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October 2015







Art diary: the Picasso sculpture show I saw at MOMA today is easily the best show I've seen in years. Outstanding selections, beautifully curated, and flawlessly installed.

I've gotten too hung up and overthunk on this writing/drawing division. My new plan is to sit and write early in the day, apart from drawing, and not knowing what drawing I'm going to choose. Just get a big file growing of improvisational journal pages and thoughts then chop some out in the evening, no thought-out connections to the drawings, William S. Burroughs style of cut-ups, but with a picture.


Journaling, journaling, journaling, personal story,
journaling, journaling, joke, journaling,
journaling, attempted insight, journaling, journaling,
mock surprise ending.


"I looked into it again and now saw in it the lama who taught me Tibetan, who would have been asleep a mile away. In the fluid I saw him, in the company of a monk I had never seen; they were looking into a mirrored plate. Then I realized that they were watching me! I could not understand it."

-Terence McKenna, True Hallucinations, 1993


My feeling now is that iclock.com, this archive of images and writing, recently exceeding 2500 images over seven years, is more *me* than the person typing these words because the writer, sitting here at a terminal, on this evening in October, is only one entry, one moment, one day, one sample; while in contrast, the archive shows many sides, differing aspects, can be examined in detail, covers moods, emotions, seasons, passage of time, and style transitions; the disembodied body of art, the sum total and online presence becomes the deep, multi-layered knowing of my self.

Thinking further about multiplicity and representation, I researched (and by research I mean I typed some terms into Google and saw what came up), I researched the genetics of plant seeds. I wrongly assumed that the seeds thrown off by a plant, especially from a single pod, were all duplicates of each other, but that is rarely the case. Seeds are not exact copies of the parent plant or of each other, some are larger, stronger, and more likely to survive, some weaker but bearing the story of a mid-summer drought, their survival speaking of the organisms hardiness, and some bear mutations that may shift the plant from its niche and form a new species. Now imagine the many separate aspects of a single work of art, gathered like seeds in pod, bursting upon sight, and each seed finding fertile soil in an appropriately resonant mind.

When I include or exclude subject matter in my writing, I don't feel like I'm making a moral or aesthetic choice. I'm not protecting my privacy or trying to entertain you. What I write about is decided by an intuitive feeling for 'what is essential'. Sometimes that path crosses my day, my life, my emotions, my relationships, my family, the world around me, how others struggle, how I struggle, art, meditation, you know, about things in this life. Other times life stands aside and the writing is all theory and analysis with occasional poems. Underlying these blooms, I search for the roots, the originators of that voice. What must be said? Deep down there is a desire to write. What is it based on? I think the answer is to just enjoy the words.

Happy Birthday today to my amazing father and to this site: iclock.com -> seven years and 2510 drawings - both still going strong!

My heartfelt thanks to everyone looking and reading - JFSjr







Simultaneous and interconnected, a thought that occurs to me occurs to all of us at the same time.

No expectations for what should happen.
Only noticing what is happening.





That single thing that can't be released,
the detail out of place that bothers endlessly,
a reason not to commit,
risks that deny the effort,
fear of losing oneself,
and other hindrances to flow.