Chicago.
Novelty's still kickin'.
The creativity is still flowing, ordering the cells and matter and viscera of my body to do things I find questionable. Until I see where it's all going, of course.
The wallet is still on a forced diet and looking rather peaked, but hey, every shape has a bottom.
As for artistic pontification for this day: I like Pilot Precise V5 extra fine rolling ball pens. And composition notebooks for 99 cents. They're both cheap and neither one facilitates the expectation of laying down a line worthy of a samurai poet expressing his innermost thought in the sand before a great battle. The 5 for 6 bucks pens from Office Max and the black & white tomes of cheaply pressed pulp offer an anonymity of production, an existence that can be stricken from all existence at a moment's notice with the slightest loss of resources to the owner. A comfortable position over immortalized experimentation indeed.
And, if you can learn to strike the blue lines from the paper with your mind while you're drawing, using it as a virgin canvas regardless of the neon pin-striping on every page, then you'll find you can draw on dern near anything afterward. Another thing, a lot of stores have been cashing in on the retro-vibe and trying to sell these notebooks for upwards of around 2 to 3 bucks. Don't fall for it. Attack your local Target at 'back-to-school-time' and go home with a fistful of them for 99 cents each. Off season they carry them for a whopping 1.10, I think. Just make sure they're made anywhere but China. That goes for anything, really. There's the argument that boycotting China really only hurts the people. That's false. The government is doing everything in its power to annihilate the population of their people already, and buying, or not buying, from Wal-Mart isn't going to save one ragged breath from the sucker-punched lungs of a Chinese peasant. Not buying from China means that another buck fifty isn't going into the government's pocket while they bludgeon the mantle of most F'd up superpower on Earth from the likes of Atlantis, Rome, Persia, England, America and Ohio.
But alas, the clock is reading in single digits and the sky is as dark as a metropolitan sky can get. I'll run away on a ethically flogging rant next time I check my e-mails from Amnesty International. Not now.
Now is a time of celebration! A mingling menagerie of pagan traditions with ol' standards, to clasp hands and clap backs and suck down spirits in the name of...something or other. I've never really gotten into the holiday mindwarp, so I'm pretty comfortable on the outside looking in. I am, however, doing the classic gig of going 'home' for a few days. Seeing the heathens who spawned me and unleashed me upon this unsuspecting world. I am their gift...and their burden. As are most organic productions showing signs of a pulse and a desire to communicate after being discovered.
What do do indeed? Choose wisely the shadowy corners of ill repute to prod, for they are the most tempting and generous with gifts of unspecified expiration dates.
And now I see that some time has passed and it's a larger slip than I thought it would be. There is ink to be spilled and hours yet til the sun comes to leer over my shoulder.
So with that,
R-
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