In the studio today

I painted with whites and greys. I painted pictures of lovely young ladies, and thought of the myth of them. And I felt that this myth was true. That there is a synthesis in them of beauty and truth and purity with the wretched bullshit that seems to actually make up this mad game of birthing and eating and dying, in the day to day, many days. That for sparkling moments (goddamn it I feel those moments, goddammit I feel those moments right now) the clutter and debris of our moments of our lives can shake into a perfect snowflake and be. And, as an artist I want to control that, but, in honor. I want to preserve that. To stretch it into a material, to build a forever for it. And I just mess it all up. Invariably. But, that can be a beautiful thing too. Messing up. Failing. Doing our best.

So much , so much so much.



At the end of the day, the bastards wont be able to say I didn't try.

Dammit

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