Cranbrook

2017-18 I'm at Cranbrook Academy of Art getting my MFA. I will try to keep a few words on here from time to time.

We will wait and see

On the brink of the end you come to life
Lacking in the day to day strife
Forgetting to love

Communication awakes you briefly
We will wait and see
Will the heart mend fully?
We will wait and see

Lonesome and vacant I am
My body a dry land
Forgetting to love

Words of forgiveness, acknowledgments
Finding our way all over again
Forgetting to love

Communication awakes you briefly
We will wait and see
Mended heart?
We will wait and see

This is not so easy
You try to please me
Forgetting to love

Chipping away at erosion
Keeping my eyes wide open
Forgetting to love

Communication awakes you briefly
We will wait and see
Full heart?
We will wait and see

Peroxide for my soul

It's amazing how much power we can allow one person to dictate our emotions on a whim, dime, split second. The extremes of a natural high to the darkest depths of depression, even suicidal thoughts, in mere seconds and unable to get back to that positive high for days and days. Peroxide for my soul please.

A Good Night's Sleep

There's an energy that keeps us up at night, a special need to be great at what we do, to almost be the best, or just good enough to be seen. Ambition keeps us grounded and floating on clouds just above it. There is a delicate balance to achieve maximum velocity on a daily basis.

I'm striving to keep up the work, the pride, and the delivery I need my audience to view, but also for my ultimate satisfaction and stamp of approval. I am not the best, I will never be the best, because as long as I look up to another creator, artist, then I am not the best. Guidance is golden. To journey safely and without extreme mistake, a mentor will be helping me along, someone I hope all of my art companions have.

To be lucky, to be sound of mind, to become and maintain a full of life attitude is a goal, a struggle, a compliment if noticed. We are not perfect, but we can create something one of a kind, something, possibly, never seen before. We skim the surface, even when immersed fully, of a powerful and creative juice.

To be an artist, to be seen as an artist, to hear your self referred to as an artist, can only be met with the most grateful, humble, and cheesy smile. 

Cheers to me and my fellow artists on maybe, if we're lucky, one good nights sleep.

Truths

As long as there are men acting, there will be crows laughing.  - AB

Hold Fast

Suction cups for hands
There was too much water to stick

She dove down deep
Never came up for air

Pretending to play house
Focused on make-believe and blow ups

Scattered like spilled skittles
Pleased by daydreams and sacrifice

Pilots of totality
Blind memories

Shunned and returned
Betrayed by the obvious

Sanctioned and evolved
Devoured and revolved

She spun, she span
Above, below, long ago, and present

Travels do tell
Feelings still fail

While sitting alone
All trample at a single tone

Serving up again
Your booze, your voice

Here's some more priceless advice
Soar back, feet, and mind

Your quarter story
My endless tip

Blasting from a Distant Cry

Depression for me, as an artist, was up and down my entire life. I could usually maintain quite well and my artwork help to medicate and feed my positive engery into taking over from the grey clouds I may have been overwhelmed within.

I am turning 32 this year. I have been doing photography since I turned 16.  Art has always been my constant. From time to time I'd have a dry spell, or go into a lull for inspiration, but nothing compared, or prepared me, for the last 6 months. The utter despair and laziness that consumed me from time to time over the last 6 months scares the CRAP out of me. I know I'm not alone in some of these journies, but these last two months have been especially bad.

I woke up this morning and it was over. Just like that, I was no longer depressed or weighed down by some invisible ton of bricks that forced my feet planted firmly to my living room or kitchen floor until another human suggested anything different. Motivation to move down two flights of stairs into my studio was simply not an option for my cemented feet, meanwhile I was stuck inside my own mind, screaming at the top of my subconscious lungs, to GO CREATE, at least to go and be in the space where you create.

I took walks, called friends for mini-adventures, tried drawing in new places, working from my laptop, but only to find myself distracted by tetris on my phone, netflix, hulu, amazon, Laaaazy bones in general. The couch felt like quick sand and hoplessness. I did just about everything I could think of to catapult out of Funk Town and back into reality.

Now the questions set in...do I just chalk it up to a long grey winter? Do I really have no control over this, do I get to look forward to years of on and off again artistic angst? Some of these questions are silly because I have already experienced creative blocks and turmoil before, but I've always had the where with all to pull myself out of it, not this time. Do I just wait until I wake up okay again?

It's not a normal awakening either, it's full throttle, months of bullshit shedded off, and jumping right into full capacity in the creative quarters of my mind!!! I could stay up for days like this. DAYS! I've accomplished in one day what I was trying to accomplish over two months. It's embaressing to admit to myself. I suppose it really comes down to criticizing yourself too. It's unfair how we judge ourselves, but how strange we have the ability to shame ourselves and then forgive and move forward so easily.

Again, this isn't my first time experiencing a major lull, but this one took the cake for me at this point and it's scary to go through. It's as if a part of your youth dissipates each time you overcome a dry spell like this. Regenerating yourself can be the most aging thing I've ever experienced.

Tist

There are these things inside. Things inside that die, never resurrect. Depletion of ceremonious sanctions bleed. Measurements do not explain or add up the crushing sensations.

Internal shock value, mapping, and stock of what is known verses questioned. Within the cell walls of my skin are weakened immunity, disease, and prosecution. Never a nurse near, never a doctor wise.

Surrounded by visions of past work, other work, other's work, inspiration, and overall a private museum or gallery. Seeing these creative strengths, ideas, and trans formative items gives me less hope instead of more.

These walls are built, more to come. Within my walls I will build until I finally make something worth dying for.

PBR Poem....

I wrote this poem for a PBR contest, but didn't enter it, it was just for fun....

PBR fill up my jar
Sitting here, The Brass Rail, my favorite bar
Bands, Broads, and Bourbon
A little bit country, a little bit urban
Punk Rock
Don't STOP
Bartenders, dirty jokes
Simple kind of folks
Jack Daniels or Gin
A shot, a cocktail, just dive in!
We fight, we fuck, we cuss
We raise a ruckus, we fuss

PBR is our bargain beer
All my friends are here
No one's a stranger
There's no real danger
We laugh
Even the staff
Not everyone smiles
Our loyalty will stretch for miles
PBR does not define our bar
Neither do our tattoos or scars
We have jobs
We might be slobs

The fact is, we care
How we're judged isn't fair
We invite you all
Big and Small
Fill your glass to the rim
Join this toast and don't skim
We have a great bar
We support PBR
Come back and drink again
On Purpose or a whim
We will be here everyday
Rain or shine in any way

Come in again so we can say, HEY!

CHEERS!

Today I found more random things I've written on random peices of paper....

Everyday

My life feels pointless, powerless, personal.
It is, I am, didactic.
Portrayed in unwritten words. Excuses in red smelling songs.
Hyper focused on everything while doing nothing.
Happy and depressed, happily depressed.
Torn from my own skin, unbound from limb to limb.
Extremes of mediocrity. Closing in, all around, pressured, gauged, and bound.
Fortunate to be forged and fortified with flame retardant skin.
Powerless. Impenetrable. Living.

Bartender's Curse

Flexible and familiar faces.
People I think I know, eyes, noses, mouths.
Combinations of body parts
Skin tones, expressions
I've seen them all before
I know you, NO?
We've met, YES?
Cruel jokes
People not knowing their own twins, triplets, doppelgangers.

Heart's Mental Nightmare

My love. My limerence. It's complicated. It's insane.
Pretending, trying, persuading, playing, begging, bargaining with self.
Dysfunctional and disillusioned
I scramble, squeeze, try, seize.
Stomach ache, migraine, fear, and large shoes.
Guilty, but with great commitment and love.
Temptation or multiples?
Tricks? Sick? Normal? or Ordinary?
Persecution of self wound up in private thoughts.
Invisible disease, infallible subconscious.