Rocky Coast, California
9.5″ X 7.75″ (Oil paint on composite wood panel)

When I meet a person and we lack a shared interest, I pay attention to their hobbies, anxieties, in short, their lives. I want to be aware enough to keep the conversation moving, but mostly I want the person to know I am interested in their character on more than a surface level. It shifts the emphasis on someone else to be stimulating so I don’t feel pressured to be or account for all the mundane ways I choose to pass time.

You get to know who people are by paying attention to what they do, not just what they say. Most of us are more than our last travel destination, our last prepared meal, or our last, “you won’t believe what I saw or did” story. But maybe that is just the difference between friendship and acquaintanceship.

I stood in the card aisle, fingering poetic missives on embossed papers, struck by the inappropriateness of many of the messages. Regretful words spouting synthetic wisdom disguised as empty platitudes. In the rawness of the moment it hardly seems adequate lacing bereavement with the pragmatism of things being meant to be.

I know the recipients, but not well enough to profess a relationship, unless tolerance has an expanded meaning of which I am unaware. Finally, I call the Better Half for insight. Is he religious? I know she is. Apparently, if he wasn’t, he is now. It makes finding the right message less of a minefield A sympathy card should accommodate the needs of the recipient, not the dogma, or lack thereof, of the sender.

Loss can inspire embracing religion, or the denouncing it. I’m judging merely observing. Peace is seldom found in a centralized location. The quest for reason is a recurring plight of the human condition; whether it be in the form of spiritual or scientific explanations. We feel more closure when we can identify the cause (or place blame) on what produced the effect. Even if the effect is an unintended consequence. But a loss is hardly a consequence. It is a name, a face, a missed opportunity, and a dark hole in an aching heart.

When my sister was a toddler, she would with a tissue box completely captivated by the notion, that once you removed one, another would take its place. She would discard tissue after tissue until my exasperated mother took the box away.

Living in a region with clearly defined seasons has the same effect on me. The dramatic transformation between winter and spring still holds my undivided attention.

Waiting too long to transcribe thoughts, is like preparing a complex soup. You combine ingredients, taste, consider, then adjust the seasoning. Taste again, reconsider and repeat. This leads to over-seasoning and transforms the soup into a hodgepodge of competing flavors, rather than a pleasure to the palate.

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Maggie mentioned this first. It’s been on my mind for weeks.

I detest censorship, even though freedom of speech guarantees the ignorant the same megaphone as the well-thought. It’s a risk this freedom, because opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one.

I don’t advocate deficating rainbows for mass consumption, or as matriarchs in my family say, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all,” which is nothing more than code for if you do’t share my beliefs, keep your mouth closed.

Dissent challenges society to be innovative. If that weren’t the case I’d be chiseling this into a stone tablet and worrying predators rather than typing at my desk contemplating biscotti. Yet with all the arrogance of being evolved creatures, there will always be those who behave like adolescent asshats. I don’t know if their numbers are great enough to compose the rule, or merely the exception to it, but their voices are louder than those I prefer to hear.

I enjoy dark humor, irony, quick witted quips (say that ten times fast), and a dash of snark, but it seems to be morphing into a run-on sentence rather than the explanation point at the end.

I’ve no right to dictate etiquette or rules of engagement, but admittedly, online verbal fury gives me reason to consider my thoughts before responding impetuously. Vituperative language can have a place, but generally it’s more effective when used sparingly. Like excessive profanity, the message is eradicated by the shock.

Alas Poor Yorick
(9.125″ X 13.5″)

Honestly, I’m not much of a Shakespeare fan. In fact of all the works I was required to read, this is the only line remember, and it has more to do with watching L.A. Story than the fortitude required for wading through the King’s English.

This a small study executed from a cheap, plastic budget friendly skull I use for a reference model. The media is a combination of latex house paint, charcoal and graphite on canvas. Admittedly the color choices are a bit odd, but they are leftover from various house projects and oops paint purchased at the hardware store.

Gluteus
(11.875″ X 9.5″)

This mixed media work is comprised of latex paint, china, marker, charcoal, and graphite executed on masonite panel.

Both pieces were attempts to erect some semblance of composition from chaos. In other words, neither was planned. The base painting was done with no regard for composition or subject matter, the idea being allowing the base layers to dictate forms that would work. Neither piece reflects the destination I see for my creative attempts, merely stops along the journey, yet both allowed the opportunity to explore media compatibility and abuse it.