I am trying to write out what this is to be or look like, the face of it, the leper face of it all, the gospel face of it all, the father face of it all, the prophet face, the tunnel face, the stranger face, of it all. The show is soon, I did not realize how soon, and my nerves and my kinetic energy, my cells, my blood, my veins, my vessels, my soul, my heart, my emotions, my adrenalin, my paint, my pain, my nails, my hair, my eye lashes, my fingers, my foot it cannot stop tapping and kicking things, I am nervous, afraid, excited, filled to the brim with determination and foreseeing the show hung, hung like broken hangers underneath the abode of a bridge, and here it is:

Times of a Tunnel
Gospel incision
My father
The prophets

The theme, or the body, of the show will revolve around these ideas, or these things that I have seen, cried about, and laughed over. There will be no order, no grouping, of these ideas. I want them to overlap. I want my father to be the first work the viewers step in front of. Then maybe following my father, a gospel incision, a blown-up full portrait of Christ broken on the train tracks, condemns strewn over him, cigarette-butts sticking out of the rocks, beer bottle glass, shoes, and other trash I have seen. Then, AL. Maybe I will paint AL on a door, or AL on wood. IT might be a Triptych of the miracles of AL, which are, he overcomes his heroin addiction, he picks up his guitar again, and lastly, the ultimate joy, he reunites with his one and only daughter and embraces her with kisses and a father’s love, becoming an addict of love and joy to her daughter, a most beautiful woman. The prophets are people I believe to be prophets. The prophets are Captain, Lole, Bill, Robin Eve, prostitute, and the prophet in the prophet. These men and women are prophets as I see them, as I believe they have found a way to penetrate the realms of the impossible with their simple, yet, courageous and prophetic, way of life. Their words tremble everything about me and within me. Intoxicated words, holy words, curse words, grumbling words, gutturals of words, hacking words, quoting words, Cryptic words, words of a language of his own, and words that speak of everything that lives, that tells of something to come. Then, maybe, I will go back to a painting of my father at the baR. This is the cycle. This is the moving room. This is the mind at speeds unknown. The soul in the bowls of street and scripture and scraping walls, scared feeling of creation, yet for some reason I believe it is important to show, I hope for the show to tremble and move in those that truly look at what has been done, I want the groaning process to come out and moan even here in this space, outside of its home, groaning to be back, groaning because new sets of eyes are looking, groaning because it is the groan of life itself.