Bow&The Arrow. It Canby. Peeling Lightening/Titan Struggle

My Dad is a bow hunter, a traditional hunter his bow and his arrow are of the olden times. He has several bows they hang beautifully in the room just down the way from me. He practices in the backyard. I love the bow and arrow. When talking about artwork and the effect I want it to have on my target audience I explain and see it in my head as a arrows tip. The farthest reaching point of the arrows tip is only a small percentage of the entirety of the arrow. I don't know if my comparison stands true when thinking of the arrow penetrating wild game. I am trying to say that art and the impact of art is as a arrows head, the farthest reaching results of the blade in also the smallest percentage. It is a very hard thing to strike your audience in the heart, and the weapon is fashioned so that few feel the edges cut.

I wrote a journal entry at the begin of this month about my trip back to Canby. Canby, Oregon just outside Portland, Oregon home to my heart because it first loved me. It had been seven months since I had seen Canby, since I had seen its people who I love so very much. I am not sure how to describe my trip, other than that in my journal I wrote, ' it was a God appointed trip'. On the side note of not wanting to leave anyone void of understanding, I described it as a God appointed trip because large influential things occurred inside of my family and in my friends. The entire atmosphere of the weekend felt as though there was a large and powerful wave of water wanting to crash down upon everyone. It was my joy in that moment to be so close to my Grandparents as they received calls about their Daughter in law and my aunt going into a coma. It was in these moments as a wave of emotion wanted to crash upon everyone to pull us up from our sure ground and undertow us to a place in life where all surety is lost. Instead, I was able to take the hand of my Grandfather and Grandmother and along with my friend Mahlory my Grandfather prayed for Penny my aunt. Life is made up of appointed times, where the answers come to us by Grace and our praise is delivered out of thankfulness. Penny is in recovery and no longer in the coma. In years to come, I will think about grabbing onto and holding my Grandfather's hand as the wave came to threaten our footing from surety. 

A dinosaur fighting a bear with lightening bolts peeling off and away from their clashing titan struggle. My goal in writing all this was to tell you that I am still terribly fascinated by dinosaurs right now, so that is what I want to paint.

" How are you?" Art in all Forms. His, Hers, Divines.

I am attempting to write my thoughts, but I fear that I have not written in so long that each sentence and and each thought is over drawn on what really needs to be said and expressed. Much like the greeting we give a long time absent acquaintance or social friend. Our voice is louder in saying their name, our smile held out wider in a pause to emphasis our emotion. We announce the question, “ How are you?” as though the received answer to this mystery could be the key to life and death itself. That is how I felt when I began to write again.

I have become a restaurant server. My only history in restaurants before was a dishwasher in a sushi restaurant and a line cook in a Italian kitchen. Serving is a different world. I am not writing this now so that you can feel isolated by me telling you that its a different world and so therefore you cannot understand me. I am writing to make you interested in it. It is my opinion that to watch and to see any person who is good at their job is a amazing view of love, tension, tolerance, art and drive. I have had the privilege over the years of being recognized as a artist. When serving I feel all the same pride, hurt, frustration, trapped emotion, and joyful pleasure that I do when creating. Still the art of serving can be done without the need of the art. For each art field, there is a audience field, I pray that you yourself are a artist to your pain, struggle, love and joy, but also that you are a audience member loving a art expression the same. Its our love of the art that keeps the arts as unconquerable goals.

I am twenty eight now. I never thought that I would be here. I never thought that it would still feel so young. I never thought that all my insecurity would still be here as well. It was kind words that once told me that our life issues never really go away. That being said I should think that this habit of life that I have formed for myself should become very boring. Still people express quite often that they have changed, the people who are saying this kind of thing are from every age of life. I must admit that I myself look back upon my previous life as a metamorphosis out of not knowing ones self, to knowing ones self. To this be said I am still quite confused how people can comfortably take spouses into their lives at young ages. I cannot so much as live comfortable with most of my memories of my former self, how can I live comfortably with a person who would also have such thoughts? To all this I must ask Heaven to guide me, because it is not my knowing of the establishment of Man and Woman together, but His.

Mysterious Island, Mysterious Man. Shades. No Voice to Hear.

I am now half way through Jules Verne's Mysterious Island. If all art is a reflection of the artist, how can a novel not be a description of its author. My question in reading Jules Verne's story, is where is the drama? I can only imagine that our present world we live in has over done itself upon drama and a persons personal relevance. Mr. Vernes tale is of four men's survival. Currently in the book the men have nearly been living on the island together for a years time. During this fictitious year not one of the men have personal criticized another man. Not one of the men have taken a day off of working toward their survival other than Sunday. Not one of the men have questioned another man's opinion. I am amazed the statement that this book is bring across, not by what it has directly mentioned, but by what it has refused to mention. In a era in history where the Nation of the United States was fighting amongst itself in a Civil War, a author writes a book about the heart of human survival that applies to nothing of the individuality of man's independence, but applies in every way to his cooperation. I don't believe Jules Verne wrote the book as a testament or a allegory for life, I think he wrote it as he so honestly believed it. The reason there is no hate and condemnation between the survivors, is because the Author does not believe in it. Not saying he does not think that hate exist, but rather he does not use it as a hope or a dream in his life. I think about myself, and how often I want to believe that hate can fix my problems. I harbor painful feelings in hope that one day I will be vindicated by them. I have not yet finished Jules Verne Mysterious Island, but I am already excited about what it is teaching me. 

( I finished Jules Verne's Mysterious Island.)

I am in the middle of yet another fine literary adventure told by the author Rafael Sabatini. I enjoy his wonderful dialogue between characters. Each role produces a shade in the shadows of intent of human nature.

My barber has no voice due to lung cancer. Still he is a joyful engaging fellow. Yesterday he was telling me a story through his whisper of a voice. He came to a part in which he was talking about a married woman. He reach out to my left hand and grabbed my ring finger to emphasis his point in the story. Afterward I was so impressed by the man's desire to communicate that he would reach out in the midst of our talking and grab my ring finger to emphasis a point. What a amazing way to be heard, when you have no voice.

In search of Wa. I don't feel anything at this Height.

In the book, "Japanland. A year in search of Wa."The author tells a story about encounter a couple of business man walking home from the bar. The Men were singing loudly and expressing themselves as though they were children again. When the business men saw the author, they straightened themselves up right in front of her and held their composure as she passed. The author used this story to give a example of the fragment portions of these Japanese Business Men's lives. Saying that they are called daily to be professional that when joy comes upon them it enraptures them to a child like state. Happiness is a high of the body. Even more interesting is the question who can we be happy around? “I have never seen you like this!” Has the person never had fun with you, or have you never felt safe enough around the person to express your joy.

On a day like today I only really feel like trying to write all day long. I starting to get the feeling that the rest of the world is waiting for me to catch up in life. I feel like I missed a inherited social pressure that is given to all human's to hold us by instinct to safe conduct. I have heard rumor that there were members of a Indian tribe that were always in high demand to work for constructing skyscrapers. The reason being is that these Indian's were claimed to have been born without a sense of heights, or rather “ The Fear of Heights.” I don't know this story to be true, but I don't believe it to be false either. I am simply saying that I feel like I was born in absences of something. This absences is both a tool and a hindrances just like the Indians who worked on the skyscrapers. To be born without Fear? Or to need fear? What is the gift and what is the curse, in either state of being the other person knows the least about the other.

The Question I Asked You a Year Ago. Public Transport Failure.

I meet a man years back who had lived all across the United States. He was a very approachable man, in that he never held anything over your head except your own words. I can remember on occasions using expressions in conversation with him to which he would than say, “ What do you mean?” I would than try to explain my intent in using the expression, he would repeat back to me the direct line I had said, “ What do you mean when you say this.” It bothered me a lot when I first met him, because I thought that he was mocking my verbal ramblings. In time I learned that he just simply wanted to know what I was saying. He was a factual man, and didn't play games in social graces. I would say its a fine way to be, because social graces are like I owe You's. Publically you pardon your friends blunders in the attempt that they too will cover your own debts in stupidity. This is what I am calling the “I owe You system”. My question to this man years ago was, “ How long does it take to know a city?” He had lived in so many places, that I wondered what he considered home, what cities he despised and what places he regretted moving from. It was a year later after I moved and was visiting my old home that he saw me on the street. He called out and asked me “ Have you figured out the City yet?” He didn't have a direct answer for my question, but it meant a lot to me that he still remembered the question.

My car had broken down and I was commuting to work by way of the public transportation system. I was thrilled to become accustom to it, and to daily see other people's lives as I go to and from work. The commute which I was taking required me to get on three different buses. I didn't know how much a bus ticket cost, or that there is zoning for buses and that traveling from one zone to another zone meant a purchase of a different ticket. I gave the bus driver five dollars he didn't give me change. I told him where I wanted to go and in turn he gave me a ticket for the rest of the day. I hung out very close to the front of the bus, because before in my conversation with the bus driver he told me that I would need to connect with bus line 82. How? When? Where? On my first morning I got to my destination, but on my trip home I was taken much farther out of my way. Every new bus driver that I talked to was even more complicated than the last. I would look at charts and routes on the bus wall's interior, but I often caught myself pretending like I understood them. In one moment I would have the security of a veteran bus rider along side of me talking to me, and in the next moment they were wishing me luck as they got off at their stop. Luck and daily commuting are not cool together. I can remember seeing a couple sitting together in the bus slumped against one another. A man leaned across the row to me. “ Its sad isn't it?” I nodded my head in a social agreement, but I was terribly unclear as to what he was saying. “ Its just sad.” He was talking loud, loud enough for this couple to hear him without fail. Than I understood that this couple in the bus were not even present with us but were on some fix from a drug. I looked closer at their behavior. The man from across the way began telling me of his experiences else where with public displays of drug use. The bus stopped being so magical, I got off downtown and made it in time to be a band practice. I was excited for the introduction, but I was ashamed that I failed my public transportation class 101.

Mirror&rorriM. Girl's Called Him Benji. leather bound conditions.

Among many things that I dislike, is the act of seeing myself in photo's and hearing my own voice in recordings. I argue that the reason why most hate their own photo is because we have grown accustom to our view from a mirror. But the mirror is not a real representation of us, it it the reverse image. Writing your own name on a piece of paper and than flipping the image backwards does not describe to you your name. Yet daily we live with the image of ourselves in reverse. I try to spot the images of a famous movie stars in the reverse image of mirrors in their featured movies. Most every movie will have a mirror scene in it. I like looking at the movie star in that moment, because I feel as though I am really looking at them, or the way they see themselves. You can see the reverse side of their expression and maybe even caught a glimpse at the insecurity of who they really are. 

I stood watching a lightening storm roll in and over head last night. I am not here to try and describe to you how it came or what the it felt like, because I believe each of us has our own personal version of a lightening storm that we would want to write and share as well. I would much rather appeal to the great gathering of us all in that we have all been wonderfully impressed by lightening. But in that moment of watching it, I thought of the childhood story of Benjamin Franklin who decided that taking a kite out into the storm with a metal key was the best idea for him at that moment in life. We all applaud that advancement of Benjamin Franklin for doing this, but do we ever think that it could have been us? I was always taught that Benjamin Franklin was so wise and infinite that he knew what he was doing. As I stood exposed to that lightening storm last night aware of electricity and its power, and well taught about Benji's kite and key I was afraid of anything metal around and on me. Who was this American Inventor who was not afraid to face the storm?

I buy a specific journal each time. I have had this as a habit for at least three years of my life. The cost of the journal is twice as much as any of the other journals on the market. Still I find the journal itself to be highly effective and agreeable. The balance of the hard leather covers make itself easy to write in if you are not near a table. The thickness of the paper ensures that you will not rip through it with the tip of your pen, or that rain drops will curl the whole book if they are to hit the open page. The journal secures a pen along side of it, but is not so large and bulky as to give you the feeling of carrying a brick. It the worst of situations I have shoved it into my back pocket to carry. This is why I have chosen this journal to carry my life thoughts. But still each time I fill the journal to its full, I question whether or not I deserve another one to start all over again.