I have dreamed, literally, of living on the moon; of visiting, in a perfectly offhand way, an orbiting Jovian space station while wondering, as there was much to be amazed about, at an orrery above and surrounding me of eclipsing colored and black Jovian moons. Such is the unbounded nature of the mind, among other modestly interesting things I consider from day-to-day. In real life — which is not to say my isolated thoughts are not deserving of being called real — I draw, craft poetic prose, compose music, enjoy old black and white suspense or mystery celluloid theater; I’ll go roughing like a kid along bike trails. . . on a trail bike which is seldom suited to the task; I’m father to animals not of my own species, and find pleasure from the chilled night camaraderie in sharing an occasional view through a small telescope under the still of the blue-black pin-pricked sky.
When I was young, both as a toddler and teenager — the first two stages of youth, for there are many — I drew freely things made-up and fancied. I then ventured to make a long, tiring detour through conventionality and banality of the commonly taught practices of art: the impression, abstraction, conceptualization, and more, as well as forays into all the izms of art. Dissatisfaction with following behind the ne’er-do-well rewards of an unresponsive market and its gloomy modern façade of pay-to-be-great heroes has fostered my return to making made-up things, freely and fancied as I will, for children’s books, of all things. These are themselves an outgrowth of a somewhat recent involvement in bookmaking with and for the poet, Benjamin K. Rogers of Ruston, Louisiana. This enterprise — a vehicle for our respective voices — has since 2008 imposed its character upon each of our work in one way or another, and mostly for the better.
I have not traveled very much over the years outside of my small working space in north Louisiana, but I am, nevertheless, acquiring what to me must be relevant relationships, which include international friendships, a surprising thing given where I live. This came, in particular, through the use of the unusually useful — in this increasingly connected world — social networking software which goes by the name of Facebook. I would rather share worthwhile words than to be overlooked at a glance, or looked over in a glance, though sometimes that can be a welcome thing. But my rathers seldom force reality to be what it must inevitably turn out to be. And so, all things considered, I welcome new contacts if you are so inclined.
facebook, my wall
Dancing Okra, my galleries
Lacey Stinson, the draftsman
Benjamin K. Rogers, the poet
Caroline Youngblood, the painter