Early Worms...

Quick, attack while the day is young and the people are unaware of the true potential of one's talent, drive, and ambition. This is my goal. I am slowly learning that by mid day people become bitter and aware on any attempt to enlighten their lives and refuse this pleasure at all turns.

My Brain vs. The Brain

I find it ironic right now that I am battling the thoughts in my head as to what I should be doing now. I constantly am thinking of one thing while I know I should be focusing on another. I have decided right now, right this very second that I am no longer going to worry about why I am not doing something else and am doing something completely different. As long as I am being productive one way or another it is all beneficial. Just in different departments. Sometimes it's good to just turn off the control switch and let the brain go on cruise control (creatively speaking)

The ironic part is I am having this conflict with my inner brain , all the while I am trying to finish a play that is having a dilemma because the disembodied omniscient brain doesn't believe in Pluto as a planet.

A brain that doesn't believe in Pluto as a planet is no brain of mine. That being said, it is a fictional brain. I have been trying to stay focused on the ideas of success that I had created as my new year's resolution, but as I am quickly finding out my own brain has other plans. I cannot work fast enough, write fast enough, paint fast enough, sleep fast enough, wake fast enough. Everything seems to be slowing down except for time which constantly seems the fastest of all.

No time for Chinese or exercise. These are my thoughts as soon as I wake. As I work on one thing a million ideas flow into another thing. One thing after another thing makes things begin to get confusing. No time for perfect words to describe perfect actions. Just type, fast. Words hurl out of my finger tips clicking and clacking off the keyboards' keys.

Ridiculous rhythm keeps my tempo'd flow at a frantic rate. No time for spell check get back to that later. An art meeting tomorrow that will unfold any which way, but the way I expect it. The only consistent set is that the inconsistency of reason and non logic walk hand and hand as anything but superb normalcy awakens.

I apologize for the free verse words of nothing, but my mind is onto something that my brain can't distinguish.

A perfect storm riddled with creativity. In order to write a monologue so illogical as a disenfranchised Pluto personified by shame, jealousy, anger, and a need to belong. Soon a thrust of pride rattles it's essence and brings about the quasar of a super nova exploding into red hot plasma streaks of an inferno. With such confidants it can only become the solar sun and nothing more. This is its' true identity. Its' original sin. The birth of a solar system with all others in its' own orbit. From matter comes anti-matter. Complex concepts consume intellectual Q & A's, but between those highly charged electrons and protons bounce a nuclei within that only expands... Brain hurts... Must stop... Tomorrow I will write the third act... Tomorrow I will write Pluto in all its' insecurities and greatness. Tomorrow will be another day of new ideas and unmet goals, but it's okay. Even Pluto has bad days...

To be, or not to be....

My question is this... Is it the idea of an artist that is of value or their product? Is concept or material most important? Is the search for beauty and the definition of ugliness why I continue to create eye candy? I do not know. All I do know is that I am searching for something profound through my art, but I cannot annunciate what rests on the tip of my brush, pen, or mind. Whatever it is I search for through my art lay just below the surface and just above true enlightenment. This is a tricky time as it seems everything I explore seems to develop without effort or work. The creativity that I have comes with ridiculous ease.

So I continue to push onward in search of something I find truly impossible to achieve. Once I find this goal in my art I will know that I have truly found why I have chosen art as my calling. Whether it be through the written word, image, or the abstract. I will find the right question so that I may pursue the purest answer.

In my writing over the last month or so I have stayed on the lighter side of things. It is now time to dive back into the questions of art and why I am an artist. After all that is the true search I am after. The productivity will follow, but I must concern myself with the real questions and not just the the superficial ones that drive the rat race.

URBAN MONK vs. ART

DING!

Round 1...

I will fix my routine....

After a distracting trip to Savannah, Georgia I am back. I will fix my routine. I will correct my sleep schedule, and most important of all... I will step back up my production level. I have deterred in my path to success only to stray back. Every once in awhile every body loses their. The key is to when this happens before it becomes a pattern of habit. Once the edge is over the fall comes next. I have fallen, only to pick myself back up again. Sleep deprived and hot now is a time when I must write.

Whether this is clear or not, is not what matters. What matters as any writer will tell you is to write.... And so, I write. I write this blog, that blog, this comment, that comment, here a few pages of a play, and there a few pages of a play. And like a crack in a pipe the words of water begin to poor through the facets of my fingertips.

By Friday I will have written my first draft of my first play. Not bad for three days worth of writing and 2 months worth of researching. Something new to cross of my new list of writing goals. I have determined it is not that writing is difficult. That is the rather easy part. It is the rewriting, revision, and editing that I simply don't have the patience for.

I don't know what it is, but there is something intrinsic about the click , clacking of keys off the finger tips that begin to build a pulsating pattern of beats and rhythms. And with that my song is over. The dance of word with sentence fails to deliver an encore. So with that I call tonight a good night and early morning.

P.S. My writings will be changing soon... Something weighs on my subconscious and I will write through it if I have to.

Aaarrrghhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Frustrations drops like a ton of bricks upon my head. Ideas I can't articulate. Concepts I can't execute. Goals I can't reach. Not because of drive, ambition, or effort. One or two simple reasons neither the connections, nor the right support. The plans sit in my head gathering dust and displeasure. At times it can be overwhelming because I know what needs to be done and it is almost within my reach except for minor details. One patron, one donor, one believer in my ability to succeed and this artist, that is I, would take off to the stars. Soar incredibly high with works that would transform both viewer and community. It is sooooo frustrating. I have never felt so much passion and eagerness for something so uncontrollably unobtainable. Much like my bold and innovative ideas, my art sits in storage, alone and in the dark. Times like these I remember why I quit art every now and again. It is so tough to keep a dream alive that gets kicked, shoved, and dismissed as non relevant. In no other profession that one invests so much time, money, and talent are people quick to disregard it as a non career. Something that one chooses to do because it makes one happy. This is one of the few professions that chooses the person, not the other way around. Others rarely understand THAT ( jealousy, I guess). It cannot be quit. There are no other options. It is either succeed, or... Well, succeed. There is no alternative. There is not a switch that can be flicked off. There is no way to not think of art... Trust me, I have tried. Tried to drown the ideas out every known way and they only come back with a vengeance. Bigger, bolder, better, and more beautiful than the last. Some say it is a gift to have such talent, but the curse lay at the truth of it. A gift that doesn't give back, but only takes is but no gift at all. The constant torment an artist must deal with is at times fun, but always tiring. The mind never stops. The ideas never slow. The passion never sways. It is unrelenting and always looming even when dormant. At any moment, any time, any where inspiration can strike and consume all that is artist. a creative sickness that has only one cure, to create. To release the ideas that stay in the cortex of the creative mind of the abstract and make a reality. No sleep, eat when must, and only clear thoughts are during the act of art. The only true time I never think about art is when I am creating it... How ironic is that? Art is everywhere and the ideas just keep on coming. Done, done, and done...

I'm going to bed! Good night! ARRRggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!

The zebras ate my new right shoe... DONE!

Yes, it is true... After 10 days, my new piece is done. Thrusting me back into the world of art and all its' comings. Hope it goes better than the last 25 years... Out of retirement after only 3 months, but that is longer than I have ever oone before in my life without doing art.

Diabetes of the mind

Psychosomatic

With attractive disasters,

Dyer consequences,

And unforeseen dilemmas.

Theories of onset genetics.

Slushie lifestyles.

Drug addicted

Diagnosis definite

And

Finite.

The youth.

The elderly.

Men.

Women.

Race,

But

Predisposed urban and suburban.

White, Black, and Latino.

Poor, rich, and middle-class

Solutions...

Art the insulin.

Culture,

creativity,

and free thinking

The Cure.

Ninety-nine percent success,

Lost causes

And

stubborn primates.

Creatures of habit.

Walking eye sores of a reverse Darwin.

Just call them Dwayne for short.

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

- Today's Daily Poetry Selection.

The zebras ate my new right shoe...

Well, it's been almost two weeks and the most beautiful painting I have does is almost finished and ready to go to Indianapolis. I think it is time for me to admit what I am best at and go with it. Eye candy. I did it in high school. I was the best at it. Not much for making a statement, unless one considers, "Hey! Look at how awesome I am at color! A statement, but it sells." So I guess maybe I will give it a try.

I don't think they're ready for this. It'll be a slaughter of the competition. I am honestly one of the hands down, best at this when it comes to make art that simply wows and when I think about it, maybe that is exactly what the world needs right now. Enough people are saying how bad everything is. And look at this, or fix that, or social injustice this. Nobody is saying simply look at how beautiful the world still is. IT is not destroyed the beauty has just been pushed to the side to make room for every one's personal greed, egos, and fanatical worship of all things tragic. Within nature there is still a majesty. An orchestra of colors, harmony, and music. Van Goghe saw it before he went crazy, or maybe it drove him to craziness. Matisse saw it... So did Monet, Seurat, Kandinsky, Okeefe, Stella. Maybe not so much Warhol, Duschampe, and Picasso, but still there is an understanding of beauty and natural rhythm that resides in their work whether they admit it or not. So, with that, my new phase as artist salutes them. Post Modern Barbequeism gives homage to that, that is "EYE CANDY".

Back on schedule

This morning I am finally getting back on routine after a month or so of erratic discipline. My 12-16 hours of productivity must continue if I am to be as successful as I need to be. Many things are in the works and more and more just keep piling themselves upon my back in exponential amounts. I can't complain though, the harder the job, the more I feel up to the task. Many of the things I need to do have risen that are not on my ultimate list for 2010, but no matter I will still gets to accomplishing them. So without further ado... Let's start first with my poem of the day from my book 3rd Shift Epiphanies: Chronicles of a gas attendant.

After the month long blizzard this year it is appropriate for this month...

First Snow

Snow, sleet, and dreams of a slow night.

Glows of white

Pass and flicker,

The buzz of the sweet gas lot.

Winds blow frigid cold.

Fast and gnarly.

My thoughts the same.

Playwright, poet, and painter.

I just don't know.

On this,

The first snow.

Autumn is upon us. A president of new discretion awaits.

There looms an eagerness

in the eagle's nest.

Are the eggs of ideals fertile?

Or,

Are we in the state of Denmark...