Work 23: Saturday Night by Lamplight

Tonight in the quiet house I write. It is one of the few things I can do. I can always write. The words spilling out of my ever-dying pen. It is like talking to a friend. I can say anything that I know how to say. I may not have a friend in one hundred miles but I can write. Doing so is something for my hands and my mind. It gives purpose to a listless body and grabs hold of a scattered head. On the page I have a place and in the ink a presence. If I am not here for somebody else, then at least for something else. I am surrounded by words and their permanence finds companionship in time while space is empty and lonely.


I see now that I need a new word. Nothing I already know will do. I need a word that once it is begun it will not end. The space between words leads my thoughts away. But if I were to have a big enough word I could just go on writing it and not stopping. It would say everything and leave room for nothing.

Work 22: Wasted Words

I am in a thoughtful mood today, and it has me paging through recent journal entries. Its good that memories both remembered and forgotten can be made tangible in pen and paper. I forgot about this entry, but I recall the sentiment.

Explicitly it is now a matter of confidence. Perhaps it has always been, only now it is so apparent. My voice is not as immediate nor loud as it should be. Therefore I speak in suggestions and speculations, not plans and beliefs. The words are far between and lame by qualification. In letting others speak first I swallow that which sits ready on my lips. A sober tongue is a stagnant tongue. I say all this, and still I am mostly talk. For what little I say, I am more word than action. I get excited about something and I talk it to death. I literally continue to bring it up until it fizzles out. Never happens. An idea put to waste. I am where good ideas go to die.

Work 17: Drinking of You

I made a cup of coffee as soon as I arrived at the office this morning. I looked at it, smelled it, tasted it, and held it. Thought of coffees and coffee companions passed.

Work 14: Sameness

A new school year has just started and I am watching a fresh batch of kids getting accustomed to their new routine. They look buried in their oversized mandatory school outfit. I wrote this piece while sitting in the office watching a little one squirm and shuffle waiting for a teacher's help.

Work 10: officeSPACE

There are days toward the end of my contract where all I ask of my job is to sit at my desk and study the limits of staring into time and space. No matter how productive the staring may be, the limits are generally introduced by coworkers. It is possible that staring can be part of the job, but it is difficult to identify as such. In the afternoon I can occupy my desk but not the time. There are three hours between 2 and 5pm. I have a watch on my wrist, a phone in my pocket, and a clock on the wall. All of which I use to observe time. I check them on rotation in hopes of a different reading. I sit next to a sink with a metronome drip. Instead of keeping time it stretches the moment. My understanding of time goes only as far as I can hold my breath. Anything greater is abstract. With an acute absence of task I look around. I look at something near. I look at something far. I look at something near and focus far. I stare. My eyes open and unengaged. I retreat into my mind and call up something easier to dissect. Something with balance. A moment already passed. This one’s too tough.

This piece was written in my journal during the dreaded 2-5pm stretch, struggling to stay awake and sensible at my work desk. It does not help that I am constantly surrounded by busy people, but I myself am not given any work to do. My job is to be present and available, but unused. Often, journaling is the best I can do with it.

Work 9: Just a Look

I love children's books. I did as a child, and I do as the lesser-child I now am. The stories are simple and helpful, while the art can be original and quite engaging. Once I nail down the right idea, I would love to write one. In the meantime, thoughts come in snippets, like single pages. So here I have produced a single page from an as yet unmade children's book. It is neither the beginning nor the end. It is just a page. There is no greater context or thought than what you see before you.

Work 8: Speculation as to the cause of our recent economic collapse

The Federal Reserve has issued a statement of explanation for the current economic downturn. While only four words, the brief statement is rather concise in addressing the issue and acknowledging where fault rests. This candid disclosure is quite welcome, but less encouraging are the Federal Reserve's prospects for the future. At no point do they denounce or plan to shift away from the philosophy, seen here, that has brought about this crisis.

Work 1: The 52 Step

This is the year I become an artist.

Somewhere there is a conversation taking place concerned with what makes an artist, or art. I could pull up my scrap heap of ideas and maybe peer onto the table of such discourse. Or I could stack a realized body of work and engage the discussion. At present I do not have this stack. At one piece a week for fifty-two weeks, I intend to prove myself an artist. ...or a man with a stack of stuff.

Until now, artist as concept only. A mind without a body of work. This year I will grow a body, one piece at a time. Given the weekly deadline, the emphasis is on quantity over quality, though hopefully the two can overlap.

This site will work as my open sketchbook, gallery, or whatever forum seems most appropriate. Take a look, check back, share your thoughts. Both the52step and myself are a work in progress...