Art for the sake of its self. I want to build pieces that only function to keep themselves functioning. They exist only for the moments they are active. They don’t create anything new and there is no payoff. It is what it is – maybe that is the payoff? The want for no hope is still hoping.

“The joy of triviality.” – Arthur Ganson

It’s a new year, it’s a new beginning. It’s another day, the one after yesterday.

It’s an opportunity to make a change. To leap towards that temporary goal of vanity or a half-hearted exercise in life extension. I take it as the day after yesterday, an excuse to drink heavily in a full-hearted reach towards life dwindlement. I’m almost 30 and plan to reach it. I plan to make this year like the last except in this moment. Make the most of this blob, this blood, this stardust I refer to as self. Create things I’m happy with, be around people I’m happy with. Just like before, except now.

Two thousand twelve till infinity.

Nostalgia is wrong, it’s idealized. It is something that doesn’t or has never existed. I want to present reality as it is, not what people want from it. I don’t want to invoke anything idealized if it is separate from reality and from what this universe has presented me/us.

Imagine watching an innocent person being murdered. You don’t realize what’s happening at first but when it’s done you understand the gravity of what you’ve witnessed. Then you approach the murderer and tell him what you saw. You tell him he is wrong. You tell him he should be punished. But he’s not punished. He won’t be punished. Instead he walks over to the ice cream stand and gets himself a cone of vanilla and chocolate twist, sits down and tells you he has done nothing wrong. You argue. You tell him murder is wrong and something needs to be done. He tells you not to get involved. He says you don’t understand the situation and therefore cannot say it was murder. What he did was too intricate for you to comprehend. But you don’t buy it. Maybe you don’t understand all the details but you know what happened. You know there’s been a murder. You know this man was responsible. And you know he must be punished.

I’ve been working on work. Kinda. As an artistic type I tend to be highly influenced by my surroundings and I’ve yet to settle. I’ve yet to fully comprehend the situation I’m in. I’ve yet to take it all in and breathe it back out. I have ideas that don’t seem to add up yet.

I’m working on a design for a Rube Goldberg-esque projector. My lenses are on the way via ebay. I’ve made a handful of videos that will probably never go anywhere. Trash bin projects.

When I was a kid I found clouds enthralling. I’ve always had a horrible memory and forgot most of what I learned in science class. I day dream. I day dreamed and concocted stories. And I always carried this myth about clouds. They’re immortal. Untouchable.

I jumped to touch them…but never could.

They have always been here, billions of years, the same clouds hitchhiking across the sky. Grouping, separating. Imposing their will on the world. Raining, pouring, striking down trees and men. But there’s a price to pay for such force. By simply imposing their brute and might they lose it. They shrink.

A giant cumulonimbus cloud will dominate the skies and lives of the people below, until it loses its rain, its power. Its onimbus. Cumulus clouds blow apart, rise and fall. Evaporate. Condensate. But never die. They’re there, somewhere, with a different identity, high in the atmosphere awaiting their triumphant return. Ready to gain its onimbus once again.

They’re fluid, even when you are touching one you can’t feel it. Foggy is the weatherman’s rebuttal to the humble cloud that brings the sky to us. A reminder that we are not observers of the sky, we are apart of the sky. There is no barrier where one ends and the other begins. As long as we are above the ground we are in the sky.

We are travelers with the clouds, they just move in a different way.

The idea of Home is a futile one. Pushing a rock up a hill is as necessary a task. Let it fall.

I’ve been settling in Lawrence. Meeting people, drinking and reading too much Camus. But it has led to some interesting ideas. I have yet to begin classes and I have an assignment.

My plans to build a projector need to be put on hold, temporarily. At least until I find the needed lenses. That, however, is not the most important part.

Home is where you make it.

My studio at The University of Kansas. My first big project will be to build a projector somehow.

Here I am, awaiting the move. There I go. Sitting on the porch writing and sweating. I’m thinking of something else, the day has been busy and continues so. A friend is on her way over. I’ve done nothing but see friends and others, drink and smoke. I could barely breathe after the other night. Just like Eastwood. Drinking on a Sunday, god’s day.

Part two.

Everyone’s the same here as they are there. This city is shrinking around me. I see them everywhere I go, always the same place. Maybe I’m shrinking around this city. Maybe we’ve outgrown each other. Maybe I’ve learned to not care for the only place I’ve ever loved. I’ve moved before, I came back. This wretched bitch. Never again, I tell myself. Don’t tell my mom.