Voluntary Exile

Copywriting is like fucking for money - if you like fucking. I wouldn´t recommend it. Too many rules, too many formats, too much of everything but not enough love nor time. Writing for money. And I know it beats a real job. At least my job doesn¨t bore me to death. Real jobs are truly a pain in the ass. So extremely disrespectful. (If you have half of a brain.)
Some people make me smile, most people bore me to death. It´s a fact. They are worse than boring. Compulsively faking. Real adults.I managed to paint it and called it ´The Real You´. Was fun. For once in 2017 the canvas was working with me. As if my Imaginary Friend held my hand. The Fucker - as we call eachother.
It is nice to be back in exile. Voluntary exile. Living on a island, staring at the Mediterranean Sea.Yes, it¨s good to be back. Checking out these women on the beach who seem to be reading magazines - fashion, lifestyle or gossip. But are they really reading? The pages turn fast as hell.. Maybe they are too smart? Maybe they realize it¨s guys like me who write that shit? Not that I give a fuck. As long as they keep on spending their hard earned cash on keeping me alive. For all I care they stole the cash or did whatever they are good at. Honesty Killed The Cat. That´s gonna be my next painting: Honesty Killed The Cat. I like it. Consider it done.
If anyone is reading this and has a suitable place in Valletta for my next painful exhitbition, let´s say in December, feel free to ignore this. As always, how many would show up? 7 or 11? No offense. I would probably be in some bar myself.Talking to some real piece of art. Life is all about choices. (Which makes it even more unbearable to some.)
Can anybody borrow me a fifty? I need to buy some shit. I mean to paint.Obviously.

Imaginary friends

Talking to some women is like talking to God. Most of the time it feels like I am talking to myself. Spot on. No matter how you twist it. Unfortunately. Good thing there´s cold beer, happy  food, dope, supersexy kinky stuff and funky art. Imagine an existance without a single one of them. I am not a machine. Basicaly because I refuse to be one. Game on.
The day looks promising. No doubt something is happening today. The fucking canvas isn´t cooperating though. But that¨s okay. Been there done that.I guess it¨s high time to hit the town.Who am I to refuse?
It´s hard to break old habbits. And most of all, extremely boring.

Lust for life. I have said it before and I sincerely hope I will be repeating myself for a bloody long time.There is always something to do when all seems lost. And there´s so much more to do when everything looks promising. Energy. I always felt a bit (read a lot) like an outcast in this world where everybody is dying or killing themselves. Blessed or cursed? And does it even matter how and what we call it?

No, I feel like that piece of food in the fridge that should be thrown away in the garbage because it´s expired. Yesterday a friend of mine killed himself. Funny how this makes you feel that you are not alone.
I am still thinking about the weird encounter I had this morning on my way to the liquor shop.  This woman that I have never met, was calling me by my first name and talking about stuff I can´t possibly picture ever happened. I am like fog between all these black holes in my memory. It´s becoming a problem. Then again, maybe the reason I don´t think life´s fucking boring is because it starts every day again from scratch. Every day a new adventure.
How fucking great.

A new beginning

Food smells different when you are starving. Nothing much has changed. People who are aware of my existence know I have a bond with my bottle of beer, my cigarettes, sex and a few less common addictions. But all of a sudden these things seem less important now that I am inspired again. Lust for life. As if there´s nothing I would rather do.
People are conditioned by colors. I believe I am the only one who paints so dark using only bright colors. There are no absolutes. The face of your greatest enemy might be the face of my finest friend. You see the thing is: when I write about parties someone always dies. Creating art is like living. There are no mistakes in life, only lessons. What works for me is to live out of the glory of my imagination, not my memory. You see, things are always created twice: first in the workshop of the mind and then, and only then, in reality.
For the time being I am only sketching, waiting for a financial break (not luck) to buy some decent material. Luck is nothing more than the marriage of preparation with opportunity. Ideas come easily. My mind works through pictures. I guess I am blessed because some say you will never be able to hit a target that you cannot see. And last but not least there is always enthusiasm, one of the key ingredients of succesful living.
Malta is inspiring. There is the scenery, the history, the architecture, the blue Mediterranean and so on. Mind you, you will not find it directly in any of my paintings. I still refuse to paint what easily can be fotographed. Different media should be used for diferent angles. I like to think we have moved on. Then again, I guess common sense is not so common. But hell, never overlook the power of simplicity.
Time to act. No Valletta, no Mdina, no nothing. But yes, the best is soon to come. It´s about time to reinvent my destiny, with a wicked sense of humor, erasing the habit of worry. Or to quote Suzuki: "I am an artist of living - my work of art is my life." I am making a series about Mind Control. Don´t know the tittle yet. I might call it "A new beginning." To tell you the truth, it´s high time I discover my purpose. With a burning sense of passion for life.