Maybe it is the approaching Sakura Matsuri, but I had in my mind a complex large drawing when I knocked up this big brush stroke outline…. and now I sort of like it as is. Another dilemma.

Here is “Heroes” up till now. This beast is 30″x44″ which is pretty large for a sheet of paper and it has been known to come unhung from it’s masking taped corners and flop into my little closet size room like a sail. I had another long spring hike through Brooklyn this morning (from Bay Ridge home to the slope) and came up with this “Magic crew gumballs woe” photocollage. Somehow I thought it might echo all the arches

I was sort of struck by the gothic arches at Greenwood… it reminded me of the Brooklyn Bridge. I dug into my video archive to pull a still from the e-book Arc Along The Watchtower. It’s almost weird how well the two images combine. Given the importace of Greenwood as civic architecture, I wonder if Roebling was alluding to it with his bridge arches? At some level maybe Brooklyn meant Greenwood to a lot of people.

The arch thing is important in the big painting I’ve been working on… tentatively titled “Heroes”… mostly as the figure seems to be holding Bowie’s pose from that album. Anyway, here is a gif of that painting up till today. Now I’m throwing more arches into it and it seems to have broken the ice.

It was a morning of miracles… and that doesn’t mean that bunnies showed up howling, “Harvey!” nor desert jews rose up from the dead calling “Holy!”, but I’ll say this much: it’s good to see the sun and the bloom of flower and the coming green of new leaf, but I am hung up on one painting that twists and turns out of influence and authorship and suddenly smiles at me like a Basquiat So when spring comes around – and a young-turning old man’s mind turns towards love – why not think of death? Why not revisit the golden boy’s grave and ask: “What next? You who finished so early, must have a few closing gestures left up your boney sleave. How do I finish this? … you precocious, dead, bastard?”

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Went walking out under the blooming trees to the Farmer’s Market . I noted the smell of flowers and diesel fuel which when mixed with passing tobacco is the smell of travel. I was muttering to myself about an old project that has a narrative climax in Switzerland…

I heard an Alp horn ringing through the din at Grand Army Plaza. A trio of Swiss musicians was out busking by the market, playing jazz with alp horn, clarinet and accordian. It was one of those moments where the shape of your thoughts seems to spill out into the real world and the shape of the horn seemed to echo all these sprout drawings of the last couple of days. Strange… atleast inside my egg shell head.

a woman walks by wearing rosewater.

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