Steemit is as steemit does, long time no see mate

Letters to Tao

Hello Tao my old friend



It's been a long time, I know, and you know too I am not really as comfortable as I try to pretend with all my failures, so I tend to want to wait until there's something more positive to tell you. But in the end that means long months, or semesters, or years and even parts of decades, with nothing to say for myself.
Not good enough, I have finally decided. Again.

As well as the fact that there are always things happening which at least sound like they may be something, and if I was in contact with you more often, would give you a different idea of the complexity of my life experience.



After all Tao, who are you if not my closest friend?
Me who never had many friends, although I have been real close a few times to a few people.
But no-one except you has been along with me since the start.
I don't know, other people do seem to have childhood friends.
That normal human experience is denied to those who move several times as children, as was my case.
There are worse things, people's homes and lives are destroyed every day on this most inopportune of all the possible planets.

I feel disconnected from those people by the sheer depth of their trauma, having not really experienced that type of hardship even once in my life.
But I feel disconnected too, from those who have had a comfortable upbringing, and are comfortable now, as the world burns.

I love to think I try to live by the following words.
"Art is meant to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable."
I will find a source when I connect


haha, like so many times before, I learn something new every day.
Well, apart from learning that Alex Jones is really Bill Hicks, which was pretty wow.

But in looking for that quote I see that it is supposed to derive from the following

Whin annything was wrote about a man 'twas put this way: "We undhershtand on good authority that M-l-chi H---y, Esquire, is on thrile before Judge G---n on an accusation iv l--c-ny. But we don't think it's true." Nowadays th' larceny is discovered be a newspa-aper. Th' lead pipe is dug up in ye'er back yard be a rayporther who knew it was there because he helped ye bury it. … Th' newspaper does ivrything f'r us. It runs th' polis foorce an' th' banks, commands th' milishy, controls th' ligislachure, baptizes th' young, marries th' foolish, comforts th' afflicted, afflicts th' comfortable, buries th' dead an' roasts thim aftherward. They ain't annything it don't turn its hand to fr'm explainin' th' docthrine iv thransubstantiation to composin' saleratus biskit.
"Newspaper Publicity" in Observations by Mr. Dooley (1902) part of this has sometimes been paraphrased (ignoring its original satiric meaning):
The job of the newspaper is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

But maybe that's not really real anyway. I'll never know




Here I stand, or here I sit really.
Sometimes standing, sometimes sitting.
Still sad and lonely, still a failure, and probably be more so than ever really, because by now I am supposed to have given up, I suppose.
Or make the final breakthroughs that lead to something more than this.
I seem incapable of conforming to this simple dichotomy.
I am always (and have been for years) so sure that some success and validation is just around the corner.
I have worked so hard.
Yet nowhere near hard enough.


But others were having fun, and I was working!

They say do what you love for a living and you'll never be working, but that assumes that the world plays its part.
There is the whole school of thought that success and validation are over-rated and I myself now, am close to the point where I might choose to give up, if there was such an option.
I don't think I have that option.
Well, a total collapse option is always there, hidden just out of sight around the corner.
but short of that, how could I give up any of these animals.
Find homes for them people say.
I have heard it again a few times.
I really need to make a post about that.



Does that even matter?



Why would we care, about my stuff, I have always been a bit surprised that no-one really cares.
So much time and patience, so much much pain and tendinitis.
How then, are we to think that here I am unable to pay my way.
Unable to cope with even my simple addictions.
Well, I suppose I have them taken care of, through hard work, and setting myself up over years, but also only because of Neil.
And what is going to happen there, I know not.



So, onto the grist of the matter.
How are you?

It's been so long, and I know nothing of what's been happening for you.
please write back soon.
I can't think when I last updated you.
As is my usual trick I am writing this with the internet turned off.
I started this three days ago, which surprises even me.
(and now I am posting it on day five)


But you know these last couple of days have been doozies.
These last couple of weeks have been doozies too.
For me, well, there's always heaps going on, but as usual, it's sort of like spinning my wheels.

There's something going on right now, which may change everything. But it may not pan out, and after so many previous build-ups, I am hesitant to be too 'optimistic'



I know, I know, the law of attraction etc. After all, how many courses of those have I bought.



But now I have the dilemma.
I wanna be a writer too, but I am not a writer, as I don't write.
Well, nowadays I am writing, but there must be more of it, and more discipline.
But of course, I need exactly the same reserves of time and discipline to make art.
Would the world be more appreciative of my words, than my Art?

Can my stories be more than just something I use in private to impress people.
I mean, we all have stories, but not all of us are prepared to take enough risks to make those stories interesting in themselves.
Or is it always just writing skill?
I think anything can be turned into something, through Art or writing, but things that were exciting to live through would be exciting to tell as stories I think.
And some of the pathetic things I have done in my life are just great in the truth is stranger than fiction sense



I need to tell you a story now, The truest of true.
I have been doing this thing called Steemit.
You probably haven't heard of it, and I would not be surprised if you never do.

I think it may well crash and burn.
It is racked with contradictions, and although it claims to be a new world, it is just a redux in miniature, of some of the worst traits of the larger world that it is a part of.
Still I am not going into that right now.
Now I just want to tell you a story related to this thing.
I joined about 80 days ago. Later I will check that figure




Anyway, I had big plans for all sorts of blogging series, but I really want to start telling my life story too, before it is too late.
I always sort of assumed that that would be taken care of by my fame, but we have already talked about that.



Anyhow, I joined a chatroom thingy, for the first time since I spent some time on a computer help forum back in early 2005. It's called Discord, and apparently it's a gaming thing.
I never really consciously realised that the attraction in the gaming thing was the social interaction.
As you may remember from knowing me, I have almost zero gaming.
Even before computers, I was never one for games.
I mean, I remember playing Monopoly with Robin, the older girl from next door. And Mastermind too. But I think I used to cheat at Mastermind, I don't know why.
I just wanted to impress that girl woman, and somehow thought she would love me for my brain.
haha
anyway, back to the core thread.
another aside instead. I have just read Anne Lamont's book, Bird by Bird, and in it she calls for people to write the whole thing and then go back and take out the indulgent parts. or the self indulgent parts.
I think there would be nothing left if I did that, but we shall try.
I certainly will be thinking that way later, when I try to rewrite this into some semblance of reasonableness.



Anyway, a letter to you is not the same as a magazine article about the rise of Islamic terrorism.
Not too different either, I know.
I do live with me, after all.
And it's not been easy.
Quite mentally taxing.
Now, no-one else can even take a few hours of it.
Seems surprising to me in the end, that I have gathered only dogs to my cause.
Not true of course, there are three cats too.
I thought I would have been in a different place at this age.

But I am glad, after trying a thousand ways to make a lightbulb, I have discovered that they still have candles.

And candles are cool, unless you want to work by them for example. And I could go on. Candles suck balls to work by.
I could try that, if there was some
But anyway.



So, in the end, here I am living in the South of Spain. It sounds so strange and romantic, except to me.
But I remember and always think of the line from the song, where they say that someone who has not been seen was said to be living in Spain.

Certainly not something I imagined doing.
Not seriously imagined anyway.
So, I am getting sidetracked.
I will offer those stories to my patreons.

So, about what's going on.
Should I try to fill you in on everything that's been going on since you last heard from me.
I don't think that's be possible, except in book form.

But I must admit, I still have no idea how to tell a story.
I just ramble on and don't get it out.
I have been trying hard, especially a couple of months ago.
I think maybe there was some good stuff there.

but it has gotten lost

aja.
I was going to tell you a story about something that happened to me in Discord.
I had forgotten.
Must be all the drugs
I am abusing drugs pretty badly lately. Can't be good.
I admit it pretty easily, but I don't want to get straight much either.
I would like to be able to have it both ways sometimes.

So, anyway



I am here on this new blogging platform, flailing about, but as I think I already said, I really want to tell my life story.
So I wrote part one.
Talking about dying and being resuscitated at one year old.
And I thought I did a reasonable job at it.
If I wasn't writing this right now with the internet turned off, I would go and read it and see what I think now.
because I probably haven't read it since a few days after it was published.

What I should do is sit down now to re-write it.

Maybe I will do that soon.

So I write part one, and feel like I should try and get some eyes on it.
So go off to this new discord thing, and try and get a bit of engagement.

Looking around the rooms, I see one called fiction-workshop.

So I bounced on in there and asked if anyone would like to read part one of my true life story even though it's called fiction workshop.
"it's one hunert percen true I promise" with a corresponding smiley face

Someone said, "oh, I don't think that goes in here" to which I replied "oh, ok, your loss"
I mean this person had only expressed the truth, and I was a bit of a smart alec, but still, at this moment, nothing ventured nothing lost.
I waited a few seconds to see if anybody else had anything to say.
At this point somebody else did come in.
"I think people who write their memoirs are just egotistical."
Now I can't remember what I said here, but I think nothing.
This same person then continued
"I have lived a very interesting life, but I don't think anyone would want to read about it."
And this person apparently calls herself a professional writer, I find out later...

I beat a hasty retreat, after telling them all that they could have their room and eat it too.

I did come back in there about ten minutes later, apologising for my abruptness, and wishing them every success in their workshop, but was completely ignored.




I went in yesterday to search for the incident and give you the actual lines spoken by each person, but unfortunately for my story, the room is gone.

damn them destroying the room and therefore the records as I would love to have that whole sequence. The exact words. Maybe if I read the whole thing I can see I was being an egotistical bastard.
Which I am of course, how else would my body of work exist.

However, I am still amazed, to this day, by that line.

It was my first exposure to this person, and I have said (in private) ever since that this person attacked me, and came up with the stupidest thing I have ever heard, at the same time.

I say attacked me, as all I did was ask if anyone was interested in reading my writings.
Someone who had zero idea who they were talking too, said that one of the biggest category of books in the bookshop shouldn't be there, as nobody is interested in other people's lives.

The room being moved had to do with an incident that I know nothing about really, well, I have heard the story, and needless to say, I sided with the rest of the people.
But the upshot is that the room is gone and my words with it, but who cares, there are plenty more where those came from

I just read Anne Lamont's book, Bird by Bird, some instructions on writing and life.

I recommend it, it is not earthshaking if you have already done some reading about writing.
But it's the same solid advice that you might expect, delivered with clarity and wit, by a self deprecating professional writer and writing teacher.

I know that discord and steemit are pretty full of silly lines, but I must say about another.
I remember somebody telling me recently that one doesn't need to read, to write.
I thing that may well be true, if you take the words literally, but one needs to read to contribute to writing as a whole.

Or just be a genius force of nature sort of person.
And there are few of us :)

nah, I am not even close to serious.
The only reason I think I can write is for reading.
I have done truly immense amounts of reading over the last decade, and before that too I suppose.
I know that even back when I used to read the paper, I used to read every story in it, even the sport pages often.
I still will do that, if I come across the newspaper.
I tend to only skim over the classified sections.

So anyway, what the fuck was I talking about.

One must be personal, to be universal, surely.
But one mustn't be just self indulgent, that too, I realise.
That is permitted for people who already have tens of thousands of people interested in their lives, not for those unknowns as myself.

So I am not being indulgent, in starting to write to you again, am I?
I doubt you are going to feel that way.

Even if one of the reasons I am writing is to talk about how I am planning to be disconnected soon, at least temporarily.

I need a break, I have already stopped doing steemit 'professionally' some time back, but I haven't made any complete break. Perhaps I am not going to either.
I am probably going to keep producing some part of my output as steemit pages.

But it is broken pretty badly now in my mind, so I can't go back to the view I had before my eyes were opened.

I spent a lot of time doing everything possible.
Everything by the books, but I refused to follow the unwritten rules.

And there must be my downfall.

People talk all the time about how they are not doing it for the money.
Another of the follow your passion and the money will come.
Which only works if your passions include making money too.

I was talking yesterday on the phone about the experience of making a diamond and platinum ring.
Another long and different story.
But I did one time make such a ring.
And I got help with several aspects of it, from a jeweller. One of those people, not exactly friends, but much more than acquaintances.
People whose house I had been in many many times, and I have eaten with them on numerous occasions, etc.
But the point of the story here is that when this woman sourced a beautiful flawless diamond for me from her gem distributor, she charged me $200 on top of the price that she paid.
Which I of course paid.
But I would never be able to do that to someone else. I would have had them paying the actual bill for the stone, and that would be the end of it.

And that's the difference, and the story of my life.

I have done that sort of unpaid organising hundreds of times in my life.
If I had charged 20% commission on everything I had done for people over the years, I suppose we wouldn't be having this conversation.

My life would have been of a different character.

I just overheard a sickening conversation over the fence.
(my neighbours entertain a lot)

An English speaking person, living here in Spain, complaining that the Audi dealer didn't have very good English, and that the car he bought came with a manual in Spanish, and how it took them three months to get him one in English.
Now I agree that three months is a long time, but did it ever occur to him that he may well want to learn to speak Spanish now that he lives here in Spain.
But it literally doesn't occur to them usually.
There are whole communities here in Spain with no Spanish being spoken.

But ask these same people why they aren't in England still, and soon enough they'll start saying how the pakkis moved in and didn't speak English but set themselves up in areas and only speak their foreign gobbledy goop.

How come the enormous majority of persons walking around today are such fuckin' ignorant arseholes.

Am I really so extreme.

But the ignorance is virulent and dangerous, and it is on the point of bringing down the world, imho.


so, I don't know whether to just finish this off here, and send it off to you over the vast and ever vaster interwebs.

Or go back over it taking out the self indulgent bits.

ahh fuck it, I'll just publish, it's 3300 words anyway

******
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Thanks for reading, if indeed anybody got this far

Letters to Tao is another old blog of mine, on blogger

I decided to put this in a contest for a good reason



If anyone would like to see an extensive, although unfortunately by no means complete, collection of SpaiNgaroo artworks, they can visit my main domain

There is some work for sale at Saatchi online gallery and a [Redbubble print on demand shop]Redbubble print on demand shop and a [fabric and wallpaper shop on Spoonflower too]fabric and wallpaper shop on Spoonflower too although many of the designs are still not available for sale.
sorry

Blame it on the sunshine,
blame it on the moonlight,
blame it on the good times,
now blame it on the steemit.

video bicho hmmm... sometimes
don't really use twitter, but robots do
the facialbook, if you must

Well, as usual thank you for coming by anyone who is reading these words, and don't be afraid to show your appreciation, or criticise the hell out of me.


if you would like to help us survive send

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dogecoins
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all the steem you think we should have to @spaingaroo

ask about buying my artwork for steem

whatever you think is a fair thing.









******
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.
.
.
lol

maybe this is common place,
tomorrow.
remember where you saw it first.
The blockchain doesn't lie
images by @spaingaroo, artwork by @spaingaroo, incredible chewy goodness by @spaingaroo

back after all these years

Can it be?

does it make any sense?

What do you think?

What do I think? no fuckin' idea. well, that's not so true any more. I seem to have forgotten to keep in touch with you Tao, for many years in a row.

I really meant to reach out, but that's been so hard for the longest time. All my life really. Always seem to be pushing my way through treacle to get shit done. Right now I am doing three different things. (or obviously, not doing three different things properly)

But I have decided that not communicating doesn't do me any good either.

So will I keep writing to you on a regular basis? Can't be sure, after all there are only so many hours in every day, but you are always on my mind, you are always on my mind. (that with a musical background.)

It does feel good to reach out to you though, so here's to us and hours and ours.

Send money and paint.

The Walking Dead?

Well, I just watched the Walking Dead, the whole first series, streaming on youzee.
Got to say it'll probably stick in my mind for a while.
Then there's been a lot going in and a lot sticking, so I'm going to be like that kid in the Larson cartoon sticking his hand up and saying "please sir, can I be excused, my brain's full"
I also gots to say I'll probably be sticking with the dylan song from the wrap scene at the end more than anything.
I remember a line as

I can't hear my crooked footsteps, I can't see the echos of my (own) name

.
But doing a bit of looking 'round I can see that I heard all wrong

If today was not a crooked highway
If tonight i could finally stand tall
If tomorrow wasn't such a long time
Then lonesome would mean nothing to me at all.
Yes 'n' only if my own true love was waitin'
Yes 'n' if i could hear her heart a-softly poundin'
Only if she was lyin' by me
Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

I can't see my reflection in the waters
I can't speak the sounds that know no pain
I can't hear the echo of my footsteps
I can't remember the sound of my own name.
Yes 'n' only if my own true love was waitin'
Yes if i could hear her heart a-softly poundin'
Only if she was lyin' by me
Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

There's beauty in the silver singin' river
There's beauty in the sunrise in the sky
But none of these and nothin' else can match the beauty
That i remember in my true love's eyes.
Yes 'n' only if my own true love was waitin'
If i could hear her heart a-softly poundin'
Only if she was lyin' by me
Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

Yes 'n' only if my own true love was waitin'
If i could only hear her heart a-softly poundin'
Yes 'n' only if she was lyin' by me
Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

But then that's OK, I just adapted it to my own situation.

It's the last night of the year and the usual is to go round wishing everyone such a great time and a great new year and all that but that's not really me.
Shame ain't it, or maybe shameful. I do really think so and also know I should think so, so think so. arghhhh. I think Dylan seemed to say it pretty well. (credits, go to the first version on this page)

Well, it seemed too good to be true, didn't it? Two posts in one day, but it was first day back syndrome. Anyway, it's not that much later and here I am again. I am off soon to work, even though it's a public holiday here in Madrid and I think in all of Spain. But since I don't exactly fit into the mainstream, I also don't follow the mainstream on their holidays. Although I have certainly had a light week, compared to usual. Light earnings too, of course. But that's part and parcel. Whatever that really means. And then, later, I have to paint, draw, study and clean my two bikes and do some long put off maintenance on one. The other, just clean it and nothing else. but cleaning them is always a big job, the way I do it. Others don't do it the same way. and some people just go to the service station and use the high pressure hose to wash it down. But I would not recommend that, nor would component manufacturers. Anyway, what an unexciting letter, no Tao. Send money and paint. I should look for a foto for you.

From ridereflections12112011_3

recent, (well, sort of recent, looks like the 12th of November) out on a walk collecting reflections...

A few more words

added to the previous, as these will be added to in turn, if I can keep up this discipline for more than a few days. I should take advantage of the freedom of being alone in the house, although certainly not in the building, being in Madrid and all. I always wanted to avoid exactly what I have right now. In so many ways, and to start to work on having what I want instead. I 'spose it's knowing what I want that is the problem. Painting, drawing, abstract, realistic, hyper realism, illustration, cute doodling, a children's book, a set of sheets, I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, and I want it now. Sung with passion and gusto, and completely in tune, to the tune of the analogous Queen song. Well, I just realised that the previous entry in this inauspicious blog, was actually this very same day, the one known as today. Having set the alarm this morning without changing the programmed hour, I was gently awakened by the beep, beep beep, although they are not the strident beeps of so many similar devices, but rather a gentle Chinese rolling balls sort of soft chimes. At least the first ones are that. If you ignore them, well they start to get all upset and in the end they are quite fucking insistent, although I don't really know why the gratuitous swearing there as I never allow the thing to go of for more than a bing or two, unless I have forgotten that I left it plugged in recharging far from my bedside and after batting for it in it's usual spot I finally have to panic and fly out of bed to get to it and shut down it's infernal din, although really it's not that bad. So, the upshot, at least for this stanza is that this morning although I had intended to get up at seven o'clock as I would usually do on a Saturday, I instead was gently woken at five AM and didn't even realise until I had raised myself to a standing position after having asked for ten minutes more once, and only once. I had already dressed, which being Madrid in the start of the winter, is not among the coldest places on Earth, but I bet my long lost childhood friends from places like Blackwater QLD would think it was cold enough. It certainly is cold enough for me. Too fucking cold actually. So once I had realised, the dilemma. Stay up or go back to bed. I imagined (as usual) all that I could get done in such a free gift of hours. So I took my clothes back off and got back in to bed with my Eni chiquitin, who hadn't moved a muscle really. But it wasn't for long. I was playing over in my mind the film about the successful artist, who never stops, and did just that:- never stop. So now it's the end of Saturday and I'm going to post.

giving up

The most difficult part is the thought of losing friends, losing contact, losing friendships. As a child I moved often and in that way lost contact completely with my friends every two years and that is art of me. I never really minded in some ways (at that time) I particularly remember leaving Blackwater for the last time which means I must have been about, let me think about it.. I did the last few months/weeks of grade 6 in the next town Buderim so that makes me 12 or so. Blackwater was where I first learned to ride a bike, at the ripe old age of ten. It was an old, and I mean old at that time, 26er. I think that's what they are called anyway. If I still lived in the same house, perhaps I would know. anyway. It was waaay to big for me to learn on in one sense, and it is probably a criminal offence these days to make your kids learn to ride a bike on one that's too big for them. But don't get me wrong, I think it was perfect to do so, don't let me make you think otherwise. We were mad as hatters then but now we've gone way past what's reasonable. I learned soon enough, blood and gravel rash are powerful motivating forces. I had, or I should say I've had some amazing stacks. I (also particularly) remember, on that same bike, which had apehangers, in a pretty upright position, held on by one of those old goosenecks going over a pothole and breaking aforementioned gooseneck clean in half. As you can imagine I was not long for this upright world at that point and although I seemed to have time to consider whether to study philosophy when I grew up, in that way that time has of , dilating I think the word is, stretching out in those points when disaster becomes inevitable, but hasn't happened yet. Funny enough I can't associate any particular scars to that particular spill, so it probably wasn't too bad. I would have been going all of seven miles an hour I suppose. A few years later in that next town, Buderim I remember touching wheels with my mate ... umm, I can picture him but I can't remember his name. I like to think I was going at 60 kph in this one, and it's pretty likely. I was going flat out downhill. I only had a Malvern Star ten speed, but still, flat out and downhill! Well, OK, it wasn't a particularly steep hill, like some around there, it was probably fifty, knowing what I know now. Still, knowing what I know now I would have bought that Peugeot that was in the bike shop instead of the Malvern Star. And then I am sure I would have become a pro. A domestic to be sure, but a pro cyclist all the same. Well, that's assuming that I met some cyclist around that moment instead of twenty three years later. later, always later. when the fuck am I going to learn to live in the moment. God, it's been a continual quest, but and incredibly unsuccessful. Focus Scotty, it's all about focus. Well, anyway that's an appropriate point at which to recognise that I have gotten a little off track here. I was trying to talk about the fact that I am giving up cycling, as such, or at least given up serious, competitive cycling. I will still be going out on my bike, and in fact I am going to do so this morning but I am no longer going to compete. I am sure I will still ride in the same way, always flat out, but I am not going to be systematically training so I will not be able to always seem to be, to those who quickly leave me behind. It has not been an easy decision, in the sense that I have been going over it in my head for a loooong time, but last Wednesday I was finally able to make it crystal clear. Wednesday morning I received a message cancelling my midday class, which opened up a world of possibilities for the day. I suddenly could blow off my Pilates class, and go out and train on what was a really splendid day, although certainly crisp, by any standards. The thing was, although I blew off the Pilates class, I felt much more desire to paint, than to train. I was torn to train, by my conditioning that it's necessary, and it certainly is necessary for a serious cyclist, but, am I that? A serious cyclist can't also work a long and demanding job if he wants to be a painter. And I am a painter. I have been a painter all my life, and I have spent too long not painting already. Those people who know me know I certainly took myself seriously as a cyclist, especially my second year racing, but I still couldn't change the fact that I started 23 years too late, and even then didn't keep it up seriously. Because I'm a fucking painter not a cyclist. I have to be able to admit that. Apparently I'm also a teacher. If I feel I am doing something as a teacher, then in a lot of ways I don't really mind. I am currently quite excited by a new method of English teaching that I have discovered and am thinking of adapting to the job of English Teacher in Madrid, no experience or Qualifications necessary. I really think it's the missing ingredient in the Madrilenian School of English teaching. I suddenly am imagining, visualising in fact, a chain of schools teaching a form of remedial English that opens up across Spain and indeed the world and sets out to fix the overwhelming problem of English Pronunciation and spelling, and finally making me financially independent in the process. Well, since I really do want to go for a ride this morning with my Saturday friends I will have to love you and leave you for a while so I can take my little buddy out and make it all happen.

Hi there, I'm not dead after all

Hey there, Tao, buddy, pal, I know, I know, I haven't been treating you very well lately, nor any of your workmates. And now I've gotten all caught up in looking through the fotos and videos from yesterday and today, so I don't know how well this is going to go either. I'll be back, and indeed here I am. Now, that didn't take long, did it? I have made a selection of fotos and they are now winding there way up the interpipes and when they get there I'll stick a few up here to keep you entertained. I'll just deal with another distraction, that is sitting in front of me, since a good half an hour ago, and then I'll continue. Well, that distraction took 12 hours or so, but again, here I am. What to tell you. Well there's plenty in some ways, but most of it is to complain about what I can hardly stand, so I'm reticent to proceed. But there has been a couple of highlights, I suppose. I entered the Showdown on Saachionline with a work from a while back, one of my favourites. Follow the link. I am just taking advantage of the opportunity to upload a couple more works. My god, how I get sidetracked. (and my god is just a figure of speech, if anything it should be my gods) This could easily become the longest post in the world. In time between starting and finishing anyway. And I haven't actually told you anything yet. That's fucked up.

From ridereflections12112011_1

oh, it's useless, I can't concentrate on this and I'm going to leave it and try and get some drawing done. Sorry mate Big hugs and I promise I'll try again soon Scott