Justin, listen to your heart, and listen to your mind, and your soul, your essence. Justin, listen. Listen to the voices, listen to what they say, hear what it is they are telling you, each saying to you, and listen. Listen when one says there is no room for rejection, listen when another says to you the things yet another already knows and by knowing just the knowledge of it, what it the first is saying is said without breaking the silence, without interrupting the next voice calling to you, this one pleading the words yet another already knows and has plead too much like the first and second and third and so on and so on the fifth as well to the silent slow nods of voice-head affirmation rooted all over the body and in the heart center and down the darkened slopes of eyes that listen so much to what they see yet listen not to the stacking dimensions over multiplying [illegible] to just follow your fucking self united & whole together listening.
Justin, listen to the quiet voices too, the ones afraid to be actually heard, the voices just as true yet nearly not as loud but definitely equally influential if not more so because their voice carries endurance and preservation from never physically enacting the words and never hearing their voice vibrate and never feeling their message see the heart or the mind or whatever it is that justin listens to what is it what is it what will he listen to maybe all he needs is just the quietness, or maybe the disruption or maybe a bolt of lightning can you believe they thought electric shock therapy was for him, for us? Listen. Listen to the other eyes and their other expressions you read people well don’t you you read people really well it’s obvious what they’re saying it’s obvious what their expressing you to listen to and what their showing you with the anti-magnet briefly attracted but pulled away eyes with a quiet but expressed knowledge of something obvious, something I should know and I do but I just don’t listen, Justin listen.
And listen to the lessons of your past but listen too to the voices turning away from it some in self-mutilation to change the truth and others sleeptalking and lucidly whispering lies of another something else and some just washing their sounds down with thought of tears others to the thought of those voices who relish in the wet pain & can’t seem to just hear the sighs of letting go all around and up & down his body and essence to Justin learn just learn please will you just take what was there and acknowledge most of what you thought was there was just that–thought–voices in such number massing against and with and forward backward and diagonally disconnected but obviously forged and inseparable like the simultaneous sounds of all of us wanting to be heard by the great sum of Justin himself who gets control who or what when is it my turn and my turn.
To the integrity & quality of one’s work, in all things, so if it was captured, and magnified, the care would clearly have been seen.
in the most serious efforts to retain my sense of self–who I am driving to be, in these moments of my life (THE ARTIST), I have spent what appears to be the extent of my monetary worth on supplies to further open the doors of my expression. And I told of my plans to the cashier, who had asked, “if I was a painter,” to whom I replied, “no but I am an artist.” & I described to her my search for mediums, & that yes, “I paint but only a little,” “It’s a new medium,” I said, “& what lately I’ve been pulled to is graffiti, & “how, there is this isolated tunnel, underneath a road,” & it seemingly stretches for miles,” & there I wish to paint the entire tunnel with words,” & interested she commented about how very long that would take, and & I said “no I don’t think so.” “But maybe, I’m not sure I said as my debit car declined. There was enough in my life to cover it, just enough I knew & she asked if I would like to try again, & with a fearing, flushing face, the kind of display after brutal rejection from the universe itself, I told her yes & prayed & prayed outloud & it prompted me for a signature (it didn’t do this before) & I said outloud, “it didn’t do this before,” & I signed it & hit accept & it went through. Kitty litter, art supplies, & a new pair of Ben Hogan’s: my self had been RESTORED.
And so I return home, & am like, “I’m so sleepy,” like NOT EVEN BEFORE I’VE ENTERED MY HOME & STUDIO, my bed & my dream-killer, my place of nourishment, my place of depletion, my space of higher purpose, my place to be private & do private things, & though I don’t have a room of my own, & much space if any to be chaotic with mediums & supplies & ideas, & though the ideals are not being met in any shape or form above expectation, GOD HAS ALWAYS GIVEN ME AN ABUNDANCE OF EVERYTHING, & it is only through my human intelligence, that I imagine my room, & my time, & an improved discipline, & perhaps even more leisure and abundance, & other things more like “ideals,” & not to say the clouds are always stormy, or tornadoey, or hurricaney, or absent, because you & I know the clouds shift in form, in simultaneous shared time, & that sometimes our written or visual or spoken or demonstrated expression reveals to us our current, present form & we achieve the under-standing of our own existence, as we sometimes need to do, as you & at times go ahead & relax our eyes & cast them away, to eliminate the illusions, & we stop the music other’s lyrics, & we quiet down & power down, & we stop with the untangibles–the unrecordered voices, the unfilmed looks, the landfill destined napkin art–& we make permanent the things you & I know for some great purpose we know exists found, unfound, defound, profound, defound, befound, nonfound, refound, & that it’s like okay, it’s going to be okay, the colors don’t always have to have meaning, choices choices in the expression are made. The control of how they are recieved <- is in the moment of creation. It’s so easy; just do the best, abandon excess rest, fail every test, & perhaps head west, to the carving out of new beginnings on something as legitimate as a canvas, then maybe they will accept the–our–choice of non-edit, & only then a super deliberate act of throwing the canvas into the trash could be made, it then truly protected from everyone’s hands, including our own, to modify or destroy, or forget, truly then, “yes!” is or would our intention of tangible expression of simultaneous shared time be had, is had, at that time, at this time, on this day, on all of our future days. And there it is, the discovery of an evolution in medium, right before my eyes, your eyes, our I’s in this beautiful pursuit of the Present to reflect back on in the future for the purpose of expanding the then present through appreciation of art done with a growing master of intention unintentionally, so humanly, simultaneously, greatly weak & feebly strong, magnetically powerful & dutifully done, under the constraints given & the warnings & words of others as newness emerges from the rushing imbalance of our stories of the past, and it settles, & it rushes again twice thrice many times again the reinvention is had, the sacrifices are made, mostly of imagined ideals, peace is created and words begin to massage the neck of strained shoulders carrying a world’s weight without stable direction, & the words flow & flow, just like had promised they would, thousands & thousands, millions & visuals too & sound! All tangible, mostly, decreasing loss, and the map genuinely coming together, internally legitamizing itself, of a 44 network, just one so doomed & blessed to fall short of so much, to the hero who enters the lair & cares not, concerns himself not with the return of his slain dragon, if he slays it at all, which he will not, & in the darkness not one will see his print of foot in lit, full form, he having left to the simultaneous stay of increased abstraction, a wolf never truer than in the clothing of all these sheep. 1 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10–and this is not to say the count ever stops, it is to say there is a high willingness & ability for the form to adapt & change to make best use of the container or space given. It’s unpredictable. And prepared. The changing colors do not signify different times of entry–it & they are simultaneous. They & it & this is done at the very same time, in the exact moment of consciousness. This is why a prolific body of unedited art is so beautiful. & it’s also why the concept [& how] of UNIVERSI is made possible: to capture a skilled, lengthy, & fully transparent consciousness perhaps will or does reveal truth about everyone & everything.
I have much to work on, and will give a higher best to grow into your fuller partner, one who fully trusts without exception, unshakeably, so convincingly. For sure, this is unfair (the difficulties) because you deserve ease for the best effort you’ve ever given, as you tell me, in the subjects of loyalty & honesty, as well as trust. I do believe we will come together into this ease, and not just then will it be beautiful, but we will see the whole process & journey of shared individual growth as such. We each bring to our table histories, and at this time, I have habits of self-preservation that no longer serve myself or our collective unit. There is no doubt, in my heart or mind, you are worth braving my own demons, and coming out the other end as a full partner. I love you tremendously, whatever it takes, I understand.
And there really is no better way to start a sentence than to start it with the word “and,” or at least this is how I’ve been feeling & thinking for at least a year, maybe two or three, or four; it’s been a while now & my love for And has grown, never diminished, always prized & always inclined to use. There’s a context here. This doesn’t mark the beginning of my body of words, neither that nor is it the end. “And,” recognizes its middle stage of inconclusive wordage, message, & point. It states there is a before, and the excess of words post-And with little to no movement in any stable direction hints with strong under & overtones that there is & will be many words to come, “millions,” & neither the weight of pre-And nor post-And fall on my shoulders, not anymore, never again, just this word right now & now. And if it’s not the word it’s the stroke of it, & the way my breath is or was during it, if my eyes were glazed & resting or are or were they reflecting the manic dreams blue, were they paying attention. “How are you feeling.” Without the story, really focus on the feeling, nothing else. Really just feel the feeling, accept it, feel it, & notice the space you immediately create. It’s like a miracle. Breathe & don’t think, just feel. & watch how quickly the edge of everything goes away. It just goes away; it just goes like a wished miracle. It goes in the sense the feeling of sadness no longer feels like the good ol’ crippling sadness I’ve known, the kind attached & anchored to the present, this kind is just a feeling & it’s cool for what is & how it assists these so right now carvings of this moment. & how these moments blend together because of this like wierd way we hold memories, & the way we naturally percieve the space and distance of things in relation to ti-me. Even weirder, or “wierder,” is how it all can be reduced to the electron, like how things are simultaneous, all of these states of perception, from the simple to the intensely complicated, all simultaneous, all simultaneous shared time. To the boring & the fictional & non & descriptive & to the general and to the personal & the visual and the micro & macro, to red & to blue, now green as middle, are all then now no wonder stability is never out there. 402 words, on canvas, with so many mediums available–paints, brushes, pens, pencils, paintmarkers, oil–with so much blank space, so many options, so many choices, without limits. & damn do we feel wonderful carving them out with words in cursive. This is our medium.