In Vino Veritas

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Barkeep, Just Leave The Fucking Bottle... 76 - 77 was a good year.

Rediscovering the old again is hard for me. It brings its ancient wounds along with its lessons learned in youth. I once had a burning passion for the craft. I would take my tools with me everywhere I went in a backpack. They were always handy whenever I had the call to use them. Damn everything else, if an idea came - I'd ride it out. It could hit me at any given moment. Wish I still had that boundless enthusiasm...

I can remember sitting on the curb under a streetlight at midnight, drawing in my trusty sketchpad - glass of wine on the sidewalk - while all my friends were inside Barr's Place or Jersey House drinking and living it up and feeding the jukebox - simply because I got an idea that needed to be put on paper. (or at least I thought so) My friends would laugh. I didn't care what anyone else thought. Driven...



I'd sometimes lose myself for hours on end with nothing but a pencil scratching the paper before me. The vibes are still here, I feel them bubbling away deep inside. I think they are pissed off at me for neglecting them for so many years. Maybe they'll resurface again.



I've lost so many projects over the years, some given - some sold - some destroyed forever... so I cling on to what is left - like an ivy to the brick - in hopes of completing a bridge from the past into the future - which will be the now when it's all said & done. The circle... (or something like that)


Inside the belvedere at "The Arboritum"
[@Temple] I sat - looking up to read:

"He who sits here will always be high."

I have to admit - finding all these old sketches brought the memories flooding back - good & bad - things I hadn't thought about in a very long time. Like a fucking tidal wave of emotion for me.

I could write a fucking book, but what is the use if no one will ever read? Kind of like these drawings shoved away, hidden... Maybe I should have left them there, but to me they are like old pages from a journal in hieroglyphs. Battered friends that return after a secret sojourn to tell you of their travails. These images all mean something - to me at least.

...and so, I'll develop some into paintings - along with other new ideas for this new year... Picking and choosing will be the tempest.

absit invidia

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