"I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you."
Song of Myself // Leaves of Grass // Walt Whitman
As you get older, it gets a bit harder to keep the spontaneity in you, but I work at it.
- David Hockney
I believe moving into the in-laws with my family is a rite-of-passage that bookmarks the transition from parenthood to adulthood in the story of my life.
I live in a World where I thrive on organically self-produced constructive delusions of grandeur. Much of that sprouts from within my belief of God and that my body is merely a vehicle that will help share my vision that He gave me.
In-between houses with the family right now.
Lisa and I shacked up with our kiddos at her moms house. The feeling of not belonging has never been stronger. The biggest challenge isn't the space, but the shifting of family dynamics.
There's a wood block in the hallway of my mother-in-laws house with a saying on it: "He is the wind; you are the sails."
Solitary with my camera, I embraced the wind.
When I say artist I mean the man who is building things - creating molding the earth - whether it be the plains of the west - or the iron ore of Penn. It's all a big game of construction - some with a brush - some with a shovel - some choose a pen.
- Jackson Pollock