Busy weekend. And, I didn't feel like posting.

This image was shot on Friday, while spending a wonderful afternoon with a few friends who were visiting from southern Oregon. I haven't taken any photos since then, nor have I worked much the studio since Tuesday. There has been so much going on inside that downtime was really important. Last night I finally went back in and painted.

The universe, over the last few months, has been providing me with examples of people, self-aware, who regardless of fear level, strive for great intimacy and healthy communication. I feel honored to take part in those moments.

It's as if I've been stepping through the pages of a book, not reading but experiencing examples of the very thing I seek: people open to different pleasures, many types of love, the key being striving for the greatest integrity...living authentic lives, fully present. It's very different than what I see splattered all over the internet, in the media, at workshops and conferences. I wonder if that's because these people see the preciousness in what they have and on some level know it doesn't translate...yet instead becomes diluted in broader venues.

Authenticity is the sexiest thing I've encountered, the desire to touch the root. In that, s/m play is hotter, fucking is greater, painting is grander, food is more glorious. It's not trendy or a fad. Whether encountered for a moment or a little longer, it carries solidity. Genuine presence.

People are sharing a little of their lives with me, speaking of their personal connections, their own journey through their anger and wounds…each relaying that the more substantial the connection, the harder the work. Hand in hand with that comes greater joy.

In every one of these stories is a reminder that I don't need to beat myself up for seeking honesty….I wasn't asking for too much. And as my therapist still insists on telling me, I suppose because I have a tough time believing, it's not impossible. Although people who desire to walk this path are difficult to find, few and far between, they are around. Again, it's the same thing my leather Mentor, whose words have been recently milling around my head, told me 8 years ago.

They've both informed me that what I seek won't be found in the clamor of the throngs. Yet instead, it's by being true to myself even if that means periods of great loneliness. In this is one of my most challenging lessons: recognizing and trusting the strength buried deep within me. And once I really begin to access that on a more visceral level, then my trust for others will return.

Everything has a price. The one common denominator in all these people who I've crossed paths with is their desire to get real with themselves first. The cost of such a life is a willingness to go into the dark, knowing it's a solitary and painful adventure while accessing the knowledge that there is beauty on the other side.

I just have to hold on to the promise of beauty.

No photo today.

With the internal work I've been doing, this has been time to look at my anger. 48 years of anger, piled up and not accessed for most of it. Denial is a wonderful thing. Ignorance truly is bliss.

For the last two weeks my anger has been tangling me in its vines, tightening across my chest. By yesterday morning I was suffocating. It needed to come out and my fingers flew across the keyboard. From there it sat...not knowing if I'd even post it. 36 hours later, here it is.

Warning, rant ahead...

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On anger.


The more I'm learning to feel all that's inside, the greater those feelings are becoming. Anger. Especially anger.

The anger is increasing to an immensity I didn't think could be felt. Its enormousness scares me. I fear I'll become the bitter old person, locked in chains of rage. But it seems that bitter old people are born of those who don't access, work through and heal from anger. Or so I'm told.

The anger is all the same. It's not only a grief around not fitting in but a rage that's hot and red. While in this anger I detest organized groups of all kinds. If there's a label, I see hyposcrisy. I see denial and people shape-shifting to fit….to be loved…to be part of something greater. In that voracious hunger, they become blinded to their own personal reality. Blinded to values such as compassion, trust, recognition of boundaries...all the very things extolled in s/m scenes yet sadly fall to the wayside once stepped out of the dungeon.

I'm angry because there is too much compartmentalization in our world.

I'm angry because I can't seem to find those who are willing to live in the margins of existence, knowing the truth that we are each individual and therefore although can come together lightly for joined interests, still keep an open heart and piercing eyes…able to see the dark truth that lays within each one of us.

I'm angry because I seek warriors and when I think I've touched one they disappear upon contact.

I'm angry because I feel ostracized, discarded, rejected, abandoned for being human. For daring to speak my truth. For daring to be all that I am. For daring to take shaky steps toward growth and greater strength.

I'm angry. Born a freak and a lifetime of being shoved in the corner has taken its toll. Hidden away by those who see me and don't know what to do with it.

Come here.
Go away.

You thrill me.
You scare me.

I'm angry because I've been working so fucking hard to be conscious of each step, and am so afraid to cause greater harm that I've silenced myself with fear.

I'm angry and I'm angry that I'm feeling angry because the anger brings on a big sense of victim which I loathe. I'm angry that I need to dredge up the muck to heal. I'm angry that I've had to spend $25K plus in therapy because I was born wrong and don't really fit in this world. I'm angry that I make people uncomfortable and I'm angry that they aren't strong enough to take me.

I'm angry that the world sucks as much as it is beautiful and I'm angry that I feel so much. I'm angry that I allow myself to be intimidated by others and I'm angry that I in turn intimidate. I'm angry with life and I'm angry with death. I'm angry that I'm angry that I'm angry. And some days I just can't stand it.

I'm angry that big feelings create discomfort and I'm angry that we aren't all born to grow up safe yet instead some of us have mothers holding our ankles while dangling us over the edge of a fiery crevice.

I'm angry and angry and more angry in a way I did not know existed. I'm angry at the ease of dishonesty. I'm angry at violation. I'm angry at betrayal. I'm angry with how we all cover our asses with excuses and justifications. I'm angry at our lack of responsibility and failure to own up to our shit. I'm angry at our denial. I'm angry at our capacity to hurt each other consciously or unconsciously. I'm angry that we were so wounded as children. And I'm angry at how we use a sense of perceived radicalism to prove to the world how cutting edge we are when in fact we are hiding from greater intimacy.

I'm so fucking angry I can't stand it sometimes and it's wearing me out. I'm angry about the fact that I need to almost throw up most days because I feel the bile and poison that's settled into this body after years of excommunication.

I'm angry that although I was entitled to my anger I wasn't entitled to my feelings of needing to apologize.

I'm angry that I have the great desire to paint yet not the physical stamina to paint in the way I desire.

I'm angry that my trust was broken. Shattered.

And I'm really angry that even in expressing this anger I see the vast narcissicism within myself.

I wish I were clearer inside, instead of angry and confused.
I wish I could see this before it leaves in July.
I wish I didn't always have to be the one to make the first move.
I wish I had more energy to paint for longer periods.

I wish I had a magical twitchable nose.

Thinking about the figure painting I showed you last night...I know what direction to go in with a brand new one. Today I'll pick up fresh canvas. The space between background and figure needs to break apart. There is some fear in doing that and not sure why. I can work abstracts but when there is a figure subject (instead of landscape or still life) it's hard for me to really blow it apart...shift the space between the concrete and ethereal. Yesterday's excitement was because I've come closer to that goal with this particular painting. Time for intense exploration.

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I woke all angry and hurt this morning. Nothing new. It still happens about 98% of the time and I'm so over it...can't wait for it to cease. While immersed, it's some of the loneliest stuff ever. Damn...

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SIFF began on Thursday. It snuck up on me this year. Also, for a while now, I haven't been in the mood to go to films as frequently as I used to but I did purchase tickets for today's screening. A friend, who is a writer, and I are going to see Chris and Don: A Love Story. A film on the relationship of writer, Christopher Isherwood and painter Don Bachardy.

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It's good that tomorrow's a holiday.

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The photo. Yes, it's very similar to yesterday's photo. It was one of those shots where crying out to be taken in color and b&w.

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The chestnut trees are in full bloom. This morning they were heavy, laden with moisture...their flower petals slowing falling to the ground. The light, somber. It was a mystical sight.

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I look forward to the day I'm free...

I've been struggling with the above painting, 22x28, for a while now. It's one of the paintings that began as an abstract: pick a color, load the brush with paint, touch the bristles to the canvas and move the hand. Yeah...one of those hard ones. As I told a new friend yesterday while spending a delightful afternoon in a gallery, that type of painting is some of the scariest stuff I do in my life.

I'm still not pleased with it but it's getting somewhere. I think. After the morning's frustrating session on this particular piece I then pulled out the second figure painting, also 22x28. The first figure which I've shown you last week is still sitting. I haven't touched it since. But I began a second one...for looser exploration. You see, I'm not sure if I want to keep the first one more realistic, but desired to have another to use as a play painting. It was crudely drawn in because I chose to concentrate on color and shapes instead of realistically building form.

Today, after putting the top one away, I worked on the figure and came up with this. It was one of those moments where when I finally put down the brush I knew I had something. Right away I knew. So much so that tears fell as I stood back to stare. Rarely...does that feeling happen. Normally I can't judge a painting until the day after. This time...I knew.

Before leaving the studio I hung it next to the first one. In going back and forth it all made sense. Even though the abstract isn't resolved, the figure came to be because of the abstract. I can see one informing the other.

When I left the studio I thought it complete, but now in looking at the jpeg, I'm not sure. It doesn't matter. I'm curious to see what it looks like tomorrow. And I'll begin a third of the figure to push it even further.

In all this...is some of the magic of painting.

Today, after working in the studio, I stepped across the street to look and simply be. It's the first time since I've had the studio that I took advantage of the beauty that's found next to my painting space.

I think I'm pushing myself too hard.

Yes, there are many little strong positives that are finally being manifested after much time and therapy. There are still some very muddy areas where, for the first time in my life, I don't know how to resolve. This is teaching me that I can't fix everything and to let go of my idea of resolution. I need to trust that it will work out. Somehow. Some way.

The slow upswing comes from focusing on the tasks at hand. But this is where I'm tired. For a long time, I would take a couple vacation hours here and there, or flex my holiday time so I wasn't working full 40 hour weeks. In that, I'd get to the studio at a reasonable time.

For a little bit now, my schedule is such:

~At work by 6 am.
~Home at 4 pm.
~Sit quietly for about 45 minutes.
~Run out to catch the 5pm bus.
~Get off the bus a few stops earlier so I can walk and stretch my legs.
~Grab food on the way to the studio.
~Eat while looking at the paintings and figure out a sense of direction.
~Paint.
~Leave the studio between 6:30-7.
~Take the day's photo if something hasn't caught my eye already.
~Get off the bus early for more exercise...at Broadway and Pine so I can walk the length of Broadway and then up Republican. Walking up the really steep hill between 12th & 13th feels like I'm doing lunges.
~Home by 7:30
~Crash in front of the tv.
~Post daily photo.
~Try to be in bed by 9:30-10

That's my Monday - Thursday schedule.

The last couple days, I've barely lasted in the studio more than 20 minutes. But I've been pushing myself to paint something each time I'm there. And the work is progressing. There is another painting, an abstract, that I've been working on. I haven't worked on the original figure painting since last week. Too physically tired. The abstract painting is there for playing.

Another part of it is that this week I finally stopped taking something to help me sleep. After 9 months, it's time to wean off of Tylenol PM. I don't fall asleep until about 11, but I'm up about 4...only to doze off again into a heavy dream for a little bit and then up by 5:30.

I'm not complaining. There is much excitement with all the internal movement. There is also excitement with the painting. At the day gig, my head is still working faster and clearer than ever before, resolving problems and coming up with new ideas in a way that's honestly blowing me away. There is great pleasure overall with the photographs that I've been taking. This is all good. And it's not an emotional or mental depletion. Simply, my body is tired. And I'm sleepy much too much. So...I think it's time to recognize that maybe slowing down a little is needed...figure out how to revamp my days without giving up my daily studio stint.

The body can only do so much in a day. And yet...I don't want to be lazy. I've always been a "take the bandaid off quickly" kind of person, regarding pain. And I'm 48 friggin' years old. I feel like I've spent most of my life futzing around, scared, doubting myself...and I don't want lose anymore time. But...but maybe I have to cut myself some slack. How do I balance?


The photo shown is what I was going to post for yesterday's daily photo. A woman who sublets office space from us brought in onions from her garden to share. They just had to be shot.

Late afternoon sun at the Lusty Lady.

Pretty, huh? I saw that a few days ago while waiting for the bus home from the studio.

Speaking of lusty...I was this morning. I woke at 4:30 with a throbbing cunt, screaming to get filled. It surprised me and felt good. Little by little my sex is returning. It's disappearance, for one who jacks off at least twice a day, was truly unsettling. But at some point, I let go and trusted desire would return in time.

Although 99.98% of my sexual drive was gone, there have been a couple hot experiences during the last 9 months. Out of the blue I'd smell sex and well...you know. And each of those were perfect. For one who was feeling discarded and sexually repulsive, being adored in various ways over the last few months was some of what this busted heart needed. I truly hope I gave to each as much as I received. They were all wickedly and deliciously exciting.

As with anything else, time and focused energy spent on healing is helping. Waking up this morning in such a state was a nice little reminder that slowly it's coming all back.

Hop On Pop


I shot this yesterday afternoon while in the bookstore. The shop clearly has a wonderful and twisted sense of humor.

Therapy appointment this morning and it was good. He was very thrilled for a few reasons, one being how quickly my energy returned after Saturday's all day staff/board retreat.

Yesterday was wonderful. Matt called and we did a late breakfast...about 1:30pm. After food and a couple drinks we walked all the way down to REI so he could return some rental equipment and then walked back up Denny Hill. A stop at the half-priced bookstore was productive. I scored a fabulous book of drawings: Claus Oldenburg Drawings in the Whitney Museum of American Art.

One thing I love, love, love is looking at drawings by sculptors. I always have. This books fucking rocks.

Here is a link to his website.

And here are some of his drawings.

This collection of drawings is full...full of various styles and techniques. It's an eclectic grouping of mark-making. There is such a sense of freedom that leaps off the pages. The website of drawings I linked to doesn't come close to representing the width and breadth of what's found in the book.

I also scored a $17 moleskin for $7, a $3 blank journal made with excellent paper stock and with Flash Gordon on the cover, a collection of essays by Jonathan Lethem and one other book that's currently left my head. I can't remember the name.

The weather was perfect, I wore shorts for the first time this season, spent an afternoon with a close friend, exercised the body, head and heart.

Good stuff.