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📓 Saturday, November 8, 2025 — 7:54 p.m.
I am again attempting the act of writing.
My left index finger is bandaged — I put a bandaid that’s now ragged from moving cases of plastic bags through L.A.
Trying to move my bags of cases with my van parked on the street, I pierced my finger.
I didn’t see it — well, I did.
But I thought I had room between my side doors and this damn plant — the Spanish Dagger.
I didn’t have room.
I’ve said in different entries I’ve written here that I am not a writer.
I mean it.
I love to draw.
But I don’t draw as much anymore.
It takes me time to draw because I get bored with traditional drawing — the kind I was taught in school, at the university level.
Specifically, CSULB.
To be taught to draw is good,
but to be taught to feel is better.
As a kid, I drew from cereal boxes.
I loved the smallest drawings best because it was a challenge for me to recreate them on a larger scale.
I loved drawing comic book heroes.
Loved Wolverine, Spider-Man.
But it started with Mickey.
Mickey Mouse.
He was my start —
two circles for the ears, one for the face, one for the nose, and two for the eyes.
Simple.
But I loved seeing the make-believe not be — but instead, be.
Art to me is making something that shouldn’t be, be.
To feel.
In live drawing class, I enjoyed painting with three brushes taped together.
It was a challenge to draw, and the fuck ups were part of the language —
everything doesn’t always have to be refined to perfection.
Why do I move plastic bags?
I am an artist?
Well, because I need to make a living.
I write more now than I draw — because drawing hurts my head.
Always thinking of composition, color, typography, perspective, and so on.
It’s needed, but I need to introduce more chaos and less refinement.
I think I need to try what doesn’t work,
and leave it as is — not because it’s beautiful,
or what people like to call “cute.”
But because it doesn’t work,
it makes you feel that this shit don’t work.
Shit is better than “cute.”
I hate that word.
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