Domestic Interior II

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You don't get to know if what you did was the right thing or not.


You can spend the rest of your life eating your liver over it.


They spin the wheel, you put your money down.


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This picture reminds me of my Mom, for some reason. It also reminds me of Eric Fischl.


"What I did on my summer vacation."




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I am in a bitter, lost, restless frame of mind. I find myself to be poor company. But I'm getting a lot of art done.


That's worth something, at least to me.


I won't ever make money or garner fame from my work, but it feeds my soul and that is what it is supposed to be doing. I think it could feed some other souls, too. There's enough. But how cool that I don't have to have a gallery or a rep or even enough storage space for all this shit. I just make it, and put it up on my little space here, and there it is. Some other living people can see it, and if they like it they can copy it and look at it all they want. Or they could do like I do, and use it as a jumping off place themselves.

Anyway. I'm lucky that I found photoshop. I can't paint or draw worth a shit, but I think what I'm able to do with my images is real. It feels real to me. I get to see what I kind of see in my mind's eye when I'm starting the work. And it comes out pretty good, not hamstrung by my own inabilities.

I never tire of the play. I could do it twenty hours a day, seven days a week.


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There is highs and lows and right now I am diving, diving, diving, reaching for the darkest bottom. Swimming through the depths, feeling the bone-chilling cold and the ear-squeezing pressure and the solitude and the loneliness and the soundlessness of the deep.


It could be that soon I will burst out into the sunlight, lungs heaving.


It could well be.


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Namaste.



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