standing on the shoulders of giants.

Trying some new vector based techniques I have seen others use which is ending up being just me shamelessly ripping them off. I am pleased with the results, just need some color and perhaps better compositional skills. And poses. And all the rest. And it's not shameless. I am riddled with shame. Enjoy the fruits of my shame and doubt.



I won't lie.



Every fxxking time I see someone post a 'warm up' or a 'cool down' sketch on twitter or tumblr at a quality level of which it would have taken me weeks of heartbreak and sweat to produce just a pale spectre of, I want to cut out my heart with a dull object and violently shove the still spurting organ down the throats of these illustrative gods I obviously hold no candle to, and never will. 

 ...or maybe it's all illusion...the grandeur of mystery dangled just out of reach whilst these untouchable deities revel in our ignorant adorations.  

The problem is that there are are just so many and they are just so damn good, and oh god it makes one despair for all things and just drink. 

The truth MUST lie somewhere between 'FXXK YOU ALL, you're LIARS', and 'FXXK ME, I'm a FAILURE FOR ALL ETERNITY'.  

Which one is it? 

 It's the one I listen to, and I do so want/NEED to listen to the failure one on less of all the days. 



Can't go it alone though.  

See you there. 


Philip Seymour Hoffman. 1967 - 2014

Philip Seymour Hoffman died today.

Another one lost to the cold grip of addiction. Or not. Maybe he just wanted a quick one, a nice high after a long sobriety that ended horribly wrong.  Or maybe he was tired and wanted out.  We will never know what he carried and why. 

I took him for granted.  I think most people did.  The kind of easy quality that you just assume will be there whenever he appears.  And it was. He was always so good, always, that I overlooked his brilliance.

His understatement overshadowing the absolute grace of his craft. Of course I didn't know him, but he was one of the greatest, and losing him is absolute fucking insanity. 


So young.  So much more life that he will never see.  

And we are worse off for it, all of us. 








'betwixt two pillows' or: 'God as Connection: Part I'

The idea is no longer appealing to me.


A benevolent dictator, who knows all and controls all, and yet somehow knows nothing and controls nothing. When I was younger, it was comforting perhaps, and even now in adulthood, it is a resort I still cling to when I am terrified or adrift. But I don't truly believe in him, not that way, not really.

I have eaten perhaps one too many of the fruit that have fallen off this fenced off tree, and now I see. Too much? Enough to doubt, enough to know I am completely and utterly naked.

And I'm fine with that.

That's a lie.

But the idea of spirit exists, in part because i desperately want it to be real, and in part because of humanity. Because of beauty, and art, and yes, even evil, this endless river that flows through history and individuals the same. At different speeds and different levels of conciousness, but there. In the unknowable reaches of our universe, down to the breath I take even now, there is a current, a 'something' there.

The breath of god? I dont claim to know or name it. BUt i feel it, or I want to, and so I do. Its manifestation is so different in each of us, in that whoever or whatever we call god is shifted as through a prism, through our ideas and experience and somehow becomes personal and real. This invisible idea, bent through a glass, exploding into a shifting exuberance of color onto the walls of our lives.

Is this 'belief'? I don't know. Certainly not in the way it once was, but I no longer find fear in the uncertainty. The doubt is my comfort, the ability to voice something as completely unknowable AND ACCEPT IT as such is strangely comforting.

I dislike the word 'agnostic' as it connotes an arrogance in its denial of truth, somehow that to KNOW you can never know makes one superior. I am something like a spiritual agnostic, not an intellectual one. I don't believe that spirit and faith can be intellectualized, and the study of theology bores me, an endless debate over things that have no or invented cosmic meaning, listings of things we must get right or wrong to be embraced at the end by the being who holds us all. This I cannot subscribe to.

I dont know god, but I know spirit, if to feel is to know.

I feel god in the swelling music of a great film, or even a bad film. In tears shed over the pages of a novel, or the delight of my infant son smiling at me in pure joy, my wife curling into my back asleep in the night.

I feel god when I look up at a waterfall, or stand under one. The beauty of this world, this universe entire, in all its terrifying vast darkness makes me believe that we are not alone, that the spirit knows we are here and knows who we are.

But what if this spirit IS us, the same force that made us crawl from the mud, walking, changing, learning, and adapting over millennia until we are as we are now? It is here and we have consumed it, created it, a rushing river flowing out of us? Can we be only vessels or can we be the source?

There are things in us that separate, that cause the river to cease, the spirit to dry up and disappear. Through tributaries this water tries always to flow, and we the means to stifle its course or let it wash us away.

Our lives are not our own. Our breadth of feeling correlates directly to our level of connection. This is the breath of god connecting, breathed into the first of us and disappeared.

The Architect of humanity. His last breath was the one that gave us life.


In essence we are the evolution of god, in that we are infused with his breath. Is it as it says the breath of god that gave us life?

As god breathed into us and we awoke so then did he pass away and WE now are gods breath in the universe, capable of life or death and culpable of the same. It is OUR words that direct the flow, the breath, our lives. WE are the word and breath now in this place, gods every one.


Always with the birthing.

Someone said we rebirth ourselves every ten years.

Except maybe this birth is really the first one, and we never were anything more than a swollen and unwieldy amalgamation.

We know this now, and maybe we always have, but it's been so subtle, this waking up, this gradual unmooring, our identity previously wrapped up in constructs that have all begun to deconstruct, decaying beneath us and now our perch once so solid, is dropping foot by shuddering foot into the blank fog below.

Along with the thing that we previously thought of as us.

What now?


It's all lies?

Last night I was informed that the lady friends from porno are just pretending?


I am no longer sure about anything.

But I made a Hulk on my apple tablet.

All for you.


pulling it out, slowly.

Why don't we do the things we want to? 


I don't know.  I don't.  I wish I could help you with that, but i am stumbling here as well.  I realize the pursuit is sometimes, no, always, too much for me, but I think I could do better.  And then I wonder if it matters.  To me.  Does it matter to me?  The answer is...




Other days no, nothing matters, its just me and the fog.   


Anyway, heres a picture I made.   


Its for you.  



the rebeginning of all things and a shiny new trinket

Well friends.   Where the hell have you been.  ?  I've been right here, idle hands and hearts a flutter, high blood pressure and snow, loss of faith and brimming with newfound awe at the universe. 

Thank you for sticking with me.  I love you.