Introduction to The Bottle Edition of “Penny Lanes” Compendium

I have a good friend that would call the natural-act of creativity with a splash of friends, potentially strangers even…

“Arting”.

I never realized at the time I was playing a role as a partner-muse in this world that was growing on its own. Frankly it was devouring my life as it once did when I was young and ecstasy was untamed; the great inspiration that was to be set free when I was confused with flooded emotions, the language I never spoke, the sensation of passion that simply sprung from the love of, as godly forces may sweep upon living life, therefore the essence embodied richness..

.. So rich.

It felt like Hollywood for a moment in time,

I would suggest “hangout sessions” to others that we were neutrally  fascinated by, and before I knew it, we we’re all in a group of Peoples that were full speed ahead in a different dimension of curious creativity. I’d ask him about others who would visit the shindig, a highlighted subtle event in my mind. He would tell me about their art and later show me the pieces as we kicked back from work hours…. though, I’m positive he still possesses them to this day.

Moral of the story is creativity is all around us,

It’s what we are,

It’s in our blood, lungs, embedded in our mind or brain tissue…

everything is an everlasting continuum ready to be fed or until that day it is fed upon.

So as an ode of my romance; to words, to ideas, to pencil, to music, to paint, to inspiration, to ink , to the beauty that warms me though scares me, and the rush of letting go straight after conceiving…..

I once again “suggest hangout sessions”, to dive into that curious creativity.  Letting yourself be. Setting free a mind and past held inside.

This is The Bottle Edition of “Penny Lanes” Compendium

a series of works that all have a breath of its own.

Stay updated, for articles and artwork about the first Piece coming soon,

plus many more pieces to follow!

Proper Poetic Introductions.

Someone told me once that I speak to souls
… wasn’t sure what that meant.
Someone told me once that I was too good for sex
… wasn’t sure what that meant either.

At times I think I have an idea of what they were trying to say,
At least I think I do… honestly,

I’m still learning.

Sometimes I get lost in my lows,
swirling within the nonexistent personas of others and who I am them versus who I am to me or to the universe… as if the universe had a mind of its own.
And maybe in my insane-ideal world it does.
So let me convey what I think I know further down the rabbit hole;

I am the underdog;
A loser,
The lowlife,
An outsider,

I own nothing to my name but what I reproduce or create,
(maybe mutters; sprouting insecurities creeping into these moments which are snatched into the abyss of what is so eloquently now the past).

Latched on my sleeve is my most prized possession;
a hopeless romantic served on a gold platter of passive-aggressive dysfunction.
I own a membership related to almost everyone;
broken homes or broken hearts that’ll never admit broken bones.

A lifetime it feels fully identifying this self…
living art,
walking book,
contradiction queen,
ill-mind searching for redemption and answers.

In fact, I’m still looking for something, something bigger. For some unknown reason I’m not sure if this quest will end. A steady sojourner, longing for that “something more”.
And I guess that’s why I’m here…in a high hope,
exposing these private gateways like a synapse squished between myself,
my mind, to you and all personally to you.

Even if I may self-indulge by questioning my existence from time to time,
those conspiracies that warp my thoughts.
Even if some days feel less tangible in connection within this soul-searching discovery between self and the world…. I won’t ever deny my behaviors. Usually eager to take a blame.

I am the face of the fucked up, fortunate, evil and good true stories relinquished to the world that symptoms may prove dreams or a cause for action, for the pursuit…

not of happiness, or acceptance, or money, or attention.
Maybe it’s “hippie bullshit” – just to cut it short.
You know… ideas flailing with all cultures of all peers dying so hard to ignore or cling to, quickly sent off, nursed and stamped to be demonized as weakness is, such as;

compassion,
philosophy,
harmony,
unconditional love,
and so on.

In which only evolves into a specific happiness.

In which dissolves in a name like “hippie bullshit”.

I suppose I favor others like us that get lost in the familiar repetitive choice  and don’t see, know, or hear this cause for action, this pursuit…
and yet once listened to, gravitate – leaving earth to sail into the sun,
Hence my other half raining for days just to snap out of it, letting sunrays assume position as if it were Lubbock, Texas weather.

Superhuman or Supernatural. We usually stumble upon glimpses of this. And usually that’s all we need.

Although this dream I believe in. This mass “bullshit” I figure so dire to release back into the world for others who wouldn’t give the light of day to expose themselves, stripped down naked for hearts to absorb anything abstract – even abnormal. And I claim abstract like a second skin, like an exoskeleton among other insects where we’re so foolishly divided by the amount of appendages and other differences, in tons of classes as humans do when they have no box, no segregation or status.

When overall… we all crawl, pose dead, or disappear.

But For why?

This faithful fantasy where stars naturally align, hero’s are born, men carry on noble traditions, soft-heartedness is glorified, and women are worshipped;

  By being  you,

Arch of support,

 innocent curiosity,

encouragement made with hands from the humankind,
An anchor ,
no matter what physical effect we endure with or without each other.
About the truth of “we endured” together, in some unseen mystical energy.
In a very plain way to put it, acknowledge in this translucent confidence. Except you don’t need emphasis on announcing – just encourage full potential thanksgiving flowing within the waters of your whispers

  But what is art?

   When I see and envision art in my head, it’s a force much like veins as vessels, pictured like spider webs to this iridescent Greater-Good. Especially when sentimental intentions, tales, innovations make me melt inside. A freedom of being a simple and complex spirit specimen existing like you and existing within you. Worthy of everything ….  and yet invisible as ghost this comes without a sign showing where your recognition is so you can hang it on a wall, which irks when the aftermath of “feeling good” is gone…
It’s your, mine, our freedom of thought that further my quest.
Ultimately our journey together literally breathing the beauty as well as the fear of our true senses. Un-chain, not only left to our bodies but to our brain.. meeting the fragrance of alluring stimulation.

At this time in place… alone in my mind,
writing down my distorted voice,
recording words that play in my head only to be listened by my consciousness and at the same time reading this over and over again to the extent obsessive wouldn’t describe much…
to then be digested by another’s mind, full of emotions, breeding ideas from the teeny seconds that already have created first impressions of whoever I may seem to you.

All the millions of theories and assumptions
parallel to an umbilical cord as to a host;
interpretations,
realities,
views of what is and what is not,
truths,
perceptions,
between the rush and dilating pupils
as much as the rejection evolving guilt that’s spattered on regrets when we “just don’t like” the vibes of something candy coated with secret honesty, the crap you wished you would have said… or have said better.

I lecture to pry your mind open to the possibilities of everything. The freedom of thought.

Welcome to The “Penny Lane” Compendium;

                                                              life nurturing living art…

Bottle Edition: PULSE-LINE

Exposing oneself must make for the true bravery… It has to be.

The marrow that is incognito further than our bones,

and our bones held in with

layers and liquid.

I think of being in this living body probably too much;

How interesting we build walls longer and ever so sky rocketing than the Great Wall of China, as much as the titanium armor, lathered with iron methods embedded in behavior, having moments believed we’re safe, facing strangers without honesty or the truth…

“Hello? I feel a flame might’ve smudged inside.”

humiliation of pain, even vulnerability.

As if we were taught we’re meant to be indestructible, When were delicate .

All I ever hear is infants crying for milk.

How interesting we illustrate bouncing, ciphered – gravities. All whirling around ourselves, cognate to PB&J sandwiches zip locked in plastic bags, passed around to dirty kids at Hippie Hill.

Brown bag specials from original childhood friends.. or lack of,

to work associates.. or the ones you discovered are fascinating,

to family members struggling,

to acquaintances you keep bumping into,

to buddies you must interact daily.

This living body, and bravery..

Majority I take in a-muddle, pictured like a Kansas storm.

flounder in debris to glue calls of any spine, the support through trouble.

Mirrored to the laceration of fifteen year old wrists;

draining out daisies,

all because repulse invitations to express.

Oh, god for the love of the pulse line, invite to express!

You have to.. be..

CRYING SHAME.

A pinch of flavor comfortably on the tip of the thumb.
Tasting the metamorphosis,
only to throw tsunami tantrums,
where the bottom meets motions of no ends.

Just the lonely intimacy of waves,
under lack of control beaten past the skin,
they crash as traffic jam collisions do on Los Angeles highways.
One culprit . . . behind the red curtains.

Left to face the colorful,
broken,
fairy dust – thin as sand,
reflecting repressed wear and tear.
Shredding as fear grows,
amidst sign of the chances,
the possibilities. . .

slipping through fingers,
slipping through fingers.

Seeing; small, embodied failures, filling the shoes.

Why?
Oh, sappy willow.
Watered with southern comforts
and
carbon monoxide clouds creeping in the air,

You! . . . content with floods;
lost in acid rain,
on the knees,
housing a crippled foundation.
Hands tied behind the back,
where a single isle called “home” howls;

“empty the glass,
empty the glass.”

Ignoring the sun.
Fits of rage combust,

“How can you have? and
What has been done?”

Oh,
poor spirit in the midnight.

You’re running from . . .

Running from.

The Biography of MOUNTAINS.

WORKSHOP: This was made in about over a 3-4 month span, originally it was a different piece entirely. Officially established 2015. Materials consist of acrylic, oil, and (my favorite to dabble with) spray paint.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Protect your dreams, your journey, your essence with lathered acceptance; not letting in whatever may be, but letting yourself choose what may be. Go ahead and slit open the main arteries to grasp the white vitamins that feed your hungry heart … So you can finally recognize the face of what love is supposed to look like. Simply
selfless, endless, unconditional… all for the “else”.

Knowing that someone else is the someone who is you.

 

I swear if this piece was a person…
it’d be a 103 year old woman
or hundreds of centuries older than the hills in Little Big Horn.

The whole canvas was growth on its own; Since the original piece before took me to a place inside myself that died simply by concluding “I don’t like it”. I decided then and there to automatically paint over the canvas with a white matte to feel better, truthfully I don’t even remember what it used to look like. Although when the idea spawned of being this creative vessel, ending in a live picture with my energy to provide the development itself, Only then did the direction grew – in fact it flourished with influence of being a replica; of memories, emotions, an experience what seems stuck in a time capsule forever living as a far comparison to now (what I call “stationary life”), a regroup of who I am made by joyful and low remnants of my fresh past… and considering my life didn’t really begin until I started to travel and relocate willingly in life by hitchhiking and gascanning.

I knew I had to pull from the roots as you would with the weeds.

It all “fit” mentally, running with this idea glued in my mind – especially when the white matte dried; I happened to noticed there was a rip on the canvas which created this slight elevated look. Off the bat I tried to not let it bother me. Although over thinking, all I could hear was ” what in the hell are you going to do?”. I then remembered of a moment when I was traveling out of a van around the states, golden moving frames stored in the humble parts of my mind that always come back to me…
Particularly I was West of Illinois close to Nebraska at a gas station along with two of my “roaddogs“. Right next to where we parked a bus just so happened to pull up and park as well, ‘lo and behold it was travelers (we learned later they’re more like “rainbow kids”). They were a couple; both were layered with many talents like artists are, and believed in “manifesting” and “love”.

The story here lays in trice that meant so immense personally…

Within the spirit of the couple, they were eager to share and expose art as well as encourage others. At this instant the wife was showing her artwork to Patrick (one of the roaddogs) and he was showing his in return. She had said something that never left me in reference to Patrick when he was talking specifically about his pieces being a little  “damaged”, how he wasn’t sure to go about  it or if he can sell it  – she had said to him very tranquil (along the lines of) …

“Oh, just go with it – a lot of my stuff ended up ripped on some edges cause the road so I just ripped all the edges, or that’s why I have slightly burned corners on some. If you find it torn or wrinkled maybe it’s a sign or the way it’s supposed to be, that’s how I took it and people love it the way it is. So you should just embrace it, the universe wants it that way.”

This story always takes me home, back on the road, never-failing to ring more true every time I time travel back in my mind when I need symbolic messages or answers. At this point I was clarified on how to treat the dilemma.

When I had realized altogether that I wanted it to be something larger than life; something I missed very deeply – transforming effort by achieving this mental “feeling” or “image”, plus the rip of the canvas only catered to the idea, an overwhelming sense of “what to do” hit me like a ten feet wave. Even if at the same time I knew it could fall under like the original piece it used to be,

The difference was I knew what I was doing in my heart even if the outside was completely invisible as wind… the vision was within my grasp.

I wanted the road; I wanted to live off the land forever, I wanted trees, mountains, canyons, and a long inhale of Mother Earth. I wanted Colorado…

Hitchhiking out the home of Texas Tech University all the way to the home of Colorado State University was an eventful journey but of course how could it not be? My biggest pinnacle of traveling was camping out in the “Puter Canyons” (from what the locals called it). We had stayed a couple of days with amazing people in Fort Collins where we only got that opportunity because my roaddogs had a cousin who used to attend Colorado State. Fortunately enough when the cousin had lived there he shared a home with some college friends, to where they took to us with open arms; showing us around town, introduced us to “Colorado herbs”, hooked us up with free margaritas (one was a bartender at the time), conversed about passions of kayak-traveling everywhere and even took us to try to kayak ourselves! It was all almost too genuine, I’ll always remember those guys. We separated next to their hospitality by being taken to the canyons, where the mountains sat close by. They started a fire and we all enjoyed what little evening we had, as the night soon came they said goodbye with giving us half of what was left from a bottle of “white owl whiskey”, not just that but pulling through with magical mushrooms after all they were excited for us because we wanted to spend it in nature and no other way else.

We had stayed up in the mountains for a few days; made a campfire against a tree, explored the terrain, literally touched clouds including ended up in the middle of a gathering of birds… I’ve never been sure what sort of birds they were, or if it was possibly mating season. All I know is that as simple as it may seem to try to explain to another – especially to the world of this concentrated story, I don’t think it can fully be understood until you sit in natures darkness, lift your chin to the sky, and stay frozen… into the abyss where miniature twinkling lights shimmer, everything shrinks as well as your existence. So suddenly you shake your head, squint your eyes, revert back to eye level.

It makes me too philosophical in thought; Who have I been this whole time against space? Space that looks into your soul as you draw your breath and release earthly matters to where you finally comprehend, you finally “feel” it all means absolutely nothing according to earth;
All these houses, money.
All these classes, all this negativity,
all the confusion mixed with disappear.

It’s all nothing.

Leaving the mountains was definitely against my will and my roaddogs. We had said we’ll go back, but more prepared since the only thing stopping us from staying for weeks on end was the lack of food and water. It’s funny how when you’re caught up in The “Now” you’re never thinking twice about saying something as small as “we’ll come back” – maybe it’s something to say in order to ease the spirit to part from a good feeling. Either way; when we packed the tent, put the fire out along with random shots of Sailor Jerry, coincidentally enough once we reached the only road where one restaurant was miles away and walked for a distance that could have been yards, a guy gave us a ride all the way back to Denver. Funny thing was he was just finishing fishing or kayaking.

I fell in love with mountains over the course of that week. Reminiscing the highs fueled my desire into an intimate relationship maturing with this ivory canvas. Weeks passed layering with acrylic, then weeks with oil, days with acrylic again, topped with spray paint. To me silent periods were essential to let the piece rest, it was vital to ensuring my love and nurturing of the art itself – really making sure it grew. The rip on the piece was complimented by being my “mountains”, I set fire to the canvas from under and let my drive steer my performance. It’s a masterpiece in my vision.

From my travels I’ve always felt that from then I’ve had a different understanding of people and their lives, of life itself, somehow myself too; that was only wooed by the mountains and seduced by nature. I felt as if I was kissed by stars and embraced by the black corners of perception lost in galaxies floating with the old ideas crippled by cultivation… where the teaching still lays with my everyday thinking. We’re all great as Peoples, loving as strong as we allow ourselves against the waters of society, of childhood – against our own minds, Holding a flashlight buried past the mantel above our noses to discover where we might be, who we are, fighting others as they try to steal this light.

As long as it’s yours, does it shine.
I share with you pieces of me but not given to return.

MOUNTAINS.

Three in and above the clouds,
several mountain tops,
several canyons.

A former forest fire,
charcoal skin and
dead limbs.
A bird’s eye view,
suddenly transform
all beneath.

Boulders born centuries ago,
living under the streams heading South.

 Sensitive waters captured in these times of the year. Floating with memories closer than yesterday… closer than today,
when our rebirth felt so anew,
all in our prime.

Obsession in untouched history,
probably accompanied by hands of man.

Scarce sacred attune mysteries,
exploring the wild.

The peak of attainment;
packed in one tent,
air filling the lungs,
altitude altered affects,

White owl,
white whiskey.

Three days in heaven;
feet in the mud,
shoes in the snow.
One night shifts tectonic plates of perception,
earthquakes call for no stability,

                                                                                                the change rattles breathing,

                                      So all in the sky we float.

Although Mother Earth kisses our foreheads first… she dies once we part,

And shaken three worlds, worlds apart.

Though never short-lived, As long as remembered she’s always with us.

Longing still sleeps in my right chamber, that I can’t relive even if I dream of going back there.

The twilight and campfire.

Recapture, recapture.

The Biography of Curious

WORKSHOP: I believe this was made maybe in one night.  acrylic over canvas (bits of oil smudges) Finished work established 2015.

Moral of the story: Unlocking parts of you should be an adventure, it should be virtuous. blindfolding yourself to a challenge should be insightful as well as wisdom into your own mind. To learn ourselves is to love ourselves and that’s not done better than with presenting yourself with something new to tackle.

Cradle your flaws and weaknesses;
they are your strengths,
your power.

When I stop at this classic piece of work, at first glance it makes me feel a little humdrum in the heart, but then I keep staring… I stare even longer. Where does anything start and where does anything end? And so I get lost in my own doing where I then understand everything that’s going on within these four physical lines. In this pit of chaos, simple though moving.
I approached this blank white slate with the intent to really compliment the canvas itself. Since I love the color combination of black and white for all that it symbolizes…  how black is the absence of color and yet white is all colors, the representation (and very common) of bad and good, sadness and mystery, purity and innocence. Yet somehow they both can embody death at the same time. I always found it a match made in heaven, a place where the sun and moon never meet – though without one another they would falter in a means of the system it rules. Thus the combination was timeless.

Now when I get into my vibrations within painting or any art/craft, I have to take my time tapping in a place inside myself that resonates feelings of expression. Ultimately I try to sit in a intimate setting like an alter; I take everything in around me slow, rearrange the area where I’m working to fit my mood or place certain objects in different positions to help my concentration, clear my mind, take a few deep breaths and just like a train being painted with graffiti all over, I coat my vision and translate meaning around me with creativity. Allowing some unconsciousness to let loose. Letting idea’s grow on the spot, sort of releasing parts that you never knew were there, parts that make you feel good. I lay down my materials I might use in front of me towards the left. Along with my glasses of whatever I may be drinking; water, colored water, SOCO or cheap whiskey. Next to that are cigarettes-maybe stogies, if I get lucky to have some around for when I need a intermission and regroup my senses back to where the center of my focus should be.

For the first few hours that I put into this mystical piece, it was hugged with the black acrylic paint. I wanted the strokes to feel raw, like an eastern look without the gentle water color texture towards wherever the stokes end and begin. To cater to this, I wanted the white to look just as fresh. I was driven by the thought that whoever (mainly myself) may take their personal time, only the visuals, would feel an overwhelming impression that this Curious piece of artwork seem as if it was growing. That you’d feel for example, a second piece should be around the corner any moment or given day.

I remember spending an elegant time with the color white as well; brush in hand – I would look very closely, lean my body into the canvas,  just to turn it one way to another way, starting at one end, and let the brush take it’s own course heading north or west of the canvas. It sounds like such a small “nothing” to relate to… but the romance I had couldn’t be explained as much as I try through words, through this context here. Have you ever made love and not realize it until the both of you are far from each other in two separate destinations? Prime relation.

Although I can only hope this will satisfy wonders through this technology world I’m connecting to, I’m also hoping it will neutrally be fathomed by peoples on how rare this little dignified piece of artwork “Curious” really is.

The Biography of Civil/ftwx2

WORKSHOP: This was made about in a three months span (possibly a little over) including the idea being conceived ( simmering in my mind for the develop process). Total count of three receipts over canvas, Oil over canvas, acrylic over oil. Finished creation established 2016.

Moral of the story: Who’s to stop us from revolting especially if it’s peacefully? All of our human endeavors have been over what we believe is”right” or the “correct” thing to live by. Let us be the living testament. Let us spiritually or philosophically reshape the earth we live in with consideration of each other.. civilly.

Turmoil inside will remain outside,

what do you do with turmoil?

 

I planned this piece from the moment I came into contact with receipts, I gathered many and picked blindly the ones it features. I instantly fell in infatuation with these (I know I’m weird, although I have a knack for symbolism). The receipts all ranging from 50.00-something to approximately 200.00$ maximum. I collected many of them for this project and chose three. The collection of receipts were printed stickers for occasions (besides proof of purchase and to scan for transactions) like birthday cakes, to breakfast burritos, or dozens of flowers, gallons of lattes, maybe hot chocolate. Which were so long for receipts due to it included all the ingredients. At this time in my life I was a barista at a coffee shop. It was located within this popular southern grocery store where I had been stationary from traveling for a while. This store was the paradise of all stores, they always had free samples and you didn’t need a “special membership” just to step inside (Oh, I said it), they would do catering, sell hot and cold food ready to eat with spacious dining areas, and since it was a college town – it was enormous. Not only that but it was usually packed with students studying, or nurses on break eating lunch and anything else you can typically think of. The outside patio was semi “indoor” with giant heaters so if the weather was out of control  (which the northern part of Texas always is) it would be sunny one second and then snow the next. The area was solid as far as pleasing people who wanted to stay close to the outdoors without completely being outside. So in this sense I got to meet all sorts of people; hipsters grabbing a Americano with a double shot, cops grabbing their lunch for the day, students picking up a macchiato as well as a couple items for dinner with a bottle or two of wine, I remember an actor who’d in the morning order his  regular coffee with an accent for practice and a small moment which is a gem in my heart was a little old couple from Italy or Spain, all they wanted was a plain Espresso and getting a compliment from them of how it was perfect as a comparison to homemade Espressos (thank you out there). It was humbling to make people these coffee based drinks, honestly I loved the job a lot. Although being my moody self it was very draining at the same time. I couldn’t help but want to yell at the top of my lungs “what are we doing?!”.

With the vision of this project slowly growing in my head I couldn’t help but to feel some.. sick admiration towards these receipts. This artifact of evidence from other people, so small in their day, or big.. I was apart of wasted minutes. We literally spent our time cashing out transactions which just makes me feel like an inconvenience. I always think in situations like so; they must feel over-associated, or we’re being black holed into latent obedience we accepted to be “the way of life”, this repetitive organization, going almost insane in my head thinking “does this mean I’m crazy or does this mean the world, all of us people are crazy for not exploding right now?” … I wasn’t sure.

I had to act.

The course of my creation process is a living organism on it’s own; ideas come together, sky’s open up, it floods, it flourishes, all growing and drowning in unison. Now understand; a friend of mine, my roaddog, my brother, would hammy-down a canvas or so, even my mother would just casually give me canvases she didn’t need or want. Therefore they would so happen to fall in my lap – otherwise I paint on cardboard or stick to ink and pencil over regular paper (being doodles or sketches along with my written works). So this canvas was a part of the first batch I actually went out of my way to buy on my own. Sounds as if I’m a novice in this art life! But it meant a lot to me as far what I was going to do with it and it took months to actually create at least a silhouette of something I wanted to do. All I was aware of was I had to do something real, something I never had done before (normally it’s my goal to do so) and for this particular set of canvases it came in a pack of three. Civil/ftwx2 is actually the one that kicked off the rest of my art session with the two others (helping the develop process) It was settling in and being unafriad to tackle the other bare faces of my creations which made me even more proud of the piece.

With this resentment I had towards cooperate duty in order to survive this “American” society, as consumer and slave, It felt mandatory to carry on, salute and live within the means of being stationary in a civilian world (Eh, dramatic spews). Overall I think this is where confliction was at it’s prime and I had to urge myself to “get it out”. There is a part of me I’m certain is far from reality that… the only way I can explain (and especially to the world) is it’s a fantasy, ideal world. Call me a wingnut but I believe it’s all attainable, no not picture perfect religion – just this faith I have. So regarding to this; we don’t need these so called “proper” jobs to make you a substantial citizen in society, you don’t need to buy someone’s bill of food once in a blue moon to be a “Good Samaritan”, nor donate to your local charities to prove to yourself that you’re “doing something”. All you needed was a realization that being a simple good person was enough, and taking care of each other was enough.. and because of this – no liabilities, famine, insurance, debit, or anything should even exist. In my own contradicting lecture, I’m conscious these beliefs could simply stem from growing up; being the oldest of my three brothers, two sisters and daughter of a father, a mother, all suffered as a big family in many different communities; moving from place to place for at least family support (which never ended well), living in homeless shelters, hotels or motels to even living in vans, eating at charity events possibly called “meals for the needy” or random churches  – me and all my brothers and sisters in a line with humbums and other families greeted with potential clear glances as we’re handed a plate of food. Yes, maybe someone is reading this right now and thinking “WELL, She’s just mentally ill cause chronic stress or anxiety from these experiences – She needs help!” and you know what? Yeah, whatever-possibly. Maybe I feel this way because no child should have to endure the fear of not knowing where you’re going to sleep at night or where you might be the next day,  or if you’re going to have breakfast and have to wait till dinner, or ANYTHING I’m positive lots of people take for granted. It all could be why I don’t understand the system, the government that was made for people to attain happiness, to achieve their dreams and yet we’re all pressured to live a certain way; in a box, hands to yourself, all colored coded, all smiles. Why should a man be cited or taken to jail for feeding someone hungry, or a church for that matter? Cause he might get food poisoning? When little does any authority know that whoever might have ate that food wouldn’t regret it or take it back (and for the small percentage that would like to shoot me articles of when it did happen – you might as well send me an article of a plane crashing with the percentage of that along with it).

So to conclude The Biography of Civil/ftwx2 and to quote the piece itself…

It’s all “Bullshit”.

The Biography of Uni-verse/E.O.M.E

WORKSHOP: Built over a course of aproximently two months. Acylic over canvas and oil over acylic. Finished creation established 2015.

Moral of the story: the world we live in, everything we create is what we make around overselves, the power we give to something negative or postive.. or even what we think might be “negative or postive”, ultimatly giving power to meanings of words. Over all; life is ours to create, it’s ours to control and if not then influence, to be free and in that experience freedom.

Nothing is out of reach;
my universe, my galaxy, my earth.

Being stationary from hitchhiking or gascanning and staying in one location is always a long, dragging transition into what I feel is so alien everytime it happends from traveling over months span. People end up looking through you in some odd way (where I notice more and more and commit the action myself sometimes); continuing in patterns of everyday behaviours of plainely avoiding others when they can, training ourselves every morning that we’re all copycoded versions we’ve seen before, so we just ignore interacting completly. We’re not honest about our opinions NOR do we acknowledge our emotions in this honesty (in fact I see it more glorified to disregard and smack it with a label marked “weak” if we are honest about these things). When any person, for any reason could be that special someone to inspire us, to encourage us, to lend exactly what we need without an I.O.U or any strings attatched.

See when your flying a sign with sharpie letters and numbers, by the side of a highway or a street stating “starving artist” or “share a smile” , even “North i-25” people tend to look AT you or INTO you (either they know it or not) versus completely looking through you in “Civil life”. Now mind, I’ve gotten ugly stares (it happend in your head before! “oh, but what if their going to turn around and use it on alcohol or drugs, haha… despite the rare few children who’s parents were hippies, maybe even little sap’s from rainbow kids). People even flipping me off for some reason, but theirs also amazing people out there that know what your about, know what your doing and don’t doubt you even if they know nothing about you, even if they just met you (and to those people where I wonder if you remember me, you know who you are – no ways to describe how thankful I am). Thus because of those people who created this sense of “goodness” and any feelings affiiated with so… The strangers to this day I can never forget, I can say that we are and/or can be the people that shape and mold the world around us. We can do anything and the impossible with “the love for” another and good intentions. Simply helping each other out as a people. Not just “us” but you… you reading. You can be these poeple, this person.

So when I came back to the south from traveling I had to apply typical systematic traditions like work (even though you’re never “forced” to do anything). I ended up landing a job working the back of the house in a Alamo Drafthouse (resaurant/bar/movie theater) which of course was in Texas. I met people I never thought I would expect. Many artists, philosphers, and aspiring scholors, intellects as well as people with potential you wished would have been nurtured. One of the most inspiring person I met was a good friend of mine, amazing artist and genius, Quintin. Now this guy in a sense kicked the door open to my creative world in so many ways. I’m positive he has no clue I hold him this dear to my heart (and I’ll mention someone later who simply unlocked it). I don’t think I’ve ever been around someone so stimulating; he was so free, honest, and just upfront about himself, there was never a dull moment. It was as if he was a piece of work himself.  So being exposed to his world, his home was a feeling as if I got to witness someone who’s work basically consumed everything he did, he was living in his passion. Everything in his apartment from coffee tables, in darkness glow in the dark pieces, or under blacklights trippy pieces, to collections of glass bottles… and everything the color green. He was the King of Green.

Anyways, before these artistic motivations I dabbled in pencil or pen, paint, canvas or cardboard. Only experimentally would I once out of many, many months indulge. So anytime I would say to him “Oh, you make me want to paint”, or any idea of live art activites with friends he’d always say “Well (lets) do it – why not?”. One thing I thought that was facinating about him (Q is his nickname) was when he would hangout with anyone (my first experience was with buddies from work – let’s say – were usually Texas Tech students).  A setting of good music would be playing, maybe subtle drinking, and smoke in the air… He would then very nonchalantly hand people pen and paper or some productive task to do and say; ” here, do something, just do whatever, doesn’t matter if its good or not, don’t worry about it, no one will see it.” And with that, that small gesture… he just be blew me away.

So I guess the message was that Q was a fine example of nurturing the expression within ourselves, that everyone should “art”(, in fact when he would talk about people coming over and he’d refer it to “arting” together). That it should be an activity as vital as, shit- football!

So in a “not-so-short-dedication” this is sorta for him, and to him. How both travling, adjustments to the system along with meeting someone/people so free and brave within living creativly had played a part in this magical art journey I’ve been on. In a means – YES, this physical world and the so called responsibilities I fluster in and out of frustration having to be obligated to does depresses (maybe oppresses as well) me majority of the time if not all the time ALTHOUGH (as hard as it is) there is always reminders that we can be free other than the awareness of the world, our eyes and body. We can do anything we love.. and possibly “like”. We never know until we let go, open to people, to space, comply in that.

P.S.

Once thing that sticks in my head is I would say around him “man, painting sounds fun right now”, or so on… all he would relay was along the lines of “well good, you should” or any other suddle encouragement.

It felt rejuvinating. And still does. Supporting each other is our life-force.

So if you ever read this boobo, my chocolate bunny, this is to you!

Curious.

Compliment the unknown,
palms over eye lids,
one iris above all.

Dominate the delicacy;
firm grips on fragility.

Sifting occupations,
two to another.

simple growth spurts,
splattering curiosity,
watered in the tides of time only to …

unleash pivotal hallucinations,
a grandiose patience.

and yet taken aback,
hand in hand with this tenderness.
Only in wishes to cater prosperity.

black and white expressions they seem;
intent through index-fingers.

urging famine…
when you know how easy taking a bite may be!

preventing like fathers
(or how they believe);
control in windows,
when we know it doesn’t mean anything.

YET,

letting the contrast spawn.
and your skin immerse.

awareness in alien senses,
stumbling over what might be.

For all we know is nothing,
until we step into the void with nothing.

nothing is everything.

Civil

Apocalyptic fragments from this political world;

son’s, daughters, families.
pertaining pieces of themselves that were left in the dust.
suddenly sang to sleep to be hushed, not tended to.

Under schemes of  “just surviving”,
life’s illusionary grand ultimatum.
Apparitions of opulence; dressed up like a teenage girl on her first date.
None telling rich tales of  hammy down lessons;
every living thing scrambling,
desperate for a handshake,
to hold hands…
anything.

Abandoned and forced… every culture with a right hand raised;
this is substantial, this is what you amount to…. told.

Not taught.

what’s worth for one is mass-produced glass statues….
for those “named” others,
marked like a beast into slavery,
where ladders sit in the teeth.
Smirks, once interacted – not engage.

So what is freedom?
What is expression?

oppression hangs at the end as split ends do.
fighting tooth and nail…
all we know is to pursue.

YET,

Wondering which way to go,

which way to go.