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.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 26, 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
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!
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!
Monday, May 18, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
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.
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.
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