I took a walk around town. I see people sitting at bistro tables. I wonder if they have a job. I compare their made up stories to my own. I only know half of the story but I create the rest and judge myself against it. I think about another cup of coffee; black and dark. Liquid coal. Bitter teeth. Sweating in my truck. I park beside a shop and don’t know what to do. Is it cooler under that tree?
I would like to paint my story on that there wall. I would like to pay for the suplies myself and bring color to the neighbor’s eyes. The ever-walking black man. The mothers with the high-end strollers. The hipster kids with fake/real glasses. The suited business guy in a hurry.
Sometimes the evening is the best time for me. Usually because it is like morning but with a tinge of tiredness; yet I am awake. I like the pinkish sky. I like the moment of calm before the uncertainty of night in the ghetto. Watch your back brother man. I strum a couple chords on my guitar. It sounds like something I have played before; a thousand times. I am hungry.
I am given materials and I make them into art. I craft them and paint them and cut them down to something new. Where do these ideas come from? I photographed the offerings around the corner from the guy with the coffee. The lady with the hairy dog. I stood up. I walked away. Jesus I need to talk to you.
(and one more thing; look at my events page to see some places I will be in the next couple weeks)