Jake Pierre

2006-09-27T06:40:00.000-07:00

Like I said I live in my head. I keep up there among other things a pen that is constantly scribbling on the walls of endless halls and numberless rooms.Only a micro fraction of these heiroglyphs actually make it through the gates of the eyes to my hand on this physical plane. These days it feels as though I'm walking through a dark valley with nowhere to lay my head. The road is rocky and the night is pitch black.I scribble blindly in my restless pace. My hand is spastic as I stumble over pot holes to make my way.I cradle my pen and paper unable to read the results.One boot in front of another I'm praying for the dawn when the eastern star will come. Why do I bother to draw and write? These things will come to nothing still it's all I know to do. The longer I trod here on this mud ball the less sense it makes to me. I know who I am and where I'm headed but that's about it.

2006-09-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

I have found to keep a back pocket notebook is essential for capturing the fleeting ideas for songs and art. I make it a point to always carry a pencil and one of the five or so sketch/note books in progress with me everywhere.All the more so now that I'm in a season of song writing for my next album. I collect couplets of rhymes off the top of my head while sitting ,walking, dreaming or even driving. The immediatecy of recording these ideas is imperative for they come quickly and fly away just as fast. I find if I put off jotting them down for the least amount of time they are swept away by an invisible current on their way to the sea of forgetfulness.Last weekend I was hiking on a very hot day down in a ravine of a cool dark forest .There was still a little water flowing in the stream on this dry summer day and I followed it's winding course leap frogging from stone to stone.The almost full notebook I carried having a life of it's own must have escaped my back pocket during my jaunt. It was like losing yet another precious brain cell. Laying lost on the woodland floor or adrift on the brook were the secrets of my of heart revealed in this little book of big ideas. I was back at the fort when I discovered it missing but by then darkness had fallen. Too late to organize a search party I could only pray those private pages would not fall prey to the wild raccoons...those voracious readers that inhabit that region.They would most certainly devour the entire volume in one sitting and after digesting it's content would publish it abroad. As it were I was unble to return until 48hrs. later. I prepared for the worst fearing I might find a mangled body of work or a drowned manuscript. After twice retracing my hops from stone to stone I had all but given up when a turquoise angel doubling as a stellar blue jay yelled at me to look down now!And there floating face down in the shallows was my notebook.Halleluyah, I whispered to the Spirit always nearby.I pulled the soggy pulp ashore and applied CPR blowing air between the pages.It finally started to open up and breathe.It would spend the next 12hrs. lying on my car's dashboard recuperating in the sun. Upon closer examination I noticed the text was blurred but still spoke the words first written.On the wilted pages a lot of the ball point ink had bled into a beautiful blue wash as though it had been sumi brush painted by an anonymous nature artist. Some of the pencil sketches of animals had floated off the page and dissappeared. I imagine those line drawings weaving their way down stream to the sea and coming to rest in tide pools where children would capture those critters collecting them on to little pieces paper thus starting the cycle of little back pocket notebooks all over again.

2006-08-28T20:49:00.000-07:00

If you haven't checked Summer Pierre's blog lately she has been doing some amazing reflections in the form she calls "flyers"or as I call them "illustrated memories." I've known this "great gal"for 30 somethin'years. Though she loves people and we adore her she's never been afraid of the lengths of solitude it takes to look deep inside and express those things with one of her giftings be it writing, music or art. She spent a lot time by herself growing up not by choice however in those times of loneliness she developed a rich internal life. I was not available physically or emotionally most of the time yet we share a very close bond today due to her huge heart and willingness to reach out as she does with all the folks in her life. I could tell you about her substance as a songwriter and her killer rhythm guitar.I could speak of her talents and the painstaking time and expense that has brought us all an album that I in particular never tire of listening to. We could discuss her draughtsmanship and how I've seen her actually invent and draw her peers and groups of friends before they even manifested on the scene. I could talk about her keen observations,her sense of humor and knack of storytelling with dead on impersonations that absolutely slay me. I could try to articulate the near euphoria I get eating her lemon meringue pie or banana cake. All of these abilities by the way are self taught. But in the final analysis what is talent without character? You can tell a lot about person when children and animals are drawn to them and this is Summer's case. I've witnessed her genuineness when asking someone how they're doing, then listening to that person with focus and care, offering encouragement as well. She can put others first to a fault but still an admirable trait. Honest as the day is long always trying to do the right thing. The kinda person you would want as a friend. What else can I say she's my daughter and my close friend. Happy Birthday "Minnow"xoxo dad

2006-08-22T23:21:00.000-07:00

Again I'm working only with materials available. In the beach cove I have mentioned below is the evidence of a campfire long since extinguished and buried by wind blown sand. With a little excavating this produces some fine sticks charcoal suitable for drawing with. At the high end of the three sided cove is a hundred year old sea wall. It's grey concrete has been smoothed by ions of plus tides leaving a surface of "good tooth" most suitable for charcoal renderings. Kneeling in front of the wall poised with drawing stick in hand, I'm looking into the solid wall and through it. Waiting for the image to emerge, I'm aware of the repelling waves of light, movement like the ebb and flow of shore break bouncing from my eye to wall. I reach way back into my mind of imagery and I hear over my shoulder the splashing laughter of a child frolicking in the sea. The child is mine and I realize I am the child also of so long ago. Something is triggered, I turn the black carbon stick between my sooted fingers and all of a sudden like a sailfish he breaches the aqua blue depth of myth and memory. A vision suspended above my soul glistening wet in a mediterranean sun, it is the legend of the "Boy on a Dolphin". Before the two can slip from my hands, I calm them both with a song and capture their likeness with my burnt wood wand. Just as quickly as fish freed from the hook they disappeared back to from where they came.I then heard the booming word of "Awesome" coming from a husky voice echoing off the cliff. A burly bearded dude leaning on his spearlike staff with his wolf dawg on a rope had been standing close behind me watching me draw. I said "thanx man" and added the finishing marks to my sketch. His appearance brought to mind the evidence left of prehistoric times when tribal stories by cave dwellers were recorded in much the same way by using charcoal and other materials available. The cave painter artist working in flickering torch light must have appeared awesome to his kinsman. They probably regarded him as part magician and part entertainer.

2006-08-20T21:03:00.000-07:00

Taking a breather, I stood barefoot on a beach shoreline staring out to sea. I am restless and feeling as grey and cold as the sky and water. A dark mood has me in a foul weather mood.Yet the poet in me smiles to hear the sounds of sea gulls shrills and children laughing as the two sounds blend together to where one is not discernible from the other. Nothing makes sense to me without creativity. Working with only materials available and without disturbing the environment, I set out gathering large rocks. This action starts to put me in a more open frame of mind. All at once I'm in tune with the place and I get a strong sense of purpose.I summon my powers of balance and physical strength for both are required when stacking stones into a penticle.Like some mystical mason from stonehendge I first examine the sides, planes and possible connecting points of these beach boulders.Blood pumping from exertion like some geological gymnast I begin to lift the massive weight upward into order. The first attempt of juggling three tumbled and I ensued minor injury to ankle and knee. I now have an audience of sun worshipers and sea creatures. This time I take a wider stance and ready myself for quick side steps. I jokingly advise the crowd to stand clear and not to try this at home. Each stone lifted has to be minutely adjusted in relation to the rocks below until all boulders are in perfect precarious balance. With a shout of victory, the last stone in place,I stand back to ponder the pile. My gloom fog has lifted for the moment and I am reminded that all things including our solar system of great rocks and the universe beyond are miraculously held in place by the unseen hand of God.

2006-08-09T21:40:00.000-07:00

I employ a kazoo in my one man band. It is held in place by my harmonica rack worn round my neck. This allows me free hands to blow the thing and play guitar at the same time. Without tooting my horn too much I can honestly say I'm a proficient kazoo player.When singing falsetto tremolo through it's tin housing I can mimic the lead licks of an electric guitar. I can get the sound of a dixieland brass band out of it also. I can even sound like a two cycle dirt bike shifting gears,the kids love this. However I hesitate to call a kazoo a musical instrument. It sounds more like a fly on steroids and for the most part a very annoying and rude contraption. I know there are so called orchestras dedicated to it's importance but I found it serves another purpose. Ninety percent of the time it's metallic humming actually causes my audience to disperse . This is quite funny and it can be utilized at markets when a couple of loud obnoxious people are standing on top of me or when a camped crowd congest the walkway for too long. I'm not sure people realize why they must flee from the noise but a look of question and bewilderment overcomes their faces when the rattling waves from a professionally played kazoo reaches 'em. There's only one other sound I can think of that perplexes the pedestrian listener enough to where he don't know whether to flip or fly.That of course is a song that makes direct mention to Jesus.

2006-08-02T21:05:00.002-07:00

I've been making the rounds with my traveling minstrel show and was due to play an outdoor market in the car town of Urban Sprawl. This little nitty gritty city is a real salt of the earth blue collar community, folks who have always been generous to me. It's a virtual melting pot of many diverse nationalities living and working together.For centuries in every corner of the world the open air market has been a universal age old tradition. It's a meeting place of neighborhoods and a place where one can still get to know the growers of small independent farms. We can taste their produce and learn from them. This festival of farmers has an international feel ,taking place at any time and at any place on God's green earth. To me it's like a living art form, where my role is to weave a sound track of music into the organic multi-cultural tapestry,a weave of color ,texture, styles and languages. One might see here a little of Eden where all peoples could gather for a potluck supper and all sit at the same table in peace.

2006-07-20T01:09:00.000-07:00

2006-07-19T22:18:00.000-07:00

"I'm a work horse mama, ain't nothing I can't pull, ain't nothing I can't haul. I don't spook easy and I sleep standing in the stall. I'm a work horse baby, from sun to sun I have hauled it all."
from Work Horse Blues by Jake Pierre

2006-07-13T01:38:00.000-07:00

2006-07-05T20:43:00.000-07:00

In the dream I stood in my birthday suit downtown at the corner of Freedom and Boredom streets. I was wearing nothing but my "car" guitar, the beat up one I always keep in the trunk. Trying not to draw attention to my lack attire, I pretended to tune my guitar. I thought if I appear to be a serious musician no one would mistake me for a looney. Just then a cop was driving by and taking quick notice he addressed me by a loud speaker " Sir, we require shirt and shoes at this establishment" My guess is that my guitar hid the fact I didn't have pants either. By now a spot light from above blinded me and the rest of the city scene faded into black like house lights dimmed in a concert hall. I was now in front of an upside down mirophone stand.I could barely make out beyond the stage an immense seated audience in the darkness.I stared at my lit barefeet & for the life of me I could not remember a single word of any song and so fiddled with tuning my guitar stalling for time. Thinking I was clever I began a lengthy dissertation on the difference between being "naked"as opposed to being "nude." I explained being "nude"is being without clothing and "naked"meant being without concealment or disguise. "In conclusion "I spouted like a professor "Tonite I hide behind my instrument wearing only my birthday suit. I not only lack my duds I confess to you that my so called talent is a total sham. I apologize from the bottom of my heart and your ticket price will be refunded." There was dead silence then a voice like a heckler way up in the nose bleed seats yells " It's was free admission you dork!"which brought the house down. Taking the queue "leave 'em laughing" I took a deep stage bow. This move of course left nothing but full frontal exposure which caused quite an uproar.I was chased out of the building by what must have been the Women's Auxiliary who were angrily chanting " Happy Birthday to you!Happy Birthday to you!"

2006-06-28T21:53:00.000-07:00

Watch July fly by. The hands on my clock point to 5 and 9 but I can't be held down by chronological chains. If you must measure my existence do so by the tree rings, flood lines or in dog years. I've been around the block a few times and I've seen plenty. I'm old enough to sing the blues.Yes and young enough to run circles around a lot of youse. Look out here I come, the low tech dinosaur carrying yellow ledger pad & pencil and who claims a synthesizer will never replace fingers on strings. Making art is time out of mind. In the throws of creativity everything is as it should be in a state of timelessness and full of grace.The rest of the time I feel gravity aging all things and I long for the lightness of heaven.

2006-06-20T14:39:00.000-07:00

While busking an outdoor market at the train depot I took a couple of cents out of my guitar case and meandered over to the tracks. I spit on the small sum and stuck it to the rail. This is something I did many times as a kid but today as the ol' draWriter I'll have to pass it off as research. Inspiration like the spirit is always afoot. Any minute the 419 of the southern specific RR would rumble and roar through here w/o stopping. At that loud cataclysmic moment one coin would hold fast on a shaking rail while the other coin would drop clear of the mighty locomotive. One penny would be changed forever in a twinkling of an eye and the other would remain in tack as recognizable currency.The one transformed is without face nor date and has transcended the borders of country. A paper thin puddle of copper, metal w/o memory,it possesses no recollection of the business of hands. This radically retired revenue went out in a blaze of glory.It barely resembles the dull brown penny it used to be.Instead it's curious shape reflects the sun like water.It tells it's own tale and by this the castaway coin has been redeemed, increasing in value ten fold. So my friend when you addressed the faraway look in my eyes with the old adage " a penny for your thoughts" I was pondering these things from above.

2006-06-14T00:03:00.000-07:00

Sunday I played a farmer's market in small community nestled high in the mountains. The first of the peaches and cherries were shown and the town folks came in droves.Between songs I saw a woman making her way towards me. Her face was bright and her eyes told me she had a message to deliver.Over time I've learned to recognize when a messenger approaches.So I paused before launching into the next song. She drew close to my side like she had a secret in her mouth then offered "When my father was alive he used to tell me..."Always pay the musician."I grinned and returned with..."How fortunate for me." We talked a bit more about how those people in our lives who though no longer with us still live on through the memory of things they have said to us. "I can recall the sound of his voice through those words "she added. With that she laid a buck in my open guitar case , wished me well and disappeared into the crowd. It's curious that just prior to her arrival I had been pondering what motivates a passing person to tip the minstrels .On a different sort gratuity, I have been amazed on occasion that there are "divine tips","pennies from heaven"or better yet"imparted wisdom" inserted into the context of the most unlikely of conversations.I also question myself just how receptive I may or may not be to the things of the spirit.Do I really have ears to hear and eyes to see?

2006-06-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

For the moment your non stop energy is suspended motionless spinning like a hummingbird ready to dart away.I feel holiness also hovering nearby and I hold my breath. I'm transfixed by the mirror reflection of us both in the calm waters surrounding you. I sense the generations of those who have sat quietly with paper and pen drawing what they see.In your chair poised and focused I catch a glimpse into the journey of an eternal soul. The fresh beginnings of new hands and an uncluttered mind, free from restraints and criticism.You will witness times I will not live to see but for now I will run with you.Take the torch from my hand and follow your own course. Don't look back, soon enough this will be your world to better...

2006-06-02T15:23:00.000-07:00

Like an angel in the works,Found Art is formed by unseen forces.Unnoticed and passed by, such are the anonymous artifacts I have discovered at many a crossroads. In this case I imagine a simple spool of baling wire bounced off the back of a pickup truck and thereafter every vehicle that followed unconsciously collaborated in flattening the sprung spool into a metal sculpture. A work in progress, how long did it lay there as homeless as roadkill being slowly spread apart?By a thousand tires a hundred feet of spiral steel line has been altered beyond usefulness. The warped wire has been violently transformed into a one of a kind piece of found art. Rubber polished and rain rusted it resembles metallic pasta. It's vortex birdnest shape has the movement of high winds like a cast iron tornado...perhaps a warning sign of a great twister looming on the horizon.Just why it was waitng in my path has not been fully revealed but I did recognized it as something extraordinary the moment I came upon it.

2006-05-29T22:29:00.000-07:00

Salvaged materials are everywhere for the picking. Sculptures are made from the castaway byproducts of an urban wasteland. Improvisational three dimensional jazz compositions and fantastic free standing structures are executed by junkmen gensis.Mountains of mutated materials meticulously sorted through by imaginative minds. Artist archaeologists and their adaptations welded from the available aging rubble spewed before them. Skilled scavengers transform trash heap treasure into towers and spires of cathedral proportions. All of these creative characters and their crazy creations challenge our esthetic sensibilities and also give us warnings to the dangers of excess and waste.

2006-05-18T00:03:00.004-07:00

I've giged the farmer's markets around the bay area for over ten years. The organization that runs these markets hires my one man band to play. The arrangement is for four hours of music I'm paid a fee and the rest I make in tips and CD sales. On any particular weekend day after I have set up my equipment I like to add a final touch of chalk drawing around my area. This last sunday being Mother's day I drew a large picture of the Madonna and infant child. The long arm of the Madonna bordered my entire right side ending with her receiving hand held before my open guitar case. In the chalk hand I placed a few shiny pennies and likewise there's a dollar I always keep taped in the guitar case. I call this "prime the pump". I have found it pays to apply what I call "a gaff "which is to say it's good to have something unique that sparks curiosity in the passerbyer.While I play I make eye contact with as many folks as possible. I search the moving crowd not wanting to miss any interesting detail unfolding in front of me.I've also learned to spot prospective CD buyers before they even inquire I'll stop mid song and present my product. This brings me to speak of the young couple I met and talked with that morning. I surmised they were expecting their first child.The glowing young woman was unmistakably about 8 months pregnant and by the way she carried the yet unborn child I guessed it was girl and I was correct.They reported that when they were passing by my music caused their infant to dance within the womb. The expectant father also boasted of his wife and her accomplished singing voice and she added that when she sings in her higher range the baby responds by kicking her little heals up! I bragged about my eldest daughter who was always exposed to music within and without is now a singer song writer in her own right.I recalled how I played my harmonica right up against my wife's tummy while she was pregnant with our son.This might help explain why our little boy today is a singing wild and crazy dancer. Needless to say the parents to be bought a CD and I'm sure we all felt a little richer by our divine encounter in which we spoke of the miracle of life and how creativity is passed on.

2006-05-10T23:35:00.000-07:00

Over the years I've played my one man band in all kinds of venues where there's a raised stage for performing and a seating area designated for the audience. This set up no longer appeals to me as much as playing on the same level in the midst of people in an open air market.The idea of doing a stage show so as to play a song then get some applause over over again is limited and too predictable. It's far more exciting to take a risk and put myself out there vulnerable and accessible. I like the place where the lines of performer/audience are blurry. In most cases people don't come to see me. Some folks maybe appreciative,some indifferent or some may even be confrontive. It's live street theater that resembles "a day in the life of "more than it does entertainment business.I do strive for good musicianship but without taking myself too seriously. Like casting a play I draw people in. I expect interruptions and welcome the challenge of interacting in the middle of a song without breaking stride. Sometimes I'll stop to talk and other times I'll keep playing as a sound track to the spontaneous conversation. My point being when I make myself available and not the center of attention my experience will be rewarding. When I think out of the box of performing the possibilities are endless.Ultimately everyone mentioned might gain a sense of connection,celebration and participation. Music can certainly help facilitate this being in part sum "the art of living".

2006-05-03T23:09:00.000-07:00

It's like everything I wanted to do I had to love it first. When I play my "Brother Jake one man band " at my farmers' market gigs I am frequently asked how I can sing,play guitar, drum, cymbals and harmonica simutaneously.My response is..."If I think about it I can't do it."People tell me they've tried to learn harmonica but couldn't get it and ask me how I learned? I answer by asking "Where's your harp?" " Oh, it's at home", is the reply . That's your problem..." Don't leave home without it" After all they don't call it a "pocket pal" for nothing. A person might say about himself " I can't sing worth a hill of beans" I say...who told you that? Who robbed you of the joy of singing? Don't ever tell anyone they can't sing especially yourself ! It's criminal the discouragement that is brought on us. As a result children stop drawing pictures, stop singing and creativity is stifled all because of undue criticism. How wonderfully unpretentious is children's art. And for me it's not how you sing it's how you don't sing that makes a good singer.

2006-05-01T20:22:00.000-07:00

It's been said the giraffe is living proof that God has a sense of humor. It's also said there are only three original jokes in the world and all other jokes are variations of these three. Brother,please don't tell me any of them I don't want to hear it. I especially dislike ethnic jokes and black humor that pokes fun at the misfortune of others. I will laugh with you though at our own comedy of errors. I will crack up with you discovering the painful and amusing truths about each other. We are walking talking cartoons you and I. Dear one I want to thank you for causing me to laugh today. I realized I had not laughed the whole day, thanx I needed that.

2006-04-18T23:00:00.000-07:00

There are times when I am inspired to draw the likeness of a face. It's fascinating to observe the diversity of facial features in people around me. It is also interesting that under the face our bone structure and our skulls are so similar. We like to claim our idenity with individuality but underneath our skeletons and in our human behavior,we have strong resemblences to each other.When I draw a person I sometimes like to do so undetected with no self consciousness on the model's part. Isn't that when we see who people really are...when they think no one's watching? This incognito approach allows me only a quick glance. Just as it is with first impressions, it is possible to gather a picture of a person after short introductions. The discipline I apply is to afford myself a brief look at my subject and then I depend on photo memory to sketch a quick caricature. On the other hand, a more serious portrait involves commitment and it must be felt. Details of a person on the surface, within the soul and behind the light of the eyes are familiarized with time and great care. Just as it is with making a friend we invest ourselves with some transparency and a measure of love. It's then something beautiful is captured and hopefully a lasting impression as well.

2006-04-11T08:20:00.000-07:00

In passing I unwittingly catch myself in a reflection in the glass and in that split second before recognition I view a man with a frown on his face. I quickly put on a more agreeable face and continue on walking. It's the same thing with us that while we're together I'll glance back at you to see you mask a sad expression with a snap on smile. I'm standing in front of someone and though I can place the face I don't recall the name.Before I apologize that I'm bad with names and in doing so quite possibly make the person feel unimportant, I continue in half minded conversation. The other part of me is on speed search through my memory files while I veil my cluelessness with a smile of familiarity. Apart from the obvious social awkwardness I'm also thinking this strange space of limbo has other implications. How many masks and how often do I wear one to spare the hurt feelings of others or more exactly to hide my own..?

2006-04-09T12:13:00.000-07:00

From an old photograph I was wearing my once favorite shirt. The look of my face has changed and the shirt long since gone even from the rag bin. I remember but I ain't sentimental. I recall but I ain't nostalgic. There are whole chunks of early childhood I can't place. Maybe if I" draWrite" with my left hand I may get in touch with that kid. I live in my head a lot. Home has no address. There is no old neighborhood. Life has been one very very long street of households and people. This road started as I was growing up and picking up to move on all too often. It did not pay to get close to anyone 'cause I wasn't staying put. A loner yes but I developed a rich internal life that has sustain me even til now. There's a big difference between isolation and solitude. Time alone doesn't bother me, it's essential for what I do, art. Life is transient at best. I hold all things loosely including relationships and I love all of you from a far.

2006-04-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

By all means possible I'll drag the beast out of the cave warts and all. It's not a pretty picture this ugliness inside. My howling self destructive voice must be silenced. I will not be mistaken for this evil twin one moment longer. Though the black waves of warfare never seem to subside, I will exorcise tonight's demon accordingly.By the Sword and red ink I'll nail it to scrap paper on which I'll describe it, recognize it, name it, own it and condemn it. I'll set this certificate of death ablaze out where it'll bring no one warmth. Lastly I'll beseech the rain to turn the useless ashes into mud and be done with it...

2006-03-29T20:09:00.000-08:00

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...

2006-03-26T22:17:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-25T23:02:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-25T19:45:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-15T23:48:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-13T00:12:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-12T23:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-09T01:45:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-06T23:35:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-04T23:17:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-03-03T21:22:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-27T00:11:00.000-08:00

To make amends with a friend I've had to eat crow and humble pie and probably will again. In the case of argument of who's right, who's wrong and being quite sure I'm right only then to react in an offensive way, I find it in myself to be unacceptable. It is here I must put the main issue aside. It is at this point I must swallow my pride "eat crow and humble pie"because my knee jerk reaction of angry words is now worse than the disagreement. Even though it " sticks in the craw" I'll apologize for my behavior for the sake of the relationship. Don't wait to long...

2006-02-26T22:13:00.000-08:00

The battle within, trouble in mind aggravated and fueled by caffeine conflict resolution graph,by connecting the dots, overlapping planes with multi-layered transparent cubism I'm attempting to view all sides of the problem at once. Drawing while ruminating can prove helpful yet I continue to weigh all we said, the isolated statements and responses spoken and broken now hours apart from each other.My mind as tight as a clock spring, wearing thin, fatally frazzeled and in need of sleep. I contiue to scribble as I process. The results is like some alien blue print but at least I've art to show for the time. The composition stands on it's own. You may conclude either it's a demented doodle of a madman or a metaphysic equation of genius.

2006-02-25T17:02:00.000-08:00

I keep coming back to its not so much I want to make a living as artist as it is I desire "the art of living" in my life.I wish to incorporate art in all I say and in all I do. As I move through a day I become a vessel of new and unorthodox mediums. Molding my circumstance as clay is to the hand. A man wearing a sandwich board with painted canvases on both sides and reporting to everyone in a voice laced with music and with gestures full of grace. The soul must be my instrument of expression. Is it not so much a finished piece like having arrived as it is the process like the journey? My ultimate gain is emotional not necessarily financial. I love the fact that some art is given away as well as sold.

2006-02-25T13:31:00.000-08:00

I am swimming often. I move with rhythmic calligraphy strokes, propelling through a vast sea of watercolors. Weightless and unrestricted my vessel of discovery plunges deeper. Descending I pass through the sunlight shallows of aquamarine hues. Silently and deeper still, my subconscious mind sinks into the fathomless regions of midnight blue and further down into the indigo darkness. Search lights and automatic pilot on, I am safe in my single-minded one man sub. Is this a voyage into the unknown, a quest for the proverbial "original idea"? My sense is that I venture to a most mysterious place where all color bleeds together in the waters where visions are spawn.

2006-02-25T04:24:00.000-08:00

I'm outlining with increasing vortex spirals, the atmospheric swirling space that occupies the gap between the eye and surface of the paper. These lines translate into maps of the interior life. An automatic drawing hand is attached only by invisible electrical impulse. I attempt to record the unconscious with a language of swirl and crosshatch. I witness an expanding cloud contained somewhat by paper margin and the peripheral eye. I make no attempt to contrive the outcome. Full reign is allowed to the freewheeling spirit of creativity.

2006-02-23T22:20:00.000-08:00

2 stats back to back,"12 city blocks = 1 mile",was somthing Dolores said at the same time the radio claimed "There's one suicide every 18 minutes". As a counselor I often carry a clipboard with yellow ledger paper.When I draw it actually increases my focus while I converse .As I talk I look up from my sketch making eye contact to listen or voice a point. This process has made me a better listener and causes me to comment only on what is necessary.When I showed Dolores the art she inspired she was greatly encouraged.