Search This Blog

Thursday, July 27, 2017

The Blank Piece of Death

The Blank Piece of Death

It's right in front me. Just sitting there. The eggshell white gleam of a perfectly perforated piece of paper. A polar bear in the snow. The whale underneath the milky sea. Right in front of me.

I want to make a mark. I want the male to be perfect. Where do I start? Nothing is coming out. Do I try to look at something else for inspiration? That's it! Where's the inspiration? Do I really want to try to copy something? I mean not directly. I can certainly look at what's around me and go from there. Oh, there is also the internet! Hm...

Wait, so where do I make the mark? Do I start in the middle? Alright. Think. It it me thinking too much that is preventing me? Should I focus more? I feel like I have been through this before. Why did I start with a blank slate? Why did I choose to sit down and try to force something out? Ok, maybe I am in my head too much. Let me move around.

12 Jumping Jacks Later *

Alright. I am pumped. Let’s do this!
Here we go. I’m going for it.

*Makes a mark*

“ Alright, how does this mark look?”
Looks Great! I need to make another mark. But where?

*Makes another mark *

I don’t know if this is working. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. Am I still thinking about this too much? Am I creating this whole whirlwind of madness myself? Oh the tragedy! Oh the horror! Okay, I need to calm down. I’ve been down this road many times before. It’s simple Trial and Error. Everyone starts from a point where they don't really know what they are doing, right?

The thing is. It all starts with one mark, doesn’t it. One word. One Line. Etcetera.
What influenced me to make this line in this one spot? What was pulling my strings when I decided to make such a mark? Did this first mark set the tone for the rest of the piece?

I took action from a thought? Maybe more of a series of thoughts. But what influenced the series of those thoughts? Was it something in my past experience? Certainly, the more and more I look at these marks I made, I can see that they look quite similar to this mango I saw at the supermarket a couple of days ago. The mango was gleaming and effervescent. It was almost as if the rays of god shined down upon the mango through the crude and dusty skylight from up above. It would see that I was in the right place at the right time to witness such a holy fruitful experience. Did this have any influence on the marks I made? Maybe I simply cannot tell at this very moment.

What lead me to use this specific colored pencil? I chose blue. I confess, I think blue is my favorite color. Did I chose blue out of convenience or because it reminded me of something in my past? Maybe I am biologically predestined to like blue by a series of events and genetic markers. It seems like there are a plethora of variables that could contribute to why I chose to pick this specific blue in the first place. I mean the blue was right next to a Razzmatazz. Why didn’t i chose that fun color? The name is so inviting and playful in itself!

Did I chose this paper out of convenience as well? I could have easily chosen something more colorful, but I decided that starting from a white blank slate was the most valuable and accessible. In any case, why didn’t I venture out and make marks on a different material? I feel as if I have been conditioned to make marks on white by what has been taught to me in the past. The color of this white makes the mark pop very nicely. I am not entirely displeased with the fact that I chose this variant of white. But wait... Did I really choose this white paper? Did something else within me choose it because it was familiar? Did my subconscious lead me to pick this piece of paper because it knew what was best for my unmitigated creative energy? Am I thinking too much about this? I would say, yes!

The amount of time I have spent postulating and conceptualizing the why of this situation, I have lost my way of what I wanted to do in the first place. I just wanted to draw. I just wanted to create something unique and fresh, but it seems as if my intellect and my doubts have bubble up to the surface thus distracting me from my original affair. It is almost as if I have nested a nice little place in my pre-frontal cortex.

 Too much conceptualization and not enough action. ACTION! That’s it. I merely need to act without thinking too much. But how do I do that? What is the correct method for this matter? Wait. I am thinking too much about this again. I understand my problem more clearly now. I am getting in my own way. I am focused too much on focusing too much. It doesn’t seem like there is a concrete method. Certainly, I can find out for myself.

Back to the page. I am making this glorious marks. I am feeling this momentum and energy streamline for me. I don’t think I have felt this exuberance before. This magnificent jubilation of unbridled expression. Wait, have I had this experience before? I am thinking about the past again and not with what I am doing.


I made a bad mark. I feel as if my whole composition is ruined. Was this planned? Did I ruin my own flow? Wait. Maybe this was for a reason. This bad mark has made me more conscious with what I am doing. With what I am trying to make. Maybe it’s wrong for me to think that this is a wrong mark or that something went wrong by me not being with the creative energy. Maybe it’s not the best outlook. I can manifest from what is. I can make the best from this moment on. I can work around this flubbed mark without doubt or worry. Much like a jazz musician. There cannot be a bad note if I make it sound like it was intentional. I do not need this one mark to destroy the integrity of the entire piece!

So I make more marks. And more marks. This accumulation of marks has made an interesting picture. It is certainly not what I expected. That make’s it better right? I attempted to let go in some sense of the word. I FEEL like it worked. It LOOKS like it did work. Inside these marks are a history. A history of different thoughts and feelings. A roller-coaster of reactions within the body and within my thought plagued consciousness. A history. An archival ancestry.

All this time I felt like I needed more distraction so I could focus more.
What happened? Why was there so much struggle? Did there NEED to be so much struggle? What made me have such a creative block?
Did the simple of idea that I HAD to sit down to make a picture deter me from making an actual picture? Was it the mere method of the act that spurred the anxiety and frustration within me?

How bizarre. How intriguing. How confusing?
What choices were I actually making?
What things were influencing my reactions in those moments?
What was pulling my strings?

Was this picture made from a blank piece of paper predetermined to look the way it looks right now? Did I even have much choice or guidance in this decision? How much of this picture was actually “ME”?

All I can say is that all this thinking has made me hungry.
I am craving mango.
I wonder why....


Tuesday, July 25, 2017


I Blame Society! (?)

I blame society !

I blame society!
It has been so unjust to my friends and me. Well, my friends and "I". The "I" that I so cling to. So oppressing! But wait...

Aren't I a part of society? Not apart from society? Is it silly to think that I am "not" part of society. Well certainly. I am society and society is me. I am part of this monster that I so fear. Shall I look into the mirror? Pointing the finger. Blaming the “other”.

It's that division. That illusion of separateness. I can give society a name. I can bring it into existence. Well, who is bringing it to reality? Is it really me? Remember that we gave it a name.

So I give this so called society an evil aura. A menacing hat. A disorderly conduct. A set of disorderly conducts. I create a society that stems from resentment. That resentment leads to blame. Why don't I just blame myself? I project what I don't want. If I resist it, it persists. Do you see? Do you see this chaos that I create? This hell of my own manifestation?

If I think this "society" is "oppressing" me then I am certainly appealing to this imaginary and demigod "oppressor". Doesn't that make me inherently dependent on this vile and incendiary oppressor? It deconstructs my individuality to the core. Am I no longer a responsible and reasonable individual? Do I become part of a tribe or sacrifice my individuality for the agenda and unconsciousness of a collective?

Do I create this illusory mask of society out of convenience? Out of ignorance? I can really know what I know now from that I have known. When it comes down to it, I know way less than I thought and what I think I have known is simply unconscious to me and appears to be more “unknown”. From what I know, I know mostly that I don’t know.

Am I biting the hand that is feeding me?
Am I biting my own hand?
How do my fingers taste?

Do I identify as a victim when I blame such disorder in my life on society? Why would I not just take responsibility for my own actions? Why not focus on what's "immediately" around me?

From my thoughts ( the past )
To the area just within my reach.
To the area outside of my reach that I can transport myself to maintain to control.

Like a stone thrown into a lake.
The ripples make no mistake. Outward! They ripple out from a center.
The quality of those ripples depend on how hard the stone was thrown and the mass and contents of that stone. Radiating outward from one spot. From one instantaneous action! Now, what spurned that action? Thought? The involuntary will of desire? Some biological reaction just outside the realm of my awareness?

So you see how these ripples may create society?

As we might see society:

People walking their own walk. Their own path. Their own destruction. Their own distractions. Own little worlds with distorted perceptions.

The potent possibility and probability of people trying to subtly manipulate other people.
A Disastrous Dance of Projection. Some might say.

What becomes of a culture of resentment and blame?
Doesn't it begin with each individual?
At each individuals awareness and consciousness?

There writhes the unconscious serpent that tries to avoid what is and strangle you through aggression towards why should be. This unconscious resentment cannot sit with gratitude with what is. We can give this is a name if we want. If one cannot take responsibility for what is now, then they will be of the past and try to construct an escape from what is.

Remember that we gave it a name.

You create an "identity" when you blame "society",
What a selfish way to gain notoriety,
You see disorder and want more order,
But little did you know,
That trying to fix disorder is somewhat disorder,
From this unconscious abyss,
It's easy to miss.

Fragmentation. Disassociation.
All dealing with the ills of the self. The illusory "sense" of self. A resistance to what is not known. A vulnerability for ideology and unconsciousness to fill in that irritable void.

When one cannot or will not question their internal struggles, they might project and not reflect. So, the external world becomes a manifestation of their own unconsciousness. A reflection of the inner to the outer. So a person who is in such conflict, can only resort to blame and resentment. All of course, remnants of the past not dealt with. Contained within the limited center of memory and thought.

So society as we see it can be based on relationship or lack there of. Starting with the self. The relationship and the self knowledge of one's self. If we cannot have or know relationship with ourselves, how can we have relationship with other? There is the dysfunction and disorder that leaks into this society. Now do you see?

It's the fragmentation of me that creates my view on this so called “society”.
If I can take a look at the "me", and I will inevitably see the disorder and chaos that has been spawned in front of "me".

For if I want to point a finger, I miss the target. (to sin) If I observe the neurosis of the mind in "me", I can see. I can act. Accordingly. From that I can "become"....( be )

From that (be) to (act).
To Act it Out.

A benefit towards myself




Saturday, July 22, 2017

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Aesthetic Cream

Ok, Thirst of All..

Moist Alley

Moist Alley

It smelled stale. It was for sure damp. The old bricks leaked and almost sweated from the sheer mist of it all. It was almost as if the bricks were living and breathing organisms. Like sea cucumbers or an obtusely variant species of urchin. Smells were abundant! Full or vibrancy and effervescence! How both amusing and inviting, but also somewhat off putting. It is certainly an alley of pungent proportions.

It was in its nature. The opposing forces of moistness and the allure of pleasant vibrations shed a new light on mourned existence. Alas, Moist Alley was a place of true mystery and prone to a great deal of nose snubbing skepticism. A skepticism almost academic. A skepticism that resembled the relationship of varnish to paint. It could be said that it wasn’t for everyone or that it was for everyone that didn’t think it was for anyone. A conundrum of great complexity. The mere mention of Moist Alley was enough to have hominids recoil and divide amongst different patterned schools of thought. Personal preferences matched with a subtle and visceral candid veracity. A writhing if you will, of the body and through the various sanitized senses. For the people it attracted, a new adventure awaited right underneath their withering probosces.

The dampness was one thing. It is something to be experienced. No words in mind have come to fruition to try to articulate the sheer magnitude of the dampness. A dampness of great verisimilitude. I have heard that the ratio of the dampness to moistness has been pretty even and that it fluctuated based upon the inherent political climate and humidity regulated by the nearest Chinese food establishment. The dampness almost created an ambiance of Film Noir like murky mystery. A romantic and almost dreary like existence comparable to the shed in E.T. One could say that the floor was wet, but it could also be seen as a mild damp or a mega moist. It gave you a feeling. A feeling as if you were barefoot even if you were wearing a contemporary piece of footwear. Plastic or suede variety. All types of laces.

It brought all of your senses to a wonderful buffet of delight. Every pore on your body was satiated with a type of amorphous bewilderment. A taste you could feel. A feel you could taste. An almost orgasmic dance of senses. It was a portal into the present. An experience into the delights of being human. Almost as if every cell in your body was at a strip mall day spa.

It was a spot of reflection and motivation. A place to escape, but also to venture inward without abandon. A caressing of transcendence paired with a fine glass of acceptance. One step into the alley, you get a little dizzy. One must embrace it. Let it into the meat space of yourself. Like a simmering. The outward moistness is a reflection of the your own inner moistness or dampness. Your ratio of what you reflect is heavily dependent on the moistness that you project.

Are you down with the dampness? The gravy like moistness that oozes through your very being. The lubricated ephemera of modern life. A trip to Moist Alley can be taken anywhere in a sense. Much like a meditation or a malleable type of mantra. You can certainly visit the actual geographical location of Moist Alley, but Moist Alley certainly exists in all of us. Accessible at any moment and every moment. A pleasant gravy float awaits your creamy consciousness. At first Moist Alley seems so daunting, like trying to jump into a close to freezing body of water. It’s like a band aid. One must rip it right off. One must jump into the pool without thinking about it. Without trying conceptualize, intellectualize or methodically try to take what it means apart. When you try to understand Moist Alley, it becomes more and more displeasing to your taste buds. Like a slightly rotting peach in the middle of a summer afternoon. That moist peach pining away. Inviting insects from all around to imbibe.

One must accept this Moist Alley. Without abandon. With the enthusiasm of a young and slightly curious child person. It is the melding of the experience and the experience(r). The cremation of the line between what is and what should be. The dualistic nature of circumstance in concert with the uncertainty of chaos. It seems freeing. Not a freeing that you think. Not a freeing from pain or pleasure, but more of an entrancement of whatever comes. Moist Alley welcomes the vast spectrum of all emotions, feelings and vibrations. It lets them permeate the damp bricks and the slightly soggy bread crumbs. It lets aggression and aggravation slide into the crevices of its own amorphous and impermeable being. The impregnation of energy. The composting of carnal delights and morbid sights. The transmogrification of order and chaos. A balance of pudding like substances.

Are you ready?
Are you ready for the moistness?
Can one ever be truly ready for Moist Alley?

Ready or not.
The Moistness Awaits!