this is it? really?

the regular unsigned version is available here....   

I am happy. I am truly happy in my imperfect life. I’m not happy because I’m married. I’m not happy because I’m rich (I’m not even close to rich.... not. even.close.) I’m happy because I’ve figured it out. I know the secret, or secrets, I guess. I know what you’re thinking, too. You’re thinking that I’m some kind of arrogant, delusional nut. You may be right. But I’m pretty sure I’m not. And you can see for yourselves. I wrote a book. (That’s the cover up there...) It tells you the secret. it’s $5 ($8 for signed copies.) Signed copies can be ordered at gumroad.com/amarajk

The regular copies can be ordered... actually, I’ll have to ask AmarA how that happens, so I’ll tell you later. (She kindly posted everything to the web for me.)

Also, the book is only 32 pages long, so it doesn’t take forever to read. You’re risking less than ten bucks and about 10-20 minutes. Not bad for the secret to happiness, yeah? Sounds worth the risk to me.... ;)

I feel like I haven’t posted anything in about a thousand years.... I used to write a lot. Ran a “blog” for a few years before blogging was even a word. (it was not a “blog.” it was an html monstrosity, hand coded from the ground up, dammit.) I wrote a rant every couple of days or so. That is the past. I haven’t written in forever for two reasons.... I wrote mostly when I was angry. I’m not nearly as angry, most days, as I once was. Some of that was the angst of youth, but a great deal of it was that my life was often horrible. My life has improved several orders of magnitude since. Thus much of my impetus has been sacrificed in the name of happiness. The second reason I post so remarkably rarely is simply time. I have between 19 and 27 hours or so in each sleep cycle. I have X number of things to do. Those things take X+ number of hours. I require time that I’m not “doing” anything (this time often involves video games (jk013x on XBOX LIVE) or reading, Denny’s, CAH, etc.... ) Once all of that time is past, I must for to sleep. Posting to the ‘net is somewhere in between working and Halo.... and so it usually gets dropped in the cracks between, as it were. However, as my life has undergone yet another evolution, I am hoping to remember to post more often. This whole thing has been a lead in for the story of this evolution.

I moved back to Upstate from Seattle in 2005. That July AmarA called me up and asked me if I would like to help create props for a summer theatre program that was doing “Aida.” I, having no other plans at the time, said “sure.” I made $150. But I also discovered that I really like working on that side of theatre. Thus I went with her (after a ridiculous amount of drama from others) back to her last year of a bachelors in Theatrical Production with an emphasis on Scenic design and a secondary focus on Costume Design and an unofficial minor in Art History. I think it took longer to type that than it took for her to earn the degree.... As she began really working professionally as a designer/scenic artist she was also teaching me scenic painting (I have no official art education and virtually no natural talent for painting.) After a couple years she began bouncing design ideas around with me and I became “Assistant designer/Designer’s assistant.” (Theatre folks know the vast difference between the two titles.) This was fun. it meant that I got to take part in the design process but didn’t have to deal with other people. (I suffered from rather severe “social anxiety” for quite a while.) After some time, AmarA somewhat insideusly began billing us as “AmarA*jk” and referring to me as her co-designer. I was still an assistant, really. I had input on the designs, but she had final call on things.(Though she rarely made use of her power of veto.) Then we got a call from our dear friend, Mohawk Mike (hairstyle, not ethnicity... maybe), in Chicago. “What do you think about designing costumes for a show out here?” he asked. AmarA and myself looked at one another and shrugged. “We have nothing else to do,” we chimed. “Tell us more.” He told us about the project. We were intrigued. Long story short-ish: We went to Chicago. We designed costumes for a really cool show. And a few days into the pre-design it occurred to me... I wasn’t an assistant. I was making calls and, in a few small things, overriding her decisions. “Holy shit!” I thought. “She tricked me.” In that moment i realized what she had been doing. My Co-Designer, My wife, was tapping little by little at the psychological walls around me. She chipped away at them, without me noticing, until I was better. She helped me to be more than I ever expected of myself. She worked to make me able to be her equal, professionally speaking. She did this knowing that I may possibly, someday, surpass her design abilities. And that she would be reminded of it every day of our lives. To forgo personal glory in your chosen field so another may share it may be one of the most truly selfless things you can do in our modern world....

That got away from me toward the end, there. I intended to simply say Hi and to talk about why we never seem to write versus why we actually don’t write often.... It turned into something else, but that’s cool. I also just realized I only swore once in this post.....Cock!!! Fuckstick!! Smurf You!!!!.... a little better....

Later!!

I don’t post very often, obviously. I only tend to post when I feel as though I've got something to say. Well, I’ve got something else to say.

Do not ever grow up.

I have listened to adults tell kids grow up all my life. I have listened to people my own age tell others to grow up. When I was younger I told others to grow up, as well.

.

...

.......

I was wrong.

we should never grow up. the world is a place full of wonder. most adults tend to forget this. the older we get the more we see the world as a place where there are stresses and bills and deadlines and jobs… We forget that there are ice crystals and sunsets and manatees and ponies and magic color-changing trees! i wanted to grow up and eat ice cream for breakfast. i wanted to grow up and stay up late and not make my bed and drink milk right out of the jug and... and...

AND I DIDN'T WANNA GROW UP, DAMMIT!!!!

did you? did you really?

did you sit around playing accountant? or civil servant? or vacuum assembler?

or did you pretend to be a hero? an artist? an actor? a pilot?

we can't always get the job we really want. life is rarely perfect....

but you CAN have ice cream for breakfast! you CAN drink the milk right out of the jug! you don't have to grow up! just because you're older doesn't mean you have to grow up! the world can be just as full of wonder as you always wanted it to be.... it's up to you.

don't you still want to be happy?

title: 'she floats'

'groove' from "a closer look" 

so art is life is love is art, etc...

that's great.

but then there's the fact that man (or woman) cannot live on love alone.

so how to make a living as an artist becomes the question. the issue, as it were.

my beloved, amara, is an artist. has been for years. has a bachelors in fine art for scenic design. she's been a designer for costumes, a portrait painter, an author,a muralist, an illustrator, and that scratches the surface.

barely.

now i know you're looking at your screen saying "of course you think she's good. you love her."

yes. yes i do.

but i'm not a nice person.

i don't say things to make people feel better.

i don't make more of their talents or accomplishments than they deserve.

because i fucking hate that petty shit.

all of it.

stupid, heartwarming, PC, jerkoff, bullshit.

like "graduating" from kindergarten.

for fuck sake!

holy shit!

your 5 year old can share and fingerpaint.

yay!

fuck off.

anyhow...

so she's actually good. but who the fuck has the money for real art?

and who wants real art?

you can get predesigned "graphic art" done by some dipshit in a suit at a "firm" or "agency" that's guaranteed not to offend anyone.

promise.

the "african-americans" won't riot over it.

the "physically challenged" won't march because of it.

the "little people" won't rise up.

so you'll have a picture on your wall that won't piss off the blacks, the whites, the asians, the hipanics, the cripples or the midgets.

so what's the point?

does it "speak" to you?

does it fill you with an overwhelming emotion?

of course not.

it's weak willed, homogenized, emotionless bullshit.

fuck it.

fuck them.

and fuck you.

art is meant to take us to the heights and pitfalls of humanity.

when you look at art it should be so visceral that it wrenches at your soul.

art is words that offend you, beauty that moves you, sounds that carry your mind and heart thousands of miles from where you stand.

art is expression, pure and simple.

so if you still have a soul, can still feel your heart, here's some sound advice:

get your balls up. (you, too, ladies)

buy real art from real artists, not this kinder, gentler, pointless, safe cowshit the people in charge feed you.

spend some coin on a print, or a book, drawn, painted, or written with all the emotion that we, as people, are meant to have.

you could do that here.

or here.

or here if you tend more toward the written word.

or you could go and buy the same crappy cg prints that you saw on the wall at McDouchbags or crack in a box.

i will not link to that shit. if you really want it that badly, find it your fucking self.