Blog

Two Years. Time Moves On. A Boy.

April 19, 2015

Two Years / But Just a Day.

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Chicken Feedings / Ollie’s Proven Therapy / Birthdayz

Green Face / Birthdayz

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Museum of Natural Curiosity / Water Wagon / Thanksgiving Point / Birthdayz

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Times moves on.
A passerby, as I am. An observer, as I am. A traveler. A wanderer. A boy.
Watching as it all unfolds before me, through the eyes (expression) of my son.
Two years and it feels as one motion, one opening and closing.
The days feel like minutes, and there is nothing to do but let it wash over you, picking up the pieces / shells / moments that show any kind of color, leaving the ones that inevitably (with no outside influence) will be swept back with the current.

Does every man / woman / father / mother / pro-creator feel as I do?
Slightly lost, but even more so lost “in it”. The living of ones life in accordance to what he / she might believe to be a good life, a good way to steer the ship, in hopes that their offspring will follow, even if slightly?
Two years in it, and I still feel like a child leading my children.
I can’t drag this thought out, it’ll kill me.

Ollie-VER / NO-Pod / Sound of Silence.

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Life is just wild and often too cruel.
A mountain of mystery with no summit, no school.
“Dreamlike” the living, and then with a breath,
We break through the tunnel of color and death.
The greatest unknown that my mind can conceive.
But God, if it’s anything like what I have seen.
Though grateful and cherished are the moments I’ve had.
To repeat it, prolong it, no interest I have.
For life is a day, and a day I can take.
And when it stops beating the whole motion won’t change.

Truly amazed by it.

Joshua.

Carvin’ For A Connection / Kindness or Death.

April 13, 2015
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I tend to pull most of my thoughts and words from a place that is (for me) intangible. A location that I am never quite able to reach, but all the while am floating upon. A place with no name / no address / no city / no state / no country. A place that I presume exists in each and every one of us. Now, whether or not we ALL speak from it’s corner, from time to time, is dependent on the individual. This corner is the same that can cause one to fatigue and tire from it’s relentless and often time non-sensical battering.
As of late I have lived on it’s sidewalk, in constant observation of it’s ever rotating contents, a cast of faces, both strangers and non, but I grow so tired of it. It rips from my hands every ounce of energy that I don’t possess after a day of running here and there, fixing this and those, conversation and cooking, cleaning and singing, the pull and poise.

Yesterday found me inside of a car, steering rapidly through traffic, making my way across the interstate from Las Vegas to the valley of the Wasatch Mountains. This stretch of nearly 400 miles gave me a bit of time to think on the said place from which I have found myself. It is nothing new to say that life twists / tears / breaks and (from time to time) steals the minute difference that differentiates a man from a beast, and as the years have taken me all the way from birth to the current I have found it harder and harder to not let that twisting/breaking/bending element of existence keep me from that corner.  As we pulled up over the ridge that sits on top of the city of Fillmore, that expansive view of the mountain range that sat firmly and quietly to the east, I found myself, albeit brief, letting the majesty of the mountains replace “the twist” of my mind. All my thought released, slipped through my ears and out the backseat window. I felt ALL RIGHT, and between you and me, “ALL RIGHT” is all right with me.  

[I know I was going somewhere with this.]
[Yes, yes, I was.]

As this place that I explained earlier has been my location of breathing / living / existing throughout the last six months of my life I wanted to (today) escape from it and just talk / type / thing about things that “feel” light, things that feel “all right”

One thing that just never quite computed with me was the concept of arrival, be it of knowledge, faith, love, mind, body, and on and on. The arrival (personally speaking) of any thing such as this seems to not exist. I don’t ever see myself arriving to the point where I say / feel / communicate that

“YES, YES HERE I AM.
I FEEL THAT THIS IS IT.
THERE IS NO MORE TO BE LEARNED FROM MY LOVER / PARENT / GOD / ROAD / FRIEND / LESSON.”

I hope to die searching.

(So much for the “lightness” of the (one-way) conversation)

Over the last two months, every night, after the babes have laid down for the evening and the sun has fallen behind the western side of the mountains my lover and I seat ourselves down at the table, and with the minuscule amount of energy that our bodies provide for the remainder of the day / night we find connection through craft.
This can come through in many forms.
Sometimes it’s sewing.
Sometimes its shaker making (We hollow out an ornamental gourd from the previous year’s garden harvest and fill it with rice, lentils, beans, etc, and then paint it)
Sometimes it’s letter writing.
Sometimes it’s acrylic painting.
Sometimes (and often times) it’s stamp making.

Skull Kings

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BUNNIES in “blood” red.

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Shirts for Little Bodies / Bunnies

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Be Kind or Die / Skull Face

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Be Kind / Backwards.

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Stampin’ Sunday / Get REAL.

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An Egg a Day / GET REAL.

I grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. I attended a (at the time) new elementary school.
Julius Humann Elementary.
At this particular elementary school the art teacher was one that was passionate about what he did. He, through his teaching and unwavering artistic example, showed us children that ART can heal a heart, a break, a body, a mind.
It wasn’t until the 5th grade came around that I was introduced to “Lino Cutting”. If you have never heard of it, let me tell you that I find it EXTREMEly gratifying and fulfilling. Maybe it is the CUTTING of something that I enjoy, the removal of a certain part of the linoleum to show the part that I want to be seen by the rest, not much unlike US (humans).
For the remainder of the 5th grade school year and into the following year I was a linoleum cuttin’ advocate. I couldn’t wait for Art Class to come around so that I could sit in my seat and carve my minds contents into linoleum. As the end of the 6th grade rapidly approached my mind turned to different things. Summer things. Things of the opposite sex. Things that had nothing to do with linoleum. And as quickly as the “lino-cutting” practice entered my life it exited, and it wasn’t for MANY, many years that I was re-introduced to the process.

This past Christmas I bought my lady a book on stamp making. She had expressed an interest in making a return address stamp as to avoid the constant writing of the same address time and time again.  I purchased the book and didn’t think much about it. As December 27th rolled around, after the lights and trees and sentimental decorations have been placed in their 11-month tomb, we got the book out one night and started reading through it. The feelings of excitement, once again, returned to my mind. I remembered the carving, the cutting, the expression that comes with that little linoleum-cutting tool that I had used (oh) so many years ago.
Over the next couple of months it wasn’t uncommon to find us (Emma and I) huddled around the table, listening to George Jones and Tammy Wynette, carving, little by little, at a block of linoleum that would eventually stamp out our final dreams / nightmares / ideas. Through the carving and communion with each other it seemed to bring us a touch closer and help us see through the quickly rising and fading days, as they seem to blend one into another (OH, how it can become quickly fuzzy).

Therapeutic findings in Lino-Cutting has proven to help my mind.
I am fine / moving / breathing / through for the moment.

Joshua (a wolf)

Carvin’ For A Connection / Kindness or Death.

April 13, 2015
image

I tend to pull most of my thoughts and words from a place that is (for me) intangible. A location that I am never quite able to reach, but all the while am floating upon. A place with no name / no address / no city / no state / no country. A place that I presume exists in each and every one of us. Now, whether or not we ALL speak from it’s corner, from time to time, is dependent on the individual. This corner is the same that can cause one to fatigue and tire from it’s relentless and often time non-sensical battering.
As of late I have lived on it’s sidewalk, in constant observation of it’s ever rotating contents, a cast of faces, both strangers and non, but I grow so tired of it. It rips from my hands every ounce of energy that I don’t possess after a day of running here and there, fixing this and those, conversation and cooking, cleaning and singing, the pull and poise.

Yesterday found me inside of a car, steering rapidly through traffic, making my way across the interstate from Las Vegas to the valley of the Wasatch Mountains. This stretch of nearly 400 miles gave me a bit of time to think on the said place from which I have found myself. It is nothing new to say that life twists / tears / breaks and (from time to time) steals the minute difference that differentiates a man from a beast, and as the years have taken me all the way from birth to the current I have found it harder and harder to not let that twisting/breaking/bending element of existence keep me from that corner.  As we pulled up over the ridge that sits on top of the city of Fillmore, that expansive view of the mountain range that sat firmly and quietly to the east, I found myself, albeit brief, letting the majesty of the mountains replace “the twist” of my mind. All my thought released, slipped through my ears and out the backseat window. I felt ALL RIGHT, and between you and me, “ALL RIGHT” is all right with me.  

[I know I was going somewhere with this.]
[Yes, yes, I was.]

As this place that I explained earlier has been my location of breathing / living / existing throughout the last six months of my life I wanted to (today) escape from it and just talk / type / thing about things that “feel” light, things that feel “all right”

One thing that just never quite computed with me was the concept of arrival, be it of knowledge, faith, love, mind, body, and on and on. The arrival (personally speaking) of any thing such as this seems to not exist. I don’t ever see myself arriving to the point where I say / feel / communicate that

“YES, YES HERE I AM.
I FEEL THAT THIS IS IT.
THERE IS NO MORE TO BE LEARNED FROM MY LOVER / PARENT / GOD / ROAD / FRIEND / LESSON.”

I hope to die searching.

(So much for the “lightness” of the (one-way) conversation)

Over the last two months, every night, after the babes have laid down for the evening and the sun has fallen behind the western side of the mountains my lover and I seat ourselves down at the table, and with the minuscule amount of energy that our bodies provide for the remainder of the day / night we find connection through craft.
This can come through in many forms.
Sometimes it’s sewing.
Sometimes its shaker making (We hollow out an ornamental gourd from the previous year’s garden harvest and fill it with rice, lentils, beans, etc, and then paint it)
Sometimes it’s letter writing.
Sometimes it’s acrylic painting.
Sometimes (and often times) it’s stamp making.

Skull Kings

image

BUNNIES in “blood” red.

image

Shirts for Little Bodies / Bunnies

image

Be Kind or Die / Skull Face

image

Be Kind / Backwards.

image

Stampin’ Sunday / Get REAL.

image

An Egg a Day / GET REAL.

I grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska. I attended a (at the time) new elementary school.
Julius Humann Elementary.
At this particular elementary school the art teacher was one that was passionate about what he did. He, through his teaching and unwavering artistic example, showed us children that ART can heal a heart, a break, a body, a mind.
It wasn’t until the 5th grade came around that I was introduced to “Lino Cutting”. If you have never heard of it, let me tell you that I find it EXTREMEly gratifying and fulfilling. Maybe it is the CUTTING of something that I enjoy, the removal of a certain part of the linoleum to show the part that I want to be seen by the rest, not much unlike US (humans).
For the remainder of the 5th grade school year and into the following year I was a linoleum cuttin’ advocate. I couldn’t wait for Art Class to come around so that I could sit in my seat and carve my minds contents into linoleum. As the end of the 6th grade rapidly approached my mind turned to different things. Summer things. Things of the opposite sex. Things that had nothing to do with linoleum. And as quickly as the “lino-cutting” practice entered my life it exited, and it wasn’t for MANY, many years that I was re-introduced to the process.

This past Christmas I bought my lady a book on stamp making. She had expressed an interest in making a return address stamp as to avoid the constant writing of the same address time and time again.  I purchased the book and didn’t think much about it. As December 27th rolled around, after the lights and trees and sentimental decorations have been placed in their 11-month tomb, we got the book out one night and started reading through it. The feelings of excitement, once again, returned to my mind. I remembered the carving, the cutting, the expression that comes with that little linoleum-cutting tool that I had used (oh) so many years ago.
Over the next couple of months it wasn’t uncommon to find us (Emma and I) huddled around the table, listening to George Jones and Tammy Wynette, carving, little by little, at a block of linoleum that would eventually stamp out our final dreams / nightmares / ideas. Through the carving and communion with each other it seemed to bring us a touch closer and help us see through the quickly rising and fading days, as they seem to blend one into another (OH, how it can become quickly fuzzy).

Therapeutic findings in Lino-Cutting has proven to help my mind.
I am fine / moving / breathing / through for the moment.

Joshua (a wolf)