The Only Good Art…

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. )

Joe Campbell

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.

A Thousand Years of Laundry in a Single Afternoon

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.