Archive for the ‘Painters & Other Graphics Artists’ Category

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21 Aug


52 O Street Studios


Okay, all you DC area cats & wankers, beer and cheese afficionados, h yeah, and art lovers of every clique, please click over to the 52 O Street Studios homepage and sign-up for the newsletter. You will need an outside mail account, and you will also need to confirm your desire to receive the newsletter. The confirmation link will be sent to the email address you use to sign up. Don't worry. You won't be bombarded with SPAM.


In fact, the newsletter was first set up over six months ago, and we have yet to send out a single issue, but when we twenty or so artists have building-wide newsworthy events to announce to our friends and patrons, such as our next 52 O Street Open Studios, you will definitely want to muscle off with an invitation.

Today, the historic building is occupied by painters, sculptors, photographers, jewelers, woodworkers, and video artists of various styles and impulses. So, do yourself a favor.

Sign up today!

Gabriel Thy
52 O Street Studios
Washington, DC

Parsing The Criteria Of Great Art

17 Aug


"Ancient" by William Blake


Originally published on September 17, 1996

Landry wrote: This reminds me of an argument I had with my friend Brad who is a painter. He said that painting is art and writing is craft. What do you think?

Someone should kick poor mad William Blake up out of the grave. He called Jesus of Nazareth and his disciples the greatest ARTISTS the world has ever seen about the same time his friend Thomas Paine was facing the wrath of the English & American church leaders with his revolutionary AGE OF REASON, written mostly while sitting in the Bastille awaiting the guillotine for refusing to badmouth his friend King Louis, whom Paine held in high esteem for the king's much needed assistance to the colonies during the war against the English crown. Uh, now THAT reminds me of a peculiar intrigue Tom Wolfe's THE PAINTED WORD invoked with his fictional world reknown artist (this was a book about the NY painting scene where one's greatness as an artist is inseparable from the superior qualities of the particular THEORY of the art, brownie points for the thinker, nee writer once again, it seems) who while sitting in an unremarkable bar in an unremarkable mood suddenly had a great idea. He had only a glass of water and a paper napkin at his disposal. He quickly dipped and began etching, but just as suddenly as the idea had dawned in his mind's eye the world famous artist collapsed on his barstool and expired. Obviously his etching evaporated, but the question remained in Wolfe's assessment, was the idea that the now dead artist had expressed ever so briefly been that artist's, and therefore, perhaps the world's greatest work of art?


William Blake

Blake did it all in a sense, a man of deep thought and adroit action like American contemporaries—with his large body of wood etchings, paintings, poetry, his literary criticism, his anti-clericism, his involvement in the politics of his day, his strange mystical nudism, his sagacious love for his wife, all tempered by his touch of madness, and yet he called Jesus the GREATEST ARTIST. This same Jesus who never wrote or painted a damned thing except to draw some line in the sand, and there are those biblical scholars who amazingly even claim this was an apocryphal tale (now famous as the "he who is without sin, please please cast the first stone" scene) they insist was inserted by later scribes. This viewpoint leads of course to the idea that ideas are the guts of art, NOT shapes, lines, colors. Paintings may certainly express an idea, or several, but one is never exactly sure what that idea is unless the artist is part of that Clement Greenberg (the NYC art don) regime boasting an idea per brushstroke...

So it goes without saying that I tend to agree with Blake that it takes everything you've got to create art, but then (to answer your question), can paintings lie, cheat, and steal the way words do?


American Visionary Museum in Baltimore

28 Jul


Woman V by Gabriel Thy


Well, yesterday was a fine day in the life of this particular artist. The American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore, MD purchased some of my art. It's not that big a deal, yet, but it's a thrifty start. Sold a couple dozen packs of postcards for display in San Francisco and Baltimore. Not bad. It was fun scooting around with Peter Harper and Marina Reiter who'd come along in the Renegade insisted I spring for drinks (and more drinks) with my proceeds. Done!

We killed a few pitchers, too much seafood, and what ever else we could fish out of the daylight down at the Harbor before slamming onto the Thames to continue. Trying to catalogue the tides I snapped a roll or two with the D60 Nikon I had on me. Harper and Reiter sucked face the rest of the night, kissed the sweet sunshine goodbye, mugged the mashed potato vogue, made like a native Cat's Eye rogue, kept me reelin' to the drunkards' code—O! I coulda been a Baltimer Pogue!—then crashed at Peter's that night. Outlaws, again. Favored by the creed of he who lives outside the law must be honest, I made it home without incident. Lunch at the beginning of that stint crowded into a table at Bertha's was a blast, as usual.

Shows promise of things to come, perhaps. I'll write up the full story in the near, but right now I've got to head out to buy some crab meat for the crab dressing casserole I sling together for events like this awesome pig roast some rocker friends and their roller derby girls are hosting this afternoon at Floyd & Jen's (Walters) Virginia hacienda.

But check out the museum. It's on the map. And now, in some small way, so am I.

Awesome View of Ohio River, Wheeling Island, and Opportunity

28 May


Watching The River Flow


Okay friends and foes, Chuck [Fithen] has posted a few pix he snapped with his cell camera of me on my first day of sloshing paint against the new Wailing Wall running some eighty feet along the second floor of Yesterday's Draughthouse & Stage, 1054 Main. The new bandstage with its backdrop of floor to ceiling triple-threat of push out glass windows opening onto Main Street a few feet above the marquee is an immediate draw. Once the windows are pushed out to reveal the picturesque landscape below now expanding to embrace the once mighty Ohio River whirling along the edges of Wheeling Island, and even beyond the western banks of the state of Ohio, a visual and spiritual welcoming includes a gorgeous panorama at dusk, a stunning canvas of color, old architecture, and future promise of a mid-America character still the home of the brave and strength of our nation.

Chuck says he's posting only a teaser; doesn't want to spoil the first impressions of all those curious slammers and slackers who pass muster and make it past security into he and his partner Raj predicts will be a seething house of sights and sound worthy of a space where such country music greats as Johnny Cash and Wilma Lee Cooper liked to once gather for a song and a beer.

Breaking news: The following statement will run the course along the top edge above the painting on the wailing wall at Yesterday's Draught House & Stage in Wheeling:

“As a cull poet and loner among the lonesome, I am now determined to speak for myself, to speak from every speck of my ignorance, to speak from whatever’s left of my virtue in the wisdom that I must shoulder my own perspective, or else I die without individuality, landscape, or divisibility by zero (the latter a latter day expense of extinction), a mere sad crack in the sidewalk of battles beneath the cold shadows of others who knew not me in my struggles, but only themselves in theirs.”

True sneak preview. Many of Chuck's close friends have already eyeballed the wall in progress and frankly, response has been overwhelmingly positive. Are they all liars? You be the judge. If any of you out to lunch friends of mine buckle to the highway jones, why don't you swing by and check out the black palace called Yesterday's. Opening soon, very soon...

Just sign me,


Ex-patriate of WDC
(the city that NEVER
speaks the truth,
by it)

Pitching The Tent, And Rolling Out The Insignificance

09 Apr


Beauty of Love


Jury's still out whether or not this MySpace phenomenon will actually serve as the killer marketing tool an obscure artist needs to penetrate an audience, but with Google's sliding scale ranking system giving preference to the big toothy high-volume dogs like online communities in its keyword call-ups, it surely beats no notice at all.

With MySpace links to and fro, I'm hoping that my other websites can be rescued from relative obscurity again. Since I owned and managed my own web, mail, and DNS servers right here at home on completely unreliable ISDN technology from the early days, and now on synchronous DSL bandwidth, in a spirit of good riddance wiping my brow of constant sweat when I pulled the plug on them when I was sweating a major renovation to my DC condo back in the summer of '04. That maneuver (or lack of one) cost me precious search engine ranking that I'd earned for serving up my handful of domains continously since 1996, another of the valued criteria, companies like Google and Yahoo use in their complex algorithms to determine placement. I've been online since December, 1995, and have been an instant messaging and BBS geek since 1993 (when AOL boasted a mere 250K members a distant third to now mostly forgotten competitors, Compuserve & Prodigy, and the web nonexistent), and I have no intention of disappearing into that good night until the worms or blaze of eternity finally pick this wanton flesh clean of artistic ambition.

But yes, this community is an interesting one. My major beef with these free online communities and services is the ephemeral nature of most of them. The frustration of someone else perpetually reorganizing and rendering my links or content obsolete or completely vanquished was the fickled finger that finally poked me into hosting my own sites. I made a few bucks in web design and hosting in the those early years before big business made it tough to keep up plus the fact that I was more interested in content creation than simply tossing designs together for lukewarm businesses who never did much more with their sites than use it as an online business card, thus suppressing my own business requirements for cashflow and expansion. As much as things are changing now, Moore's law didn't start yesterday either. I couldn't keep up, was more interested in my own writing and art, so I gave up hosting and designing for others, and am now focussing completely on my own career (what's left of it).

With several recent large canvas sales under my belt and my book publication last year, I'm finally beginning to ride a slightly aggressive optimism again. Pitching the tent, and rolling out the insignificance...fact is, I tend to be far too pensive to carry a smile the whole length of a metaphor, but let me give a shout out to all you new online contacts, old acquaintences and new, just to let you know I am cheerful today, and you've played a big part in the game...let's rock!

Maybe I'll post a new picture...


Speaking Of Ambitions, Wheeling WV

06 Apr


Up Against The Wall


Calling all Wheeling area rockers, playas, and art phreaks to drop me a line detailing any thoughtful insights and blowhard opinions you might have on the local scene. Serious word. Chumps and other 'tards can penetrate themselves. No tolerance for silly lads with a yen for tragedy in this survey.

As stated elsewhere, I have recently immigrated to Wheeling WV from Washington, DC for the primary purpose of setting myself up with cheap (cheaper than DC) studio space in which to paint, write, edit loads of club video I shot in the Eighties, et cetera. However, given the special plight of downtown Wheeling's urban blight offering an enormous opportunity for some local entrepreneur to invest in an alternative gallery space with music and eats to help draw in the nightlife, I am interested in knowing from eager young 20-and-30-somethings just how desirable and/or feasible this idea for innovative nightspace would be considered by the local establishment, the area's youth culture, YOU IN PARTICULAR, et cetera.

Check this, ain't rocket science here, just taking the pulse of Wheeling area heartbeats. Let me know. Check out the Live365 radio station I operate. If your interest in something more that you've already got, is triggered, then sign up as a friend on MySpace, and start feeding me those opinions. I'm not promising anything in stone at this point in my rather off the cuff feasibility study, but in six months to a year, perhaps, if encouragement is strong and red tape not prohibitive, who knows what a bit of maverick teamwork can pull off...

Liberty Wheeling

06 Apr


Wheeling Suspension Bridge


After a month and several big AND small truckloads back and forth from DC, I'm finally nested here in my new "art studio" in Wheeling. Can you believe that parking in a Wheeling city lot at the end of my block only costs $1/month?

Compare that to $300/month to rent an outdoor space at my condominium in Washington, WHEN one is available, which isn't often. All roads I now figure lead to Wheeling, even the proverbial strait and narrow one apparently, if all these churches and ecumenical billboards populating hill and dale are any indication, although frankly the only straight & narrow road I've seen since I got here to the Mountaineer State is the short narrow stretch of I-70 running through the Wheeling Tunnel.

The studio sports a wonderful sun porch panorama of the historic Ohio River at the rear of the apartment with nothing between my eyes and the river but a blacktopped bike path and a couple of modest trees that will probably block my view once nature goes for the annual green once again. And the I-70 Bridge with its continuous clout of eighteen wheelers grinding to the gears of American ego can be seen just a few hundred feet south. Aiming to get the word out that I am here and ready for action, I've been working the past few days on the STEEL & GRISTLE website, my "What the Flummox Am I Doing in Wheeling, WV" calling card, so to speak, but I'm obnoxious, and in the mood to take brush to canvas again. Stalled since quitting in January to prepare for the February show at MOCA DC and the subsequent quest for new space, only the April lions of interesting architecture from a bygone era can fathom what pose the paint will strike next.

Another dead space in this vast here I am, a risky fighter to the last drop of blood in these cholesterol paced veins. The lion roars until the end. Listening to KMFDM's World War III on the radio. My painting calls from the studio, a door beyond the room with no ears, and yet I am just such a stalwart to refuse to quit the word when she squats to the scarlet carpet in search of a nickel song. We've both had enough changes in our lifetimes, we feel ready to pine for posterity now, until we recall how boring, how quickly and decisively boring that would be. Like eating toast on one's deathbed.


Why Do Writers Need Editors But Painters Do Not

17 Sep

Alledgedly Landry

Alledgedly Landry


Date: Sep 17 1996 14:55:12

Sorry more words than you called for. Guess that in and of itself supports the subject of this little piece. Was that your ploy all along? To mock the amateur wordsmith? Now, if I could have just emailed you a painting, that would have said it all in a flash.

Painters can make an honest (or lazy) attempt to pass ANYTHING as art. They don't have to worry about the confines of structure in the way that a composer or a writer must. Let's face it, I can squat down on a canvas, smear a big corn filled turd around on a spatula, glue on a crucifix, and immediately get a reaction from born again christeeeans, derelicts, intellectual bull shit artists and the like who don't even have to be literate. But, if I write a story about blowing a big chocolate corn stuffed stain on a piece of fabric and shoving a cross on top, first, I must construct a sentence in some grammatical form that even people who can read can understand. Then, I have to get people to read it. Since most people, even with some college education, refuse to read on principle, only a small percentage of the population will read it. Out of this group, most people will read it just to fill up some time on the john, some won't get through it because they will be bored, some will laugh but forget it immediately. . .basically only a smidgen of people will care—some whacko born again Christeeean who will want to make sure the piece will be censored, a few people who think anything that couples shit and Christ in the same piece to be important, a zealous ACLU lawyer, and the writer (maybe on this one).

And, in order to be taken seriously as a writer (whether you need it or not) you are REQUIRED to have an editor and your writing is only worth something if SOMEONE ELSE (in particular a BIG PUBLISHER) likes it and prints it and sells it. Quite different from celebrating independent artists, filmmakers and musicians who can gain credibility precisely IF they shun the BIG GUYS.

Now to address the points:

1. Painters as a demographic rarely stop working on a piece until they are finished.

If they do stop before they are finished they lie and say they ARE finished. If I turn in a manuscript finished or not, people can put their two cents in and change shit. How come I can't go up to a painting and blot on a hint o#196# yellow here and there? Hunh???

2. Writers are a driven but inherently lazy bunch, and are inclined to need a proper correcting of their pomposity since word manipulation rules are finite.

OH, does this hit the mark. Does this mean that a writer who paints is also a lazy painter? My painting and writing instructors both said "Miss Landry, you are very talented, but very lazy!" No fair that a writer can't use words like paint, layering and layering for effect. Well, you can do it, but who would read it?

3. Wordlovers are a different crowd from artlovers with slightly different motives and therefore require a middleman.

Yes Yes Yes. Sort of like a conductor in an orchestra. Otherwise, chaos.

8. It's easier to dismiss a single canvas than a truckload of books in boxes.

#8 True, in a way. But, I think the modern computer/internet age is presenting a dilemma for old school visual artists. Electronic visual art is now on the same intangible level as the written word or music. Think about it. I am an artist (alive or dead). I sit in my studio drinking, fucking young boys and going insane from syphilis. I buy paint and drugs from my so-called friends, have a vision and do a painting. Since I am well known in my village or on the left bank of pareeeeeee, a few bored no-talent rich people bid for my painting. The painting. The only one. Mr. Booger wins and buys it for $3 million and takes it home to hang it over the fireplace in his boudoir and whacks off to it every night. No one else sees it until his death. Then, his lover gives it to some museum and the only way you can see the actual painting is if you spend lots of money to go to the city that contains the museum that houses the painting.

But, if I'm, say, Emily Dickinson, I write, I die, and years later all these people read my books. At the most, they spend, what, $10 on a collection. After a certain time, the more valuable the words become (named "classic") the easier it is to buy a piece of paper with the words on it. (I'm at work, so I apologize for how disjointed this is). In a nutshell, writing was and is always existing in a virtual world. You can't own the writing in the same way you can own a piece of art. But, with the Internet, I can do some visual art, scan it in my computer (or do it on the computer), put it on the Internet and it becomes just as unreal and intangible as words. Everyone can own it. Everyone can borrow bits and pieces of it. This will do more damage to the artist's ego than STDs. Writers have always known this and that is why a writer embraces the modern world before a visual artist.

This reminds me of an argument I had with my friend Brad who is a painter. He said that painting is art and writing is craft. What do you think?


The Croyden Affair Meets Andy Corrigan's Big Event

28 Mar

Private Neurosis

Private Neurosis


Date: Thu Mar 28, 1996 3:23:30 PM

Bob, since you were not shy or coy in voicing your infatuation with Our Lady Elizabeth of Croyden this morning on the phone, I thought you might also appreciate Tom's fresh reply to my blast. In the following piece, you may recognize the name of Franz Anton Mesmer (whom Tom is conspiring to sketch among others of similar ilk in his "Psychic Investigator" CD-ROM treatment), but you should also know that this Schwartz mentioned is Laurens Schwartz, an equally wacky youngish New York talent rep, who took Tom on after I composed and printed for him twenty or so a postcard queries to spearhead his search for an agent early last year. Seems he & Elizabeth are indeed moving that tour forward. Bravo! Theirs is quite the sembiotic relationship, shark and little sucker. Enjoyed our chat. It's too bad we are deemed socially incompatible. We do ebb a strong conversational tide when we allow ourselves the luxury our more sober inklings insist upon.

Still up for Andy Corrigan's Big Event tomorrow, Bob? Three o'clock. Still haven't talked with Sue this evening to determine her status. She often plans to knock off early, and only 2% (one in fifty) of the time ever pulls it off, unless she's heading out of town towards home which I figure she must take rather seriously. Ah, Richmond. Sure be interesting.

Heeeere's Tom...

Right on I agree with every word, that is, I would agree, I mean COULD agree, (Tom loses his train of thought here) if that last missive were put in form of an agrument, which it was not, or I could respond point by point if it were a prose essay, which it was not—what da' hell was that?! Anyway, it had the ring of truth. Elizabeth is a piece of work, a squirming mass of contradictions (see? you got me talking like that now). Anyway, I follow in the footsteps of Master Mesmer, and I'm taking my hysterical patient to Cleveland to get 800 color copies made, and then on to Philadelphia were Elizabeth's private neurosis will be on display at a comedy club. The back to D.C. on Monday to check e-mail and pick up snail mail and then up to New York to present four bound volumes to the Schwartz. —Tom Howell

Slurfish The Adjective

24 Feb


Slurfish The Adjective


Date: Sat, 24 Feb 1996 07:35:20

What's e-mail? As you see, Slurfish, I am again interested in the hidden intentions of man. What's really going on? About e-mail (like communication itself) someone wrote it'll be a mirroring of oneself on others to form out [one's] own individuality. A basic human urge. Made acceptable and harmless by this kind of Freudian explanation.

But then we know about the illusions in it, especially the imagination of knowing the world. We are so much involved with surrogates, that we welcome even the most artificial, tricking ourselves with enthusiasm. Our true agency nearly always slips out of our reach. So e-mail as well seems to be a vicious circle, like all of those hobbies, specialisations and fanaticisms making the people feel like beeing worth something and giving life a sense.

That is the down-side. E-mail is artificial, highly mediated, masky and a tower of solitariness. But then, what is not? Language itself, to me, suffers this kind of course. No, what I really think is that it is unnatural to live in a dull society having nobody you can exchange with intellectually, and trying to give a smile on newest Hollywood-gag not honestly longing for it. Free media makes people more individual. New media brought strife in a sad manner, what concerns Disney and Hollywood dreams. But what degrades people by showing them money and lifestyle they will never reach is similar to shocking people with porno or dividing them by culture between intellectuals and simple minds.

I cannot value this. Me, myself, I go all right with very different people. Nowadays I don't feel lost in an agency of advertisment and I like simple people too. But I nearly gave up my search for someone having read some books. It's funny. I know many artists, very fine musicians and even some philosophers but people involved with literature seem to be out of my reach. Till now.


Well Ben, there is nothing innately flawed in your preceptions concerning the modern mind of man nor is your take on his creative postures—designed to keep himself "occupied" in the most broad sense of the word until he no longer is able to agitate for something to do#151;corruptable by anything I might add or detract. High artistry and the lowest common denominator syndrome has factored into our modern age the impossibility of avoiding conflict within the psychological domains of the man on the street who like Eliot wonders whether he should simply eat a peach to maintain his dignity in the Kierkegaardian sense, or rather roll up his pants and go for the gusto in some foul hedonistic construct some will applaud while others will mock.

While it is true that nutrients and liquids are a priori mainstays, sex is not, nor is communication, yet neither are easily stymied in a cultural setting. In this sense culture is equated with that education the individual is supplied by his senses as he awakens to them from birth.
After breathing the air he cannot see, the singularly most natural thing for the homo sapien to engage himself, all else falls into the category of the artificially induced and orchestrated by weakly understood urges and socialization processes (at the personal level, regardless of intellect). Food and drink. Sex and procreation. Thus by extension, of course the impulse to communicate whatever the individual and the collective culture deems plain or unique could be said to be artificially induced by activity perhaps natural in the broadest sense, but unnatural in the keenest, where man in truth has no purpose other than to explore the concepts life itself identifies as supernatural.

Now it is always true that the act of observing others brings with it the competing notions of equality and the superiority/inferiority pathos. I would agree that the media, in particular the latter 20th century media has brought many woes upon the world with its fluid imagery and caustic irresponsibility. Envy is the bastard child of the visual arts. We all want what we have seen others seemingly no more capable or deserving than us achieve. While conservative thought stereotypically touts suppression of urges for things presently unattainable, the liberal mind rejoices in showing it like it really is or "should" become, that is to say, the apotheosis of urges. Fact is, neither do either very well, and so chaos insues.

Ah, Ben, I see we now approach the fetching frontier that the religious mind (even distilled by Kant) has struggled against for milleniums in the heats of a breathless deity, while the scientific mind seeks to stake its own claim demanding whole dominion of these gallant human strides in its own name.
Correspondence thru E-mail is without a doubt the greatest boon to the cause of personal communication and letterwriting since the Age of Romanticism, extinct a century now, with its zenith probably two hundred years ago. The telephone and the democratic notion of education for all has brought the art of communication down several notches while spreading its joy to more populations within and across cultures. While it is true that across the electronic medium the garbage in, garbage out formula is highlighted in spades, any brief perusal thru the mundane strings of code which pass for "communication" in these myopic times proves that—along with the urges moving biological sustinance (hunger, thirst, sex) to an obedience to natural law—the forces which compel a person to communicate himself to others at some basic level also fall into that secondary category behind simply breathing. While it is true that nutrients and liquids are a priori mainstays, sex is not, nor is communication, yet neither are easily stymied in a cultural setting. In this sense culture is equated with that education the individual is supplied by his senses as he awakens to them from birth.

Each of your statements made in this discussion I deem to be true, as well as my own. So what is it I am ultimately trying to transmit? Perhaps nothing more than to agree—with what that legendary wit who, as the story goes, once threatened to slice an infant into two halves to determine its true mother who was engaged in a custody battle with an imposter to assert her maternal privileges—that all is folly, and that there is nothing new under the sun. Even the code strings that allow our technology and hence this communication to be transmitted from me to you in mere seconds are nothing but man's mimickry of the genetic and molecular codes already billions of years in laughable reruns.

Who possesses these syndication rights? Ah, Ben, I see we now approach the fetching frontier that the religious mind (even distilled by Kant) has struggled against for milleniums in the heats of a breathless deity, while the scientific mind seeks to stake its own claim demanding whole dominion of these gallant human strides in its own name.

Simply put, ALL of life's petty attempts at serious as opposed to artificial importance is seen through a smudged unfocusable lens. ALL is artificially stimulated by the powers of the hour. ALL is fake except through the grace of a well-scrimmaged acceptance and propped up rationale. Damn, I had no idea where I was headed in this diatribe, but I am sounding remarkably like some street corner Protestant preacher locking horns with the other side of his brain, that of the cynical fart artiste fingering his own anus simply because it feels so good and he can get no one else he'd ever allow to poke it for him, since of course, he's an "original", unique in his artistry, hallowed in all his ways.

Well, that's about it for now Ben. Got some HTML to fathom. Til we cross the great divide once again, I'll leave you with this little ditty of a riddle with the promise that I will forward to you a list of responses, including my own a bit later: Why DID the chicken cross the road?


P.S. And Ben, do not "automatically reply" to this note but instead send anything back to my NEW address at:

I am still phasing out my Clarknet account but I wanted to include your most recent comments in this note and nearly freaked when I couldn't find them in my current mail bin. It turned out they were over here on my wife's computer posted a few hours after I established my new account, transferring my old to hers, and so in a sense your words fell between the cracks. Finding them safe and sassy kept me a happy camper for although I had a hardcopy I was reluctant to retype your whole note. Anyway, cheers...and another poetic shimmer:

"If there's an original thought out there, I could use it just about now..." —Bob Dylan

"Now, he's hell-bent for destruction, he's afraid and confused,
His brain's been mismanaged with great skill. All he believes are his eyes
And his eyes, they just tell him lies..." —Bob Dylan


"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""