Circus. Mona and the Nine Knives. Winner.

Outside of town yards upon yards of canvas are being stretched and elevated on and over the ground. The ground is wet and clay with green grass growing in small gathered portions. The grass exist only at the clay's mercy. Foot prints engrave the ground and create tiny canyons and gather water to the bottom of each treads ravine. The canvas cloth has long since forgotten its life of pure spun cotton. Even the hands who form it view the canvas as a ancient deity of existences and not a commodity of common man's trade. This skin we shape is dragon's flesh upon shafts of wood taken from the Trojan's Horse. The ground it inhabits is no longer earth, nor heaven, but somewhere that exist on in the privilege of the human mind. Welcome one and all to the Circus. 

 

There is a girl who has lived for the Tiger's Circus for the whole of her consciences thought. She has no true start in her life. When all are born we cry out and scream for our Mother. Our arms push at the air and our eyes open from birth to see what will become familiar. The Girl Mona of the Tiger's Circus had no such start. Her mouth did not sound, and her Mother did not answer her because she was lost in the process of bring Mona here. Mona never felt her Mother's touch, and therefore she never cried, and she never opened her eyes. Rather she opened her eyes but saw nothing that is the start of familiar.

What is easy for common man, is unfamiliar to Mona. What is familiar to Mona stands as uncommon to the whole of man. Mona throw the Nine Tiger's Knives at a audience volunteer in the Tiger's Circus. To the audience member of such a privilege, they are left without description of the experiences that follows the Nine Knives of Mona to pass nearer than fate to them in a circular fashion. For to describe the in describable, it is as though hearing your first child cry his or her's first cry after birth. To those who have no children, you may try to imagine the experience with a melancholy state of mind. To the parent who has heard this call, you are made familiar with that which is very unfamiliar.

To my best friend whom I see now in my mind I want to call back and tell you something about yourself. Maybe the words are too full of great notion to be any present day help. Because the ideas I have of you sounds more as the speech of Marc Anthony to the Murdered Body of Caesar than to the real life man whom you are today. Still this version of you lives in the halls of my mind and my description of you will only be larger and taller than all other men once I am to the age where the young want to listen to me. You wore a smile that drew a line of division to the men of less confident self faith around you. Your dreams lived at the height of your voices volume. Your enemies were numerous and your closest counsel was the man who stood to your side. You made war at social peace treaties that others had formed in alliance with one another. Your Love rose to new heights daily, by your own professing or your own forgetting. You won, you loved and you won. To all who did not know how you did this, you did it through the rejection. To every conflict, there is dirt that we are ground in to, and blood that is pulled out of us. When others tremble at this thought, you addicted yourself to the sensation of it.

Registered Voter

"you will see it once its finished."

I have a dream for a new painting. I have been thinking of it all week long. It is not far from any of my surface level interest that I always express. The mysteries of my obsessions are common market place goods for all to access. The idea is not inside of me because I have to reinvent the world, it is only a interest to me because I want to imagine it and dream about it. I want to try and think about it. I feel very much in debt to the poet Luis Borges who wrote the meditation of “dream tiger”. My debt now tells me that there is no shame in trying to envision a tiger, not a tiger as all see, but a tiger that exist inside my view. It is my debt that says my dream tiger is not better than the real tiger because the real is even farther out of grasp to me than my dream. It is my debt that says the creation I make is not my dream tiger, nor is it my real tiger, but regardless it fulfills a portion of its offering to the inspiration.

I have the day off to my own pleasure. But a servant is more valuable than a self seeking ruler. A Lion can roar, but without his prey to tremble at the call a Lion is shorted on his pleasure. Writing also has a audience and woe to never be heard. The voice never used brings permanent damage upon the vocal chords in contrast to the voice lost in screaming. The pride of man is to be seen and to be known. How do we justify this condition, with the curse of pride and the use of not being in use? God placed Man in the Garden to work, and God's personal expression of His creation was that it was good.

In writing about the condition of expectation I find myself guilty and riddled with holes in my hull of floating self confidences. The beginning of this diagnosis comes with a view of the well developed symptoms. The least path of resistances is the fastest, and we begin creatures of habit form trails both visual-able and invisible in our lives. When faced with unmet expectation we are than in a battle with either negotiating with or surrendering to disappointment.

Just as Scared.

Everyone else is just as scared as you are to make art.

I am currently reading John Steinbeck, East of Eden. As I myself read and explore, I am remembering accounts of peoples feelings about this book. I use the word feelings, because at best this is how I have heard everyone relate it. It is a unique thing to be a author who relates feelings as oppose to principle. But rather it is a odd thing to under take the telling of a story. In each one of our lives we have attempted it several times. Whether it is a account of your trip to the grocery store, or your account of your family reunion. We are all story tellers. I say this not to discredit a author from the originality of his or her work. I would like to say that each one of us has particular need filled when telling a story. Even your most quiet friend can be brought to surface at the prompting of the need to tell a story or to give a account. The joy of this process, is that there is no set standard for why we need to take place in the telling. Confession is good for the soul, a well told tale of personal accomplishment can increase your favor or a crux for a laugh. But if only all of our sharing could be metaled down to form the purified gold of our timeless messages, what would be the glory of that shining element?

I wrote you three pages all about myself. I hope you can say, “ thank you for the gift.” upon finishing the reading of the letter. But in truth I feel like I have sent a emotional anthrax letter. Please don't flag my blog page because I have used such colorful anarchist imagery. I am only researching the depths to the definition of friendship. Like a ship takes sounding knots, I myself am not sure what waters are to shallow to move upon in a friendship. But if I had to voice myself as a Sea Captain, I would wisely say that no two shores are alike in image or face, in sounding and in depth. If that is the wisest statement to make in regards to friendship and sea sailing adventures, what is the point and purpose to hire yourself a able bodied crew? If each friendship is new to its vices, clauses, claims, and endurance who is to say that sound logic will hold you on course? Maybe its simply because a well groomed Captain of the sea of friendship can describe the events of his or her breached hull with so much more conviction that we can only wait to join them again upon their next death defying adventure.

Marks on the Pages of Time

Often times in my mind I have conversations and say things that never really come to see the light of day. In other words I have a private personal opinion. The caution to the boy who has everything is that possessing is a false sense of security. I have in my mind the memory of the day I realized that I was not the best tree climber in the world and yes I could find myself stuck in a very scary situation high up in a tree with no one to help me down. Our opinions can climb high in the trees of the fictitious situations. Meaning we judge the past, we judge the future, and we try to change the now based upon how we think it should occur. There is no shame in trying to orchestrate your life, but in the same regard there is a shame to the individual that thinks that there motions as a orchestra conductor to life really determines its course. Even now I am asking myself to hear the music of life's orchestra and to turn over my motions of fret filled living to the Conductor who knows how the song should be played. I am grateful for the times that I keep my opinions to myself. Let right living be my legacy, and let me be so anxious to hear the Conductors Symphony.

Taking the first steps toward art. I am sitting at my kitchen counter drinking coffee and thinking about a half finished painting in my garage. I am in love with the painting, a love that I would possible describe as a fatal attraction. The reason my love for my painting is a fatal attraction is because art and the process are two different things. Doing a craft and making art are two different results. Craft is repeatable, Art in simple explanation is not. Our bodies love motion, and our bodies love accomplishment. I remember hearing a amazing story of man who recorded his entire life, all of his actions each day. The man truly did record his whole life, but in order to save time he created a style of short hand so that he could save time daily. The end result was a vast world of information that bore no true information as to the delicate way our lives play out each day. However the man, was in love with the process, the goal, the stroke of his pen upon the pages of time itself. It is not a shame to fall in love, but when we find out the rules of our attraction we can often find ourselves sheepishly embarrassed of the item loved. Mystery has such a personal wonderment to us all. The first step in art is to know that you will fall in love with it, regardless of the value that your audience has for it. Do not be ashamed of your love and do not validate it by others sight of it.

Sea Bell

The Destiny of a Book Reader

Why does the reading of books feel so often like fashion? Our eyes see more that we can possibly take in of both the art of fashion and the existence of literature. Our personal buying is based upon our self image, much as we do not wear some apparel because it does not compliment our body type. Worst as of yet, once a agreeable look is found, we do not than easily break from the mold of it.

I am currently reading the book, “ Destiny of the Republic: A tale of Madness, Medicine, and the Murder of a President”. This is the Author's second book she has ever written. This fact should not detour you away from her writing. Her writing in wonderfully fact filled with a extra emphasis on fun filled. She has taken the time to examine little pieces of information that she can use freely at her disposal to make the tale of non-fiction, something of a fiction in your mind. As the President lays confined to his bed because of a logged steel bullet hidden in his body causing him vomiting, fever, and pain, his view from his make shift White House Presidential room is the view of the unfinished obelisk in memory of George Washington. A Memorial long overdue to be finished, but lacks funding for its development. It is colorful facts like this that make this book such a real tale for every American to hear. Only sixteen years after Abraham Lincoln was Murdered, James Garfield shooting brings a early America to a stop as it inhabitants wait, pray, and wonder their fate. James Garfield life is beautiful, and tragic, his love is sweet and bitter, even his enemies love him.

I mailed a gift today. It feels good. I hope my had written words in the note make the world feel like a smaller place. It will take at least two weeks to get there. Its good to be a friend and to have them.

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.