I went underneath the bRidge last night. Its such an empty place. I wonder where all those people came from in the painting?

I was thinking last night. I was thinking, "all these things underneath this bridge, (i.e., plastic forks, soup tins, grocery cart wheels, broken vhs camera, metal crate, bottles, stones), all of it, all of it left-over, the remnants of someone's desperate hour or hours, someone's shadowy escape. why do I find myself looking at this trash. but is it trash? it was once touched by human fingers. Why do I find myself picking up a piece of ripped clothing stained with dry blood, tucking it into my sketch folder? Its so empty underneath here, its so rocky, so dark and lonely." All I knew was that I needed to be there. I need to sometimes be there, to wait there, to lean against the wall there. It is like some monastary. It just feels good to be out and to watch the world, even the lonely world, or lost civilization(s) underneath the bridge.

I was thinking. I walk to look. I was thinking. Whenever one goes to walk, something will happen to them, a person will stop you in your tracks. I was stopped. His name was roB. He said, "do you got 50 cents for my friend here who needs to get home?" After checking my pockets, I said, "No, I don't. I use my money for paint. I usually don't have any money on me." Rob and his friend asked me, "What do you paint?" I told them, "I paint people." Rob's friend responded, "You can make a lot of money doing that!" Rob said, "Hey man, do you think you can design my tatoo?" I said, "Maybe."

Rob's friend left. It was just me and Rob. I've seen Rob around, just never spoke with him. He said, "Why do your drawings look like that, like broken people?" I said, "Its just what happened when I was drawing. Sometimes I am not always in control. I feel more free drawing like this." We then drew some windows on this train I drew earlier. He said, "I am f... drunk, hope you don't mind ... I work too much, I have no time."

That was it really. He looked drunk. His head was hanging. He spilled his orange soda and yelled, "Oh shit!"

I've been passing in and out of consciousness, whatever this means.

So this is what is going on. The bridge is safe in the gallery. One of my professors wants to come to my studio and buy another piece, a larger piece, the same professor who bought "Empty Pockets." The briDge hangs. The paints have arrived. I ate Tofu at a friend's house.

Tomorrow is the Exhibition opening for us students. The Bridge is on the faR back wall in the Middle of the Gallery, exactly where I imagined it to be, and it was there when I walked in today. ThE bridge speaks all Languages. It tilts. IT spills. It has no home, just temporarily renting out in this space. (It cannot fit in my house, so I have to figure out what to do with it after the show.)

People have been looking at the bridge, close and from afar, and have asked about the bridge. IT has been good to talk about the bridge. People have talked about hope underneath the bridge. People have said how so much is happening. Some people cannot stand there too long, they walk away ... maybe afraid to confront it for what it might reveal to them. I don't know. Most people have stood there and really looked, which is what I hope for, it is for them, I did it for them.

Feelings change every day, every second, even ... you cannot always depend upon or believe them ... the other day I was depressed about the paintings, like "what am I doing?" ... then with a couple of glazed strokes here and there in a new bridge painting and the thought of the first bridge being hung in the gallery made me feel "good, aware and confident" in the paintings.

If the artist can just paint the right amount of strokes each day ... he will know refreshing mists of rain on his face ...