Thank You Jahil

Photo credit, Taumblr Than.

Hang Your Key Up

Three.

It was across a table illuminated by luster candlelight. Beneath the hazy gaze a formed bond is transcribed into illustration.

In living Color.

It is just a test in an optical color pallet.

Up Closer

Up on a Wall

These are faces found when searching only for a bargain. Each individual pictured is withholding stories that would tantalize the wildest of imaginations.

cheap. cheap. cheap.

Thanks to this photo I was selected to show in the Cheaper Show. Listen to their slog all. "Buy Art Not Coke"

Don't Bring Your Guns To Town.

I cannot cry, yet I mourn. I mourn for your loss of longing. I mourn for the potential you no longer see in yourself. You occupied a seat of aspiration molding my characteristics. A protecting barrier you developed, encompassing me with your security. You held your head high as an individual refusing conformity. Please look at your self. Please see all that you are capable of. Know I love you, yet I doubt that you have achieved your greatest accomplishments. The future is in your hands, and lives will change from it.

Self Referential

They're

Only

Breasts

Goodbye Honey, Goodbye Milk

Change. I am not overly disappointed when I find quarters floating under cushions, or dimes tucked into deep pockets. Frankly I constantly anticipate the coming of change. A new item on a favorite menu, seasons fading accompanying the new earthy blessings, an acquaintance leaving this title behind and becoming a friend. However I recently found myself engorged by a foreign form of change. I revisited a land I once described with a biblical sense, filled of milk and honey. Unconditional love, selflessness, a place where all my sentences could be finished in another vocal tone, yet with all the right verbs. Foolishly assuming all would be as I left it. This FurnGully of a land was sabotaged with a Hexis of sorts. All I have left of the most creative, inspirational time in my short life is this mere collage. Only hope is that it deteriorates at a much more gradual pace, sparing me of this heart wrenching shock.

Fabulous, Flawless, Fifty

Who is this woman? Standing amongst a sea of plaid, alongside a nostalgic array of artifact. She just happens to be my inspiration and aspiration. She just turned fifty and she is nearly as fearless as ever. Tough lou, the name stuck, although her parental guidelines often weary. Her punishments were merely meek. She was never ashamed. Proud of where she came from. She would stretch a dollar, disguised any issues of despair with colorful activities. From homemade 'pretties' to 101 ways to cook hamburger, this woman made ends meat. Reassuring confidence, proving uniqueness, fighting to protect the under dog. Inflecting morals which she never would have obtained if she had not belonged to an under privileged upbringing. You have extras you share, you hear taunting you defend, you need help always ask. She would pick up ignored native hitch hikers, in our green minivan on our way home, conversing with them, caring for them for those brief encounters. She was salvation for a neighbor who was constantly tormented by an abusive father figure. Never forgetting to give second chances. She would never just read bedtime stories, but she would perform the part of each character. She did not run me to the doctor insisting a diagnosis, when I became obsessed with hallowing at the moon. She played along with my belief that a rock named jaw jaw lived in our mailbox, and if ever he was misplaced she would help me retrieve him. She encouraged my creativity. She is the reason I am where I am. I have been blessed by your presence mrs. Westman and only hope for another fifty years within your embrace.

... Some gifts I had sent her

It Snowed in Nineteen Sixty Two

It is sure rare that this occurs. Never have I seen this before. Well, have I seen snow in parks? Yes. Never in a Vancouver park. I went to a water side park, sat in the fog, I took my motorcycle long with me. I wish I was born in 1962. A man in that park told me my motorcycle is 36 years old. I had never really thought of it that way. I mean after all I have only rode it for a year, and it had been forgotten for so long, abandoned in a shed. This video seems as though it has been forgotten. Today it shall be watched and appreciated

Deasrest Grandmother

Grandma

Leona

R.I.P. Bobbie Westman

This one goes out to my BobCat Westman. He's passed on to the land of milk and mouses. Although on the one occasion in his life where he encountered a mouse he happened to cower in fear. So maybe less mice and more other enjoyable kitty things for you bobby bobs. Like lick baths for puppies for instance, a favorite pass time of yours and wondrous things for attacking. And laser beams to chase on the clouds of kitty heaven. Of course there will be many floors to run across in kitty heaven at all hours of the eve. No doubt you will have your own little kitty computer chair. You will be missed down here little BobCat but welcomed with yarn, and liver in your new heavenly home.

Thought you might like this yarn hair Bobeachio, so its dedicated to you my little feline friend.

Miss your little snuggles orange onE

Frank Sinatra

Cali, Cali, Cali how I miss you. Listening to Franky sing about Dolores, I long to lay in that park. Maybe I will try and bring all that charm to this rainy northern town. Arts in the shade, home made drink, blankets to lay upon, and the dearest friends. Well its still winter now, but perhaps soon. I think I will go to Whiterock from the recommendation of Gary. They have quite fine collectables out there.

Keep the ones you love close, and if distance stands between you, then keep them even closer to your hearT

And I am Lonely when you're Around.

Interpret the way you wish, stray from the cliche. No attempts were made to enhance romance.No efforts applied to appease feminism.No statements about the environment, and the use of natural material. Does that mean it is just tits and ass? Could that be all there is? Is there ever even a purpose?

Don't Forget to Write

Writing letters is a charming way to store memories. Sit down, collect your thoughts

then throw your inhibitions

behind a stamp. Could there be

anything more fulfilling then receiving a hand crafted letter. Allow the words digest, soak into the romance of a tradition passed, admire the hand writing,

most importantly indulge in the

concept that time

was dedicated to you.

Not an instant message,

not a short phone call,

but a memento, specially for you.

Happy

Writing