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May 2013




Through the eyes of a spring day.

Escape and re-entry.

The thing I'm searching for is what's searching.


What keeps us separate?

Considering discontinuity, "It should be added that quantum mechanics, whatever its interpretation, does not account for the transition from the possible to the actual."

Walter Moore, from Schrodinger Life and Thought, p 452.




Coding a solipsistic loop.

Stillness in the cycle.

Fruition from the union of kindred things.

Somewhere near the beginning of a design.

Isolated from the expanse.

A new lens.


Pointing to the pointer is pointless.

I'm searching for my voice again because I'm tired of one liners, and holding myriad ideas inside my head for fear of being laughed at, over the embarrassment of being so open, and how much effort it takes to write well, but really, I mean really, what am I waiting for?

Can I possibly write about my life if my parents haven't written about theirs? My grandparents never did but their stories have defined me, guided me, and those stories are shared with love and longing. But if I don't write things down, my kids will never be able to tell my stories because all the best action takes place inside my imagination.

I justify my kind of open daily journal to myself by saying it is a way for me to explore my inner life, where, if you follow Proust, I have understood that every moment, any moment, contains a universe, contains all time, contains the entirety of my personal history and, if given the space to unfold, will reveal all. I can easily see that each moment of each person's life contains a story worth telling in its infinitely expanding detail.

And I do believe that every moment is like this. I really do. And I believe that every drawing is like this, too.

Not forcing the writing but I still want to hear
What my voice has to say.
Coaxing up a few thoughts and spreading them out on the page.
No fear.

What comes up?
Trying to decide what is undeniable. What is it that I can't deny?
How about 'I am here'? Can I deny it?
Or better yet, 'I am'

because you could argue that 'here' is an illusion.
If I deny that 'I am' then who is doing the denying?
Fuck logic so full of these traps.
Just sit quietly and disappear.

This morning swirling thoughts steered my marks as if trying to draw a diagram of guilt imposing on desire.

Buddhism recognizes this state; one where the mind dwells, stuck in some habit, or endlessly turning over an argument. In China this way of being stuck was given the character for grinding or milling.

Perfect, right? The thought machine grinding along....

Digging for the answers in art...

Q: Would you say that your work is rational?
A: No.

Q: Does your imagery depict what you see in meditation?
A: Not in the least.

Q: To me, the images seem to encompass some overall vision. Do you have overriding themes?
A: No themes. No subject matter.

Q: Do you think the persistent images in your work are 'totality symbols', i.e. pictures that symbolize the whole?
A: How could that be true?

Q: Can one find answers in art?
A: It's like looking for the bones in ice cream. They're not there.






A child gets all puffed up to say something, shakes, hops, chin poking upward. utters a few loud sounds, and, when the adults look around, freezes; doesn't know what to say and just smiles. An exercise in attention manipulation. Why does it feel so good to be bathed in attention? One center of attention may be fifteen distractions.

The magician moves the focus away while the trick happens and moves it back for the reveal.

I feel like I am an individual thing:
a body, a person, me;
even though I know I am not.
Should I look for what I am attached to?

A petal,
aware of the flower,
still opens to the sun.