BlackPrintsSeriesNo.27

when process is a luxury

i don't know about all you artists and writers, but i'm getting the feeling that "the man" (i'm not imposing gender here - it's just an expression) is closing in. soon art, the creative pursuit, a work-in-progress will be considered a luxury. you know you hit bottom when this occurs. it's all about work, concept, spontaneity, accidents, and after enough years, a certain lack of intention. it is not about art as investment. we can't expect too many people to understand this, i guess. it's the imperfect storm. time to step back, reassess and then let go!

unable to resist

"Instincts don’t fail you, honey." His mother’s refrain, as if she’d observed what transpired and is once again offering too much advice. These instincts spell trouble, what kind of trouble he isn’t sure but all the same he knows if he doesn’t protect himself no telling what will happen. A cackling seagull distracts him, circling the rooftops, dipping and diving as if silvery fish flicker in and out of the surf. As he reaches the next intersection he sees a heaping pile of paper, plastic and spilled Chinese takeout where more gulls have gathered to pick through the refuse. Prix fixe. Unable to resist, he approaches the next bin like a hungry account executive on his way to a power lunch. Nothing like a half eaten perfectly encased sandwich of mozzarella, arugula and sun dried tomatoes. He can’t help noticing the contenders, meals barely touched, the ones he would rescue from the garbage before they’re shipped off to the landfill, ones which rejuvenated his undernourished body when he has nothing but a cardboard box, holey tennis shoes and too much time on his hands. He has to stop looking through the trash.

fall from grace

The snap and crackle of the bacon grease doesn’t capture her attention but when Brian drops the jar of mayonnaise on the kitchen floor Gracie wakes up.

“What the fuck!”

He turns around and waves before unraveling paper towels to clean up the mess. She protests the disturbance of a good night’s sleep even though it’s 4:30 in the afternoon and she has the look of a street urchin after a two day bender.