The only good drawings he’s managed to come up with over the passed few years, are the one’s in which he started with nothing. No plan. No concept, no idea of where he would go with it. Start with a few lines. Experiment with technique and try his damnedest to fight those inner demons, which, bubbling, always keep him on the precipice; the knife-edge of sanity. A shape materializes and, if he’s lucky, he’s off into the void. The void where ideas bubble up and he sees it.
It’s here that conceptualization actually works. If you try to start from a concept, you’re doomed to failure (no matter the outcome), you’ll never accept the outcome.
—Ah, so this is freedom!
(And here is where you realize that in order for there to be freedom, it all depends on the situation; the here and now; the original intention, and application, of the design in the first place. )
I had a dream I was walking with Joseph Campbell, down the city street, he said something to me, which now in the foggy remains of memory is only muddled with incoherence (because it wasn’t important). We continued walking, saying nothing. Building construction clangs and the workers clamor. I thought (in my dream) here I am walking with the preeminent mythologist and philosopher of our time, and we walk in silence, what’s wrong with me?
Nothing, it turns out, silence is transmission and images say more than words. He was much taller than me, same with the buildings under construction. The noise drowned out any words I might speak. And the occasion had me feeling small and reduced; insignificant.
And then I wake up, and forget what it was all about (determined to do it all over again). Energy rising, like the distant train rumbling through my chest and reverberating through bone and aura.
Afternoon sunlight through the blinds, a pile of clean clothes on the bed, we do laundry together on Sunday afternoon. It’s nothing we’ve made a habit of yet, but maybe a few years from now it’ll be our weekly chore we do together. You’re great at finding sock matches. I’m shocked by your willingness, and no matter how many times I write it in my head, I know there’s no poem that could do this moment justice.
It’s like solar winds burning away layers of self-incrimination, to make a return to the heart.
She took our picture for their facebook page. For a moment I thought about the outcome; I pictured the picture posted, I pictured scrolling through their facebook page and seeing the pictures of past customers, and realized that this picture, in this moment, might as well be any one of those already posted.
Of the two giant Douglas-firs that are on either side of the church I take my dog to on our evening walk, I have definitely become more a friend of one than the other, though both of their years are probably measured in centuries, one I walk by and have a chance to explore, while the other is usually just a silhouette in the fading evening light. The only way to measure their growth, as far as I can tell, is by judging the distance of a massive limb to the nearest star.
We’re here such a short time, the cotton candy vendor yells, enjoy it while you can!
There are these narratives that seem to fill our spaces, buzzing through the air, invisible like the pulses that carry our text messages and stream our shows. They tell us what we already know, and we nod in agreement.
“It’s not the gun that pulls the trigger…” —so true.
Rolling like water down a mountain. My favorite narrative is the distance that social media and the internet has created from ourselves (because I’ve been pretty active in distributing this narrative). But I wonder what effect accepting blanket statements about the things we do everyday has on us. And if we accept them as blanketly true, yet still we continue to do it, what does that say about us?
Heading to work,
I’ve forgotten my wallet more than a few times this year.