Two weeks of boredom.

So they closed down my job for two weeks for renovations... and the only thing I could think of was the fact that i could finally grow my beard, its been about 400 days since i have gone five days straight without shaving, and i can honestly say I feel weird, so i decided to change my look to look like the lead singer of demon hunter, bald head with a long beard... so yesterday i came up with this painting, it had been some time since i painted anything, I am going to make a similar one tomorrow, i'll be doing a bit of a blue bleeding down, and red bleeding up on top of na old unfinished portrait of a woman i painted, i'll later paint multiple lines and triangles on top to give it a three-layered image effect, hopefully it comes out good. thats pretty much it for me this week, o yeah i watched anamorph, its a wonderful tale of crime and justice all wrapped up in an dark aesthetic fashion. ciao....

God’s Aquarium

I imagine God, as a little boy who has a new blue plastic aquarium in his bedroom, sitting by the window. Its clear in the bottom with a bright electric blue lid, with holes for air in which to go through. there's small pebbles, river stones. they are red, brown, all shades of brown. and in his little aquarium there's a little tortoise. A small green tortoise, its shaded like a mint leave, like the inside of a plump ripen avocado, with a golden pattern all over its shell. Its frail, its small, I imagine Him, taking the blue lid off, and with his soft perfect hands, lifting the petit creature out of its cage. his little fingers rubbing the ruff green scale-like bumps on the poor creature's back. the tortoise hides his head, his small tail and limbs all cave in, and the small boy begins to cry he changes the water, he makes sure its not too much or too little, he puts his mother's thermometer in and verifies that the water's warm enough for his reptilian friend, and he gently puts him back in. He puts small green pellets in the plastic world, and covers it with its blue ceiling. and as the boy leaves, the tortoise pulls his head out and begins to swim, eat, live. I guess sometimes I am too scared to feel his warmth, to see his gentle hands caring for me, I guess...

Confessions. 0001

Confessions. 0001 There's no seat, well there is but its wooden and poorly designed, its not meant to comfort nor to soften a brutalized corpse. I Can't quite remember when I got that Chair, I don't know when But one thing is certain, its unique. So one day, about two years ago, i was attempting photo emulsion, or to put it in lay terms screen printing. I designed a cesar chavez stencil that was supposed to be photographed into a screen and placed on t-shirts. T-shirts that I would sell at a cesar chavez festival, and make big bucks. See I had the whole thing planned out. It was made in a way that my profits would double my initial buy in; The kind of insurance a pro card player has when he walks into a garage filled with middle aged, beer bellied, blue collared, bald blind men who play once every blue moon. It was impregnable. I would buy one hundred t-shirts at the cost of three dollars each. The screen would cost $45, The chemicals $15, with the paint and everything else it would cost me $500. I would sell every t-shirt for $15, and at the end of the day i would have $1500, One Grand in profit. The story was never like that, I couldn't get the liquids and lighting to work properly. Its been two years, I only made a batch of 5 t-shirts, the design was not detailed, it was just free-drawn with a blue water pigment that bled a lot. Till the day I still say I will make my entrepreneurial career with t-shirts, The cesar chavez is barely noticeable on the chair nowadays (On the chair were I used the stencil to paint; if Aa t-shirt was not its place perhaps the wooden brown chair I sat in every night when I opened the textbooks) the paint is faded, but regardless its still a colourfull thing, with holes punctured through the wood, its aesthetically haunting. So I confess, I've failed, I've given up, I've let a little ignorance stop me from doing what I promised myself one day. I confess.

it was Insane to not Turn Away

I sat there my eyes closing, and then opening, my head falling over, the people sitting scattered through the train. My hands holding on the chilled cold frame, the guy right across from me keeps looking at me with a sort of smirk as to show that he finds my frail body a joke, as I sway in and out of REM while moving on the underground. I feel that visage, someone looking, her eyes are like a crystal ball, like the rain frozen in a movie, some wicked CGI, Its a faded onyx black with a hint of green. She turns over, I lift my head and turn as though looking at the map on the plastic banner, as thought it was my first time on this wretched ride that steals ninety minutes of my day, every day. I lean back, she turns away. Her face is pale white, a hint of red, like that painting in my room I once forged after several hours stuck looking at my easel my last semester, correction i refused to use the easel it was a drawing board leaned back on a stool. Her hair is fine, its black and golden brown on the edges, There's a thin layer of silver outline in her egyptian eyes, Her hair is pulled back and tide in a knot, it falls to the sides, by her ears forming a cascade, She moves from her sit, she turns sideward, leaning her eyes at the dark glass reflecting and the doors on the opposite side. She gets up looks down as she passes, and walks through the doors, they shut and she's gone. Her lean hipster victorian self is gone, A blue navy skirt on top of black jeans, faded keds, a brown burberry jacket, a crossed brown wool scarf, and one of those "Little Brown Bag"s from bloomingdales. what an Idiot, I looked away, at the map again, o yeah I am lost. when its El cerrito plaza, and just across runs San Pablo Ave. I guess thats it, I am still the same shy lad From before. I could have at-least said hi, Deja vu its all a dream; But I guess that its like a miner who lets the diamonds pass through his fingers in the lake, he sees them and sways his hand, for some weird reason he doesn't lift it up, he just sands there as the light flickers bye to the point its all dirt and mud, i guess its the fact that where he's from he's not aloud a diamond, its the blood he pours while digging for the rich man that keeps him alive, and dreams are but a fairy tale told in his head forced to never leave the round walls of his inner membranes for fear of being labeled insane.

open sesame

Oh God, Here are my hands, they are broken, bloody, and scarred. Here's my heart wrinkled and black, I know not what it means to hear those words God, after all I am just human, and I am the one saying them.. But i would like to think they are a spell, a sort of open sesame, a magical phrase, a sort of incantation where when my lips close, everything suddenly changes, when I am done speaking it all somehow turns to my liking. I would like to think life was just that easy, that there were such things as keys and bullet points to changing life, to solving catastrophic miseries, to mending one's weakness and braking one's demons but its not like that, so i'll continue to say my magical phrases hoping that after sometime they'll mean something to you God, not that they don't; I am just too blind to notice the smallest of changes, I speak them hoping that somewhere in time, i'll change the wording.

A new Year. A New Start.

So Its A new Year Next Tuesday.
2007 was quite The Year, I learned A lot this past year about life, About God, About myself. I saw People come and go. I read books, saw films, ate food, drank lattes, Signed up for Children International and got a little picture of a little boy half the globe away and Even if i never see his little brown face I know that he had something to eat, I realized Life is not about ourselves but about everyone else. So the other day I slapped myself, I realize how stupid this sounds. But I thought about how if someone hits you your animal instinct is to hit that person back, but if you slap yourself its kinda stupid to hit yourself back... and then it hit me that its not until we feel that slap that we realize we are damaging ourselves with our apathy, procrastination, or sense of nothingness... we are corroding ourselves and only then can we stop our animal instincts and begin to change, to let the great one work start his work on us.

So In this new year I hope to take my dreams and make them true, So In this Blog I will post everything that i find interesting, Amusing, or helpful I will try to write down everything and give you an update of my year...Of my goals

1. Volunteer at the Soup Kitchen Once a Week
2. Start Writing A book, A non-fiction set of essays on life.
3. Begin Silk-screening T-shirts "CagedPedals Inc."
4. Make and Sell Top-tube pads to Bike Shops.
5. Join A Bicycle Club
6. Go back To School: SF State
7. Start An art Co-op
8. Start "The Fixed Image Project"
9. Learn to play an instrument.
Go to a Broadway show......and so many more.
10. Find God

So 'til Tomorrow... I'll Post some Images From Critical Mass

trail

“Fer what’s that red dots on the floor” …”What red dots?” “all those following us”, My eyes turned down and I noticed red small splatters of red all stretching out in a path, the path I take every Tuesday morning around 7:30 am, as I clutch my fist holding tight that little hand that holds a treasure known as my littlest sibling, her eyes are affixed on the red. I begin to wonder is it oil, paint, and then I notice its dark red resemblance to drip up blood, it’s a blood trail. To no surprise it comes, after all its been about every other day that I hear that loud rumbling, the dogs screeching and barking as the sprits roam the streets, you know they say that animals can see the angel of death. So as I walk my little angel I tell her is blood, I mean I wanted to say it was paint, that some great painter spilled his paint, that some known cook was running with oil and spilled it trying to put it on his sauté, But no this isn’t small America in the suburbs, I say its blood. She says why? I tell her do you remember the gunshots, she nods and says did someone die. I tell her maybe no, that someone managed to run and bled a little that they got home on time. I would like to think that I can walk that path at all times at never see the blue and reds lighting the streets like fourth of July, or I can walk and never hear the sound of a nine millimeter sealing someone’s death note. But no, this is my home…