December 8, 2000: After the storm we evaluate change

Who are these people I draw? Do they sit with me in hopes of traveling? Are they concepts transferred through silent sketches? Possibly they’re about time and how one can’t change it. Have I met these shadows along the way? Upon paper, I give them life again. Did these figures I paint once stand beside this tree? Maybe they’re pictures of a first kiss, a sketch of he said she said only to watch each silhouette hold me closer…and this tree I write within, pretends to not be looking.

Not a single child will step within the passion placed upon this page. Very few understand what my heart is doing. If asked, I’ll share. If taunted, I’ll disappear. Believe not in me but instead, the ability to paint.

Each morning at sunrise I’m often reminded of the words Peter Max gave me, “Paint everyday!” I want to believe he said it rather than acted out a well-planned role. Paging through the captured shadows left inside this book, I look to the next page knowing at any moment a picture could explode from this unexplained desire to be creative. A pen is a tool—a piece of paper is my deepest thought. Is there anything worth more?

Things don’t play out like one would hope. Dreams are often given away and not by the creator. It’s not over…this pain. When it returns, I hope to be stronger, more wise and strange enough to still be called weird.