Is it Ever Enough

I'm a leaf shaken loose from my tree, falling- Red with the anger of having to live a temporal life; Red with the romance of times fleeting nature. And it feels like there is no going back. And I'm sorry for being so weak, but something's breaking. I can't tell if it's the ice, or my heart. The dead are right around the corner. And no one believes me.

Cheers- to your affection; your entertainment. There is a small piece of me that shades away a complex pattern with simple colors. I reflect for answers and direction. A clear form, sharp in my memories lens appears at first. But it's shining folds are made murky by the fluid ripples of the mind. Patience, maybe- for something new to come sweeping in. And then what?

"False Propaganda"  Oil on Canvas

Challenge me, Hipocrisy

You act like a machine. Your interactions leave me feeling skimmed- like a superficial wave washed over me- “what was the point? I'm not wet, barely misted. I'm offended that as a friend, this is the conversation you continue to offer. It's like someone keeps spitting in my face, and telling me they believe this will quench my thirst.”

1. He stood 7 feet above the ground and looked out over the ocean. He seemed mighty tiny. His utterances yearn to be the vehicle of expressing the depths of compassion and love. And he's simple. His depths are compassion and love. And that in itself is beautiful, like looking tiny beside the Atlantic Coastline. You on the other hand, hold it all in- behind sad shark eyes. You tell me America is great, but you don't believe it yourself. You say you're an optimist, but any outward look you give is melancholic or scrutinizing. I'm not sure what's beautiful about someone who finds such bliss in ignorance and such routine in hypocrisy. 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

Culinary Art!

And innovation. SO proud of myself.

For anyone out there who may have a similar problem- loving poached eggs, and the added benefit of lower calories by preparing them this way (or just really loving poached eggs)... but not having an egg poacher- WORRY NOT! There is a solution. An easy one too.

The magical solution to your problem comes in the form of a Mason Jar lid-ring. That's right, just the lid-ring.
1)You place the ring in the bottom of an empty pot.
2)Fill the water inside and outside the ring, until both levels just crest and meet each other at the top of the lid-ring... NO HIGHER. Believe me you'll defeat the purpose, and your egg will swim.
3)Bring the water to a barely boiling boil (tiny air bubbles present) and lower heat to mid-low/medium.
4)Finally, crack your egg into the lid-ring, being careful not to break the yolk. If you want to be a safety/perfectionist freak like me... I like to crack my egg into a cup, and then poor it into the lid-ring.
That's it!

Perfect Every Time.

Where the SunShine Slows

And, do you think, Real or Imaginary Love hurts more when it's lost?
Sometimes I think about you, and I'm sorry how we turned out. My stomach turns and I miss you. I miss how we could talk honestly. I hate how the world feels without that now. He's a lot like you, and that hurts. I want a second chance, with different circumstance- but I'm so scared that it's going to be my second same mistake. He breathes me. Does he smell her? It's a melancholy romance at best- we're both scarred and afraid to take that first step. Neither of us are really ready to let go of our past, but I think I am the more willing participant. I'm impatient. I'm impulsive. And this vague impression- your Germaphobia makes me feel like a disease. 
 Riding in my car- passenger seat and I'm starring out the window- wondering how you could say you love me, and  hurt me so bad. I'm your first girlfriend. It's dusk. We're driving over the bridge- we're rounding a bend. Pure horizon. You won't stay with me tonight, you won't stay any night. My stomach turns because I need to make a point. Listen. And he says I'm right. My stomach turns- I didn't want to win. There's a message on my answering machine and it says that no one will ever love me like you do. That message haunts me.
 You hold me up. In your phone, you have me as Fem Gem. So I know I'm special to you. We'll meet a few years later, and we'll pretend we're just friends. But then we're going to end up at Old Queens one night, and  I'll be playing poker inside. You're going to drink more then you should, and I didn't know you had done cocaine- but your nose is going to bleed. And you're going to walk out into the street. The cars will honk, but they're going to miss you. I'm going to miss you. It was a wet night I think, but I really can't remember the weather's details. 
 It's a cloudy day, and it seems to fit. It's going to rain in a little. It'll be light, like an April storm is supposed to be. And he's not leaving. I'm not trying to keep him. My back is toward the weather, and I'm facing the dark room. He's standing in front of me and talking about something- but I'm not really paying attention to the words- I'm thinking about why he's still here. The thunder crashes and it's a rustic type of romance. It's the type of storm that makes you feel green.
We're going to end up in a car, except this time I won't be in the passenger seat.  For the first few times, it's going to be stormy weather. Always a parking lot. The first night we hung out, he didn't even look me in the eye. His timidity is a surprise. At some point, I let him think of me as an object. Now he doesn't stop touching me. He tells me about the girl who broke his heart, and the fond memories of their conversations. He told me he never met her, and I think that's a remarkable love. His past few years read like the night I saw what I did to you at the bar. It's never going to be the same.
Did you ever notice, that every now and then there is a third party? He said it's because you need that additional person to bounce things off of to keep conversations going. I wonder if everything is an object to him. We never needed a third party. I think I miss that most. But I don't miss the sarcasm. I don't miss the Doom and Gloom.
It's dusk again. We're at that building in New Brunswick, the place you wanted to take 70's themed pictures at- with your wife. John Lennon and Yoko Ono style. You're both giving Peace signs, and her hair is long with one of those thin head bands that go across your forehead. You're telling me a story about a mysterious man you met at a bar. I'm fading in and out of here and there. I see the street, and the green knoll in front of us. I see a smokey bar- and imagine you're drunk and probably high too. It's dark in there. Out here there's more light. The man told you not to let her go. Drunk and profound. My stomach turns, and I'm wondering- if I brought you home- if you'd try to kill me in my sleep. Now I'm fading in and out of that thought. When we hang out anymore, I can't focus on you- you're missing.
 This is the last time. You take my hand as you lay belly-down on my couch. We're witnessing the sunrise and you're asking where I've been. You're quiet and contemplative, then you say- "I'm going to reach out my hand again, because I always reach out my hand for you... and will you take it?" So I take it. This isn't the first sunrise we've seen together. You're going to go home. I'm never going to answer your phone calls. I'm never going to answer you texts. I won't go on Instant Messenger anymore. The smartest thing you ever did, was not get a Facebook.
  I used to want to be a dancer, and now when I think about dancing, I think about Love and why I'm not in it.

Tattooing Paper 3

Tattooing Paper 2

Tattooing Paper

This Quote

"I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived."
— Chris Cleave (Little Bee)

..M.. Jesus Was A Spider ..M..

I once read that when the apocalypse is closest, we'll be able to tell by the polar phenotypes of the people in this world. There will be racial ambiguity, and you will either be lumped into the "troll" or the "demi-god" category. So I like to people watch. Where the hell did I read this? haha... random right? Anyway this is a picture I took while visiting my parents, of my brother on a raft (which you can't see, so it just looks like he's floating perfectly on top of the water). The title is a thought I had when I saw a spider walking on the water in the pool (sorry, no picture of that- but I'm sure there are plenty on Nat. Geo.'s webpage). Sure, there are plenty of creatures that can walk on water, but I chose the spider- because Spiritually it's supposed to be representative of  "the weaving of our lives". Das ist Alles!

 

 

Where's The Commitment?

"... the basic philosophy, spirit, and drive of an organization have far more to do with its relative achievements than do technological or economic resources, organizational structure, innovation, and timing. All these things weigh heavily in success. But they are, I think, transcended by how strongly the people in the organization believe in its basic precepts, and how faithfully they carry them out." (from Thomas J Watson, Jr. A Business and its Beliefs- The ideas that helped build IBM)

http://www.prismltd.com/commit.htm 
  Some contemplative pictures I took, trying to get some new faces/angles for upcoming paintings. I was thinking about commitment- to self, goals, future life etc.- and feeling a little melancholy? Anyway, I Google searched the word, and came across this site/write-up. Thought it went along with the contemplation mode I was dealing with in these pics.  T'was inspirational :)

Out of Sight, Out of Mind?

She's Yella-Bellied

"Playing Pollock"

The Winter Ravine

"Those Rainy Days- They Ain't So Bad When You're The King"

Linguistic Progression

These are three paintings I did using the same subject matter- movement. The object I painted from was the head and arched neck of a galloping horse. All three paintings are obviously different, but the title "Linguistic Progression" is supposed to be about the movement of language- its changes over time in any given culture, country, or region- but especially (like the movement of a galloping horse) its changes even in the instance of a single conversation. I consider this series to be a single conversation. The colors in painting #1 vary a great deal and have no clearly defined solid areas- there is notable texture- via brush stroke- all over. But, it gives you the sense that something is happening-that movement is taking place, however, the direction which this movement is going, isn't quite determinable. Painting #2 is more distinguished, and the movement of the piece takes the background to the overlaying compartmentalizing that is going on. The colors meld together better, and don't project as much energy: they are moving toward neutral. Lastly, painting #3 melds the recognizable features of text with ochre neutrals, and occasionally, an obtrusive brush stroke. A lot of people have said they liked this painting most- that it's the most interesting. I wanted to tell the story of an event, but once I started, I wasn't sure where it was moving, or what exactly was appropriate and efficient to recall- so I painted the uncertainty over-top the actual story... The body language of the horse, was in-theory supposed to progress toward the body language of the text- in that I mean, there is a clear understanding of what is going on (there is movement) but what that movement is, and why it's happening, and where it's going- remains ambiguous and uncertain still.

 

It's About Never Not Believing

The picture is a photo I took- where a bunch of people said I looked like a Porcelain doll... so I named it after the Smashing Pumpkins song- Porcelina... it was supposed to be a play on a melancholic omnipotence- again for a painting I'm working on... the last two are photos of two paintings I made- both play on light and depth- but the third has a slight mannerist approach to the objects incorporated. All aspects of both paintings were derived from either photos, or real-life observation- nothing but the abstract pieces were painted from imagination- but I wanted to give both paintings a strong sense of Fantasy- so a lot of unrealistic color choices were used, as well as no real "figure/ground" relationships.

"Porcelina"

 "Ina Dream"

"You're My Soulmate"

Dream Weaver

In Goethe's Garten

"Half Way"

 "In Goethe's Garden"

Sandy Cake

We'll Organize the Abstract Pieces

"We'll Call it Recognizable"

The Reason Why

"Seek Balance"

"The House That Built Me"

.Woebots.Bot.

Genetics

Fierce Grace

."e".

Together, We're A.part

Can I Kick It?

In The Garden

":Even The Rain Paints a Textured Scene:"

The Waiting Game

"Pockets"

                                                                           "Pieces"

H.old. O.n. T.ight.

"The Wish"