My work hollers at me, i hear it loud + clear.  My work lives as thoughts. i have collected these thoughts over the years, categorizing them, comparing, + taking notes on the notes.

i nail them down w/ colorful glass-head pins, spread open on the cork board parading w/ other though-captives + notice that some of them still twitch.

They question me;
If i shape a work perfect, exactly what i want — if i EVER manifested the artwork perfect — would i be afraid to try again?




Just one regular breath, that’s all.

i seem to be better at understanding the entire picture + then taking it apart to understand the  pieces + how the big picture fits. Not so good at getting a bit at a time + adding + putting the puzzle together.
A necessary condition of knowing is belief.

The dark ages are one of my favorites. Crusaders + their real life MacGuffins. Finding relics at just the correct time to win over + rally, to spur on the waining troops. Gaslighting a generation, the first motivational speeches for political persuasion! 

Relics were an early form of propaganda. An idea whose time had finally come.

I have with me two gods, Persuasion and Compulsion. -Themistocles

All misunderstandings are my own.


Isolation is no longer an option.

Figuring is a compelling thought; the complexity of words when used as a constrictor knot. The slip of the noose never loosens. 

The 12 step/ping on eggs plan. Most of the time i feel like i’m on the twelve-step program + i’m not an addict … is this the human condition? It is insulting to me as an artist to be asked to play such a shallow game.

The great debate.

i am a cross trained artist. That means, out of necessity, i'm trained in the fine arts, theater arts + design arts.


Having used the terms artist / image maker on my vitae for the past thirty years, It is impossible for me to separate the doing + the being. i also use the word, designer, just as often. The word artist is not pretentious. It's just a word we turn over + into something in our minds. 

101. Cross-training is important. There is no obvious path, + there isn't an automatically garnered paycheck. It is valuable to know what you are asking to be done. Know the execution of what you are asking of someone else. When others realize you have come up in the ranks, + you have put your time in, there is more allowance of respect.  

We have a saying — whomever touches the project last, wins.

After everyone has taken off their stage makeup, + other, i’m asked to go celebrate the show. i decline. Thinking: let me simply enjoy you professionally up on the stage. i am not interested in what pills you take, what labels you wear, what animals you eat….

You all know how to do this  — we’ll come back, for the hard part.


Way Random.

Yes, there is an immediacy, visual satisfaction, + acceptance in symmetrical.beauty. i have a long-time collaborator whom goes to symmetry first, + that is good play for me ... because i do not think symmetrical naturally. Asymmetrical comes as a first hit  + i need to work at finding a symmetry. It can be true, though, in art as in nature — the most striking look is symmetrical.

Pacing the floor + staring down into the wood grain, i spy the dog profile, the man in the moon, the kinda sorta. Over + over again. W/ an inward smile at the portrait of the artist as a space cadet — the pacing stops + walking begins.

We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.  -Plato 

i have felt that whether, is an odd word. It looks to me to be spelled wrong. It does not work well written, a bit better in verbal speech.

   1. Used to introduce an interrogative content clause (indirect question) that consists of multiple alternative possibilities, and indicate uncertainty between them; if.

He chose the correct answer, but whether by luck or by skill I don't know.

 2. Used to introduce a yes-or-no interrogative content clause (indirect question) that consists of a single possibility, and indicate uncertainty over it; if, whether or not.

Do you know whether he's coming?

   3. Used to introduce multiple alternative possibilities, and indicate the irrelevance of which is the case; regardless of whether, no matter whether.

He's coming, whether you like it or not.


Jumping into unstudied situations.

The fire flared up and fell – no one ran to catch it as it slid down the sharp incline of the hill destroying the gold that was so very hard to conjure. The flame powerfully snatched treasure in the mundane calm cycle of consuming, melting + defecating, leaving the left-behind to congeal into a big unrecognizable mess.
The simple rice bowl was broken + had a void that was never put together again in just the right way. There was a tiny chip missing that kept it from being mended properly. That negative space is now filled with gold — the perfect metal, the solar metal — to heighten its history + beauty.
He saw through the walls of fire with the intensity of seeing something of great interest.
Even thought the other room was held empty, of thought or purpose.
Picking through the fuselage she found a memory that was waiting to be unwrapped. She could feel the sharp edges under the charred swathe belying recognition. It had been abandoned long ago; hoping to find a new place to rest, finding a home far away form the originator. 



Like an ancient Egyptian, i spent the mornings drawing a likeness on the inner soles of sandals, and so, throughout my day i will symbolically crush the enemy with every step that i take.

   O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,--
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue--
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.
- Marc Antony /via Shakespeare


Learning x3: 

Reflection / Experience / Imitation

IDEA: It’s an immigrant experience moving from coast to coast.

IDEA: Hebrew for sin meant/s missing the mark,   mn or not being there.

IDEA: A gallery of ideas of my own mistakes.

IDEA: If catholics don’t believe that animals continue to exist after bodily death as human souls do, then why is st. francis teaching them?

Shuffling always brings the ace to the top.

i’m typing exactly - so why aren’t i speaking exactly?


History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man. -Percy Bysshe Shelley  

A compliment is something like a kiss through a veil. -Victor Hugo


These are the eyes of a maché Minotaur mask.
This is all that is left.

Thoughts have been too wiley to capture. i need a larger net.
Here are a few of the smaller ones that fell for the booby trap.

i no longer assume.
(not just an interesting idea)

In this dream, i am driving in traffic. i climb in the back seat to get a better view of what just went past, a wider view of what is going on. In back i can neither steer nor use the break, i’m totally out of control … + … everything is okay, it works out on its own just fine.
The mind is so very loud when it is silent.

Using a needle with an eye as big as a camel.

i like the metaphor Ship of Fools. The objective of singling out individuals that are less desirable, + giving them the honor of a one-way ticket out of the harbor. They’d land on another shore … where eventually they'd be rounded up again to embark on another voyage somewhere else. Those must have been the most interesting of happenings.





It's an engine of creation. If it works, don’t fix it. If it’s broken, don’t fix it.

About three-thirty in the nighttime, I came across a makeshift temple with a handwritten sign. Anyone that trespasses will be recruited for earthy employ.

I had gotten use to the brevity of the after world: the hilarium, the tediousness, and the dull.

Hearing I was drafted, I did myself the favor of getting real drunk in the classic off-to-war style way before headed off. In training I learned I was to wear a white uniform sporting red diagrams. Not understanding if I was to be read as information or stand out as a target, and before I could ask what the — I was sent back — back to exact locations on earth leaving notes to mortals. The letters were pretty little things wrapped in rags explaining luck of ominous intent, timing, and farewell. The receivers where to recognize the import of the kismet, or not. 


“Well then, how DO you work? I mean, in general.”

“Generally,” Kim answered honestly, “I agree to whatever the client likes, and then I go and do what I want to,” she rolled her eyes and shrugged, “You know, in general.”


They both climbed up on the tailgate and looked into the cooler. Kim discarded her thigh high lace-up sandals and rubbed at the tattoo marks left by the leather straps.

Les handed her lunch, and she immediately ripped open the hoagie and began digging through the sandwich to tossing out what she would not eat.

“I’ll take that,” he interrupted her arm in mid-air.

Ignoring a blinding shine winking a bit off in the distance, he tossed the pickle into his mouth and continued the thread he had been trying to get across. 

“Like I was saying, that Buick/Opel ’76 is an ugly car, I mean 2 for 1 ugly. Ahead-of-it’s-time ugly.” His mood was all pink and baby blue, teetering on the fun Sagittariun/Gemini nightmare that he embodied.

Tiring of this conversation she sang out, “Got it!” extending the vowels. “Don’t you just love the way the desert is so VERY quiet.”

He smirked and communed with the sandwich, his jaw popping.


It is all happenstance without much insight. There were neither names nor address on the small bundles. I began to wonder if synchronicity came into play. Does it have a pause button? What happens when the receiver is not looking or listening? On altered planes? What is an altered level? Are all levels altered? Are these, too, synchronized? Interesting questions without practical experience. I was back puffing and theorizing, walking the halls of middle school. The problem with this job, is too much time to think. Better to dwell on those impossible koans instead of the thwart factor. I set again to working fast in the dimensions and under conditions they gave me, sprinkling notes across a vast area. I Hurried to get finished, but also felt dread in getting back to home base.


Thinking of nothing in particular but hoping for a thought to catch hold, Les hummed Canon alla Ottava slowly, a short fugue he had known since he was 7 years old. His fingers absent-mindedly moved to hit cords on an invisible harpsichord.

Kim was reminded of her earlier chapters, processing her life in five minutes the way brains do because they can. It read like a Herman Hesse novel, edited with a multitude of breakfasts and trips to the bathroom. She could count her life throwing curves at the right time — but there was always the whiff of anxiety just before a shift. The doubting that something will fall into her lap, just before something falls in her lap.

A piece of trash looking strangely like a rag spat out of no-where on no-wind and gently settled on red metal, looking like a burned paper scrap from a far off fire.

“Why DO you like the desert?”

“Well,” she simplified, “It’s a large blank canvas to me.”

He imagined a pressure cooker and arranged another smirk. Picking up on this mental image she added,

 “Okay, a hot canvas. Something will happen. The white screen will in time burst and reveal something you didn’t imagine.”

“You’re are scaring me.” Les mocked, “Anita, white is for babies.”  

He loved her, but loved to tease her more, keeping her from spinning out completely. Her triple Scorpio nature always lurked.

Kim palmed her chin and splayed her fingers, “Ha! You came with your mouth open. It’s immaterial. But it’s usually something cool, nothing scary about it.”



Delivering fate is like connecting the dots. A shattering and replacing of stars, to become an aerial view of a city map of manhole covers. Bright circles of the primary colored twister game connecting dot-to-dots. Of the 101 delusions maybe there’s only one copied over and over. This was all beyond my threshold of adventure. Mars in Cancer. But, who would be brave enough to say so? Not me.


Les fell to patient waiting for the wide white screen to crack open with the missing piece. Patiently waiting for Kim to find a Godot.

“Ever feel like you’re looking for gold in a copper mine?” he offered. They both looked out, their gaze following a meandering gully left by a recent flash flood.

A yellow balloon drifted past them high up in the atmosphere along an escape route from an amusement park 74 miles away.

After another long pause, Kim seceded the campaign.

“Okay, let s get going, I’m not finding what I came here for.”

Jumping down, she stretched sideways with her hands on her head. She followed him into the truck.

“And, on the way back please, don’t desecrate Motown.” The engine cranked over and the stick pushed into first.

He raised an eyebrow, “Didn’t I show you my hall-pass?”

She was in control of the wheels as they spun a u-turn. Peeling away, what looked to be a delicate rag flew off the top of the red cab.



You know the feeling when you sip tea + feel yourself falling through the floor, pummeling into the center of the earth w/out the aid of a spoon, out the south end + keep going? This is that.

DOM muse - Choirs of Shadow Flying by Violent Eclipse 
(this will not transfer correctly? run-on? Know a choka is 5/7, 5/7, 5/7... ending with another 7 syllables.) 

Choka #38

Bumped off of the plank

Into the deepest of depths

A perfect swan dive

Through the blackest of wonder

If a god’s in sight

An awing is not offered

Brave the brief transit

Powered by failing flashlight

White winging singing

Shadows on their high horses

Their drone of not here

Simply the orchestra’s wind

Section tuning up 

Sounding like birds answering

Each other with riffs

Reading their mumbling lips   

Don’t look in our eyes

And you will not discover

Their look of distrust

Turning heads as comets will

Then elegantly

Trail the sharp icy crystals

Of being stood up

It is the best they can do

Light bright marquee crawls 

Across all human foreheads

Blatantly announce

Has Need to Get out Much More

With limp broken wings

I see the loathsome shadow

Dark is the hangman

He’s fumbling with the noose

Know that Surrender

Leads away from obvious

A powerful tool

For the love of your life call

And I kid you not




His left hand will be hidden

And his face will be bowed low


A bone yard can seem like an apocalyptic setting. This one, just outside the enormous theme park held parallel two popular pedestrian roads. The acreage could be seen above composed as a massive Zen garden holding enormous neon signs half covered in false ivy and topiary, a dead dragon exposing its skeleton of wire guts where maché skin had been eaten away by rodents, and a façade of a charred saloon. Indescribable and misunderstood humps of lost-useful things too big to be trapped indoors all nestled on the bleached antiseptic sand. The wabi-sabi of calm and individual. From the ground it looked like a giant’s playpen who had thrown toys around to amuse himself, or perhaps to strategize warfare with use objects. Looked at a third time; a mental map, a large hippocampus’ treasure.  However, that may be going a bit too far.

Jenny was a slight young woman intent on beginning over and over, with blunt feet and the posture of a stargazer. Wallace was studied in drawing an analogy between the macrocosmos of nature and the microcosmos of man, without much interest in between. He seemed never to begin nor end conversations, comfortable instead with a continuous inner speak that jumped out now and again.  Like miniature articulating dolls they appear from the direction of the ten-foot cyclone barrier. They have used this cut through many times and were not so unimpressed as familiar with the sites.

They walked through the distressed junkyard tossing out famous last lines.

“This is not as dangerous as it looks.”

“Ha, if weren’t safe they wouldn’t let us do it.”

“We’ll be safe under here….”

“This rope will hold.”

Laughing came easily with easy company.

“Oh yea” he said picking up a thread of an earlier conversation,

“I got it; every religious conviction then, by nature, is half speculative.”

When her confirmation was not forthcoming he added, “Qui tacet consentire videtur?”

“Right, grasshopper,” Jenny offered with a quirky smile erupting.

With her forearm she wiped back her long boyish sweaty bangs exposing an impressive birthmark over her center eye. It was a vestige of a former life.

He egged her onto a story he had heard numerous times. Thinking herself as being measured, she straightened her small frame, gaining composer and height as she walked on passing two-story ball and jacks, and a nest of archaeopteryx. Wallace smiled for what was coming and also for the advantage of now having space for his own thoughts. A bit of harmless trickery.

She told what she remembered, though words could not capture the richness and mystery of the tapestries that bore her image.

“We were not treated as well as you would expect. By nature we were holy things. The few of us evoked a since of preciousness to man but we were warriors and had to defend. Our safety vanished when we became known. When you are rare and beautiful you do not need to rely on magic … only malice. Our lives where fierce winds. The hunters were studied in false magic. But, we were not touched by charms or caged by low fences. The men were cloaked in charity, holding nets of magic, uttering profanity under their breath at every defeat. They blamed us for attempting escape. They blamed us when their trickery did not land us and they only became more determined to incarcerate our spirit.”

Her face grew darker in the shadow of a ridiculous massive sea monster.

“When the secret weapon appeared — a glowing white symbolizing the comfort we sought — we eventually fell. We could not sway the Virgin for long. We were not so strong against Her allure. Who of the forest dwellers had the inner power to deny Her? We were caught and bred into delusion and ineptitude. Hailed as profane and spat with irreverence. Her bloodied white gown our embarrassing mantle. Mythosed into plastic pastel colored ponies.”

Letting out a slow breath, Jenny brightened tossing her head back.

“Your turn,” she queued loud enough to jolt him from his obvious private reverie. 

“I was once and future primordial spec of which all things came to be and then the end.”

Wallace was whistling the preamble to the Superman Theme as they found the chink in the fence, maneuvered through, and were gone to the other side.



Prelude to the muse:

Under the Water's Surface, Heartbreak; The War That Follows

On second inspection the boy saw that the weapons were made of plastic and enamel. He noticed to his delight that the kit also contained a small female figure whose face seemed to be saying, “I’m in trouble here." Clancy understood with his limited ability to read faces, he could be dead wrong and he wondered if he was in trouble, or her. A hundred fiery winged horses came as an adjacent set along with other more domesticated animals. He had to have it, but he knew it would take a spell and a hammer to get his father to purchase it for him. So he did what any smart kid would do; he approached his mom. He knew from experience his mother could not resist a crocodile tear of want in her son’s brown eyes. Where his father would be a losing fight of wits, from his maternal half he could eke out an emotional win.

Clancy snowed his mother and they both traversed downtown toward the children's boutique. They neared a black haired street child spinning in circles allowing his shirt to flutter. The boy child didn’t seem to mind the homelessness as much as the boredom of this particular street corner. With a try at joie de vive, he played at Arthurian legends. When he eyed the boy pushing his mother along on an acquisition mission he saw an opportunity. 

He stepped in the way of the eager Clancy, bowing low,

“Caleb; may I be of some assistance?”

The mere elder complied, with more hurriedness than want. They both ran toward the door held open by his mom, the youngest meeting her woman’s purse at full speed knocking her aside.

Clancy excused him with, “He is my assistant for everything.”


A sarcastic, too many children to save, was written all over his mother’s face, but the words "too cute" came out of her mouth. Her son’s panache of befriending odd boys would confirm her of his particular persuasion, if he were not so young himself. The black haired boy loosed the red silk scarf from his neck revealing it as a woman’s slip, grabbing the spaghetti straps he pulled it over his head creating a cape. The breeze accommodated and his pose-of-ages finished the devastating effect. Having composed himself, Caleb and the others made an entrance.

Clancy had an eye for the dramatic, as his head was so full of emotion that got in the way of wisdom. He discovered the faux metal armor hanging beside the weapons he came to admire. Caleb picked up a shapeless piece of chain maille as though he had left it by mistake. He took it and belted it into a vest around him. Clancy squealed and pointed to the dragon wings painted onto the backside of the short tunic. Their excitement met and a quest developed between them. They did not know that a dangerous journey waited, one that they didn’t need to plan. Clancy’s mother, Claudia, stood aside wondering what mountain they were planning on scaling. She thought to prepare them for the foes they would meet, real or no, but decided everyone needs to make their own mistakes. Besides, it was time to head on.

After the set-deluxe had beed purchased and strapped to his back, Clancy along with Caleb meandered downtown though the city, imagining it to be a dangerous rock forest. Everyone they saw became a character in the theater of life, every something a prop, every corner a challenge. The bike racks where their loyal horses. They saluted every elderly person, and got a wink in return as though the elder understood the language of these warriors. They would watch the boys pass, lingering on memories unrealized. 

The boys easily swapped roles becoming the injun or the chief.

“Let’s get out of the way of this story for awhile and see what happens by itself,” Caleb suggested. He motioned for Clancy to sit down on the curb next to him and he pulled out a piece of chalk, drew a time-line boundary, then held it up in the air,

“Well, if sometimes I can’t draw fast enough, I can always eat it.”

“With wine? Or plain grape juice.”

They became impatient with the waiting.

“Double yuck! Let’s move off this street, it’s getting too hot.”

“Hey, I think I hear a strange voices and my mom whistling for me.”

“If there is a battle going on in there, we best investigate.”

Claudia had a radio talk show argument turned way too loud, and when they entered it seemed as though a courtroom brawl was going on. She looked at the two boys, fresh from a voyage with a hint of homesick for dinner.

They took the time to set up a miniature theater with major conflict and peril on the travertine den floor, discovering the players as they set them into action. Before long, Clancy and Calebs’ stomachs growled and they eagerly sat for victuals and regaled Claudia of their day, which grew bigger as the plates grew empty. Clancy knew the hour’s fortune was coming to an end soon. 

Claudia invited the little rustic to stay,

“That is, if no one will be worrying about you.”

The boys settled down, dreaming of alternative days of traveling troubadours singing and living the rock-n-roll lifestyle. And, they never once mentioned the inappropriateness of it all to Claudia. Only the wind whispered back to each of them finishing the story they could not imagine.

This was a peaceful bliss, for tomorrow would be an altogether different kind of day…

(unedited - unfinished)


 Sometimes art isn’t the sort you can see from a cross the room.
 Sometimes you need to get closeup to understand.

This was a different type of day.

Prophecies will pass; as for waging tongues, they will cease; as for notorious knowledge, it will fade.

There were garments everywhere. Where did all this come from? i’ve not entered the Cave of Lost Children; these clothes all too large. All i can make out are the elongated Botticelli figures looking as though crumpled at the bottom of a canvas. Sandro was certainly a frustrated fashion illustrator. Who owns that arm? Whose leg is sticking out over there? Which has that unnaturally long neck? i divert more than stare, wanting to know just enough to ponder the questions. Shall i ask for a line-up? Would everyone begrudgingly amuse me? Not likely. Elbows + knees pointing like Burma-shave signs, mimicking the way out. There are enough faded ghost signs here reminding them of the middle world above. Damn, i forgot the popcorn. Journeys are always a better film w/ concessions, but not a stand in sight.
i’ve come searching for someone in particular. For some one specific. In the stream of consciousness the ‘I’ is the thing relevant. i really hate that. i; again.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will be pissed away.

Proactivity is not working so to have a sit. Dropping into the fetal/futile position, i form the ‘O’ in hope, or in pOssibility. The hole for them to jump through + escape into. Hoping the sought soul will recognize a hero + leap at the chance to be saved. Hoping goes nowhere. Empty handed doesn’t pay. Returning empty handed is half a defeat. However + alas, this quest will remain unfinished. Mute souls scatter by to ask questions for unidentified reasons. Not enough to pay a visit, just borrowing? 

Don't they recognize me? A glimpse of news from the war overhead. A torn piece that fluttered down the small shaft. Perhaps they are unaware i am a broken off bit of the thundering, catastrophic, never decisive conflict. From down here the Megiddo battle playing out above ground is a soft roar that rocks + comforts + lulls, like hearing a far off tide slushing + bruising the sand.

When I was a child, I spoke like a child; I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.

Strap onto my back + you can be recovered. Which soul dares?
Soul retrieval isn’t what it used to be. So many in the lost-to-be-found, so little time.
Go find yourselves. Ha! i should have worn that T-Shirt. i give you reasons when you ask for a yes-no.
i’m cold + dampish in this work. My garments wait along w/ my power animal, back at the entrance. Unless he has retreated. Perhaps humility is good for something.

Okay, someone steps up to the plate. ID is affirmed.

We see though a glass, darkly; the mirror dimly, but then face-to-face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully un/known.

Hey Willi, what ya got there? (Power animals can be annoying. If omniscient, why ask?)
What i came for. Have a look-see, no don’t look. i got it. Just lead the way.
Everyone’s thin neck has its own kilter.
Everyone has a unique point of view.

Soul retrieval has become soul searching. i guess it always has been.

 So now? Faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the great test of these is love.
 - Corinthians

(Note to myself; as i sit here editing these from pages nearly12 years on, i'm reminded that art really + honestly records the moment — because i read back on this page, this thing i wrote down + i say, where was i? what the fuc was i trying to say?)