Moodboard

Governor Abbott’s executive order made me feel nervous and empowered, much like a new driver climbing into the driver’s seat. The government was permitting me to take (back) the wheel with the understanding that, for my own protection and the safety of others, there would be provisions.

When I searched for “coronavirus news“ on Google, here were the first twenty search results as of 10:00 a.m. Monday, April 27, 2020.

As COVID-19 stole Major League Baseball from the world, all I could think was that COVID-19 had stolen it from Danny. While I can’t give him back the 2020 season, I can give him this doodle.

“There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” ― Aldous Huxley

An excerpt from an interview with Voyage Dallas, 2018.

If I hear myself say one more time, “It was a great learning experience,” I’m going to wash my own mouth out with soap.

My participation in the year-long Fort Worth Portrait Project‘s Profiles of Leadership program in 2017 challenged me by posing BIG questions about my ongoing “artrepreneurial” journey. And to root through old photos to find gems like this one (I’m the dork on the right holding the poster).

You escape from your vehicle, unfolding your body in a deliberate expression of freedom. Arms up! Back straight! Legs fully extended! In that moment — before the relentless clock of your life resumes — you stand in victory, for no matter what happened along the way, you finished this thing you started. Yes, you did. You are the master of all you survey, including that massive pile of dirty laundry.

Sometimes it seems like only way to get things done is to flex your muscles and blame the other guy. Tapping into negative emotions — like anger and fear — is a powerful tool. But if you’re the kind of person who wants to build your house on durable rock instead of fickle sand, you’ve got to close, not widen, the distance between.

I feel less like Snow White and more like a squirrel, shoveling in my mouth every acorn that’s fed to me. Collecting adages, but not swallowing them whole. When I get back to my nest I spit them all out, then try to sort out which ones to discard because their cores are rotten. This is the curse of the sophomore.

When you’re encased together on a 5000+ mile road trip, lines can blur. Brian eats veggie chips now, for instance, and I’ve become a jerky connoisseur. Bottom lines, however, are equally important. Empty beverage containers are simply not allowed to stack up, miles per gallon must be tracked at each fill-up, and the music playlist is driver’s choice unless s/he defers.

This is a series of tales involving my 1991 Ford E-350 Econoline van named Big Bertha and provocations including but not limited to luck, karma, oversights and auto mechanics.

In real life, the mic drop doesn’t work. It’s counterproductive. If I spend my time coming up with a show-stopping statement while you do the same, we’re not having a conversation. We’re likely not even on the same topic. And nothing, literally nothing, will happen after we’ve dropped our implicit mics except that our means of communicating lie broken in discarded heaps.

This story was originally published on the Downtown Arlington website on November 17, 2015. I’m keeping it in my Moodboard to remind myself how far I’ve come as an artist and a writer. It’s also a testament to my undying gratitude for those people who really truly believed me when I said I’d been an artist all along.