Somethings are effortless for some, while impossible for others...

An example of this comes to mind as I finally motivate to achieve the same goal as many 16 year olds. That of a driver's license. Only difference... I really don't care to learn, oh, and I am also 31.

However, I have decided to embark on this perilous journey not for my own satisfaction, but to stop the nagging and disbelief of society that I could survive and exist without such a bare necessity. I have. And I wish I could continue to do so.

My plan was to just wait until I could afford to pay a chauffeur and buy an old cool car and be driven around. Unlike many, a car does not define me, nor will it ever... Unless I get a fire truck. That would be sweet...

Onto another subject, while that mission is proving to be difficult during the storm of the century, another mission I can do in my sleep practically. I decided to start painting again as it has been 3 months (which has been the longest I have ever not done art since I was 5. What has come out in approximately little short of a week is nothing less than amazing. Nobody will probably buy it, but it is still one of the greatest paintings I have seen around, and I ain't begun to finish it yet.

Inspired by my Uncle's suggestion to create a partner for my original painting My Left Shoe. I finally agreed. And I am glad that I did. What is being created is quickly becoming one of my personal favorites. I might be on the edge of a new style in my work. It is a combination of all that I like in painters. Each layer is done in a style I truly admire and in the end a whole new style is created. Post Modern Barbequeism.

Food for thought

Snickers bar targets.

Popcorn parades,

Hotdog bombs,

And Post Pardon

Cheeto,

Frito,

Lay's.

Beef-Jerked

Turkey,

And

Peanut gallery serenades.

Sweet molasses,

Politically motivated,

And just as slow.

incoherent debates,

Between

Coke,

Pepsi.

All the same beast,

But

Two different faces.

Bottled water

And

Flavored oxygen. Savor the taste.

Scams of the damned.

Hungry and wired

with preprocessed,

pasteurized,

naturally,

unleaded,

for his or her pleasure,

zero grams,

trans fat free,

and filtered.

It's your choice...

And,

I choose...

No choice at all.

Give me the blueberry bagel.

At least,

I see

its' hollow from here.

(Excerpt from 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant.)

-Today's Daily Poem

Channel Duh?!

I find my comfort zone

quite uncomfortable.

And

This box

that everyone keeps thinking outside of...

Just curious,

inside what's so bad?

There's nothing more sobering

to the mind of mine.

Buzz words.

The backlash of false enthusiasm.

Reality.

Now a television concept.

Diabetes of the mind

causing blindness of ideas.

Lack of creativity,

fake idolizations.

A Babylonianistic outcome inevitable.

Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame

Are spin-off's of a falsified famousness.

Nobodies who think they're somebodies

And

Somebodies as dishwashers,

Waiters and janitor,

Clerks and cooks.

Why?

Because

Suzy Q

And Bobby John

Want to be famous,

And find love on television.

Entitled to pride,

But

Not a sense of self,

Or

a job.

(Excerpt from 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant.)

- Today's Daily Poetry

Classifieds: WANTED "NEW BRAIN"

Pimp y mind.

w/ Digital High Definition Thought.

So I can TiVo my memories

And

Fast forward my nightmares.

Blue tooth my brain

w/ a hundred gigs of RAM.

In case it crashes.

A lifetime warranty

And

Free upgrades.

Hassle-Free checking for my mind.

Instant withdrawals

w/ no delays.

Or

Hidden fees.

Limitless deposits.

And

An easy access thought process.

Thoughts per gallon must be good.

30 thought highway mileage a must!

w/ decent stop

and

go

traffic...

A family reunion of sorts

Sleep.

The cousin of Death.

I guess...

Naps are nieces,

And Insomnia...

Must be,

the red-headed

step child

nobody liked

called Life.

Grandmother Dreams

With her soft spoken words,

And

giggling plate full of cookies,

Grandfather Time

keeps watch of us all.

Those nephews of nightmare

stay up all night,

even past last call.

While the drunken uncle,

My mind,

Makes no Sense

of

it

all.

Smoke Break

Smoke breaks.

Jokes take

too much time.

Life's a comedian

with a rarity for the median.

Swerve left.

Interrupted through process.

Pardon my French.

Thirst quenching sleep.

An aphrodesiac

to cardiac arrest.

One has the right

to remain silenced by death.

So why not live life loud?

Asking this,

is it too much?

All do in fair time.

Nickel and dimed for

chump change.

The chimp am I.

Darwin am I not.

Question or statement.

Who knows right now?

How much can one man say?

I never understood

those without ideas.

How can one

"NOT"

Think?

An idea to me

is a breath

of fresh air.

Without either,

suffocation occurs.

The brain needs both.

To adequately survive.

Oxygen

and

Ideas.

Corner the market.

Ideas for sale.

By the book.

By the ton.

By the kilogram.

By the boat load.

One for ten.

Two for fifteen.

Three for twenty.

Good one's.

Bad one's.

Old one's.

New one's.

What'cha want?

I got it all!

I just got another idea.

I'll sell you your idea.

Confused?

Exactly.

Think outside the box.

Around the box.

Under,

Over,

Even as the box.

Metaphorically,

Let's make the box a sphere.

No more corners to cut.

Just circular thinking.

Around and around we go.

Where we stop,

No one knows.

No idea.

Except me,

Because I got them for sale.

One for ten.

Two for fifteen.

Three for twenty.

Buy the bucket full.

Mop up the competition.

Too many ideas.

Not enough time.

Clone those ideas

Into other people's minds.

No need for greed.

One time trial.

First one's on me.

Strike you a bargain

And

Let's make a deal.

Free thinking spirits

are one in a few,

far and between.

An artist and playwright,

Poet and monk.

Too many hats

And

Not enough heads.

Could wear one,

But

Where's the fun in that?

Sculptor.

Painter.

Publisher.

Sure, why not?

I'll make books of ideas

for people to read.

Put them for sale.

For all to see.

It means nothing to me.

I'll just have more,

Before I sleep.

And after I wake.

A disease I deal with.

I live everyday.

Afflicting my actions,

And even my day.

Others live disease free.

Pity on them.

My curse is a blessing.

It's the life for me.

(Excerpt from 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant.)

-Today's Daily Poetry

Caffeinated Nightmares

Sugar fiend dreams,

Crystallized bloodstreams,

Metaphysic districts of perpendicular thought.

Stop thinking such thoughts

And

Worry about your 401(k)

I chose an abstract frame of mind

To wrap around paintings of the future.

Others use robo-routines.

Bird people

Chirp down coffee.

On daily commutes.

All day, all night.

No more play.

Work, work, work.

My way around it?

I found it.

Deep in a 3rd shift epiphany.

No material needs.

A view of different ways to succeed.

Consume to consume is what ruins most.

Excess is the beast of greed.

Taking everything for self.

Plus, more than you need.

Wearing gloves of self sufficiency,

I am efficiently careful not to exceed my means.

By any means necessary,

But

Not necessarily all the time.

Travels are in need.

Even for the most discipline of minds.

My treats just happen to coincide

With what I truly need.

Books.

Shoes.

Art supplies.

I consider my true luxuries.

(excerpt from 3rd shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant.)

-Today's daily poem

The Commute

Whistle while I work.

Think while I drink.

A brisk walk

Thru midnight lights.

Parking lot farmlands.

Fields of concrete

And

Shopping carts.

This my daily walk.

Night silence.

Peace of mind.

My thoughts

My music.

I walk.

A new night.

A new idea.

(excerpt from 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant)

-Todays' daily poem

To start a movement or not to start a movement that is the question...

So, I have been thinking alot while I take down wall paper. I am wondering if this world needs a new art movement. Not that I alone could do it, but I was thinking everyone is so caught up in their own individualism that no one wants to be part of a larger whole... Especially in the Fine Arts. Everyone has to be so damn unique.

Well, it got me to thinking, I don't much care for any artists that are alive with exception of those I know and I just happen to know a ton of artist. We all work in different media and styles, but our work carries a common thread. A personality. Maybe it's the influence of Savannah on us, or maybe it's something else. All I know is that I wouldn't mind getting everybody successful if for no other reason than to try and combat the idiotic, uncreative Pop culture that is ruining America's coolness at an alarming rate.

In general, people just aren't that original, funny, or cool anymore. Well, except for the people I know and I am not saying that in a condescending view, or maybe I am. I don't give a damn. Somebody has to say it. The reason these people are so damn cool. THESE ARTIST rather isn't because they try to be or try not to be. They are simply strong, confident personality that are unapologetic in their bold approach to life and that is what America is lacking. They are trend setters. Creatives that don't gether their styles from MTV or other mass produced consumption. Ideas are formed through their art and carried out through their being. Thus, making them awesome and this is what needs to be captured and exposed to the world. Cool people, making cool art, for no other reason than that's what they are best at. And maybe along the way people will buy their work as well they should making me happy, them happy, and the buyer happy.

A perfect circle of happiness.

So in summing up... I think it is time for me to create an underground magazine exposing the new movement that has been growing and nobody is aware of it, but every one knows it's there...

That is all.

Thought you'd like to know what I think about while peeling wall paper from a bathroom wall.

Nickel & Dimed

Even Earth has

A.

D.

D.

Autumn,

Much like my college years

Ended as aburptly as it began.

A decade.

Really?

Seemed more like a day.

A new one begins.

On the other side of the glass.

Looking out.

I'm used to looking in.

Sucked it up,

Spit it out,

And shook it off.

The

J.

O.

B.

That's what defines me.

I had my wonder years.

My Golden Age.

And somehow I'm still left wandering.

So now is my age of enlightenment.

These frigid winter winds rattle my cage.

Creative animals stir,

Restless,

Pacing,

It's time...

A penny for my thoughts?

Hope,

You got the keys to Fort Knox.

(excerpt from 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant.)

Today's Daily Poem

An Old Soul

Forgotten thoughts I can't remember.

Remembering things I haven't done.

Wanting what I already own.

A broken body

Rich with soul.

Invested in myself,

What I love my only luxury.

A deluxe lifestyle,

Skin and bones,

Worn and torn,

Past my prime.

A youthful state-of-mind,

With a cynical,

cyanide suicide

Of the mind.

Down through the spine.

Tingling pins

And

Giggling needles.

The brain swallows itself.

With so much time on the shelf.

Relaxed, taxed, and no kick back.

The future ahead.

The past behind.

The present?

A gift.

Just depends on youth.

(excerpt from 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant)

-Today's daily poem

3rd Shift Epiphanies

Through my looking glass

Reflections of my self.

An alter ego,

Or lack there of.

My id.

My ego.

My self.

Or is it not my self,

But someone else?

Me, in a different light?

Harsher.

Reality.

With age comes wisdom,

Cynicism,

Sarcasm,

And winds of change.

Like aged wine,

Yet not refined,

Just more distinctively potent.

A flavor to Savior.

Rinse.Spit.

And let the ambiance linger.

Summer blows by

As winter begins.

Transitions are for losers.

New Daily Poetry

Recently I have been slacking off on my commitment to writing everyday. So, in order to make sure I update this blog every day I will be posting excerpts from my poetry collection 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant. If one should happen to like these poems it is available in it's entirety in the book store section of this blog. The first poem is aptly titled 3rd Shift Epiphanies.

Terms of success, a recluse in the making...

Among other priorities in life I have been trying to come to grips with what I deem "success". Family and friends would and probably will continue to argue that I am a successful artist. They say this whenever I say that I have been an utter failure. They always argue that it depends on how a measure success.

To this I say, "If I can't afford the life necessities, and a few creature comforts along with shelter, food, and clothing along with supplies to keep on creating... Well, than I am a failure and thus, unsuccessful."

Although recently I have been pondering the idea of success in general. I have been thinking that maybe I am just not meant for success, or, rather maybe I should just throw the idea of success to the wind like I did with caution so many years ago. It is a difficult notion to erase the idea of success. How else does one measure one's own life, but through achievements and failures. Whether it be personal, professional, or in the abstract. One way or another the measure of success equates the entirety of our lives.

People want better cars, nicer homes, a closer family, healthier lives, promotions, a more fulfilled everything. All of this is the measure of success. One cannot wander aimlessly through life without seeking success of any kind. For the few that lead this lifestyle are the homeless, hopeless, and insane.

I think my goal is to no longer worry about when or how my success as an artist will be measured. I no longer care. That pretentiousness and ego driven side of me has been systematically erased and humbled. Success in art... Don't really care. I honestly, a Big Bacon Classic from Wendy's with a Biggie Coca Cola sounds more fulfilling.

My thinking is that maybe to be a great artist one must longer be concerned with being great. My old frame of mind would have been to be the best one has to put on an air of being the best. Now, I no longer care. Anybody can talk and impress. I will just produce work that I am confident in and hang it on a wall. I will not concern myself with the emptied hollow pretentiousness of finding "Galleries" or "Where's my market" I will make my art the way I want to. The way I think it should be done and if it fits into someone's event and they want it so be it, but until that moment (if it ever comes) I will make art only for myself, or of lucky patrons that have found out about me.

I guess what I am saying is that I am withdrawing from the HUSTLE of the art world which I used to find so intriguing. Now it bores me and I would much rather be left to my own devices in seclusion away from the rest of the known world, in my little neck of the woods creating possibly the most ground breaking, contemporary art that no one may ever see... That sounds just fine to me.

I'll make my pictures, do my sculptures, write my poetry, produce plays, create screen plays, and hide away in the world that is my own. Being a man of absurd rationale and logic, me thinks this to be the most rational conclusion to an irrational path.

That of an artist.

No rest for the weary...

I was watching a comedian tonight on TV and I have always felt some strange similarity between artist and comedians. I don't know what it is, but for some reason I have always thought that there is a fine line between that of comic and that of artist. Maybe it's just me or my style of art. I am not sure. I have always been able to empathize with comics, not because of the obvious reasons. Such as that they make people laugh. It goes deeper. Something about the frame of mind of a comedian and an artist are very similar. It is a belief system that goes against the grain.

We both have a commodity that is rare and elusive, yet holds no life or death value of survival, but just the same, without either life and death mean nothing. Without art or laughter the world would be a very dull and monotonous place. Devoid of all that is unique in Human. Both forms are misunderstood, stereotyped, and under appreciated. Both when done skillfully appear to take no skill at all. A simple unrehearsed talent that just happens to those of us lucky enough to discover it. When in actuality, both take a tremendous amount of drive, focus, practice, and a certain personality that engulfs one's self with an undeniable insight into the human psyche.

I think that is what it is. Then again it could just be a stubborn rebelliousness refusing to give in to the pencil pushing conformists that occupy most society. I am lucky enough to consider myself an artist and I am glad I am and I think in proportion there are enough of us out there.A creative seems to consume more space than the typical person, not of material matter, but rather of conceptual abstract matter. The being itself seems to weigh more heavily than that of the typical, surface dweller...

Just a bit to think about, nothing more...

Truly gifted artists, or comedians come around once in a lifetime because of their personalized view and gift combined. There are never duplicates. Never another...There will never be another Pryor, Farley, Belushi, Kenniston, Picasso, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Warhol, Stella, Dali, and the list goes on and on and on. Their style, their technique, their life, all shaped into their expression... Their interpretation of life, not art is what they gave us, and we were lucky enough to be shown. Basically, I guess I am saying thanks to all those that came before me to inspire me to aspire to be greater than I know I am capable of being. That is where the true fun of this adventure lies. Not in the knowing, but the unknown paths. Success or failure? It is the experience of seeking both that will always lead to success. Failure can only be achieved by not achieving anything. A failure is something I will never be and I can say that with all honesty.

Just Thinking...

Sometimes I wonder if opening one's mind to all and any possibility is something everyone does.

That isn't as eloquent as a statement as I wish it were, but then again I do not know really what I am trying to say.

I have just been thinking about the diagram of story. It's essence. What truly lies underneath the surface. And, Yes, I have finished reading Story by Robert McKee. I recommend the book not just to the film aficionado, but to the artist as well. Along with anybody else interested in the dynamic of the human spirit. I believe the book strikes upon so many levels of depth and insight that it has not only helped me to see into script writing, but to also analyze my, art, and the world in which I hope to inspire with my art. Or, perhaps enlighten.

Not to get too philosophical, but it is just that I see things in a clear light... Well, not so much clearer, but I have a better vocabulary and clarity for being able to describe the dynamics to which I wish to show.

As an artist this after all, is what I am trying to strive for. The art of story. Whether it be through concept, abstract or concrete, my goal is still the same. As artist I have never really thought of myself as story teller, but in actuality that is what all artist are.

I have never been merely a painter, or illustrator, or sculptor, or any of the type of categorizing. I have always vehemently denied such labels, but that of artist.

I have had a friend tell me that I am one of the last few artist remaining in the world... In a way I can see where he might say such things although this was years ago.

I understand him not out of a vanity, pretentiousness, or a ego maniacal self. I can see this idea that he sees in me because of my creative scope. I do not label myself a painter or one of the greats... I am simply a person in perfection of my craft... And my craft is that of artist.

If that means my muse takes me to literature than who am I to contest that I am not a writer? If I am pushed to become a playwright, or poet... Than who am I to deny the creative message that must be portrayed through such techniques. My goal is to push Art to the edge, not the idea of art.... Not what is or isn't art, but simply to push Art. An artist that writes is different than a writer that writes. An artist that is willing to illustrate and write children's books within the same breathe as creating a sculpture of infinite abstraction and high concept and to the depth of both crafts.

To be an artist is to act without thinking and step into the creative world of the indefinite only to find failure and success teetering within the swoop of one swift long and beautiful stroke of the brush or choice of the word.

A color...

A sentence...

Both can have a profound effect on the world and those that inhabit it around us. Sometimes I just think that in the grand scheme of things people tend to lose fact of the true sight of one's time here. It is not the collection of materials possessed, but rather the impact one has on the world around us.

Then there are those truly sublime individuals that follow paths of non effect to any one. A world without a world. Brought into the world and fade out just as easily. Not a morbid thought, but an honest reality. Those who simply walk a narrow road of self comfort. In those individuals I see discipline and fear.

That is not my road. I am one that must infect the world with beauty, ideas, words, images, thought, concept, and anything else I can do to shake things up.

This is a world that truly does need artist, at a time right now... More than ever....

And that is why I am an artist and will always be nothing more...