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She looks.
Do I look away, or do I keep eye contact?
I don’t want her to think I’m staring,
Maybe flash a smile.
How big of a smile? Not like the fourth grade
birthday party, ear to ear, but subtle.

She smiles back. That was good.
She looks again, this time in mid-sentence,
half smiling half laughing.
Repeat smile, this time throw in “the nod”.
Is “the nod” too much?
Do I look like I have epilepsy?

Be cool
Ice cold

Start the walk
Find someone you know to wave to
Almost there now
What’s that? Who’s that goon?
Abort!
We have a boyfriend…
goodbye

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I’ve been called a tease
Like a nice cool breeze
On a sweaty afternoon,

But I tell you hun
You make it fun
When I make you smile too soon,

If it needs no work
Then I’ll be that jerk
That you want to call a goon.

Don’t get attatched
I will dispatch
From this relationship,

So keep on calling
And keep on falling
I’m gonna take a trip,

South of the border
And I will order
Some salsa and some chips,

Not thinking of you
Not wanting you
Not even the slightest bit.

Drips

The ball bearing rattles as my hand
makes circles by my waist. The cap penetrating
the crest of the can and begins to let go,
acrylic chroma explodes onto the canvas.

One drip, two drip,
Red drip, blue drip.

Separation of one to another, it’s the little things
that make us ourselves.

The eyebrow scar or the properly placed mole
all have a story to tell, just ask Marilyn.

“I hope for drips,” wanting the imperfect look.
The drip stretches from end to end, caressing
the canvas as if playing a harp.
The painting weeps, telling all its truths
to one who will listen. One who will
search for more meaning.

“…always, and never…”

A quote from “sin city”, and one that I have now just realized I live my life by. Relationships, work, friends, and family, will always be around, “always, and never…”. Nothing is permanent, and nothing will stay the same forever. There are people that mean the world to me, so the saying goes. And “I would never be the same without these people”, this is true. But I would also never be the same with those people. Always changing, always growing. Growing old. From baby, to infant, to toddler, to adolescent, to teen, to adult, to mature adult, and then back down the spectrum. From baby, to adult, then back to baby, but this time you’re bigger, have more thoughts and knowledge, more experience. A grown baby…
Especially with girls, I could tell them that I want to be with them, but it would be even more of a lie than if I said I loved them. I do love them, but not for the same reasons that you are probably thinking right now.
I love them for who they are. For being themselves, and being no one else.
Why else do you love someone? That is the only reason I can see for loving someone. “love is one soul’s recognition of its counterpart in another.” The one you love should be your missing link, and yet another separate entity all in one.

“You’re the most important person in the world…”

“You’re the most important person in the world…”

A nice thing to hear from someone, but there are so many times one can hear it without thinking it is the truth. Then what? A false sense of pride and accomplishment? Maybe a certain cocky swagger that shows everyone you pass that you’re an asshole. But then what if one has something they want people to look at and say what one could do better, or maybe just show off their latest creation…. Then we call these people student photographers.
Feeling it necessary to walk around, jerking themselves off with their pride hand. Making themselves feel good so that they don’t see that their future is grim. They will grow to be that asshole that no one wants to be around. Sure he/she may create great work, but there is no work that will be able to reestablish friendships. But then again why would “the most important person in the world” want friends? “my art is my life…” but what good is the art when you have no one to tell you that they love you, and actually mean it. A person that won’t only love the money that you are pulling in with your amazing job…

Beauty lies in imperfections…

When people think about the term beauty many, many things come to mind. The majority have to do with some sort of perfection. Whether it be a perfect day, perfect apple, perfect girl, or perfect painting or photograph is irrelevant. There is a certain aspect of beauty that is deeper than the plastic shell that is seen by outsiders. The beauty I talk about lies in the little imperfections and even sometimes mistakes.

I started a painting series earlier this year involving flags and incorporated a copious amount of drips.  “Was this a metaphor for a deeper meaning?”; “Was it meant to be a political comment?”; maybe… but this was not my initial intention.  What I wanted to do in the beginning was use the American flag for its graphic qualities, bold horizontal stripes and star pattern, and create a beautiful painting almost entirely of dripping paint. “Why?” you may ask… I might reply, “I hope you brought your books, ’cause I’m gonna take you to school.”

When painters create paintings, at least non-abstract works, they become upset when their paint starts to drip (especially in the automotive painting world as well as house/interior painters).  But I wanted to embrace that quality that is often seen as negative and show that it can be beautiful.  The beauty of the drip that I wanted to utilize is the inabilty to halt its existence.   Similar to a birth mark, or a scar that one has had since they can remember, one cannot get rid of these imperfections without surgery, and even with the surgery there is the possibility of a scar, a different scar.  These birthmarks and moles are like trademarks for that one and only individual.  The signifier that they in fact themselves, and have stories that go with the scar (and sometimes birthmark).

Sometimes the most beautiful thing about a person, or work of art, is the imperfections that separate them from anyone/thing else.  It’s the little that make someon/thing truly unforgettable…

I change my mind…

Myra has convinced me to not be so closed minded.

When I first heard about blogs I though that they were merely an online version of a sixteen year old girl’s diary.  “Today Sarah told Michelle, who told Carrie, who told Ashley who told me…”, you know, that kind of drama-queen garbage.  Have to say, I wasn’t a fan at first.  But Myra showed us a bunch of different blogs that went deeper into philosophical inquiries, artistic endeavors and then a couple that were like diaries, but more so the first two.

As I looked deeper into this society of bloggers  and what they have to say, I have come to the conclusion that “it is what you make it to be.”  My aim is to create a blog that is part philosophical, part poetic in nature, and very influenced by art in general (I am trained as a photographer, but consider myself a lover of all art forms).