My mom died 5 years ago today. The “why” still haunts me. We weren’t as close as we should have been - I am antisocial with family, too. But she was an artist - so she understood what a mess I can be.

Today, I am sending out a virtual hug to those that need it by attempting to thread the needle somewhere between "cynically dark me" and "poetically squishy me". I tried. This "me" needs more practice.

The natural human world is a monotonous gray canvas. We are not entitled to art. The inspired colors that fill our world come at a cost - borne by painters, sculptors, photographers, writers, composers, etc.

My biggest flaw? My front lower two teeth are crooked. Braces meant pulling at least two and risking my embouchure. Performing as a musician - primarily trumpet - covered a third of my tuition. And after? I decided I am me.

I posit that "stuff" is a fundamental aspect of evolution. And. An integral component in the advancement of civilization. Why? Because making it and consuming it distracts us from bashing each other's heads in with rocks.

In my early short stories I often used what I call “self resolving logical puns”. Similar to a “self reference” joke – except you may need some external context. THIS is an example in cartoon form. Oops! I didn’t name the artist?

One of the “just for fun” cross discipline courses I took in college was the Philosophy of Logic. A side topic was abstract structures in mathematics. It turned into a “mind-bendy” debate on our modern constructs for reality.

What is artistic inspiration? Is it biological? Is it chemical? Can it be simulated? Does a spider weaving a web create a new pattern by accident? Or as a natural response to stimuli? Perhaps inspiration is a spontaneous “mutation” in the entangled conscious thoughts of the Universe.

'Tis just about my favorite season! May as well get an early start ... haha. Punny. Poor fella. My college professors introduced me to a "who's who" list of people in an attempt to help me "find myself" as a creator. Including Wes Craven – a native Clevelander who had taught English at my college in the 1960s. But that's a horror story for another day.

Coming from an extended family that is heavily involved and invested in the arts – I have spent more than my lifetime's fair share of existence attending or helping with art or craft shows. And while I have never done one just for myself – never say never. Well, on second thought. Say it.

Does the "Biblical God" exist? I doubt it. Well. I hope not. But a "Being Person"? That's an entirely different complicated and complexated subject. Having gone to the other side a few times in my youth – there are some experiences that cannot rationally be explained away. And only time will tell.

These modern ponderin' times? They have a certain Elijah-ness feelin' to them. Or maybe more a superstar aesthetic – if you will. And don't ya get me wrong. "Sign, sign, everywhere a sign; blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind ... thank you, Lord, for thinkin' 'bout me. I'm alive and doin' fine."

My great-grandmother was born in "Napoli" – as I can still hear her say – but the family's ancestral home was a little further east. In the shadow of Vesuvius. And while I have long since forgotten MOST of the Italian I could speak as a child. I can still swear in it like a drunken sailor.

I'm fascinated by the psychology behind a medium's framing of reality. Photography "is". Based on when that "is" is. Mood is captured in context. Painting "is". Based on what that "is" is. Mood is reflected in context. As in all forms of creative expression, the artist's "is" ... is forever.