The GOP Death Cult


The Acute Triangle of Truth Shows It Like It Is 2018. Acrylic on press cleaning sheet, 9 x 17″

I recently finished a book by Noam Chomsky, Who Rules the World?, in which he declares the U.S. Republican Party to be the most dangerous threat to life on earth. According to Noam, two things are gonna get us—nuclear weapons and climate change, and the republicans under Donald Trump are tightening the odds for 21st century Armageddon at full speed. As always Chomsky gives well-cited examples, and anyone who is an adult in the room would do a service to his or her progeny by first, reading it, and then harangue-shaming day and night any federal government employee taking money from avarice to hold a locked and loaded weapon to his or her constituency.

This recent massacre in Parkland, Florida acts as a lessor cautionary tale to expose what must be the worst system ever developed in the history of the universe. I believe the American experiment is going to get us all killed. We have a tragedy where 17 people in a school are murdered by a teenager fingering a weapon that only a soldier should carry in a past world, before drone warfare, when forests were still “fair game” for little boys to shoot each other’s heads off, and yet we’re debating the “issue” of gun control. Even my WWII fighting Grandfather Ronald, the most conservative conservative in a Throop 20th century, would be aghast at the level of 2nd Amendment stupidity reached thus far in the America consciousness. Likewise, back in ’51, he was boiling hot mad about U.S. presence on the Korean Peninsula. So is Kim Jong-un. But not our President, most of Washington, and all the established media—probably  not even any of my friends—it’s the old normal, and our head-of-state vocalizes a final nuclear soiree to top off the end of days to honor the Evangelical psychopaths who tramp our society as the greatest zombie hypocrites of humankind.

After further knowledge of 1950’s atomic warfare capabilities, my Grandfather would call anyone suggesting nuclear 1st strike a domestic enemy. I don’t think he ever read Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. In it, Yossarian declares to a buddy, “The enemy is anybody who’s going to get you killed, no matter which side he is on.” That’s why Grandpa Ronald shot Germans. I believe he was a fool of his time to do the shooting, when both his Congressman and President had workable trigger fingers, but that’s a topic for another day and a moral belief system. Nobody likes to take a bullet, neither for global domination of the super-wealthy, nor from a child with a big gun shooting at children in a child’s hallway.

The threat of nuclear 1st strike anywhere in an atmosphere is a threat to all life on earth. Any nation just holding the weapons is already experiencing mass-psychosis. Therefore, the federal government, presently run by the Republican Party, is domestic enemy #1. Any Democratic Party member not crying foul, is also guilty of premeditated mass murder. The threat was made, and the banks still opened on Monday. If you disagree with my logic, then point to where the locked and loaded thermo-nuclear warhead is near you, and cite the 9-1-1 call made to 1st responders to prevent you family’s immediate liquidation. See? You can’t.

Start shaming.

We stand at ready to be completely annihilated while crazy people with AR-15’s in high schools pick off the most vulnerable. My Congressman John Katko (NY-24) allows this to happen while drinking Kool Aid® (monetary donations from the NRA).

He is a member of the GOP Death Cult.

I think Twitter celebrity John Cusack coined the term “GOP Death Cult”. I can’t wipe it off my lips. It is the perfect campaign issue. “End the GOP Death Cult!” It speaks a profound truth, like out of the mouths of babes and village idiots. The children are doing their part to begin the long time necessary hard shaming of their stupid, self-serving, westernly, high-priviledged pretend parents. The village idiots are painting pictures for now, while the GOP Death Cult whimpers its old, greedy, white man death song.

It has lost. It will die out very soon. There just aren’t enough wannabe human killers out there to drink the NRA Kool Aid® any longer.

One down. One nuclear insanity to go.


This Week the Dow Fluctuated My Glee


The Dow Jones Industrial Average, Jan 2, 1981 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 37 x 36″

National Public Radio thinks its status (the Dow) must be bull-horned every hour on the hour, else people will stop driving their cars and fall out of them onto the street. President Grump uses it to mark his triumph as a bootlicker to more successful imperialists. And everyday I pray to Pan that its average drops to the single digits, so mother earth can lick herself clean, and perhaps decide to give human beings another go at living on her back skin.

This week the Dow burped and lifted my spirits. I’ve been wanting to begin my series on the capitalist’s devil marker for some time, and it was a pleasant coincidence to start now, while the bubbles burst. I can only hope and pray to Pan that Monday brings a sharper decline—the kind that actually might set up a vena cava road block on Warren Buffet’s multiple potholed cardiac super highway, or find a frat boy pervert Zuckerburg tearing his own face off in the mirror. What a dream to finally see a steady stream of Chinese corporitos screaming off bridges, and my local Congressman losing all his crony capitalist funding quicker than a fly barf on a rotting pile of weapons industry CEO suicides.

That NPR announcement comes every hour to remind us that the dark forces are under control. If one likes horror stories, he can delve deeper into the blackness and measure individual company ups and downs on the Lifehate® meter, via CNN Money, Marketwatch, The New York Times, or his or her own secret hush money on-line portfolio (401K means “401,000 species closer to extinction”).

One can dream.

I dream a familial human economy (with access to antibiotics) close to the lifestyles of rabbits in their warrens, instead of all the rabbits dead and my portfolio achieving the best underwater condo in South Florida. It’s my dream. It can be as crazy as yours without the lace underwear.

I made another painting the next day, while the Dow was dropping satanically, 666 points:


The Dow Jones Industrial Average, Jan 5, 2018 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 37 x 36″

The two are of the same vista. The first is a sylvan scene in my memory when the Dow was reasonable and I was a boy dreaming of a just and fair society. God, I remember parents thinking the world was ending they had it so bad, and yet, in hindsight, the Dow was just a gleam in the eye of the total global domination monster it is today.

The second is of the Dow this year climbing to remarkable, unexplored heights of Chinese Plastic Crap Mountain. I made this scene more fuzzy because I believe that time and the repetition of status-keeping, money hoarding, and career-building makes adults so stupid and afraid of practically everything that they begin to see the strangest demons climbing out of rabbit warrens.

Privately, every dollar we keep in the Dow is just a reminder of death around the corner. Publicly, its existence is our human being account sheet delivered to Pan’s desk at quitting time.

Most of America ate dinner in 1981. Americans still eat dinner today. What has changed? Two generations of coddled babies in their cribs make for terrible activists of revolution that needs to happen. Too many parents are dreaming that arbitrary wealth acquisition is the best way to “make a living”.

So I hope and pray Pan makes the economy implode. Because no human thinks to knock the Dow Jones propagandist out of his chair, I must call providence to action. I still dream like the child, who never dreamt about money to appear and make the world go away.

Here they are together. See? The future is the past is the future, no matter what the numbers tell you.


Merry Christmas and a Kind Word


I Wonder if All That Money We Spend on Space Turns Out to be a Real Good Breakfast 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″

This will be the last time before election day where I mention the present congress person’s name. It is John Katko, and I feel he must be a good man expressing what he believes are the best of his abilities.  In the spirit of Christmas and good will, I will never send another critical e-mail or social media burst to him. He and his Twitter feed are free of me forever. Hooray!

Now is the time to hone my platform to include as many people as possible, and abide by my initial strategy, which means, to be myself, passionate yet genial, and never let the schoolyard ugly in.

John is a good person. I know he cares deeply about family, friends, country, and world when lying down in bed at night, his pillow pressed flat with the weight of our nation’s problems. The waking day for any spotlight politician is a thick atmosphere of confusion, delusion, and illusion. And a night heaviness that must crush him at times.

Which is why I believe all congress people are vulnerable and weak. I was bullied in school. You were too at some point. Adjustments were made for the sake of social survival, and we all learned how to deal in a world gone wrong, push through a long life, collecting needful status points along the way, and never to make a stir among our social class. Mainly because it’s just not polite, too loud, and all the bully personalities come out of the woodwork if you dare…

So Mr. Katko, a firm handshake. Next year I shall run for federal service to our district as an Independent. I will use my own media to share my politics with Palmyra and East Syracuse. I wish to be the reform candidate, win the election, and turn Congress around by example. I am not tired by the “same ole, same ole”. On the contrary, I am energized by it. Inertia is for bullies, and I’m just not that young anymore to give a damn about the taller, meaner kids.

Here is one more anecdote to shed light on a dysfunctional federal government before I make merry for the holiday.

When I wasn’t getting filthy rich as a painter, I made ends meet as a line cook in a rinky-dink restaurant of fellow misfits and miscreants. After a busy night (or day and night, for double shifts were common), other cooks, waitresses, and dishwashers would head out to the bar where the boss supplied us with dollar drinks. Many nights we stayed right through until closing time, doffed our hats and stumbled out the door.

On such a night, back in July, 1995, I was heading through East Park on my way home when I noticed another weary (drunken) working man, walking in the opposite direction across the street. Suddenly he made an aggressive bee line for me. The fight or flight response should have kicked on, however, I discovered a new reaction to immediate fear and trembling.

Temporary insanity.

The moment our eyes met, I leaped into the air waving one arm and pointing to the sky with the other. “Look!” I howled. “Look at the mooooon!” I danced side to side, up and down yelling my head off, “Look at the moon! Look at the moon!”

The would-be mugger stopped on a dime, turned, and ran away from me.

I know you are afraid of hotheads John. I am too. For the rest of this campaign, I will never say a critical or unkind word. The golden rule of human life must cover also the inhumane arena of federal politics. To keep socially sane, most kids would rather pee their pants in class than run for U.S. Congress.

Only crazy people and bullies ever meet on that road.

Today, I level our playing field and imagine that you’re just crazy like me.

To you and yours. Happy holidays counselor!


Capillary Reaction Serialization #7 is a Ghost Story

The Boar Thinks Benzene Poisoning is Funny

“The Boar Thinks Benzene Poisonong Is Funny” 2012. Acrylic on panel, 18 x 14″

France Paintings

These paintings were made during a brief residency in Southwestern France. There was a sixth, a trout “swimming joyfully in a river pool of toluene paint thinner”, that was bought last year at a show in Cooperstown. In America a purchaser of a trout can be a fish lover and a gas drilling supporter at the same time. Here it is not necessary to connect art with conscience. Hence the ridiculous Croesus wealth-building of perverts like Jeff Koons and Lady Gaga.
I do not speak or write in the French language. These translations are pathetic, but that’s okay because the fauna of France do not speak French either. But they are inclined to chew off our arms for the audacious move by the bad (rotten) apples among us who are encroaching upon their property rights.
These paintings and more aim to stop the hydrofracking industry from invading our beautiful upstate New York countryside. A tough front to form indeed. My local public radio station, WRVO, at the behest of fracking millionaires, is telling us to “think about it”. That is, accept the reality that propaganda is king, even among our supposed publicly funded institutions.
I had a nice time painting in France. For eight days I was hounded by an angry ghost in a 13th century bastide. It was late October and it drove me to bed down in the unheated studio. To be polite I told my hostess that I was keeping myself in a restless state to stimulate creativity. No. I was terrified, painting every waking moment while watching my back. Beside a farmer’s fallow field, I took one long walk down a Roman road, and visited a castle on the last day of my trip.

The Existential Worker Hornet Thinks It Might Prefer Euthanasia By Methane Gas

“The Existential Worker Hornet Thinks It Might Prefer Euthanasia By Methane Gas” 2012. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″

The Trout Swims Joyously in a River Pool of Toluene Paint Thinner

“The Trout Swims Joyfully in a River Pool of Toluene Paint Thinner” 2012. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″


The Roe Deer Wants Cheese to Taste Like Vanadium Curd

“The Roe Deer Wants Cheese to taste Like Vanadium Curd” 20112. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″

The Stone Marten Waits at the Pipe Fitting For a Sip of Napthalene

“The Stone Marten Waits at the Pipe Fitting for a Sip of Naphthalene” 2012. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″

The Slow Worm Hopes a Garden Soaked in Formaldehyde Will Bring Longevity

“The Slow Worm Hopes a Garden Soaked in Formaldehyde Will Bring Longevity” 2012/ Acrylic on wood panel, 18 x 14″

This last one has a translation error most likely because the ghost was breathing its hot 14th century bad breath down the back of my neck…



Installment #6 of Capillary Reaction To Record the Joys of Naphthalene for my District Congressperson


“Primary Fast Frack With White and Black” 2011. Acrylic on (3) paper, 30 x 16″


2014. Acrylic on wood panels, (6) 6 x 6″

First the Sun and Then the Moon Waxes Poetic The Radium-266 Superfly

I learn something new each time I research the side effects of hydrofracking:
Radium-266 is bad for humans, but inspiring beyond words to its namesake mutant species “superfly”. All day and night the superfly sings lustily of days to come and gone by—the willow that stretched to the stars and cracked with the first big wind, the last squirrel to pack soil over a nut, pick its head up to the sun, and cough up a blood clot, the dreams of a mate to fly with over the lake counting the floating fish in the moonlight… The superfly is a poet and a visionary. He sleeps subterranean for seven years subsisting in a bath of charged radium ions. Then at pre-dawn on midsummer night he rises with the sun to sing the song of the world and find a mate to cuddle up with for the next long radioactive sleep.
It wasn’t enough to have a hundred toxic chemicals bubbling in a murky frack pool, so we opted for mining some well-known carcinogenics too.
With a three-year lease, Landowner Ted can now afford an F350 run on natural gas, a tiller with its own choke, and cash payments for his grandson’s chemotherapy.
Also, unfortunately, for the next 16,000 years, Landowner Ted’s descendants cannot step outside without a mosquito netting cage. The superflies’ bite is instant death, and no pesticide can kill it.

It’s About Water You Suicidal Turtles! Water!

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

It’s About Water You Suicidal Turtles! Water!

Opening night in Hamilton is over. I am freed up to continue amassing the first local environment painting exhibition that will be the last ever necessary. All adults of earth shall pass through the gallery thinking, “What has happened?” and “Why was I not meditating like an old ghost after having babies and teaching them the Golden Rule”?
I am convinced that, in the West anyway, art and artist must become the moral bullhorn to check humanity’s penchant for cardinal sin. I remember back during the Iraq “war” when I wrote to 40 local ministers and priests chastising them for being scared little puppies to their congregations. It seemed not one of them had the guts to outwardly protest the slaughter. The SUV’s kept driving in on Sunday mornings to hear of their personal greatness—the holy men had bills to pay, bell towers to repair at exorbitant union wages. Either way, protest or not, there would be many more crimes committed by the lost sheep, so keep quiet and share the spoils. I scolded them with the knowledge of how the church became the Hummer became the church. Not one response. Of course I never supplied a return address (I was an artist not a prophet).
Environmental disaster, like war, is not a concern to the corporate God men and women. Heaven is hard work. Few have time to think about earth, water, and air anymore. A good economy will refurbish the church, and while so many are frantically busy applying themselves to bloating the coffers (by all means), little artists paint pictures hand-slapping the bad men, who include even ministers and priests!

Capillary Reaction #4 Installment in Year and a Half Long Attempt To Replace Seat of Congressman With My Seat


2013. Acrylic on (5) 6 x 6″ wood panels

John Katko, New York’s 24th District U.S. Congressional Representative, thinks that fracking our land is an a-okay prospect and glorious economic opportunity for rural, landowning New Yorkers. So is drinking HCL if dissolved human flesh and bone was a marketable commodity. And believe me, bottles of it would be on supermarket shelves tomorrow if this were so. I think John likes money and dreams of reelection more than the biological systems of New York’s toddlers and infants. During the campaign I will challenge John to a month-long tour of Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, and North Dakota fracking country where his water can only be drunk from residences within 300 yards of a frack well. If he isn’t green or blue by month’s end, I will cease to use fracking as a campaign issue.

It’s Alimentary My Dear Manslaughterer

In with the bad, out with what used to be bad, but is better now than what stayed in. Proof that the Beatle’s song “Helter Skelter” was bad medicine. Charles Manson took it in innocently enough, not knowing how it would mix things up inside, jive with his homicidal entitlement dreams, and be released into the wild. So he formed a cult and planned gruesome parties.
I believe that what makes a crazed Manson character must lie dormant in each and every one of us. We are guilty of abusing our own small powers sometimes. When power becomes absolute, whether expressed as micro from a stinky, run-down homicidal maniac’s ranch in Death Valley, or macro, by the state mandate from a Mao Zedong or Andrew Cuomo, it will corrupt absolutely. We are familiar with the popular phrase. We repeat it at parties, yet at election time, still vote for either party in a one party-pretending to be two party-system. The one, true party is made up of the corporitos. They party all summer long on the private beaches of Lake Superior. In Oswego at late summer, one can get a glimpse of their yacht captains battening down the hatches before a morning intercoastal departure to Florida. A month later they anchor their master’s ships for many warm winter parties beneath Miami moons.
You wouldn’t give Charles Manson the power to determine the potential fate of an entire people’s water supply for profit. Even if it would employ all the violent LSD soaked hippies on earth. What has Andrew Cuomo written on his “saint” wall to have you assume that he is looking out for your best interests? Who is your state senator and assemblyperson? Are any of them hobbyist nutritionists, chemicals scientists, structural engineers, mothers and fathers who would struggle to afford a year’s supply of home-delivered spring water?
The man in the painting knows the science. It’s alimentary dear Watson. If you drink benzene, you suffer benzene. What might not be so obvious is that your representative in power would trade your physical well being for a small profit if a corporito told him to.

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 36 x 36″

Think About It

The fact that a 48 year old man, simple, shy and nearly as honest as his neighbor ever was, feels the need to take up what the elites of my state are claiming is a cause célebre over the pros and cons of chemically infecting our water supply, is a sign of the black SUV times.
Even our local “public” radio is in on the money game, selling advertising to the gas men who espouse child leukemia as a justifiable result of fake farmer Fred’s purchase of a speed boat to play with while the subsidized high fructose corn syrup grows tall.
The governor is corrupt, his friends all greed punks, his girlfriend a very bad human being, and not even a good cook, really. Phenol crab cakes. A mixed green salad washed in naphthalene. A glass of formaldehyde Finger Lakes wine delivered to her door by the sleazy state senator who dreams paper money is happiness.
It amazes me that these lawyer-cowards are not hanging from a stick, by a thread, over a frack pool bubbling with mass community rage.
Stanley Milgram would have nodded his head while the people of the village turn the voltage up on their own screaming children.
So I take up paint and mix in what I think is the second most audacious power grab ever made by human beings. The first being the advent of probable nuclear annihilation by future lawyer-cowards. My neighbors watch and listen to the fake debate and wait to judge which side the hippies fall on. They all love CSN, and even Neil Young before he broke away and wrote the poetry of a grown-up. They just don’t appreciate hippies bearing a conscience. All are waiting for the lawyer-cowards to set up the tent of the crazy circus debate on hydrofracking. And established tools like my local public radio people perpetuate the power grab with credit card payment glee. They don’t need to be millionaires. They all just want to look like one.


“Fissures!” 2014. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″

Fissures Make Colorful Carcinogens, Yes?

A self-explanatory painting. Chemicals can be colorful. They are sent into the earth under high pressure. They come back up and float in a pool. That’s the way the gas men want it to be understood. Innocuous, maybe even slightly normal, and downright grand if it provides jobs to the job hungry.
Atmospheric temperatures must have stabilized overnight. No longer news worthy. Nobody is talking about it. Huzzah! Tomorrows are purified for our progeny!
No, not really. But that is how the established 4th estate expects us to think.
Headlines from NPR would have us assume that global warming just stopped, and that summer’s upstart is warm breeze and strawberries and wild fauna nesting soundly in the tall grass, swimming peacefully in pure and wild, wet waters, nibbling moist berries off the endless lush produce of mother earth…
NPR is government propaganda. Someone at the top of their machine is having lunch with Goebbels.
We could stop to get our bearings, reassess our dependencies, head into the future with strong backs and determination, but will not move a millimeter until our dollar takes its final nose dive into oblivion.
Still, with minimal effort we can break out of surface denial by making atmosphere talk our first attempt at every conversation. We could become mindful once again and use our cleanliness and good health and swell science to imitate 14th century Japanese royalty. We could write poetry, take day walks, stab to death the Carnegie Steel and Rockefeller Oil earth-hating drive-about we depend on more than our neighbors and families. We could naturalize our lives with creative job creation. That means we choose our local economies and dress them to our own survival tastes. Oil execs might have to be tortured gently. Fracking giants could have their heads politely lopped off. Military brass would get the picture after a sound fragging by its own sentient cannon fodder.
These punishing days will come. What’s unbelievable is that the majority of intelligent human beings refuse to articulate this with any regular pattern.
Geeze, even without a blog to help clear her fuzzier dreams, the woolly mammoth got smitten with bright yellow buttercups still digesting.
So, carpe diem, verdad?
Yes, of course. But let’s do it with some class. Let us witness some poetry crawl out of this Walmart funk hole we’ve born ourselves into. Use our liberal educations—read what the dead dogs wrote to become living lions once again. Don’t let the consumer culture barons fool you any longer. The woolly mammoth was a blind consumer too. What was lost in non-acquisition of petroleum plastics, she made up for a thousand times by expressing her true nature.
Express your true nature. Become who you were before you were born. Focus your dreams toward creative survival. Yes, even with the weekly trade off of coins for Scott Tissue paper. Doom should be the only preoccupation of any species’ grown-up. Even the crazed mega-neuronopolis doom of the human being king.

The Finality of Three Paintings on a Strange Yesterday, and a Fourth today, to Wrap it Up


Two possible titles: “Donald Trump has Made his Decision. Now Let Him Enforce It!”, or “Stop Using the Master’s Freakin” Tools, Fools!” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″

Every few weeks I hit a low. I do not think I am bipolar any more than the next failed painter trapped inside a frozen, northern woe-box—I do believe that all inhabitants of industrialized nations suffer waves of confusion from time to time, whether or not they partake in a private economy bearing cyclical jags of elation and self-doubt. I even support and maintain a hypothesis that men have hormonal periods. Irritable Man Syndrome for some (the pick-up truck testosterone drinking cup type), or those artists like me who deal as loving butlers to the women in the household and suffer, what I believe, a hormonal derangement caused by the cross-gender dormitory effect. Science only needs to prove the theory. And to boot, last night was a full moon or close.
So the day began in heavy angst.
Propaganda radio informed me early on that Standing Rock is going to be slippery oil rock soon, or so everybody thinks. Everybody thinks that a sleazy billionaire will get his spoiled child way in the end. “Executive order” is the line, and the president and his pretend loyal “Army Core of Engineers” (the latter more than likely a euphemism for “recent high school grads with rulers”) have declared that business interests (if significantly dressed up in its moolah bag finery) trumps culture and ways of tradition always. Just what I would expect to hear from a rich pretend noble. What boils my blood is the expected response from thousands of disaffected, propagandized human automatons, who gleefully hand over unlearned and undeserved power to the wrong people. Then an unlearned debate ensues. Some rural nitwit neighbor of mine argues with an urban nitwit neighbor of mine, and the two opinions nitwittedly offered by nitwits to nitwits, constitute reality by a nation of nitwits fueled by nitwit news. And the whole manner is unnecessary to the one brave Sioux descendant who actually keeps the ancient soil in his heart and soul, and also has heard, or even read, a bit of history not told by the established outsider nitwit.
He destroys the problem.
Let the President enforce his “order”. If it’s a culture worth keeping (and I know that it is, then the culture as a nation will do what it must to protect itself. Just stop acting like slaves to nitwits, nitwits! Sabotage now!
Oh, that image didn’t win me many “likes” on social media. So friends and friends of friends, continue to protest and politicize like car payment Gandhi’s with smartphones. Even that bozo thought he did a grand thing. Freed India. To do what? Make an entire earth untouchable with threat of some nifty fisson-fusion fireworks?
Nationalism is always ugly, but nitwit nationalism kills. It kills an awful lot of people eventually. Mahatma should have known this, but the poor sap was trained as a lawyer, not a poet. Lawyers know how to say “boots on the ground” over and over, and the nitwits lap it up and sanction state-sponsored terrorism. The lawyer Gandhi, knowing his audience, dressed down for the occasion, fasted when necessary, led a nation to nationalism, and began India’s own state-sponsored terrorism—a glorious nuclear stockpile of its very own. Praise Shiva.
Onto the second painting…
 “If I am Ever Going to be a Great Living Painter, Then All the Young, Talented Ones Must Take a Fast Leap off a Tall Building” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″
A bit of whimsy to disguise a solid truth about my psyche.
I am an envious tool.
And that didn’t help my mood one bit, but it did supply enough self-deprecation juice to nourish the next, and final painting for the day,
“This Bird Has Got the Disease of Conceit” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″
So true.
You know, all I ever dreamed, since delving into a lifetime of mixing words and colors, was the ability to make a living, receiving no more pay than a dishwasher’s wages. I used to be a dishwasher, in my twenties, before getting promoted to cook and then father, and then father-husband feeler. I never imagined then, or today, that I would ever make a profit from creative work. The angst is gone now, with the moon yanking on some poor Australian’s psyche, and I am feeling better. As some of my friends have told me, and I believe it more and more each day, that when it comes to making a profit, Mr. Throop is his own worst enemy.
And then the birds visited me this morning, as reminder. Which birds?
“This is What my Soul Looks Like When the Little Birds of Profit Fly By” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22