2022 Graphics Journal Page #25: Nov. 10 to Nov. 19

Posted on November 19, 2022 by randomyriad

Imperfection Drive

Posted in Being Human, bodyworks, Collage, doodles, Fools Journey, mindworks, My Art, my life, Other peoples words, philosophy, poetry, Self-Experiments, Works in Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

2022 Graphics Journal Page #24: October 26 to November 9

Posted on November 10, 2022 by randomyriad

Deconstructing Personal History #1

Posted in Abstraction, All part of the process, Being Human, bodyworks, change, Chaos and Order, Collage, delusions of progress, discovery and recovery, doodles, internal landscape, investigations of color, mindworks, My Art, my life, paying attention, personal history, Self-Experiments, Works in Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Life on Paper

Posted on November 5, 2022 by randomyriad

Days run away from me

a pack of dogs

shuffling chaos in their weaving strides

I am left behind with

flickering frame

organizing them into

a fantasy of meaning

and their joyous leaps

chasing along scented paths

are lost in the words

that imprison possibilities of

such wild imprecision.

Posted in Abstraction, All part of the process, Being Human, change, Chaos and Order, delusions of progress, mindworks, My Art, my life, paying attention, poetry, thinking in words | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

2022 Graphic Journal Page #23: October 25

Posted on October 26, 2022 by randomyriad

A Piece of Spring 1977

Posted in All part of the process, Art in Nature, doodles, My Art, my life, paying attention, Self-Experiments, Works in Progress | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Charles Bukowski: Consummation of Grief

Posted on October 15, 2022 by randomyriad

His imagery is so solid so that when I reach for it, I can touch something real. Then sometimes he’s just a crusty old son-of-bitch, but it is all he’s got.

Vox Populi's avatarVox Populi

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

Included in Vox Populi for educational non-commercial purposes.

Charles Bukowski (Photo by JARNOUX Patrick/Paris Match via Getty Images)

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Posted in All part of the process, Being Human, Check this out, discovery and recovery, Loss and Leaving, mindworks, my museum of inspiration, Other peoples words, paying attention, poetry | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment