"I have alot to say, but no way in hell will I tell you"
"I have nothing to say, but I'll tell you everything."
-Some random ass note I stumbled upon

I am going to be as literal as possible here, for once.

Hey to everyone on dA. And hey to all the people scattered across the Southwest that I gave this web address to and then forgot about, and hey to my friends on Facebook that I gave this web address to and forgot about, and hey to whoever else reads this that I don't know about . . . you know it's occurred to me before to just get a blog, or censor some of the things I write in this journal, or think about them more carefully but . . . I honestly don't regret anything I've written in here. I just wish I would have elaborated more on certain things, wish I could have written more, been clear headed enough to remember everything.

That said, in the future I think I'll just keep everything in my notebooks, or write letters, or get another account on some other service to blog things. This is supposed to be for my "art". And, while I could make a case for the inseparability of art and life, and argue that my life is really just a twisted arts and crafts project that's gotten way out of hand (which it IS) all these notes and quotes and stories probably belong somewhere else. My mind throws things together in pretty haphazard ways, and I think that people, maybe especially people that actually know me, don't really understand what I've been trying to do with this thing, and assume the worst. I don't really want to be misunderstood, and I don't really want to play out the tortured artist stereotype so much, but shit happens. I started writing in this journal just because, and then I began to write it as open letters, and then I wrote in it to remember strange and/or entertaining things, and then I wrote in it just to remember anything. It was, and is, just as much for me as it is for you.

All that aside. I don't make enough art, and I need to get more serious about it. Start getting into figure drawing, start painting, quit drawing these zany tableaus that really go nowhere and confuse people. Maybe even go to art school (gasp). Though not yet.

I sold the guitar that I called Inkorruptible. I didn't even break even on the expense of lacquering and repair. The money paid for a few important things, like my next bus ticket out of Texas. I had a dream that finally convinced me to go through with the sale. The owner of the shop had a laminated copy of this newspaper article about a guitar show from a few years back with a picture of me in it that I didn't even know existed. That made me feel kinda cool. He says he's gonna give the guitar to his daughter. I didn't meet her, but I think she's meant to have it. I wasn't supposed to own that guitar in the first place.

I haven't done any drugs, or drank, or smoked cigarettes, or even had any coffee for about a month now. I seriously wanted to kill myself for about a week, but I've started to feel much better recently. I'm looking forward to traveling again, because it's gonna get cold as a motherfucker up here by winter time, and Ima be GONE.

I may write some more things, and it would be nice to get back to that short story I started, but that's a pretty ambitious piece, and I don't have much faith in my abilities as a writer, to be honest.