Step 1: Find a Photograph.
Step 2: Roll a slab of clay.
Step 3: Form the face as a NEGATIVE. (in other words, instead of forming a pyramid of a nose, dig INWARDS. everything is in REVERSE)

Step 5: Paint.

i visited the new stobelight crew, and so with Ty and Bethany. they refer to us as "strobelight alumni" and we made guest "appearances" during the credits roll-out. i must say, i LOVE their new set. they also have four VJs, so things are a lot more interesting. this has much potential.

genre studies on whatever motif: still life, landscape, portraits, etc. i chose people. however, all the models i have lined up had conflicting schedules or was sick. Mr. Buesking made that suggestion of "why don't you do a self-portrait? at least your model will be there!"

oh coffeehouses...
the director approached me and said that she reserved a spot for me to give some poetry. i was taken aback, in a good way, wondering how i earned that sort of expectancy. i told her i didn't have anything with me there, and i jokingly told her i might just conjure something up in the time being.

words are powerful.

i stayed with Phil. epiphany had a slow start, because the power went out, and the opening act had to yell forth his works. because of it, Phil and i returned to our commonly shared rant of man's dependence on machine. so we began to write in collaboration, but it later turned to him feeding me with the angst and passion, and i added the adjectives.

when i read it, i prefaced by saying that i walked about barefoot that day to be seemingly closer to nature, but the irony is that i was still walking on pavement. i then stated that standing there is actually a form of performance satire: i am a breathing oxymoron.
onto the prose:

these wires have become the braids of the slave woman, and we drive her to the ground with our whip of demands - AMPLIFY! ELECTRIFY! WORK, FOOL!
and when she, in dire frailty, crawls on the floor, lacking the energy to move,
we come to the realization that we forgot what it's like to walk, to speak, to live.
we cannot so smoothly transition out from lethargy, our thundering bodies imprinted in comfort.

these cables have become our veins, we feel handicap if they do not carry our passions through the speakers (our new found mouthpieces) or these microphones (our static tongue).

our larynx has become useless, as with the turn of the knob we choose to ignore, or crank to eleven our propaganda, because we are blabbering foreigners with separate languages, believing that raising our voice yields comprehension.

but what happens when power dies, when our slave woman commits suicide? This electricity becomes our boa constrictor noose, and we are choked by this lie that we put around our necks -

so open the cellar door and find the blades to cut yourself free! and from there, discover the liberation and the power of the primitive, natural soul:
that like a Roman, amplified by acoustics; like a hiking nomad, echoing off the high cliffs:
let us sing alongside these evening crickets,
roar like the mad ocean against the crumbling earth,
whisper like the wind upon autumn leaves,
and yell.
like we were made to yell.