yet to be cooked in our seasoned pots... all of us-- artist, woodsman, lifeguard, loser, fascist-- have the time allotted to us. what do we do with this time? merely exist?

is that enough?

no, it's not enough. not even close...

it's not enough to limp through all the wonder of this life of flesh and bone and the bacteria that tracks across our bodies of coiled viscera. it's not enough to ignore possibility, or it's insipid, pregnant cousin-- tragedy.

now what??

well, we can drink. thats a good start. a good start that may not work for everyone. but it's a start nonetheless. we can (and should) indulge our floral allies. and a certain judgement should be considered with either practice to be sure. i have spent nights in alleys and psychic turmoils and have since chosen the way of kettlebells, tequila and decent wine. this life we have should be physical-- outside of the studio we should train, we should fight, we should hunt and fish and surf and love.

we should look deeply into the eyes of our friends and call them out when they talk shit. and then embrace them and tell them how much we love them. in short we should live. we should paint and we should carve and we should write, or simply sit in quiet reflection if that is the calling-- or the necessity...

to dull that actuality to a point of noncompliance
would be to waste our years,
lying to our possibilities.