Monday, November 3, 2014

There are no politics in paint

Varying success.

Paint three hours a day. Paint wet or dry, paint muddy. Critique directed toward Conviction.
Have Conviction.
Have a discipline. Have discipline. Be disciplined.
I wonder if the sleeping dog is sad because I'd rather be sleeping. Nonsense.
The record player arrived from its dusty storage in creaky, sterile form. The right speaker broke and there is an undetermined lack of bass on Scary Monsters.

"Notes on the Exotic."
http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/notes-exotic?int-cid=mod-latest

I have been feeding on Vietnam-era films and Vietnam-as-subject films. As I turn one thing into an unrelated other, I imagine my oldest unborn son scouting for souvenirs in Damascus and Mosul and Kashmir, as I romped Southeast Asia nearly a decade ago without finding a single human skeleton to add gravity to my pursuits. 19 years and change in Vietnam/ Cambodia, 13 years in the grey-brown rocky mountains east of the Mediterranean. Redact hash and cocaine for hash and varied opioids, and oil.

My Siberian dog under an Austro-Baltic regime.  I tell him: Sit. Stay.
He runs, and runs and never stops running. Runs to right his birth.