Friday, September 12, 2003


I grew up in a family that "doesn't talk about that." It doesn't really matter what that is, we just didn't talk about it. The closest we came to discussing serious issues or problems were flippant remarks bandied across the dinner table. Rather than address and resolve the proverbial "pink elephant in the room," we turned him into the family scapegoat, he was such a good little pet.

It's no wonder, then, that I have a contradicting desire to hold everything in and spill my guts at the same time. First of all, a bottle can only hold the volume of it's afixed design before it overflows (or breaks), so there has to be some point at which I have used up every nook and cranny of this jar of clay and can cram in no more. However, I don't want to blurt out my deepest darkest thoughts to complete strangers like an unfortunate victim of Turret Syndrome.

The goal, then, is to know what tidbits to release, when and in what fashion. I could tell a whole story of how I feel without really ever giving you any details of what actually happened. It's an art of vague vulnerability, like a water color painting that's been left in the rain, you get a hint of what was there~ see the color scheme, possibly a hint of the scene, but each and every deliberate brush stroke has been diluted by the weeping heavens. Streams of blue and red may have even run off into the streets and gutters.

Most people may note the what-may-have-once-been-a-splendid-portrait left on the road side, ruined by negligence and torn from carlessness. Some may consider it an eyesore, littering their precious environment. Others still may walk right by, never looking down or to the left or right, but straight ahead, intent only on their destination.

Every once in a while, however, someone, in a vain attempt to dicipher the once-vivid image, might pick up that painting. If it's still wet, they might find their fingers stained with muddy purples and greens. Even if only for a little while--until they reach the nearest bar of soap, they will carry a piece of that painting with them. Others may try to reconstruct the painting, and though it might come close to the original, it will never be, because even the original artist can not paint the same picture twice. It will be flavored, instead, with new visions and biases, with different brush strokes and textures.

These people may never find a substance astringent enough to lift the colors which have imbedded themselves in their nail beds, their life lines, their fingerprints~their very identity.

Each of us carries a bit of each of these people within us. My hope is that you will feel welcome, no matter which type of person you feel like at the time, because each post is a new painting and might catch the eye of some and irk others. Come in, get dirty or stand back and observe~ just come back, you never know what will be here.