It’s been a while, no? I think my last post was some philosophical Nietzsche-esque thing about how little our individual lives matter and the legacy you leave behind. Clearly, looking back on my thoughts I’ve scribbled over the past 7 or 8 years, my inherent self has always remained the same. Ever the skeptic, ever the searcher, the wanderer, disillusioned with humanity as it is yet fascinated by what it could be. Looking here and there, under the rug, over the fence. Deciding and undeciding. Overthinking the worthiness of a person, an event, the entire human species. Regardless of any simmering potential, frozen within the doubt that¬†anything I do will make a difference. The way I choose to, or think I should, express that inherent self, however, has always been a labyrinthine evolutionary journey. So much so that, at times, it’s rather funny.

I take myself too seriously.

So I quit my job.

And despite never having drawn anything more than a stick figure prior to September of last year, I quit my job….. to become an artist. Well, to be more specific, a pyrographer.



Because. Well. Why the fuck not? Tomorrow, I might be a philosopher again. Next week, I may finish my novel. Sometime this year, I may find myself pinned beneath an ATV in the mountains of New Hampshire and wonder why the hell I never allowed myself the latitude to say……

Whatever, man. I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow. I don’t know what time I’m going to bed. I don’t know what time I’ll wake up. And frankly, I don’t care.

Whatever, man.

All the experiences that have created the life that is me are a fantastic mosaic of stained glass and iron twisted, molded, and colored into this body and this mind and this soul, each of which I only have one.

I can’t do this over again. So. I suppose. For as long my body will allow me. I’ll try to do as much of everything as I can.

I wanted to be a writer. So I will write.

Once, I wanted to be a financial counselor, so I will advise.

I wanted to be a philosopher, so I will seek the irrational and illogical and wonder more about those who embrace them rather than refute them. Because.

Whatever, man.

And I guess, for now at least, I’ll wake up at some point every day and laugh at myself for never having known, or wondered, or cared that I had any artistic talent whatsoever.

Somehow, I’ve accumulated a ridiculous amount of wood and power tools, an incredibly expensive woodburning unit, and after four months, have somehow created things on wood that people are willing to pay me a few hundred dollars for.

Four months ago, if anyone asked me what ability I did not have, have never had, and would be the least likely to develop, “art” would not even have been on my radar.

But, today it is. Tomorrow, it may not be.

Whatever, man.

I’ve got my guide, my towel, my babel fish, and- of course- for purely sadomasochistic reasons- my book of Vogon poetry. And I am certainly, most definitely. Not. Going to panic.

“Pearl” from “Standing Nude” by Bob Seidemann