Mid year, 1991

Early AM's, room filled with light motes dancing an encoded message across the upper walls & ceiling, the ocean 10 feet behind reflects through bars/fence/bars & blinds the early morning rays, the room/building tres quiet, i alone & nice. So much so that i'm distracted, seeing a few of the men walking across the compound through two windows, lack of sound is supreme/superb. From the onset, arrest and jail, constant turmoiled noise has filled each moment until acclimation. A drawing inward my response, a shutting out the continual drone and hum, now sitting here flooded with the silence, my inner voice unnecessarily loud, and i am amused with sudden realization. Amused and wonder-struck, a rare peace & respite, so long planned (it's taken a year of continual effort to gain the confidence for this privilege) now sitting aware of the silence unwilling to do more than listen. The plan is/was working on the ceramics all day, having laid out slabs, cut and textured last week, all in preparation for this day, this period, this latest idea/piece. To find that i'm more enamored with silence is a tickle, how social an animal (social in the strict technical sense), watching the light-plays, feeling the coolness and separation the privilege allows. Ha, this is swell.

Having recently returned to 'real' sculpture, large pieces, objects that impose, forgo preciousness, forget decoration, these are not symbols. Having conquered some sort of hesitation, an ungainly disrespect of self-ability, i've plunged into sectioned pieces, this one to be 8 feet with a 6 foot one in the finish stage. Having whiled away many-a-night working out details of construction (our kiln only holds 16" X 18" X 25" high) of the Mailing Problem (US postal reqs permit only limited size boxes) of the claybody, of glazes and interplays. Having laid out the four sides of 'base' for this piece, drawn/incised/carved a picture of the object that sits atop of this base, on the sides (each side showing the exact view of the form directly above it) with a narrow band running completely around the bottom. This band will house one of those passages from recent writings, some line of thought that connects. Thinking to lay it out in such a way as to make it endless, a non-linear sentence which flows around the object's base, the reader/viewer turning about the axis, seeing drawing of, and the object itself, from the self-same perspective.

What else to say, at 48 (which i never dreamed i'd see) i seem more introspective than ever (i also chalk this up to my situation) feeling as if there were this Ring-of-Saturn type band connecting between upper-back right hip and left shoulder-blade, somehow this twists my perspective so that thoughts turn downwards (this line-of-force, subtle, constant and pervasive, effects all) and inward. Reflected in recent works, these writings, the tone of conversations, my world; a combination of age & a rather helplessness/hopelessness. Not to say it's all horrid, am liking the objects that spring afresh from this period, am liking the sentences/thoughts, somehow a clearer picture emerges, a darker view defined.

The work is everything, strange and freeing in many ways, so confined that i ripple into waves of ideas. Even dreams are mundane at best, seeing how they now involve this daily routine...Oh to dream of wild lions and the beach. Sexuality too seems foreign, (the dread-fear come true) past masturbation, past quick flashes, the only energy directed to clay-works...this is not to say i'm sterile, twice per month strong erotic nights twist, bits & parts of female, soft breath caresses, voices without words, a tone and flavor arouse, causing me to awaken, so strong they are; the AM's bring troubled walk-abouts, still holding to that reality, still disjointed but glad, glad/hurt/happy, christ what have i become. At 48, an outer shell feeling half that mindwise, and swimming in unknown waters, over my head again.

1994

Did i say am now calling these objects CSFs, (Ceramic Site Fixtures) as a method of removing self, the prison-personality, the idea of art, the classic history, the technique...remove it all, just fill space with the appearance of quality...in any case, it feels a good approach, will spend this next couple of months seeing if i can generate the actual color layout...as this brochure is now done. Finish one, go to the next, that's moi's motto, or at least one of them, today's.

Speaking of CSFs, she is up jelly like, a new complexity of mud/clay. Tonight's job is to pile more atop, and at the same time to keep it from flopping floorwise. She's a charm, these last couple have been a trip, mixing up the smooth with the worked surface, classic face and stylized hair-do, so much goes on one would like to think we can handle it...that still remains a mystery.

So nice a day, sun fishing into this library window, sound of sandblasting across the way, grass intense green and the ripple of razor wire, it's all just too perfect. This whole week am up library, it's allowed me time to do up my latest curriculum on Quality/Judgment/Aesthetics, the Great Books Seminar. Oh that Plotonous guy, quite all right by me, and Descartes' okay, too. The institution has now given me a designation for the class, that makes it official, read, on the record. The real difference is that it attracts more students, but it's to be seen if they'll do the reading...as official classes are filled with folks who want recognition without doing the work...the hope rises that someday, someone will give time off for class work. Well, shall see. For moi, it's still fun, i enjoy the actual writing styles, the authors and the process.

Early 1996

Prison, a strange way of life, with so much curtailment, so much inner time, reflective time, one can either melt into a ploding existence or, as i've tried to do, push the mental...but the confinement doesn't allow one to know if it means anything. Living in a vacuum, distended voices and letters, my only contact, that and books, a world so blank and mundane that it's hard to realize that outside' there's a whole world of color, differences, of energy that is directed towards something besides a politically correct statement. It's made me stranger than i was, strange to say, but i know i'll never be the same, the modification has become second nature, and i think i'll always retain a hermit-like mental frame.

Be that as it may, have just begun #50, this time a male, this time it's three sections, this time it's all fresh again. Apollo, a monumental figure, 6 feet 8 inches, without base, larger than life by a tad, and i'm worried and excited, so much to do, so much to consider. The process is more difficult, just the weight alone makes me work, it'll end up at about 300 lbs...the idea is even tougher, as i'd like it to feel fully male, to be more masculine than any reality, to state the epitome of power, of calm-clear-rational Man. Apollo!

The girls went well, they became almost second nature...so this new project is perfect, i'd gotten into a rut of sorts, not that the idea is finished, i actually feel it's just begun, and as soon as the guy is done, i'll return with a freshness, with new found energy to Venus. (i still like women, think women, miss women, want them, to hear that voice, to smell that smell...so i shall return re-born).

...the CSFs (Ceramic Site Fixtures or Clay Sculpture Forms) are and are not ceramics. Of course they are made of it...clay is grand. The difficulty is that the very idea of clay-as-pottery, a craft, lends credence to the idea that it's not art. This mistaken concept has hampered the advancement of objects made in the material, and it's something to overcome, to reach above the normal outlook. A number of friends asked about fountains, tableware, office-do/dads and the like, and even as i've been conscious of `good will', those items don't hold my interest. If these puppies i make were made in stone, in bronze, even wood...well, then they'd be ART, rather than art-ish, hell, even paper/cardboard, plastic, old rags and Styrofoam, broken refrigerators and spare tires would be in the ballpark, wax and soap, ice (sometimes) & air...all are considered acceptable, even drawings-on-napkins-as-concepts is fine, but clay-is-a-craft, pure and simple. Yet another thing to rise above.

...saying all that i'm still convinced that these CSFs have an audience, that they'd fit into most places that recognize sculpture, (aside from the limited size) that the scale functions within the context, the idea is fresh and is its own logic...and they're underpriced by the power of 10, just need to find the lever, a method of prying off the prejudice and exposing the visuals, rather than the media.

November, 1996

Had this flash of late, it goes like this.  Let's see... this is going to sound like hubris & vainglorious bragging but here goes. Looking at my life, from a historical position, and although not done i can see its end, I've lived a life of reaction to the political/social climate. Born (blessed/cursed) with a high degree of energy, good eye-hand dexterity, a fairly quick mind and a rebellious spirit, i emerged into a rapidly changing world, the fastest in history. As the political environment is, during my entire life, filled with folly, and since i'm very sensitive to hypocrisy (being one myself) i shunned it with a vengeance. I am reactive. What this amounts to is that, during the Viet Nam years, when i really came of age, i was appalled and during the 60's struggled, first with learning my skills but also with how to take a stand on this important issue. I was, as has been acknowledged, proved correct, most of my generation was divided and consequently warped. We are suffering the backlash today. In anycase, during the early 70's the disillusion set in, i turned away from the thought of political change, we had lost the battle, we therefore took it up within ourselves. By the later 70's the outcome was a sinking into personal power, greed, drugs and death, the flip side of the hurrah bandied by the wallstreet gang and their ilk. But by the 80's everyone was feeling it, it became yet another national disgrace. I was not, and never have been ahead of the times, i respond quickly while most folks flow with the wave that takes 10 years to build. By the mid 80's i was mired, sunk and bankrupt, placed outside of society for all the obvious reasons, i had destroyed myself, my options and a litany of others.

During all of those periods i still had that energy, i still created things, be they drawings, soundworks, dance or sculpture, it was what i was trained to do, it is my basic consciousness. Actually the works themselves are mirrors of the times, and i exist as some sort of literary model, the fall from grace and subsequent redemption. I have paid my dues/debt, i continue to. In this too i feel as if i were at the forefront of the times, only i have to live it rather than have it seen in retrospect. The early 21st century will be a soothing, a calming period, historically this has frequently been the case, the end of a century is one filled with fast-change, distraught with the turnover inherent in the generation gap.

My power is in that i make things that last, that demonstrate my life and my times. I have about 20 more good years of being able; this period will be seen as my prison period, the sparks for whatever comes later. I am not special, i just have this drive coupled with an inability to satisfy myself, it takes its outlet in objects. Mine is almost, by choice, a passion play, unlike most of my contemporaries, i went from a rising star to lips-to-the-pavement, and now exist in a monastic cloister, it's the stuff of history books. I have developed a small but interesting idea, it's traditional, it's about art, it's collectible... purposefully. I'm digging myself out of the mire through the traditional method, Good Works. I'm also wise enough to keep a journal, to have developed a network of letters, notebooks and whatnots... Some of this is premeditated, some just occurred as process, but, if i can continue making things, i will become a minor art player down the line. The deal is to continue making the damn objects, if there is a steady flow, one that demonstrates a lifetime, and that that body of work mirrors the age, as a paradigm, rather than a reflection, it holds sway, it is 'found' and takes its place in the annals. I fit all the criteria, the lifestyle, the production, the anger turned inwards and then flowering into expression. All i need to do is keep at it...

April, 1997

Everyday ...Klunk ...wwURRRrrrr/Thnk-Thnk-Thnk/rrrurrurrr. "Last Call for The Chow Hall, The Chow Hall WILL CLOSE IN 5 MINUTES, Last Call," gggrrrrrrrrarara, BONK....shuuuuuu, shuuuuu....wwUKKrrrrrrrrr. "... me da MOPbucket moFO".

Eyes open. Rough sawn bed-slats, a dark-brown-bottom-bed-board-overhead, the last and first sight daily. Sounds of a buffer, Bonking-brooms, off-tune spanish-songs and the day begins. Hop up, well more realistically it's roll over, out of the wooden-framed bunk-bed, feet on cold-old linoleum, pull on the boxer-shorts that've been wrapped around my right foot... (to sleep nude is considered aberrant, prisoners are wildly homophobic AND there' s always the chance that one will be awakened by some officer calling for a piss test, so keep those boxers close). Standing up t'wixt the bedframe and wall, there's about 3 feet, pulling on the shirt/pants of tan, make up bed, "ALL INMATES MUST LEAVE THEIR CELL IN PROPER ORDER", i toss off the army/green jacket and ratty sweatshirt, serving as extra blankets, "EACH INMATE WILL HAVE 2 BLANKETS, 1 WOOLEN, GREEN, 1 COTTON, WHITE". Three scoops of cheap freeze-dried coffee, three cubes of sugar with an equal portion of instant-non-dairy creamer... all sloshed together in my plastic mug with tap-hot-water, stirred with plastic spoon and gulped down... another day falls open.

"WORK CALL, WORK CALL, ALL INMATES REPORT TO THEIR WORK ASSIGNMENTS, THIS IS WORK CALL!"

7:30, off/off to work, past whirling buffers, down hallways gleaming-polished, past the officer's station, out the door. Walk over to yet another building, down hallway-polished to this post and turn on my small god, my typewriter, this savior... The transition short, generally no more than 15 minutes t'wixt awake time and job-sitting... the first cigarette and necessary distance from reality.

40 rowdy-chatting-uneducated inmates trying to get some. Teacher/boss running on, on carpentry/math/football/policy/safety-forms/golf/plumbing/etc. In this tiny back-o-the-room spot i've desk/books/records/forms/paper & this machine. Having sat here for 7 yrs it's home, it's heaven, it's salvation... i can/do drift into letters, missals to...

'Dear (reader-friend),

...everyone was so grand. More is promised within the next week. Actually i'm humbled by the response, it's amazing and i hardly feel worthy. She was pleased because it makes it easier for... It's really the best because... '

8 hrs of being pleasant-chatty, don't complain too much, leave out more than say... tune-out this, that too, the day progresses only if i don't think. For moi, life's been a twist, there's no future, it creates itself daily. Most folks know this, but their past, being consistent, gives a false sense of continuity, not mine. I'm tossed and unsettled in the best of scenarios... and in the worst there's no future cause this isn't one.

And still. What about being old and infirmed and there's sickness and death. This thinking involves a future... hope burns both ends like the candle and the moth. Guess i'm not just a sex nut nor grand-mental-mind, nor a freebody, not even so complicated, i'm alone, interested, unable to separate my feelings and needy as hell, insecure and proud and egocentric and driven and a felon.

Just to keep perspective in mind. ...clunk-Clunk-CLUNK, ggGRReeee Clunk, wheels across cement, the day springs forth. Back from lunch, the din and rattle. "WORK CALL WORK CALL," the whole morning gone/gone again... thank goddess. Aside from a momentary lapse to type some lists, pass out pencils and correct some basic math problems, i had drifted into my screen, my sweetmental screen. One would think i'd write a book, be an author... but can't fathom it, if i'm not speaking to an individual i can't find the frame. No story seems interesting, no telling worth the doing. Outside my multi-barred windows a paint crew is spreading yuckie yellow enamel on the metal walls, behind them the rows of fences, then the bay-waters. Out front the now scuffed floor reflects broken patterns, the doors still slam, guys cross my vision and i'd rather be back in the screen... it's easier.

August, 1997

Selections from a Prison Journal

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