New York

Here I am in new York.
My final days in mexico city were spent with a sore throat. I'd burned my candle down at both ends. I slept and sweated through the small fever, and am still, one full week later, coming out of the congestion. I went to a park and sat down by a fountain after staying in bed until noon. I wanted the rays of the sun, out for their first time in over a week, to shine down on me. I sat facing the great sun, and watched a pair of mastiffs play-fight a young English bulldog. a youngish man came over and sat by me. hew showed me a necklace that he'd made out of an armadillo tail and silver, and encouraged me to make a drawing of it. I did little work conversationally because I felt so shitty. He flipped through my sketchbook with me and stopped on a page of drawings made in the anthropological museum. he pointed to a drawings from a sculpted mask from the olmecs. he said with sincerity, and intensity in his eyes, "este, no es humano." 'this is not human, this is reptilian'. he was reffering to the lizard people of lore, the ones who built the pyramids and interbred with humans, the ones who still claim dominion over the earth. that's typing from memory, so maybe not accurate to lore, but its something like that. so later that day I was walking around the downtown, it would be my last stroll before the plane ride that coming morning. I went further down one of the streets I'd become keen of and saw to my surprise, store that sold constructed panels, made of poplar it looked like, in various sizes. what was this miracle economy? intermixed with the panel stores were stores that sold paper graphics in sizes corresponding to the various panel dimensions, still more, there were stores that would affix one to the other, and apply finishes, frames, resin pours, round the edges, you name it. it was like a little fine art production street, that nearly exclusively, dealt with presumably copyright free images. I became tempted to buy a stack of panels and to ship them back home, but I held off. I found a charachature exhibition on that street as well, and went in. at the characature show, I saw many good comics, and was offered to have my portrait drawn- I couldn't resist, and upon sitting for the artist for a while, since the conversation seemed to be flowing well, I asked coyly, 'so, are Mexicans lizard-people?". he laughed, and said casually, 'that's what some people say', then he reached under the table and pulled out a clear plastic envelop full of drawings. He explained that this was some of his personal work, and proceeded to flip through the stack. it looked something like lizard drawing, alien drawing, sexy gril drawing, lizard person, lizard person, lizard, snake, sexy girl etc. we had a laugh. I thank him for his time. my portrait turned out not bad. I took a walk down the panel street again and did it, I bought maybe sixteen panels; eight and eight of relativelyt smallish sizes, that I thought would be useful for portrait paintings or just plain backup upon returning to the states. they were dirt cheap. earlier that day, before lying in the park, I'd made photo-copies of a few paintings to give as gifts. so after buying the handfuls of panels, I went back to the hostel and distributed the photo-copoied painting-gifts, which went off very well. I was happy to keep the originals. I've given away more than a handful of gems, that were full of crazy energy. I wished I still had them many times. I don't want to re-draw them. so, still feeling post-sick, now I had to wait up until 5am to catch my plane back to Orlando. I nursed a couple beers, while chatting up my hostel-friend, Christine. she went to bed after some time, and I eventually ordered a cab. at the airport, I bough a virgin Guadalupe shirt to blow my nose in, which served its purpose well. upon washing it, I have worn it about every day since. I landed in Orlando, then took a greyhound bus back to Sarasota, where I'd applied to stay for a few days during the break. There, I went through the steps to get into the building, like I'd gone through in my mind many times while feeling lonely or vulnerable in Mexico. As soon as I got there  I found myself restless. There was no one on campus and I began frantically or maybe manically, re-arranging the room in preparation for the upcoming semester. I realized that I had not been on a vacation at all in going to Mexico, merely postponing work. I still felt like there was much to do at Ringling. I ate unhealthily, and would have a beer or two every night. I clocked into the twenty-four hour labs, where I scanned pages from my sketchbook and edited them for-to publish them in a zine. I made a few to-do lists that shared the proverbial title 'Things to-do in this life' i.e. the to-do list that follows me around for years at a time. I chipped away at some of the tasks; making a graffiti sticker (so when I travel, I don't need to be writing on everything, or staying up late in order to 'get up'), cleaning up my digital files. It became a somewhat sad arrangement, but I accepted it as a phase, and tried to keep working. One night, after calling my mom, and about to go into the labs to work, I went by the bar across the street and got a beer. I was drawing a big graffiti piece across the outdoor table, and a man, Peter, came up to me to ask if I'd take a look at his wall, where he wanted a logo painted. We walked next-door to his business, not yet off the ground, in what used to be the town's legendary café, Big E's. Well, Big E's closed down and in its place here Peter, set to opening a café of his own called 'World Bites', which would serve international cuisine. He wanted the word 'galleria' painted on one of the walls, the gallery wall, with some filigree. I'll spare you (my dear reader) the details and say that I made a design and installed it for him for next-to nothing, with a one day turnover. I think I am still getting worked over by him, in that he wants me to hang my artwork, but is playing an ignorant curator. I think the best course of action is to sit out a round of his curation, and not hang until I am satisfied with the work-to-be-hung as a whole.
I made arrangements of things, some to take to my parents house, some to send in the mail, some to bring on the road. I took a cab in the early afternoon upon waking to the greyhound station, and caught a bus to Tampa. I was operating on good luck at this point, I remember that there was a place in Tampa that would rent cars without a credit card. On the bus on the way up, I looked up the car rentals in Tampa and eventually found one, though not the one I'd remembered, that would rent for cash. When I showed up, I began to get the impression of what kind of operation this was. The office was largely empty, it looked as though it could be packed in a moments notice, should they need to get out of there. I gave him the cash, he gave me the keys. We looked around at the vehicle, there was a panel missing from where a front fog light had been. He pointed it out and said that they knew about that one. I pointed to a large etchy-denty section over the rear drivers-side wheel. He said not to worry about that, but I did. I asked for it to be documented, and he made a drawing of the damage on his yellow rental agreement form. I thanked him and drove off in my car-for-the-weekend. Back to Sarasota, after eating some chicken gizzards from a Greek place. Man, was I brain-dead at that time. I circled the downtown area a few times, avoiding looking at the map, trying to find my way to the interstate mystically. I made it back to Ringling, still on a poor diet and a poor sleep schedule.
I spent the night, loaded the car in the morning, and hit the road again. I drove to my parent's house where I dropped off a drumset that I'd impulsively procured from a friend of my most recent ex-girlfriend. I also dropped off a create of books, exchanging them for more backpack ready ones. I stayed the night. At that time my Grandmother on my father's side, her friend, my grandmother in-law on my mother's side, her dog, my father, and his two dogs were also in residence. I slept on the couch, and in the morning, hit the road again for-to return the car in Tampa. I checked the compartments before returning and found in the center console two condoms in their packaging and a pair of stylish glasses. I added a Mexican Peso to the little collection, and turned in the car with success. I was now to spend the night in Tampa, in a hostel called Gram's Place, which looked like it had at one time been very happening, but not at this time. I enjoyed my stay. The only other hostel-goer was an Australian named Reece. I walked to the corner-store to buy a four-pack of Old Englishes, an affordable brand of malt liquor. He enjoyed the taste, to which I said "Right?", again proverbially. I'd been in contact with an old friend from Tallahassee, whom I'd helped hang a show once. She lived in Tampa now and made craft-goods that would serve as good Christmas gifts. I asked her to bring a couple so I could give them to my mother and sister when I saw them. She came to the hostel, turned down an 'O.E.' in exchange for some trendy sake wine drink that they had lying around in the fridge. We talked art and adventures a bit, before the alcohol insisted we reminisce. She offered to drive me to the happenings-about that night, which was a holiday market. I thanked her, gave a hug and a kiss on the cheek, got out of the car, and walked around a bit. It was one of those events that is so small, but the participants have so little to do, that they just walk in circles, looking at the same things, like cod in a sea-pen. I got up out of there and took the very long way home back to the hostel.
The next morning I took an uber cab to the greyhound station, to catch a northbound for-to meet my family in Panama City that afternoon. It was nearlin Christmas, and my parents traveled to my sister's stomping grounds, (where, also, they had purchased and were renovating two beach condos) for family Christmas. I had a brief layover in Tallahassee, in which I took a cab to a café called Allsaints,where I used to live in my car in their parking lot for four or five months. This is the place in Tallahassee where I feel most at home. I texted Sarah, who took a lunch break from work to meet me on her front porch, not a far walk from the café. It was a wet day, and I drank a coffee in a Styrofoam cup, while catching up with my dearest friend. I called another cab to get back to the bus station, and made the rest of the journey to Panama City without a hitch. My father picked me up at the Greyhound Station in 'old town' Panama City. From there, we drove to the beach, talking about the paint-job I had to do there. A few months back, before the summer, my mother slid a catalogue over to me on her kitchen countertop. "See", she said, "something like this", and pointed to a photocollage of an abalone shell. The composition was dramatic but pleasing. This was a continuation from a conversation we'd been having for not a short amount of time. Basically, I was hanging out on a triptych commission for her bedroom, waiting for some direction. So, she wanted this abalone motif for her condo, and she liked it so much, her bedroom triptych as well. I gave her a rate, which had to do with the logistics of me painting such a thing, and we struck an agreement.
So that summer, I up-and-went to Durham North Carolina instead of doing these paintings. At some point, I'd organized to sell my car to a friend, so I came back to Florida, and wanting to make good use of my time, also picked up the canvases for the triptych up from my mom, and a roll of canvas for the condo painting. I painted through that week, and into a few days after, packaged everything for shipping, shipped everything to their respective locations, and went back to Durham. All of the paintings were received with excitement and gratitude, however now, near Christmas time, upon, second inspection, my mother thinks I can do a better job on the condo painting, and she's right of course. So we, my father and I, in a car, arrive at the beach condo. My mother, grandmother, and my grandmother's friend Jeanie greet us, then we get to the task in discussion. Where I had left the painting loose, and showing the painting process, my mom wanted it tight. Essentially, she wanted more painting, which I could do. I was excited to dive back in, especially in this environment, (my first whack at it was in a garage, where 'friends and co-workers' would come by to hang out, drink and smoke- not the most conducive environment for productivity.
So there I was in Panama City, with family and a job to do. I'll jump through this section I guess because nothing went araye, but I will say that it was a good place to be for a few days. Eventually, (in exactly how much time I had to work on it) the painting whipped into shape, I'd seen the new installment of Star Wars which to be honest, bored me, and I'd spent time learning about my new little niece, Loxie. It was time to leave. My grandmother and her friend Jeanie had plans to go back to Titusville, either over the course of two days, or in one eight-hour drive- the plan was to break up the driving time because they are both old and Jeanie cannot see well enough at night to be comfortable driving. So, with my interest in going to Jacksonville, we were able to find a happy solution in my driving for six hours, beginning in the morning, and turning it over to the gals once in Jacksonville. It went off smoothly. We stopped in Tallahassee for lunch. I took us to the Allsaints Café which, again, is home base for me therein, but it was uncarachteristicly closed for the holiday break. So we went next-door, where a new hotdog place had opened. None of us wanted to eat hot dogs, but two of us had to use the bathroom very badly. Upon entering, the feeling of urgency filled the air. It was apparent that the owner had really gone out on a limb on this one. He was happy to let us use his restroom, he was the super super friendly new business owner type, eager to turn the place upside-down for you. I went to the bathroom while Jeanie looked at the menu, then I looked at the menu while waiting for Jeanie. Grammy waited outside. She was at this point tired and had one absurd request for a chocolate milkshake, which none of the local businesses could satisfy. Jeanie out of the bathroom now, the guy, Yost (of his new hot-dog restaurant, Yosties), offered/up-and-made a chili-dog for us and said "This one's on the house. I cut it into thirds for you too and your Grammy outside." and, "Tell your friends where the best chili dog in the south is." Oh man we felt
silly. So, I take a look around and see among the myriad busy decorations, whack lettering-jobs, and I offer him some logo work. From where I write you now I have drawn an awesome logo for his shop, but my plans have changed too.
We drove across town to get Grammy a chocolate milkshake at the Steak and Shake. I got a milkshake too, and so did Jeanie, by that point 'milkshake' had been spoken a couple dozen times. We hit the road for Jacksonville then, and made it in a few hours. Grammy and Jeanie dropped me off outside of CoRK, where I had arranged to meet up with Shaun, where he was working on a painting. So he put me up for the night in the CoRK warehouse. I walked down to the corner store and bought two beers, and opened up a palette. I worked on paintgs until late, then kind-of dicked around so to speak, before nodding off around 5am. I woke at 9, then again at ten. I painted through the afternoon, until Shaun came to the warehouse to work. He did his usual pacing around pre-work routine. The time was nearing that I was to depart. I needed a jacket, so I was going to swing by a thrift store and pick up something warm. Shaun said he had a jacket that would fit me. He drove me to his place, we got the jacket, then he drove me to the airport where we looked at an art show, then to a gas station where I was to catch a Chinatown bus to New York.
The Chinatown bus was shut down in 2013, due to a series of accidents with fatalities, and also the poor condition of its fleet. They put 40000 dollars into the fleet and by 2015 were back up and running. It costs 80$ to get from Jacksonville to New York, and 22 hours. I got on the bus with a mother and daughter from Ethiopia who had the most beautiful physique and complexion. The bus was otherwise empty and I listened to them speak in their African dialect. By the late evening, the buss was nearly full, though I retained my empty seat-to-the-side, with which I had a mini-studio set up. Then we stopped in Fayetteville, NC, where another Chinatown bus had stopped, and was waiting to consolidate passengers and cargo for the remainder of the trip north. My mother mentioned to me that the Chinatown bus line was a modern day slave ship, carrying an Asian work force according to markets where they might be needed. Also, I say, it is a smuggling vehicle. At one point we stopped in Virginia, to re-fuel. It was about four in the morning, everyone was instructed to get off. I was of the latter in returning to the bus and I was stopped by the driver and asked to carry out a favor- in broken English. Something like "You buy me Cigarettes.?"
"Sure." I thought maybe he didn't have an ID and wanted a pack. He handed me a wad of cash and a quarter.
"Five carton Marlboro, five carton Newport." He handed me a piece of a Newport label as reference so I wouldn't fuck up his order.
"Alright."
I went inside the truck stop, not sure how I would be received with such a request. When I got to the counter, it was clear that this gas station specialized in exactly this transaction, behind the gracious cashier were packages of five-carton-Marlboros and five-carton-Newports, in plastic bags, tied in a cinch at the top. I asked her for the goods, ID in hand. She didn't check my ID, she placed the two pre-packaged bags on the counter punched a few buttons on her register and said the total. "Four-hundred ninety-three, twenty-three." I handed her the wad of cash, uncounted, and the quarter. She counted the cash and gave me two pennies back. "You have a good night." she might have said, or something else southern and alluding to the understanding that I was a thru-man.

I need to wrap this up.

So I stayed at the hostel. Walking around I noticed murals about, and offered to paint one. The owner agreed and gave me a discount on the room in exchange. I drew for days and in a weeks time installed a mural for the establishment. I think it turned out well, but time constraints et al meant it was more fast and cheap than good.

I took a workshop on acrylic painting with John Parks on a whim at the Art Students League. It fit nicely into my schedule and I wanted desperately to visit the school. John was great with color. He helped me a lot and I was thrilled that we would be painting from a live model through the week-long workshop.

That's pretty much it in New York. I went to the New Museum and saw a show which was hyped a lot. It was the work of Jim Shaw. I learned about Tracy and the Plastics there too. I ate bodega and drank coffee a lot. Also, I went to chinatown for the most wonderful bakery goods.

When I first got to New York, I met up with a gentleman who I'd arranged through craigslist to do some figure modeling for. We went to his gym, where I stretched a bunch and got my cardio up, then back to his place where we showered and I stayed in the towel afterwards. I did my modeling routine and he drew in oil pastels from me. He had two cats and one remained under me if it could at all times throughout the session. I was paid forty bucks for two hours.

Painting

Today I went to the anthropological museum. I had a mission to draw, but was not feeling it too hard because drawings are exhausting and only part the way to a painting. I frew for a couple hours, beafore taking abreak to go outside to paint. I got a bag of popcorn for cinco pesos and sat down on the edge of a dry fountain there in the park behind the vendor stands. I saw a man with a clever set-up by which he made due sharpening knives for food vendors. He would set his back tire up on a stand, fix a rubber band around his back tire, which he fixed also to a wheel sharpening stone. He sat backwards on the top tube, and pedaled to turn the wheel, sharpening the knives. I set up quickly and blocked in colors. He finished a few blades, then moved along, so I finished the painting there from memory, pluggin him in to what I had left of a sketch. It was just after lunch hour, so cooks were taking their breaks, gathering around me to watch the painting come to fruition. I think I had twelve visitors during the painting. A couple came by and were very curious about my work, so I flipped through my sketchbook for them. The husband said, "Congratulations, youre an artist." It was small, but also very big. It was a casual validation. I dont feel that im fully cooked yet, but its good to have little tickers along the way to keep you going I guess. Back in the museum, I was feeling better baout drawing. Its crazy when whats standing between myself and drawig is a painting, how fortunate I am. Sometimes its a donut, but this afternoon it was a painting. I sat in front of El Creador, a scuplture of whom I percieved to be God, (not sure whether to capitalize). Again an audience formed, mostly school children on a field trip, some other museum goers too. The guards took a liking to me and word got around the museum I guess- as guards asked to see some of my drawings. I stayed probably for six hours today. I feel that I have hardly seen a quarter of the museum, and plan to return tomorrow.
The day before, I went to Xochimlico, which is where the water ended up after the Spaniards did what they did here. Today, as a tourist, it is a little Mexican Venice, where the thing to do is to rent a boat service to pole you around the little islands while drinking beers. I didnt do this, but got immediately distracted and painted a little section of interesting architecture in a neighboorhood. Form there, I took a walk to the water, and after declining several boat service offers, found a spot to paint a little water and boat scene. The boats are called trajineras, as my bartender tonight told me. The spot I chose to paint in smelled terribly like urine and the light was fading. The painting was a quick one, but the scenery did much work. On the way back to the train station, I saw a photo-copy service, where I made a  color copy of the architecture painting. It seemed to me that this was a home, and that (perhaps vanity) they might like a copy of the painting. I went to the building, and spoke with the shop owner below. She referred me to le puerta, where I could deliver my photo-copy. I rounded the corner as her hand gestures implied I do, and saw a small woodshop, where two men were making cabinets. I gave them the photo-copy which took about eight-times longer than had we spoke the same language. I signed and dated it, which clarified the transaciton a bit. Strange making work and weighing wether anyone.. you know. or not.

Tour Day

I woke at 8 to catch a ride to a tour bus. We were a group of six, visitiors to Mexico City, all. There were the four Chinese (two mothers, two children daughters)- they were consistently late to meeting points, an Austrailian couple who made me glad (or equally, quelled the want for companionship which I was projecting onto lustful late night hours) to be having my own trip, rather than one full of consistent compromise, and three Mexicans from other states, visiting the big city. We drove an hour outside of town and got out at a temple-house, adorned with gorgeous murals, depicting reincarnation and the children as playful mariposas among a landscape dominated by the elements, anthropomorphosized as gods (you know). We go tback onto the bus and drove to a highway robbery (espression) spot where we were shown traditional means of making obsidian doo-dads and silver trinkets, and cactus beer, and blankets. And, you guessed it, we could buy it! I bought Tequilla.
From the gift shop, we went to Teotihuacan, the second largest civilization in Central America at one point. I climbed both of the large temples and took photos of myself at the top of one. I felt joyful the whole time. I felt an understanding walking through the town, the history alive in my heart and imagination. Back onto the bus after some time- we went to lunch at an overpriced silly buffet where characters in traditional garb played instruments and danced for tips. Whenever I see this in central America I think "fuck man, just stop. Youre probably half Spanish and what happened here is fucked up. Even more so that you are trying to capitalize on it. Let the culture of yesteryear lie in peace and dont give me an overrehearsed, half-ass rain dance while I try to stomach this overpriced shitty bean dish." Something like that. To ask for money for someting like that, its tacky. And boring.
So back onto the bus, we went to a Basillica, where the great apparation of lady Guadalupe occoured. Story goes, Diego was walking on a great hill where appeared to him a virgin. "Build a church here, a  Catholic one." she siad. "And convert all of the mouthbreathers.".. something like that. Diego built a church which immediately began sinking into the bog which is Mexico City (built upon a lake, drained by the spaniards. Originally, the Aztecs built their civilization here on an island in the lake, wherefrom they founded the great nation of Mexico which roughly translates to  "in the belly of the moon". The history is really fascinating. The Aztecs were a wargoing people. They set out to build a great nation and met some neighbors. The neighbors were likely intimidated, and the chief gave the Aztecs his virgin daughter as a peace offering. Well, the Aztecs made quick work of skinning her alive in front of the chief. A priest wore her skin. The neighbors declared war , and the Aztecs made their way to a better place, the lake island, where they in a Brigham Young-like fashion set down their things and said "yup, thisll do." On that island, there were many rattlesnakes. The Aztecs ate those until there were no more, and the island seemed more and more hospitable. At some time during the rattesnake-eating days, was seen an eagle, perched atop a cactus, with a rattlesnake in its talons- thus the symbol of Mexico was born.) So the Spaniards came and took this island by using the Aztecs bad reputation to recruit armies from all of the offended neighbors to fight. Of course, (as a man told me the other night while I was curbside painting an old building) the spaniards are rats, and they ended up, you know, doing their conquesting and whatnot, draing the lake among other things, to build the vast and boggy Mexico city. So Diegos church is warped and crooked. Upon its completion he converted many savages and as supernatural validation, an image of the virgin Guadalupe (guade- wolf, lupe- river.. roughly) appeared onto his robe. No paint, no embriodery, a proper supernatural apparation. This is wherefrom you get Guadelupanos, the followers of guadelupe. 85% of Mexican now are Catholics, and  65% of those are Guadelupanos. Diegos church no longer houses the sacred image of the divine lady, she now resides in a capacity 10000 shrine next-door, which was built via vatican coffers forby John Paul II. A big statue in his likeness is just outside in the courtyard. The shrine looked like many contemporary chiristian chapels I have seen- wood ceilings jutting up and forward so the eye follows upward, then down a great vertical drop to the stage wherefrom the annointed address the commoners. Somewhere along this back vertical axis hangs the robe itself, framed, so that it looks like a pianting. Under the frame, pinned up twenty feet flanking either side was a huge drooping (or buisness-casual) Mexican flag. Church and state, check. The day that we arrived was during the great annual pligramage, in which six million Guadalupanos congregate there as a sign of their devotion, for the virgins apparation birthday, on the 12th of December. Driving up to the basillica, we saw trucks adorned with guadalupe likenesses, candles, flowers, and holy shiny objects. Devotees sat in the trucks, shoulder to shoulder. They would camp in the large courtyard outside of the basillica until the date of the great.. thingness. I bought a keychain for my friend Sarah.

Day Three

I estimate I walked for eight hours yestreday. I slept hard last night.

I will review yesterday: I woke at 6 and was out as the sun began to rise in the streets. I walked to a large plaza where a 30k run was beginning from. I stood along side the runners, and took of with them. I ran for fifteen minutes or so before I came upon a group of morning-going street food vendors, setting up for the day. I admired their set-ups and enjoyed some heat from their stoves. I was cold. I ducked into a church to thaw for a bit and caught some of the morning service I sat near the back and was not given a flyer with lyrics on it like everyone else in the church it seemed. I believe I radiate tourist, if a bohemian one. The congregation sat and stood sat and stood, I left strategically at the initiation of a standing round. I walked back toward the hostel to get some more sleep. On the way back, I stopped in another cathedral, for more warmth and more visual stimulation. Man, the pews were sparsly populated. I wonder what churches will do when theri coffers run dry. Will they become more fantastic for to encourage attendance? I think yes. Ive attended  start up churches with rock bands and in-ear microphones- ones that you can smell desperation in the sending out of the offering plates. What I appreciate about the catholic churches is their consistency, like a McDonalds hamburger- you know what youre going to get. Anyway, on I went back to the hostel to sleep more.
I woke for the second time around noon and set out on a mission to find a backpack, as mine had developed a large opening in the bottom of its front pocket. I walked for miles and explored many small shops. It occoured in my consciousness that this whole downtown area (and I was more honestly saying this whole country, because its funny) is like a giant flea market. There were shops in the street for as far as I walked, there were shops in the subway stations. At times I would enter the facade of a building of shops and go thorugh an upstairs-downtstairs-left-right-left-right-turnaround collection of stores. I would exit o some other street entirely. What made it seem like a flea market was the redundancy of merchandise. What made the endeavor interesting was the architecture and the odd shops peppered in. My search came up relatively fruitless, though I did stop in to a restaurant for an interesting lunch. I ordered something which I did not recognize on the menu. What came out was a mole dish with rice and tortillas and a hollowed out..something. It was slathered in mole sauce and upon probing witha fork, mostly bone. What was this cavernous thing? As I picked with my fingers meat from the bone, I grew concerned. My lunch had become a grizzly excavation, and my imagination ran wild. The structure at times resembled a tortoise shell, then the skull of a dog. What have I done? I found a rib bone, then another on the other side- this was the back section of a chicken! I wonder what the translation entails, a chicken carapese? Chicken back? I washed down my chicken back with a delicious horchata. I was very full, and took a walk to the large plaza where the race had begun that morning. I took a seat under a large sculpture, then assumed a reclined posture, soaking in rays from the late afternoon sun. I reclined more and my eyelids grew heavy- a proper siesta impending. I noticed a cop with a shotgun accross his chest approaching. He wanted to know if I was alright. I laughed, said "si, gracias" and thought about my bizzare lunch. I became a coash cow iin that plaza, for students of a university who were profiling tourists for to conduct interviews with en ingles. I obliged to four interviews before feeling exploited. They each asked what I liked about Mexican culture, which put me in my head about what happened to this land upon the arrival of columbus, pizzaro, et al. How now do I separate Mexican culture from Spanish culture? The people, I said, cant go wrong with the people- and it was true- thats whats good here mostly- the people, the openness, the lack of pretension. On these long walks Ive had conversations with a handful of strangers, that are curious of me, as I am of them. THe language becomes secondary to intent. A couple in the middle of the night the other night asked what I was interested in taking a picture of (I was taking a picture of a modern apartment complex, built behind an eighteenth century gateway). I replied that I liked the architecture and in a few go-rounds they were offering to smoke me out, offering places to go see, etc. I turned down their offer to smoke because prior to coming here I was issued a ticket for possession, and had opted for probation to see my way out of the charge.
Another gentleman wrote a list of museums for me to visit into my sketchbook. I ended up giving him a hug, Aaron. He was an airplane mechanic.
The day grew long. I found a shop with second hand clothing and I bought a jacket to stay warm. I guess were at 6000 feet of elevation. I did next to no planning before comoing here, which has resulted in me wandering around the shops in the downtown area. I like it, though. After Ringling, I am thrilled to not have an itenerary and to wander the streets of an unfamiliar place. My first night arriving here, I came in late. I didnt know the address of my hostel, only the cross streets, which boots on the ground, turned out to be not enough. I walked by a woman knocking on a large door, suitcase in hand, and I asked "Hostel?"
"Si, Hotel." I followed her into the doorway into a cavernous lobby, the secondary light came from a strand of christmas lights, a full scale nativity scene graced (and I used grace liberally in this case) the far corner. The primary light came from an old lamp on the conceirge counter. I was notified that there was no room in the inn. I stood still, momentarily out of options. The only sound came from a fatigued aquarium to my right, a periodic gurble from the aerator. Three goldfish swam in lazy spheres. I thought about the addage of a goldfish growing only to capacity of its space,"Wait!" (I was), "We do have one room still. Its a double." "Si, bien. Yes Please." I wrapped myself in swaddling cloths and turned off after a marathon of a day.
I met alphonse in the hostel lobby. He was a mechainc for excavators. He was Norwegian on paper and in blood, Hed been travelling for eight months by that point. He asked me if I was a hiker. I get asked this a lot. I told him no, but I do like to travel to cities and walk accross them. (thats gotta count for something, right?) Hed just hiked the Pacific coast trail through from the mexican border, up into Canada, which took him just over four months. Since then, hed flown down to panama city, Panama, and has traveled north via bus from town to town, exploring central America. He said he was ready to be home.
Im having some truble geting to drawing, could I be burnt out from school? Usually graffiti helps me get out of this funk. Ive been drawing a bit, but compared to my walking, marginal.
I found a good backpack today. I woke up a little later , but at least today, I wont have to go back to sleep in order to make it to the evening hours.

Cuidad DF

my first semester of ringling went by in a fllash as good thigs do. the first few days, during and after orientation were a beautiful itme. there were only freshmen on campus, and we modeled for one another in the evening for drawing practice. From where I came from, it was utopian feeling. I modeled some and garnered nicknames. The nicknames didnt stick. Upperclassmen arrived and were condessnding in ton eto the freshmen which was lame. I think I fared better being older than the others, but that may be a simple speculation. The first semester, really the first year, is designed to shake the uncomitted. My courseload was slim so I took on a business class, which I shortly dropped due to its retarded cirriculum and redundancy. I also picked up a homeric greek class down the street at new college, a thrown rope to a version of myself that I wish were true. My late uncle Kemeys went to New College. He wrote a beautiful thesis on economics of ecosystems. I share blood with him, and I believe his intellect. I do not think I am as brave as he was and in other ways, wired diferently. Three days a week, I would ride a city bus north on highway us 41 for a mile or so, to go to this class. I made every session, but aside from that I was not in the front of the class academically. I met another woman. fuck man, they keep getting better and better in ways, and worse and worse in others. I felt like I got roped in, but in that vocabulary Im a willing persuadee. I do this thing I guess where I trust the non verbal communication to do most of the talking, which works in the end, it just makes the ride bumpy emotionally speaking for all parties involved. The relationship lasted as long as it lasted and it was for the most part beautiful. I fell noticably behind in school, while I gained the impresssion that I was on call for this woman. I took a handful of "important" cab rides to her place. I spent nights at the bar and nights out. I was burning the candles at both ends so to speak, and doing a mediochre job all around. Our terminus happened after we ate a pizza instead of making love. I felt like a very natural thing to say, "we should be just friends". I walked back to school, where I would play a catch up game for the rest of the semester, which would end in a stimulant induced sweaty finale with 36 waking hours of drawing, a bus ride to a greek exam, a frantic mile or so run back, a quick grab what you need for mexico, a called cab, a pick up and prepare final drawing submissions (all but one were resubmits) and a to go lunch. Cab man took me to the greyhound station. I waited for the bus to orlando where I would catch a plane to Mexico City ( a recomendation from another ex-gal) to spend some time away from it all. And here, from the basement of my hostel, in the locker room, where a computer is set up, I write to you now.

Sarasota

I landed in Sarasota in the late evening. I had only a backpack by this point and that was mostly art supplies. I checked into the Golden Host Resort, the best little hotel I've ever stayed at. In the morning, I walked to Ringling College of Art and Design Campus, where I checked in, had my photo taken, was issued an ID and given a key to my room, where I dropped off my bag, put my gouache and watercolor paints in the top drawer, and where I set to educating myself.

Detroit

I landed in Detroit in the late evening. I took a city-bus toward Dearborn, where I'd booked a cheap motel. I walked a long ways and went into a tobacco shop. "Things are really spread out here". I said, or something like that. 

"Yeah, where you trying to go?" was the reply. 

"Just down the street a ways", then I said the name of the complex where the hotel was. He didn't know it. I bought a black-and-mild and some rolling papers, thanked him, and went out-front of the store to wait on a city-bus. The sun set, and the tobacco store closed. My friend locked up, and rolled down his car window as he was pulling out of the parking lot. "Hey! Get in, I'll give you a ride."

He was from Lebanon I think. We listened to the radio. He drove me all the way there, into the carport in front of the automatic-sliding-glass doors. I offered him money, but he turned it down. 

I was happy to have a bed again, I watched cable tv for the first time in a few months and slept. 

I ate some hotel breakfast the next morning, and tried to extend my stay with no luck. I had to transfer hotels which took a few hours, but ultimately worked out. After unpacking etc. I took a walk to a bus station, and rode into Downtown Detroit via Michigan Avenue. I saw stretches of abandoned buildings and 'urban prairie' landscapes. I saw graffiti and delinquent factories. It was a beautiful trip, which I was to enjoy daily as a commuter. I'll try to be brief now about my time in Detroit, I documented architecture in my sketchbook, and had some good conversations with local street-goers which were informative and more than half the time ended in a money request. I was happy to give. The air was clean, and the town carried a whole-grain-America-feel. I guess the new mayor is doing a good job fixing the place up, is the word on the street, but I got the creeps when I saw vinyl banners, proclaiming the cities creative resilience and the freshly cut-out-of-the-cement park benches- replaced by 'urban ambassadors' or whatever they're called, who move foldable chairs around. I think actually I may be coming around to the park chairs idea- I mean, it makes sense that you have more control over your landscape by having movable parts, but cutting the benches out of the ground seems wasteful and potentially (in a recession when one cannot afford ambassadors) able to leave one without a seat. 

So the downtown seemed very corporate. The motor companies had a large showing throughout, as well as Quicken Loans, whose Dan Gilbert, it is my understanding, owns a substantial amount of Detroit property- 2010-forth acquisitions. There were many homeless people in the parks, cramping the style of the well-offs and looky-rounds. 

I met Cheri when I was drawing a building outside of the GM showroom downtown. She asked if she could watch and I happily obliged. We talked while I drew. She was on her way to a 'Soul-n'-ribs Festival'. I told her I was too and we took a walk. Cheri was in town for her 40-year high school reunion. She'd run from home with a fervor and hadn't been back since. It was interesting to walk through the park with her and to see her trip-out about what was different and what had remained the same. She gave me the rest of her food from earlier that day, as we drove to a friend-of-her's firework show. We met with some of her former classmates- one was a military ER nurse who lived in the mountains and made organic dog-foods for distribution. Another, whom Cheri worked at a photo-store with, was a local wedding-photographer. Cheri, I'll say, was another mountain-gal, wild about dogs. She now runs a doggie boarding and foster home. The common denominator that night was dog health and we made plans there to meet in the morning to visit Watergait- a hydro-therapy clinic for canines. 

Watergate it turns out was relatively close to my hotel. I had an American breakfast at a corner-diner, and walked to the clinic, where I met Daisy, a thirteen year old pug-dog with inward facing legs and a hanging-out tongue. Cheri and her friend made it to the clinic too, where we chatted up the lab technician and watched Daisy strut her little crooked dog-legs while donning a sporty life-jacket on what can be described as a bathtub with a treadmill at the bottom. The increased buoyancy combined with the energizing 78 degree water inspired Daisy to dog-jog for forty-five minutes.

We all had an appetite after watching Daisy, and drove to Hamtramck for a bowl of pickle soup at a Polish Cafe. It began to rain. Cheri and I split off and drove downtown. She sang Gordon Lightfoot's Canadian Railroad Trilogy at the top of her lungs on the way. I wish the time would make that memory more endearing, but alas.. 

We went into a chocolates shop and I bought one box for my mother, and another for my sister. From there, we took a walk to a downtown community garden. I saw few edibles in the garden, and there was a large gated fence around the perimeter. We were given a tour by a nice man who works there. It looked heavily funded, but I didn't ask by whom. Cheri by that time, was phone-filming her dogmatic documentary, who's slant was "Detroit's Comeback", which in a way was what I was there to speculate and assess myself, but in a more subtle way I think. We were feeling our growing apart, and went our separate ways from the garden. She gave me a jar with a big dill pickle and its pickle juices as a road-blessing and parting gift. I thanked her and set off. 

I went to the Contemporary Art Center. They were closed for another month for the summer, but were in-house for a de-install of a series of paintings of Obama (a cheap trick from an artist who claims to have painted one portrait of Obama for each day of his presidency- which is not so, his assistants painted most if not all of the portraits, and did so much in advance of the tentative completion of his term). Speaking later to a perturbed art-installer of the aforementioned establishment, I learned this information. Anyway, I met Augusta, who is an education coordinator therein. She invited me that night to an art opening at a place called The Playground. She also gave me a good list of spots to eat, cafe's and bookstores- what a gal!

So I went on my way an visited the Detroit Institute of the Arts, just down the road, where I had a few good hours of drawing before their close. I walked and bussed across town to where the art show was going to be. I was early, so I went to a craft brewery and had a beer and a pretzel for twelve dollars- so much for sustainability. Form there I took a walk to the space, The Playground, which was a Brooklyn trust-fund flipped warehouse space. I could paint it in a more romantic light, truly, but the air was stale with stagnant pretension, Augusta excluded- what a gem. I thought to myself, "maybe it's the beer", or "maybe the.. " I couldn't figure it out. There seemed many skeptics, ready to trip, and I heard disconcerting conversation. I did meet some lovely people, especially later-on as I was leaving. I met Dan and Stephanie, who were on their way out to a bar-b-que. I tagged along and found myself in a beautiful old house west of downtown, in a parlor-room with beautiful young european women- giving one another henna tattoos. A young man named Julian, hammered tunes on an old organ in the corner. After good conversation and cigarettes, and my friends filled with bar-b-qua, we said our goodbyes and drove back toward our terminus for the night, back to the neighborhood of The Playground. 

I walked to a bus stop, and waited for a long time. The sun was set. It took a while to get back to Dearborn that night. 

The next day, I went back to the Detroit Institute, to finish up a study of a sculpture by Paul Manship from his Moods of Time series. 

My time in Detroit was coming to a fast close. For a souvenir and a token of commitment to my impending art school career, I up-and-bought a wrist-watch. It cost half-a-grand, but it still ticks. 

I was playing with fire, concerning making my flight to from Detroit to Sarasota that afternoon. I stopped by the Contemporary Art Center to say goodbye to Augusta. She was not in, but other friends from that night were, and that took some time. I was relying on three or four city-busses to run as smoothly as my new wrist-watch, which again, was risky, so I took a cab. My cabbie was Darryl Lee Cherry, whom I documented in my book as 'Detroit's Best Cabbie'. He was friendly and accommodating to my budget, now feeling broke after the watch. 

I made the flight on time and was off to sunny Sarasota to go to art school. 

Durham to Atlanta

I finished my final days, Body-Mind Centering. Meghan and I enjoyed what was to be our last weekend together (for the summer at least). The plan was the I stay for her final week of classes, minding the homestead and hearth, keeping her company in the evenings, but things rarely go as planned and the day before her classes began, she gave me the (soft) boot. She drove me to the bus station. We shared a small cry and I boarded a bus to Atlanta, because it was one of the few departing that night, and I like like the High Museum therein. It was a real red-eye, with a transfer at 4:30AM in South Carolina or somewhere terrible. When I got to Atlanta, the sun was rising and the bums began to re-animate. I was pretty loaded with expendable gear, and lightened my load considerably on the walk across town to the High by being suggestion-robbed of pens, lighters, road-foods, rolling papers, I saw it as a positive thing- my departure was sudden and I didn't have much time to prioritize and pare-down my gear. Later, I would ditch my unicycle (no joke, I was traveling with a unicycle) and my hiker's backpack after the rusty buckles began to break. After walking for hours, I found a quiet spot downtown where an artist (or team of) had built a series of beautiful rope pavilions, with soft rope benches for weary walkers. I was a weary, sleep deprived walker if nothing else, and the pavilions took a likeness to a desert mirage. I slept until the rantings from a homeless man ramped me back into the waking state. The High was just around the corner, and now open. I did my museum thing, documenting paintings and sculptures into a small sketchbook. I was drawing well because I had made a commitment now to Ringling College, and knew these could be of the last of my undisciplined type. I had lunch in the cafe and found a flight to Detroit on my phone. I bought a ticket and was off to Motor City that afternoon.

Sorry

It has been brought to my attention that content in this blog has been offensive. I'm sorry if I have offended you.

Today I woke with a slight hangover from drinking sugary wine and beer and bourbon in the same night. Today is my day-off from classes at BMC. I am in the middle of (three days left to go) of embodying the fluids system. I saw a show last night. The girl fronting the band was doing a bunch of played out stuff like she's seen from those who she aspires to. I guess that's to be expected. Actually, I've got little steam in me now to write this, I feel tired, and I guess all I do on here is be snarky and negative.

I've made some plein aire paintings in chalk pastel. In other news, I love Meghan and I'm going to take a walk now.

Over easy

I wrapped up the four commissioned abalone shell paintings for my mother. I hope she likes them.
I packed my hiking backpack full of mostly books, and loaded my friend Overstreet's car with the wrapped up commissions. He drove me to a FedEx store, where I shipped two of the boxes to theri respective destinations. The third box, a homemeade box, did not make the cut in terms of box excellencerequired by the fed ex corpotation. I offered to make another box out of some cardboard stock that the had lying in the back, but to no avail; our cashier at some point had put her foot down and decided that she was not going to ship the homemade box no matter what. (unless SHE re-boxxed it in a wardrobe box for 24$. Street and I walked out and took our package to the post office, where we had no problem shipping it. Back at the spot, I had a glass of rum and coke with Patrick before getting another ride with Overstreet, this time to the Amtrak station.

My train left at 11:13. I'd bought a ticket for the wrong date digitally, but the kind man at the reception desk changed the ticket for me for a small (relatively), fee. I slept through the night, despite amtrak haveing the most uncomfortable seats in the world. In the morning, I went to the cafe' car. In line before me was a woman who I learned to be Dana. I ordered my food, and coffe, "I'll have what she's having". She was having a terrible muffin and a coffee. We sat near each other and made light introductions on the account of relating to one another about the poor quality of the muffins served on Amtrak. She invited me to sit across from her at a table at some point and talked with me about my education, and her experiences with working for Make a Wish Foundation, and her experiences as a healer (though she didn't use the word, I believe that is one way of describing her work) and caretaker to clients with mental disorders. She was kind and patient. Her business card says, 'Compassionate Home Care & Companionship'. She explained having to flip one of her clients over in bed and how she took a drive with the same client during a time of extreme mental discomfort. She drove him to where she grew up, near a country club pool somewhere in North Carolina. It was snowing and very beautiful. "I'm dying." he said. 
Sometime during conversation, I missed my stop, and upon returning to my seat was enlightened to the fact by a frustrated railcar worker. "Yer on yer own boss", he said.
I got off at the next stop, in a town called Rocky Mountain. I checked my large hiking backpack in the station and went for a unicycle ride with my daypack to find the library, from which I write to you now. On the way I stopped into a little diner that served everything on styrofoam. I ordered and ate two eggs over easy, grits, and toast with a water. The interior of the diner was light with American Gothic wooden booths with tall backs. Light shown in through the window to my right. I lifted a fork from the set of white plastic cutlery from a white napkin, and stuck it into the center of a white egg beside white grits. I loved seeing the golden yolk, and mixing in the red hot sauce too. I left a five dollar bill and thanked the kind server. 

Jacksonville/ Sucksonville

SO here I am again back in Jacksonville. It feels almost embarrassing to be back. I only said goodbye two weeks ago and each time is like another round of "see you on the other side's". I am working on a commission from my mother of four abalone shell paintings. One of them is a triptych to go above her bed and the fourth is a three by four footer to go above a couch in a beach condo. I have been instructed to hold the purple on the beach condo painting, but to let 'er rip on the triptych. Four days or so into the paintings, I was ready to call it done on the couch painting and destroy the triptych. I painted over the triptych with exception to a vertical element that I though was working well. The idea is to blend the elements together now. I stayed up all night last night. I felt very restless come bedtime, in part from the fireworks. It was the fourth of July, and the riverside neighborhood seemed dangerous. I took a walk to see if I could festive up, but walking out of the door of the warehouse where I was making the paintings was like landing on an alien planet. As a human, raised American, I had pretext to the 'celebration', but did not feel any benefits. Walking through neighborhood streets, I would round a corner to witness a firestorm.
I felt sad. Back at the studio, I hunkered down and read through The Catcher in the Rye, and a little bit of Night.

I feel that in this commission I have stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. That is, I have liberated myself from responsibility and then... God, my writing is terrible today. I can't help but think of J. D. Salinger's cadence while I write now.

I don't like the feeling particularly of being away from Meghan right now. I think it is silly to put this commission from my mother ahead of my connection to this wonderful woman that I feel. I think about how this falls into another string of occurrences of my mother getting in between not only my love life, but also my spiritual path. I'm not trying to project this, it's just that it's on my mind. I'm in love. It's a miracle. But I have this commission for a bedroom triptych for my mother that's holding me to Jacksonville I feel. I don't know or care what goes on in my parents bedroom, though once I heard them doing their thing the night we moved into a house in Tallahassee. I had school the next day. I felt happy for them in a way. At one time, I thought they were going to get a divorce. Maybe they should have. Here I am, their son saying these things. But there's a perpetually unacknowledged thing between them I feel. Like on the first date I imagine it was there. This I think it what is called 'chemistry', 'our chemistry', 'their chemistry'. Its a dynamic, perpetually in check but unmoving.  The light at the end of the tunnel is a train departing tomorrow night, after I postmark the paintings, in whatever state they are in, to my parents house.

Right now I am thinking to not go to school at Ringling. Reading Catcher in the Rye last night was enlightening but like all great arcs of thought, in my experience, left me with the same problems in the end. Does Ringling represent the school in which Holden Caufiled came from, or that which he writes from? The alternative plan (or the placeholder plan for now) is to learn German in Berlin, then apply for a visa to attend German art school on staat money. I have been reading German for the past couple months and starting to tooth in. Mostly, somehow, I want to be anonymous. Actually, the Catcher in the Rye book was dangerously close to how I feel about, everything. Maybe I'm just easily influenced. But his running into the woods plan sounds right to me.

I talked with Shaun today. We went out to lunch. He's funny because he will tell you that art is useless, or in the long run, not necessary. I agree. Here I am making couch matching paintings, though mostly complaining about it. Library's closing. Long story short, art is a product of excess. It is beautiful, like religion, but calorie for calorie, a waste.

Love y'all.



So simultaneously, I want to just pay off Ringling, just to have someone else holding on to my college money. But there, in the middle of the sentence, though I finished it for continuity's sake, is where I get hung up. Ringling, it feels like an arranged marriage, and I the dowry holder. I am unsure of what I am paying for. But to go would be to know.

Class

After my first day in Durham, things really busied up. Classes began at 8:30 am beginning on Monday and lasted for over a week. So let me here make some testimony to the school of Body-mind centering. The first day of class began with a seated circle. We were prompted to simply ‘be’ in the space. After a short time, our attention was swept up by an instructor, who’s next prompt was for each of us to get acclimated to the space. “Move however you like, explore all corners, perhaps you would like to stay in one place.” I quickly got the sense that I was in a room with a significant population of dancers, as the ‘however you like’ was interpreted by many as pirouettes, hip gyrations, and patterned arm flairs. I found myself exploring like a hedgehog the perimeters and small, cave-like spaces created by the furniture of the room. We were in the Center for Jewish Life on the Duke University campus, more acutely, in the chapel. The room was as deep as it was wide, with a ten foot perimeter ceiling with rope-light inlay, and a four-sided pyramid vaulted ceiling. At the back of the room (assuming the two glass door entrance from the lobby as the front) was a right-angle triangular two-stair height stage which dropped by the same depth, but only by the count of one in the back two sides. The triangle shape jutted out from the rest of the structure with two full walls of glass, about thirty feet from ground level, so that the view was like that of a museum for tree understories.  (The view was leaves and branches, I believe of a magnolia tree). The reflective quality of the (suspected) magnolia leaves in conjunction with the intensity of mid/afternoon Carolina sunlight meant that a glance out of the window might give you an unflattering glare. There were times however, in in-direct light, when the view provided respite for the eyes during the long class hours. So, exploring the space I recognized that my patterns rather than pirouettes and the like were standing upside-down on my shoulders and rolling into a fetal position in small spaces. I began to suspect that there may be a  breakthrough in personal discovery somewhere in this class. I’ll hold nothing from you, dear reader, that I am writing on the other side of the experience, far away, in a familiar place (the Jacksonville public library, as it were), and I can testify that I was changed by the experience… probably. I don’t know actually, maybe I’m not. I’ve been reading a lot of philosophy. Anyway, back to storytelling. So we (the class) all grab on to fun noodles, and flexi-bands and wooden rods, one object in either hand, and begin moving about the room, feeling the tensions between our limbs grow and diminish, finding homeostasis between our personal experiences and those of our adjoined (by the props) partners to either side of us. This, it was explained to us, is the sensitivity with which we must observe our ligaments and fascia. We sat again in a circle to discuss our observations. We played name-games to learn how to call each other and to get further integrated. This work, Bob said, is really just an excuse to get together. And how.

Explore, discuss, explore, discuss, bathroom break, slides of ligaments, lessons illustrated with props and skeletal models, explore, discuss, explore, discuss, lunch, more slides, more models, more exploration, more discussion, tea break, open questions, bathroom break, guided explorations of pre-natal development, maybe some other things that rhyme with exploring or discussing, aand class.

So we did five days of this. Sometimes in the mornings, we would open with mindfulness meditation which, have you ever had someone masturbate in the same bed as you?

All in all it was exhausting work. Stand up, sit down, stand up, move around; it was like a school for enlightened hokey pokey, whereby the whole body and mind could be engaged. Students, and there were about twenty of us, would periodically cover their faces, or lie prostrate on the floor once they had become saturated with experience. Each arch of exploration ended, however enthusiastically it began or jubilantly it peaked, (as sometimes someone would ‘catch the spirit’) on floor in exhaustion. Thus, the lessons imparted flowed from one into the next very naturally, and anyone could rest assured that their cat-nap would not read as anything other than needing time to absorb the material. I found this a liberating learning model. Likewise, if one needed to stand or roll around or allow their exhalations to activate the vibrations across their vocal chords, effectively producing rhythmic breath-hums, they could so do without judgment.
I took time to draw many times, as my mind was racing. Catching words from the lectures, I would design tags for them in my notebook, or draw bones or ligaments from the slides. 

Durham

There it goes, there goes Jacksonville.

I am one day out of Jacksonville, on the road with my friend and partner, Meghan. A lot has happened though you wouldn't know it at a glance. I am now in Durham, North Carolina. Meghan has known for some time that she would be here this summer. She has been registered for these classes called Body Mind Centering for a year now. She took half of the classes last year, and will finish the course-load within the following three months. If this all seems sudden and foreign to you, don't worry, that makes two of us. I met Meghan only a few weeks ago (though as love goes, it seems like no time at all). We have been on fast forward, she even met my parents. We understood our time together to be brief; she was going off to summer courses, and I likewise abroad to have adventures before my tentative residency at Ringling College in the fall. But alas, I am here in Durham, and now enrolled in a Body-mind Centering course pertaining to the ligaments beginning tomorrow morning at 8:30 am. What have I gotten myself into? Last night I had a hamburger and took two beers. My body slept heavy and my mind dreamed very vividly if not violently. School, school is a theme that has reoccurred in my dreams as of late. The college experience, in all of its abstractions, the thing I never had a chance at having, or thing that I am addicted to being a part of. A plaguing concept which keeps many wandering.

I am 25 now. On my birthday I received a phone call from my friend Riley. He was on his way to visit me in Jacksonville, which is a rough semblance to incorporating me into his weekend holiday- even though my birthday occurred on a Monday this year. We drank and smoked and painted graffiti. When it was time for him to go, it was really time for him to go. I found myself surrounded by his holiday posse, and became the quiet, older, dare I say stoic figure among them. I was the 25 year old among young adults. I saw ass and heard accounts of "just wanting to be twenty-one and selfish for once". I was grateful to have a drawing implement in my hand at the time so I could thoughtlessly draw while they thoughtlessly talked. What worlds we build for ourselves.

Durham is hot, like an oven. Walking around the town feels like walking around how I imagine a giant penitentiary. Giant brick buildings represent tobacco industries. Buildings so large, that they do not register as buildings. Maybe mountains, networked through tunnels ten stories up and presumably below, a big church presence too. The rest of the town's brick infrastructure seems inhabited by 'hip' start-ups and slew of new incorporateds. Maybe North Carolina has good tax laws I wonder. New development strikes a dissonant chord to the old infrastructure, these are mostly high-rise apartments. Its like most of the town is inaccessible. I feel like a groundling in renaissance Venice. What I can do it seems, is go to the cafe', go to the bar, go to the restaurants, and go to the library. I am at the library now. I think I'll go get something to eat.

The light is beautiful here, in the evenings. I have yet to see a sunrise but will presumably once I crash-course into a morning body-mind centering routine. I'm living out of a backpack now, technically, though it doesn't feel at all like it, as Meghan packed her car full of accoutrements and we are sharing a space together in a condominium. This morning we had coffee in house, as well as some blueberries and almonds. What a miracle that the library provides free computer access for a month! Wow!

Dream

Here's a dream as best as I can recall.

I was in a unique piece of architecture. Something like the galss pyramid structure of the Louvre, hybridized with a geodesic dome, plus Haystack schools design (60's eco friendly bayside school), plus the Arken museum- so most prominent was triangulation, glass, and proximity to the ocean. This was art school. It was clean and prestigious. It was also somewhat of a camp center, as there were campsites all around it. These sites acted like those of a state park where onem might go with family to have a weekend or so. It played a little like a koa campground at times too. Pine needles carpeted a fair amount of ground, intermixed with blue-gray fine sand. definitely a Floridian feel. We rode in cars around in the park. We went into the school structure. Well, not all of us. You could see the ocean from the inside of the school. In fact, it dominated the view. The floors were hardwood stained yellow pine. The sea was wild like a thousand untamed horses. It's color was every color, so long as the light read ominous. We found ourselves on a ship, lodged in the end of a jetty, at the fingers length to the end of the world, ready to be consumed, or saved by some thing. Our friends, our coinhabitants were experiencing the gamut and in our hearts we knew what came of any action we might take. Out in the waves we found peace with each other, or a place where our actions could be mystecized in stormy powerful undulation. Tangled on the seafloor like crabs, waves overhead, breathing when possible in the valleys between waves. This is the secret you had to tell me? What else was I to expect? I have been brainwashed into thinking that there is a component that is ouside of my control, which with whom I must make fellowship with to attain inner peace. This being, the Great I AM, enough to make a boy wild with longing and emptiness. This is the modality that perpetuates hunger. But if I AM, then I AM. NO longing necessary.

College scouting and related adventures

I'm going to write a post now. This one may be a long one because I'm not feeling tired and I have access to a laptop. I'm at my parents house now. I am somewhat stranded here. I left Jacksonville a week ago to go down to Ringling College in Sarasota to check out the school, as I had been accepted there (and offered financial incentive to go too). I rode down there with my friend Kevin who's a student at New College studying metal music. We arrived in Sarasota in the early evening. My goal to make it on time for 'Accepted Student's Day' had come and gone, as the night prior in Jacksonville my car was locked into a parking garage. The stipulations of the parking garage were visibly posted, but in the pandemonium which is One Spark, (a city-wide drink-a-thon masquerading as a  'crowdfunding festival') it was overlooked. Likewise, I was only planning to park in the garage for a couple hours, but I got sucked in to the excitement and stuck around to watch a band. So I made plans to ride with Kevin who was going down anyway and morning of, woke up early to scale the exterior of the parking garage and commondere my vehicle. I imagine I was caught on tape and may have to pay a fine for the parking garage draw-arm that I broke at the shoulder in my daring escape. I brought my car back to CoRK, where I parked it safely, then caught a ride with Morrison out to a Waffle House where he and I ate breakfast before parting ways while I waited for Kevin. I got in Kevin's car and we made the drive down. I fell asleep at some point on the way down. i think I was trying too hard to make good conversaation happen. I felt that I had little to contribute in terms of fodder, a theme that would continue during my time in Sarasota. So we got to Sarasota. I bought Kevin a tank of gas in thanks for the ride. We went our separate ways for a little while. I walked to Ringling to check out the aftermath of the Accepted Students Day and to see if I could corner a student or faculty and learn about what was going on around campus. The campus read like a ghost town. A big tent remianed in the student union where a hundred chairs were tucked into their places at rows of tables. From under the canopy of the tent hung vinyl banners, ten feet in length. "Congratulations!", "You Did It!", "You're IN!". I was glad at this point that I'd not come on time to accepted students day. I walked to the illustration department (I'd been on campus twice before, and knew where about some of the main buildings were). I opened a door and walked into a hallway where I saw student work displayed in glass cabinets. I saw an announcement board with class listings for the forthcoming semester. "How exciting!", I thought. Behind another door, I found a student gallery, where Emily, a sophomore and gallery attendant was closing up shop. I asked if there was anything around that I as a potential student might like to see. She turned the lights back on and allowed me to view the works in the gallery. There were some nice pieces, a few caught my eye. On the table at the front of the gallery were three student sketchbooks. I looked through those as well. Somehow, I was not as inspired, or something, as I once was about the school. It had a deflated feeling. Whereas a few years ago, all of the students seemed to me as titans of illustration, I can now pare away at thier paintings. I have improved greatly in my time outside of school. Nevertheless, I remian hopeful that in school, I will meet a group of committed artists with whom I can compete and glean insights from. The teachers no doubt will hae wisdom to impart. I digress. I thanked Emily, then walked to the library. I looked through some books of turn of the (20th) century expressionists and, from the refrence section was happy to find books with plenty of pictures from early photography days which interested themselves with capturing still images (much like those of the famous horse galloping images which yielded the first motion picture) of the full range of motion of human anatomy. The images included 'man carrying boulder up a hill', 'child walking', 'woman getting up from seated position', and my favorite ' a shock to the nervous system', where a bucket of cold water is poured over a naked woman without preparation. The postures which result seem condusive to good refrence material. How exciting that books like this exist! Around the campus, I should give due dilligence, I did see students doing school  work- some were on their laptops, others were sculpting 3D charachters in clay, presumably for a charachter design course. It may be a shallow criticism that all of the charachters that I saw being molded from clay had pointy ears and midevil garb. Perhaps this was a part of the assignment. I hope that Ringling is not exclusively a 'fan art' school, which I get the impression by looking through their catalogues sometimes that it is. Regardless, it is my mission to transcend the school(s) in which I attend toward my personal goals as an artist. My idea, (which to some extent I have adopted as a sort of disclaimer/catch phrase, aiming to explain/excuse my choice of Ringling), is to use Ringling chops to freak out my art. IE to absorb theory and technique, and to run with it in any direction I so choose. This seems obvious even as I write it, but I believe it is worth noting, as so many students of such fine academies find themselves on the other side of a costly education where they are surrouonded by like minds and blind encouragement, to find that they have become proficient of a style which is considered as novelty and cheap. These same students, whom it has been drummed into their heads the value of their work. Who is there to recieve all of these puzzle solvers? Hasbro? Disney?
True that the pot is small to pull from for these corporations. How could one hope to be an illustrator for disney storyboards, having gone to a state college for fine art?
But to come out of my rant, and abstractions, Ringling is a serious school, and to come out versatile at all, I must approach with scrutiny and caution.
So I leave Ringling's campus and go across the street where Kevin has told me is a great coffee shop. The rumor is that the owner, after retiring from Enron, opened up the shop, pays his employees well, and does not take any personal salary. Furthermore, he works there himself and all of the food is sold (what seems to me- this was not clarified for me) profit free. For example, a coffee and breakfast sandwich rang in at $3. What a miracle! It's like a little micro-economy! So I got a shot of espresso and had a seat outside, where I struck up a conversation over a cigarette with some cafe-goers. Turns out, I knew one of the guys from playing music shows in Florida (small scene)! His name was Greg and his band used to be Cats In The Basement, but is now Pleasures. His buddy was Billy. They were quite friendly. I told them that I planned on going to  New College that evening to see some bands play for their annual Woodstock Wall festival. They offered me a ride. When we arrived, they walked in with me. They knew what they were doing, breaching security. As local Sarasotans, they knew how to get into New College for events, a large part of which was looking the part, which they did. I found Kevin running the sound board as he said he would be. I'd relayed to Greg that I was looking to procure some weed. We got what we wanted in a matter of minutes. The last band of the set finished palying and it was time for a sunset intermission, wherein the students in attendance walked accross campus to the bay to watch the sun set over the water. I rolled a joint and we talked about the moment, which to me has always seemed redundant. At some point, I adopted a mild negative headspace, which pervaded throughout the night, despite the utopic environment. Back to the music festival. there was prep-work to be done for the second act. I saw lotus eaters and became anti-social. It had been some time I realized that I had interacted with people whom I felt capable of having an interesting and fruitful conversation with, and here I was sitting alone among them, not knowing where to begin. I felt isolated. I felt retrospectively selfish and foolish for my decisions. Why had I not applied myself or why had I taken such a narrow un-relatable path? What had I to contribute to this community? The charachteristics of paint? A testimony to the zen of plein air?
I felt tired. Isaw a group of young women doing gymnastics on a hillside. They practised handstands, and were taking turns supporting one another by the ankles and giving adivce and support. I stood and discreetly inverted myself into a handstand. I held it until my arms got tired. I had better controll of it than they. I was sad.
I walked over and asked if I could join them. They welcomed me. They had seen my handstand and asked for a lesson, whihc I happliy imparted. They were much more flexible than I was, and we practised our splits together. Music started up once again, this time inside of the student union. The night kind of went on in a continuous blur from that point. Perhaps I was just tired (likely, I was sleep deprived), or perhaps it felt just like another weekend show. There was beer and cigarettes, there were mostly-naked 18 year-olds, there were party trays with food. The illusion of a utopia slowly unravelling before me, some aspects complementing, some negating. I carried a cool disposition, and found myself in a conversation with a few young women, one of whom offered me a 'real New College experience'. I felt a wave of energy shoot down into my swim trunks. Woah! I don't know how I did it, but I played dumb until the offer was no longer valid. The next day I heard a man recount to me the advice that his father gave to him on his death bed, he said "Son, don't ever turn down pussy because it's the last thing you think about before you die." Admittingly, I am still thinking about those New College girls.
I didn't drink that night but did smoke weed. I met a few lovely women and left in the late late night. I crashed at Kevin's house on a spare matress. What a miracle!
Sunday morning I woke close to noon and went to the Cafe for a sandwich and a shot. Kevin and I drove to New College campus where he gave me a tour of the facilities. It was a great campus. I enjoyed the architecture and the preserved environment. I saw a community garden and a beautiful sculpture department. I saw (from a distance) the dorms, and toured in the fine art department. I would love to pursue a liberal arts education at this school, I concluded. Kevin and I went to the Library, where he split off to read an article for one of his classes. I read a couple books on Chinese economics, before parusing in theses isle. It only took a minute or so to find the thesis of my late uncle, Kemeys, to whom I can credit my middle name, (and by adoption, my common name). On the spine in gold letters was printed Goethe, Ecology and Property Rights. 1973.
I took it off the shelf and found a desk upstairs under a skylight where to read it. I sat for hours turning pages before finishing the reading. The thesis pertained to natural resources and who, if anybody, had the right to use them. What laws protected our rights to clean air, water, land, etc., and do not these same rights apply to corporations or those who use the resources for by what the free market might signify as the greater good by their demand. How does affordability paly into the equation? Can we afford to use resources at the rate at which prices 'regulate'? Who can put a value on such things as cleanliness of environment? I thoroughly enjoyed reading his thesis. He concluded in short, that the hangup was a political one. The lack of specificity in existing laws gives huge opportunities to those looking to profit from the use and overuse of clean resources in exchange for goods who's value has been possibly programmed into the psyche of the consumers, yields apathy in the courtrooms in whihc cases against the misuse of resources appear. If not apathy, then a sort of 'I don't know what to do with this' due to to overgeneralized language of existing legislature. I believe Kem's (as he is credited in the thesis) thesis still holds relevant today as it must have during the Nixon administration. Which to me begs, why has nothing changed? What interest have we in perpetuating the same discussions without change? I admit, learning about the hippies of the 60's and 70's made me want to spend my teen and twenties years out in fields tripping on acid and doing away with material goods. And in part, I have done this (as I type into a 1200$ laptop). But I think we humans, or the ones I have met thus far, the 'sane' ones, are those who are addicted to familiarity. I live in a southern drinking town which asthetically relates itself (despite the invention of the miutherfucking internet) to the fifties. It's like we (liberal, progressive millenials) are all burying our heads in the sand, buying organic because, eating Obama and NPR, and playing house with fiat money (and in this house, we like to drink, and eat, and watch tv). All of this hullabaloo makes me want to vomit most of the time. I did have one conversation at New College with a beautiful soul named Magdelene. One of the things which snapped me out of my self-loathing spiral was our acknowledgement of the state of our environment. Specifically, that we live in a satirical world. Like a self aware, and self destructive-for-the-sake-of-sometihing-happening kind of world. One in which the educated and non-educated alike lead us into our own self-fullfilling compromiseathon into oblivion. And they all knew it was coming and they all told you so, the educateds, who have learned themselves the right to eat as they see fit and sell salvation to the redundant populations (those uneducated) as they see fit. And everyone does fulfil their roles quite nicely. And how horrifying!
An evil voice: "But what else is there to do?"
MAKE ART! (or make your life art. That is, live consciously)
Monday came and went. I talked with Ringling's financial aid department and their admission department, both of which bored me thoroughly. I bought toilet paper for Kevin's house because I hadn't brought my photo ID and it was the next most useful thing to give to a home after a bottle of whiskey. I got a ride from another guest in Kevin's house, a frenchman whom I did not exchange names with. He took me a few miles into town where I caught a city bus out of town to a greyhound station, where I caught a bus heading north toward Panama City. On my way to Panama City, I called my mom. She suggested that I get off a few stops early and come visit her and dad in Crystal River while we organized for the big trip (to go to Panama City, with grandparents to witness and welcome our newest addition to the family, Loxie Ann Smith to the planet). Is the name Loxie...? I don't know. I can't wait to be a super-wierd uncle though. She's going to have to be exposed to some otherworldly stuff if she's going to come out of my sister's fostering well rounded. Hegemony. I was happy to get off the bus early. It reduced my riding time from 18 hours down to six, and I'd already burned through my reading material which I bought at a pit stop in Tampa. At my folks house, I relayed to them my new fasicination with New College and my boredom with the beaurocracy of Ringling.
In the guest room which is half-decorated with things which my parents associate with me, were four art-books that my grandmother had passed on to my mom for me to look through. i felt in a reading mood and took the first off the stack, The Expressionists. It was about the schools of painting that emerged during the turn of the (again, 20th) century in Germany. While the French and Dutch were producing impressionist paintings, the Germans, began rapidly producing work in distinct schools, each with their mystic theses. The paintings  served as vehicles for a spiritual conversation which consumed the artists (many of whom refocused to painting mid-career, such as the school in Munich which consisted in part of ex-architects who were quixotically taken by Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, and the likes. Kandinsky, Russian, became involved in one of these groups for some time, though his work was much more matured than those who wre still getting out their 'first thousand' paintings. I thought it interesting that while the common perception of Van Gogh was one of a severely underappreciated artist in his own time (he committed suicide in a moment of clarity after completing a painting in a filed with ravens), he managed very shortly thereafter to inspire so many painters in the successive movements, which before the second world war there were no shortage. After the war, the mysticism which perdominated asthetic thought yielded to absolutism.
I think of monochromes when I think of making paintings after such an event as world war two which of course, I cannot speak from experience.
My grammy came into town today and I made a great meal for her and I. I took carrots, blueberries, mint, and rosemary from the garden. I made an egg cake, and a vegetable dish, in addition to a dish with sautéed carrots, celery, and pineapple, all seasoned with cumin, turmeric, and salt and pepper. I cooked some talapia as well. together it was a beautiful dish. On the side I ground together some mint, rosemary, and apple cider vinegar, and served it with the blueberries. Together everything worked well, though very non-traditional.
Tomorrow we (mom, dad, and two grandmas, and I ) will load up the caravan and drive to Panama City, where we will await the birth of our newest family member. And with that I will conclude this entry.