The only difference between me (a painter) and my father (a mechanic) is the oil on our hands. (2013)
As long as comic strips say more truths about us than a $100 + an hour analyst, newspapers will remain a good buy.
By marrying self-righteousness and voyeurism the Reality-TV ministry has legitimized bullying and the denigration of “others” – of those who are not the same.
What is most wondrous about life is that once an answer to a question is found there is always another more fascinating question to be asked and answered. For it is when there are no more questions asked, no situations pondered and no answers submitted, that life as it is meant to be ceases to be.
If our hunger is to correct, rather than learn from the errors of the past, we will one day encounter but never recognize the avoidance of reality we practice today.
My whole childhood was spent being curious, analyzing, dreaming, creating, sketching. I was never lonely. Though the crime rate was significantly higher than today, I was never afraid to be alone in any part of our tough industrial city. I walked everywhere and nowhere for hours – discovering, observing and wondering – being sociable when encountering others but preferring silence. That no one recognized I had been gone most of a day pleased me. (Where adults are concerned, being invisible is sometimes a gift. . .)
Lacking physical prowess and coordination, I practiced sideline sportsmanship instead of sports. But despite being last chosen in playground activities and suffering from chronic daydreaming in class, I survived. . . with nary a syndrome nor a multifaceted deficit disorder applied to my child or adolescent being. Oddly, no one seemed perturbed by my being “different” – least of all, me.
By the age of 16, I was on my own – a stock clerk, living in a boarding house. . . blissfully being and becoming whatever it is we all become at one point.
And so. . . looking back. . . wondering as I have always done. . . What would my life have been? And who and what would I be now. . . if, like today’s hovered-over children, I had been forced to live a more ordained and most euphemistically called “normal childhood”?
Handwriting is to identity what keyboarding is to anonymity.
The ability to see and listen determines whether our artwork is worthy of being looked upon and appreciated over centuries.
Some say more in whispers than others do wildly ranting and screaming.
Life is all about ignoring the past’s boasting, cherishing the present’s heartbeat, and anticipating with awe the miraculous unfolding of the future.