Today is Veteran’s Day. And my heart goes out to all who have lost a loved one to war, and a sincere, feeling of gratitude, to all who have returned home.
Earlier I was watching a movie, about war. It had one split second scene, of a soldier’s blood. Two seconds, at the most, and I felt the impact of what that image conveyed. A U.S. soldier’s blood was spilt on foreign soil.
Art and images are powerful and open to interpretation, as are words. Continue reading Freedom of Speech
Impermanence and equanimity, is the goal.
However, in the mean time, I’d like to do some stuff.
I am an artist.
I studied figure painting at UNF and earned a B.F.A. After receiving my degree, I chose to surf and surf and surf some more. I moved to Costa Rica, for the waves, not realizing that painting proved logistically impossible.
I’ve always carried a camera and surf photography just naturally evolved as my primary source of creativity.
Art is communication. We see a visual image and we relate on a common level, because of the human experience. People that have never been to the beach love images of surfing. Look what happened after the movie, The Endless Summer. Once land locked teenagers, rode the wave of surf culture, to California, Hawaii, Austrailia, Africa, Mexico . They’re still riding that wave.
Such is art.
Here are some shots of local Fernandina Beach surfers.
Like this one. Surfing on a boogie board. How cool is that?Cathching a little air on a skim board.
My blog and my Secondhand Surfer Page on Facebook are my art. Continue reading Page 6
If I tell what is true for me, how will I be judged? Aren’t we suppose to be forever sucking it up? Aren’t we suppose to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and do the next right thing? YES. The answer is yes. But can’t it be possible that sucking it up and pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps could be telling our truth. Rather than acting out, getting drunk, hiding our feelings, hiding our past and acting like it all never happened.
After having been in recovery for many years, twenty-one, I have known many people to kill themselves. I wonder how great their pain must have been. I have felt suicidal, but I have never attempted to kill myself. I want to live. I want to continue to have the long periods of good days that I now experience. I want to enjoy my life. And I will.
I know that I will always be plagued by the past. It will always haunt me. How could it be any other way. But it doesn’t have to destroy me. It can get better. I am sure of it. These are the attitudes that he didn’t have. Or maybe he did have. But he sought his freedom in money, whiskey, women and power. He died at fifty four. He looked seventy.
Some would have said that he was a successful and self made man. Unfortunately, I will never be able to share that viewpoint. I am suppose to stick to my story. I can remember the last beating that he gave me. I was sixteen. A friend was there to witness it. I stood there and stared off and tried to not look at my friend. The belt was not a surprise and I was numb to pain. I don’t think I even flinched. I think that is where my story truly begins.Where does one go from there. My life started out shattered and numb.
At sixteen I already was dependent on alcohol. Maybe not physically but certainly psychologically. I had a love affair with drugs and a habit of running away from all of my problems. And every problem that I had was unsolvable and insurmountable. I would try. I would put my best foot forward. I would ask questions and inevitably be confused and confounded by life. People would tell me to do my best and that would be good enough. Nothing would hang me up intellectually, more, than the thought of what is my best.I had Catholic rules and Catholic guilt emblazoned on my brain like a ranch brand. I had family loyalty. All of the don’t do, don’t say, don’t tell. I had secrets of which I had practiced burials. I was shot-out from the beginning.
I had the iron attitude of, I am going to do things on my own. I am going to find my way. I wanted my own identity. I already had a my own reputation.
* A Sprinkle of Love is an excerpt from an old journal.
*The truth will set you free, but first it will make you very nervous.
*I share this for those that I love and those that I don’t know who want to be free.
*There’s nothing to fear in God’s good world.
“Without God ~ Life is unbearable.”
I WAS BORN ABSTRACT
in shades of grey
no sunshine – nor joy – no days to play
I was smothered by concrete
borders-boundries and rules
UNTIL ONE DAY
I was given the tools.
Colors sprang forth
Trees grew and bent
I laughed and I cried
I travelled and went.
To the land of the abstract
where I belong
filled with the spirit
singing my song.
Where the lilies bloom
No toil ~ No gloom
Follow your bliss, Miss
I WAS BORN ABSTRACT
* This painting is part of a mural, on my water tank, in Playa Avellanas, Costa Rica. It is the Rabbit Hole. I dream of having a special kind of surf camp there.
Picture this ~ A world with no cameras.
I have not been able to upload pics to my blog, since arriving, in Costa Rica. Today, I have been here one week. This alteration, of my posts, has interrupted my life, like the internet has twisted my reading. It’s an upheaval. This visual denial has shifted my thinking. My brain is climbing the Continental Divide.
I rely on my photos to not only tell my story, but to allow the reader to create, with their imagination, a hybrid. A creation of their own, that I do not control, nor do I want to. That’s what my posts are all about. Sharing my thoughts and my life with others, but in an artistic manner, that allows the reader to choose their own interpretation. That is art. And what is life without art.
I think I am going to break out my paints.