Anger is not bad thing it's what you do with it that counts. In an argument if I feel my bad self escalating I may remove myself from the circumstance temporarily. Meanwhile I'm brooding alone at the piano and it's true music soothes the savage beast.At first I may bang out an ancient hymn, belting out it's archaic verses. Then I'll slide into a old blues song equally obscure. I'll close my eyes and wrap my voice around the words. Soon it's as if a bucket of cold water is being poured over my iron hot head.I want to linger in the cool and stay at the keys but I am reminded there's the other music I must face...

For me the piano is to painting as the guitar is to drawing. The piano has compositions larger than life, sweeping movements and broad strokes on an enormous canvas. The guitar executes exquisite sketches with concise rhythmic strokes on a never ending scroll of paper.

The experience of playing outdoors on the street and at the farmer's markets has put me in tune with the sounds and noise all around me. I am aware of the pitch in voices registering from the passing humanity. The crowd also gives me cues for tempo, mood and intensity. In this venue my music is both foreground and background making it subject to a vast barrage of sound that is always moving and pulsing like a river flow. I don't so much as perform as I do reflect the activity swirling about me. There is an audible heartbeat like the bottom bass line coming from my kick drum that keeps time with the surroundings. I am also aware of the motor tones from cars and motorcycles. Today I noted in particular a single engine plane directly above me. It gave off concentric circular sound waves. Unconsciously I struck the open A string of my guitar and harmonized with the flight engine which was also in the of key of A. Playing my one man band in an outside market environment especially in a non-concert improvisational format has opened my ears to the scales of music and vibrations coming from unusual sources all around me. The potential for colaboration with all creation is endless.

I'm finally my own favorite artist. I say this because I know who I am and what I must do. I'm done looking to the old masters and to my contemparies. I've gathered enough and found them all to be wanting. I 'm weary of comparison. Their life stories have proved insightful as I 've searched for rhyme and reason for this madness that inhabits me. The work of creative people will continue to interest me but the ''dues'' they have paid concern me more. In the final analysis the teacher/student relationship must be severed . The master must be surpassed and put to rest.

By the hand of good fortune I came into possession of a derelict piano which was missing a leg. It reminded me of this three legged stray dog we called Tripod. Like the ole' hound it seems my one legged piano was abused by it's last owner and abandoned. I've always had a soft spot for critters and beat up instruments and as in both these cases they were deemed"beyond repair." Tripod could still play however when the ole' piano played it was in danger of falling on one of us. So I took a thick oak mop handle and made a prosthetic limb from it and just like a peg leg pirate it stood.Also missing was one of the black keys. For this repair I took a small section of a tomato stake, sanded, tapered and glued it in place. It was a black scarred upright type piano with a beat up appearance too funky for a place in the house.In the garage was to be it's home and it was there I taught myself to play.And not unlike me the instrument was out of tune but out of tune it seems in all the right places.I mean it's like it had been used in The Music School of Hard Knocks and having the same quality of sound that a barrel house boogie woogie pie-anno could produce.Not only that but this ole' keyboard had a southern drawl,a tone most visceral and with plenty of black key bent note southern twang to boot. Coming from within those 88 keys were the sounds ,colors ,pictures and even smells reminiscent of my barefoot youth in sunny Florida.I heard my heal steps on my grandaddy's wood plank river dock and the hollow metal tones of an aluminum boat rubbing against the pilings. With my left hand playing a walking bass line I could hear the deep voices of railroad men from my mother's side of the family. I recall the bass bellows of alligators and bullfrogs. I heard the faint refrains of old hymns coming through the walls of a one room church. Tickling the ivories on the high end keys came the yesteryear chimes of my southern belle aunts as their laughter rose in unison in the kitchen over the warm smells of frying fish, hush puppies and pound cake. Yes all of these memories and much more came pouring out of that ol' one leg piano that nobody wanted.

At a boxer's jog pace I take my run around a scenic course I call "three pond trail". The first mile is always stiff and a "do or die "trial. After this point and somewhere midway, the sensation I experience is more mental than physical. The body is drawn apart and I click into an almost effortless groove. I seem to glide inches off the ground. My extremities appear to be assisted by angelic wing with each body part working independently yet all in synch like a well oiled sewing machine. The blood which holds all creative juices pulses with force, breaking if any, the dams of "writer's block" and flooding the hard ground of so called "dry spells."In short the endorphins kick in and a "runner's high" is in full swing. At this point a burst of inspiration blows the top of my head off like a volcano erupting and like lava flow, hot new ideas come all at once. So quickly in fact it's difficult to contain the rush of the lyrics and imagery. Symptoms of grandiose also pour in making some new founded concepts seem greater than they actually are. At any rate when I finish the last leg walking to cool down and I'm sitting with the car door open, I scribble in my sketchbook as much as I can recall and rework these ideas later when my heart rate has lessen.

An artistic license requires me to have a pen or pencil and paper at my disposal at all times. If at anytime I am asked for the proof or the loan of said items and unable to produce them I run the risk of having my license revoked. This is the only requirement I am aware of. This law is usually not strictly enforced. If this infraction occurs an artist may at the most receive a warning and a slap on the wrist or possibly a fix-it ticket.

Two souls Blue and Red ,first alike in that they are both primary colors. During an intense dance of dazzling light the two recognize each other at once as kindred spirits .Interaction follows sharing their internal makeup.Their tonalities and values are discovered,faced and celebrated.Some shades of darkness may be camouflaged for now,never the less each one is true to their own color.Stirred to overflowing, they encouraged transparency in each other. Bleeding their radiance together they blend to form yet another hue, the combined paint makes the secondary color of purple.This violet hue can only happen when Red and Blue are in relationship. While mixing, the two have vivid expressions and call each other Clay and Sky affectionately. They are aware that love of this kind may chip and fade but also appreciate the beauty of the bond for what it is in the here and now. Red and Blue keep their individuality by holding a portion of their own primary color. As purple people they are independent which binds them together even more so.

When you begin to talk"at"me and are no longer talking"with"me, then we are no longer connecting.
When our conversation begins to have no meaning my imagination is trained to carry me away. Of course I still remain but I am also gone. I'm an artist but I do not confuse myself with being "art"itself. Only the Creator would claim this. My creativity has served me well as a weapon of change and a defense mechanism as well. In my formative years of being force-fed useless information, I filled my classroom papers with crazy doodles and wild imagery just to keep my sanity. Like a lot of us I'm recovering from childhood. Drawing especially has been both a great comfort and personal passion of mine all my life.

I brought in mind a lion with me to the park. In my hand contained within a single stick of sidewalk chalk was the mighty king of beasts. Under shade tree shadows and the thick bordering shrubs lay a pathway of concrete. A place where the town's folk promenade.Walking deliberately tracking , my eyes read the subtle signs in the watermarks and dried up rain puddles. It would be this spot where the water rings tell tales of creatures big and small. I sense just under the surface the fierce feline waits. The song " The lion sleeps tonite" is playing in my head "a weem a wet a weem a wet, in the jungle..."and I know this is the place. So in a voice only he could hear I summoned the big cat. Bending at the waist I touch the stonelike slab with the chalk key and I feel a gate open. Suddenly his eyes appear followed by his massive head and his huge mane shown just like rays off the sun. He emerges as if through the floor and out a cellar door. His benevolent expression peers out and puts some on lookers at ease. I take a wide stance as lion tamers often do. With chalk still in hand I make one sweeping stroke defining his arched shoulders and the long length of his back. From this single unbroken line I could see he would be much bigger than life. I beckon him to come forth. The children looking on gleefully spout "it's a lion!" and the grown ups agree. Now I add his proud chest and muscular front legs. His giant paws are bigger than eight pairs of shoes. With my shuffle steps his angular hind quarters and cable thick tail were drawn. He had come quickly as lions often do. I circle him with more dance moves, sharping features and adding whiskers. He was something to behold, his sheer size kept some folks from getting to close . They were soon relieved though to see he was all but a pussycat in the hands of animal trainer like myself. In fact that big cat proved to be an ice breaker. It was amazing how much conversation was generated that saturday in the park all starting with a simple stick of sidewalk chalk.

I welcome the great white expanse that lay before me. The waiting raw canvas is of no consequence. I am never for a loss of words while facing the silent blank page. At once I take off running, gaining speed and gathering force to hurl my silver javelin. Like the ancient olympian who with one mighty thrust and a flick of the wrist launched an art seeking missile. Sharp green eyes hold the planets and calculate the angle of ascent. This vessel pen will draw water from animal shaped clouds then darken their outlines and tint them with blue wash. Within it's flying chamber pulses a vein full of india ink. Further, my airborne quill climbs to new heights. A blue ring is rendered round the moon and a tattoo of a coy fish wraps round the calf of orion. I sense the ghost holy and I feel the maestro drawing near.