intransient

Really I believe it is all intransigent ephemeral unlasting unimportant even and the aspirations surrounding it at least as it reads are just a wishbone.  For what?   For what reason?

And for whom?  There is a question.   Does one wish to become famous?  Well maybe they do.  But not me.  I don't have the time anymore.  I've got to keep up daily inspection of the street work.  Get out there and concentrate to keep all the work rolling.

And there is sleeping.  I gotta do that when it's dark and quiet.  Before 6 a.m. that's for sure.  And there's the question of how to get the boys to school, when to wash clothes feed the cat and don't forget the lizard.

And there are these mad things.  I find a bunch of the trash walking my boy to school and cleaning the garden.  And the junk I gotta buy an stuff.  And wrapping presents for birthdays.  This kind a stuff makes me happy.  It's fun.  Now the painting well I don't exactly know how it fits.

And anyway I mean who says these are paintings or anything at all.  It doesn't really matter.  It is all very very impermanent it is all a high speed movement of chaos and change.  Collisions and strange unusual meetings an epitome of meeting and of loss.

Now maybe one of you might accidentally think this is cynical but it is not.   It is only the state of the world the speed at which it turns the heightened state of our emotions the strange seemingly mad rate at which new things happen and old things pass on.

One time when I was very young I was with my dad in the car, a woody by the way, and we passed three tents on the highway on our way out of Los Angeles.  There were some grubby looking men standing there and I asked my dad who they were.   He said they are the very last Indians and soon they will be extinct.  Of course he was very very wrong.  But I remember how I felt sad then.  I don't like to see the ending of anything at all really.

Maybe that is why I paint as I do.