rew had sat quietly
and listened to a Tibetan monk and his translator. Three hours flew by. He must have been deep in thought, or hungry, for on the way out he accidentally let go the door on Ruth Denison, who was coming up behind. We apologized. And I thought, she is wise, she knows we all have to live in this world, too.

Crystal, Rainbow, Indigo... I realize my naivety, and this is all very interesting, but what of identifying generations in the metaphysical world and the one world we have to live in? We are all a part of a tribe that propels the next forward. If the new kin coming up think they should be able to ‘image’ what they want and have it in front of them instantly... so, what about it? Yah, we may be able to do this in a one hundred years, but for now, unless in front of a fast food counter, a bit of patience works the best.

I find more and more wider and wider descriptions for making everyone happy. -spiritual yet flippant -serious yet irreverent -beautiful yet edgy.

Will you explain everything when the opportunity presents itself?  - Ringo HELP


Possibly tedious random thoughts from a page out of a notebook, in one paragraph, split.

Dream of a cookbook called The White Bag. The pages are packed with elaborate recipes of incredible sounding deserts described in superlatives. The tease is - next to each recipe there is a photo of a well laid plate, empty except for a few crumbs, a sticky fork and a soiled napkin.

The infamous elderly mom and middle-age daughter, cousins of Jackie BKO. The duet are rich, living in a slummed mansion in Hampton. They eat cat food paté on crackers and fight over mundane things. A dangerous combination of stubborn, compulsive and impatient. These women feel like a strange voyeuristic oddity.

Some of us are seeing ourselves cross over into elder-land. I find it weirdly inspiring that the more life experience I acquire the more I resonate with Edith and Eddie.The great part is I rarely get frantic nervous anymore. I wait for it to kick, and again and again...it doesn't. 

I find the word ersatz hard to put in a sentence. And the word thwarted. Never hear that spoken aloud, it is seen mostly written in novels. 

Note: check if ‘Almost Certainly’ - is a cognitive behavior therapy.  And if this has something to do with the Knights of Templar and Free Masons.



ot bragging or complaining, but there is a dissatisfied curse of the artist aesthetic.

Not ever being content with a healthy walk, or hearing a proper opera, we educe the snare of inspiration. Whatever the medium used, it’s all the up-constant and continuing retelling of the thing. The creative spirit keeps us going, questioning our steps, keeping us grounded in the dirt, trudging along.

Floating memory of walking past a pile of fish heads in the lower east side. Some how you knew if you gazed too long the image would burn into your psyche and resurface as a nightmare....

What might it become after it is internalized, digested and reinterpreted? Did it become the skeleton of that horrific bricolage of painted napkins, metal springs and severed doll hands? Did it become your to-do list? Did it become the color lipstick you picked out this morning? Does it have any resemblance to naturalistic form, or, jumped to stylized representation? Nay, transformed into the oblivion of pure abstraction? (Ha! What does art do?) 
Did it go in as the classical phase and come out Baroque?
What Mannerism do we go from Baroque? Enter the fall of Rome and the ensuing Phoenix.

....The most picayune memory will be carried through a lifetime to be relived in a flash as the unexpected reflection slaps us while we plant this years tomatoes.

If you can imagine yourself driving south while you’re driving north on the east coast, you’ll feel as though you’re driving south on the west. Rest on that

If I knew what art was, I wouldn’t tell you.  -Picasso (figures)


...Are to...not...are too...am not...you are to...Are too...am not...are too...am not ...you are
...Are too...am not...are too...am ...are not...Are too...I am not...are too...am...you are to
...Are too...not...are too...am...you are to...Are too...am not...are too...am...you are to...Are too...am not...are too...am...you are to...not...are too...am not...you are to...Are too...am not...are too...am not ...you are...Are too...am not...are too...am ...are not...Are too...I am not...are too...am...you are to...Are too...not...are too...am...you are to...Are too...am not...are too...am...you are to...Are too...am not...are too...am...you are to...


I saw Ginny's car today. She almost hit me. I’m left trying to figure out what the heads-up was about. Do you believe in that strange displaced channeling, when someone passing by says something off hand to you and it pierces deep? Or, vice versa, you just have to say something to a stranger as if someone else is forcing you. Bypass brave or cordial — you message what this person needs to know, needs to hear.
Well, I do.


What type of animal is that?
Ginny was a triple scorpio. The only one I’ve met so far. Known her and knew it, anyway. A breed that would be hard to miss. As it happened our determination took us to see prints from the John Lennon archive that were being sold at a posh gallery downtown. We headed out to take a long lunch break in the name of art. Simply beautiful drawings and lithos had been collected. Eventually, we came to a closed portfolio on a wood rack with a sign warning of the erotic material within. Always interested in the hidden, Ginny raised an eyebrow cocked her head, looked around and said, This, we have to see.

As soon as she cracked open the large folio six people zapped over like magnets to peer over our shoulders. I guess they were waiting for a Ginny to oblige their fear and interest. She flipped through with a running commentary. Okay... not offended... yet... got it... I could have done better... what type of animal is that?

I do the best I can... the yen is to, by not getting in my way, without hesitation, draw an inspiration and write something profound. Too often I’m writing while driving, scraping into the dust, or drawing hits with only a bad pen and a ripped receipt.

Art, then, sometimes seems an elaborate dance around something you can’t make. Add a muffled boom and a ring of smoke appearing at the bottom of the cartoon canyon.


An elderly Tasha Tudor is wearing a hobo suit and babushka (she sewed) and is riding an oversize red tricycle (she painted) with a potato basket (she wove) filled with flowers (she grew) tied on the handle bars (she’s not holding on to because she's reading a book she wrote and illustrated) with handlebar tassels (she dyed). At that moment, I want to be her.

She points out one of the tacky black velvet painting in the book,
Look how the black brings out the yellow.

Eager to impress her, I say,
Oh, no, See how the black strangles the yellow and drags it out?

She smiles and politely asking me to leave her dream.
Just because they are your personal hero doesn't mean you’d see eye to eye.

The favor is returned with another uncomfortable dream. I am lying on a rug and friends encircle, me taking turns with a talking stick. Passing the token each verbally digs at what they really think of me. Even in this dream state I knew their reason didn’t rest on bedrock. I still became emotionally stripped. I awoke thinking this dream was so bad it must satisfy one of the prerequisites of the twelve steps.


Scout meeting. The boys each in turn sounded off what he wanted to be.
A marine meteorologist, a dancer, a paleontologist, an archaeological anthropologist, an engineer, a biological anthropologist, an archaeological anthropologist, a Linguist, and a few things I had to look up. My son said a super hero — with just as much conviction as the rest.

When it was my turn I mentioned that there once was a football goal kicker named Ray Wersching, who always looked down entering the ball field, never toward where he was kicking. The quarterback  aimed him in the right direction and Ray lifted his head only after the kick. They didn’t believe me. I don’t know why, it seemed important for them to know.

They are digging in my business. How dare they!   - CMHH


At the risk of getting heavy...


As an artist you must be responsible for the images you create. As a person in general it is important to be in touch with your motives. I know that I would make a poor debate partner as it is more important for me to make an eloquent point than to get the facts straight.An artist’s statement (is always changing).When developing as an artist you never call yourself one because you’re not there yet. By the time you are, your work has become so Byzantine the Artist label is an easy way out.

nd so, and I’m figuring this out
as I write, the personal work that was offered out into the world so tentatively twenty-five years ago, is now flung out with confidence and unconcern for the frequent belittler. Not looking back, but ahead and over yonder to fill in more lines to appease my disquieted mind. Make room for more white paper and sharp pencils. Zen says you can not get to truth through reasoning, it is too limiting. There’s a good reason for ya. Rest on that.

above - CMHH in Practically Pink art happening

Start by doing what's necessary, then what's possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.
- St. Francis of Assisi ... the troubadour in rags who preached to the birds in the garden.


I think I’m pretty sure. 

What do false faces have to do with the wrong of the paper? It is true, the more we build up some dreaded thing, the easier it will be, by contrast, when it comes to pass. Part of the human condition is to make commitments and carry through. 

Things I’ve learned just today; A strong cup of coffee at regular intervals makes most anything seem possible. There is no more time, but you can create more space. The other side of the button is often the most interesting.


We all have the luxury of philosophizing now and again in our daily living. But as intriguing as ‘reasoning to reason’ and the idea of ‘categorizing the act of thinking’ is, it is also unrealistic for most of us. When I’m looking for something theoretical, I rarely find it by looking. Most of the gems I’ve held onto have come in the state of pre-empting brainwork. I like being surprised by philosophy. When your not expecting it creeps up front and you see an epiphany in a cereal bowl at the sink.

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
- T.S.


It’s neat, it’s logical and I can’t argue with it.
- Mickey Moran

I really thought I was going to miss out getting to appreciate this part.
I thought ‘Drew had skipped what I had always recognized as a privileged and important development of a male youngster. Those of you who have sons know what I am talking about. Those of you grown men will remember when the Copycat Gene kicked in. Time was when you could mimic. My son does now; the sounds of a race starting, a battle commencing, blowing up buildings, pistols, riffles, and machine guns. The more advanced sounds I’ve been recognizing include outboard motor boats, wenches wenching, and toilets flushing, and seagulls on a beach But, I reckon a repertoire would not be complete without perfecting the Darth Vader breathy breathy thing.

Drew’s eyes were closed and he was about to fall asleep, but he had one last idea,
What if our life is on the movie screen, and the cartoons are watching us?

All kids have to go through their ‘song writing’ phase, you know that. 

- Mrs. Moran.


An intent of writing is to heal and awaken. Words dancing off the page aiming their medicine into the topical condition and back to the scribe. Being judged or judged not, supported, or supported not, loved or not.

An experiment in stream of conscience:
'...Went into the place, left, salt picture too blurry from fade, this is too bright, the books will fall, falling, too late, old, it worked for Edith Head, check that...mark of Cain, and that, metaphor, is that something, expected but never believed when it happens, Dad Gum, needs an illustration.

All things being equal, stream of consciousness sounds this side of mad.

Dominate cherub so not to hoard the impossibly irresistible troupe disease.
One of those meaningless mnemonic device sentences that you construct as a list and be able to remember despairing particulars you would otherwise forget if you tried to recall them separately.

...But then using reason doesn't always make sense neither.