Part II

Everyone has been trying to get me to reduce my anger, distill my thoughts, concentrate my energies and use 1/3 less toilet paper when I’m through taking a crap. (which by the way, I’m convinced is still truly the only individual act of creativity one can do on a consistent level with a certain amount of control and limited effort without being harassed or critiqued.) Nothing but a bunch of obstructionists they are. Live free, work for pay, and collect my thoughts on scribbled napkins and soggy newspaper under the “help NOT wanted” ads.

I dig through cardboard boxes of leftovers (my mom’s), one of three left for me to save or discard as I see fit. Her life collected into small compartments of limited edition dinnerware, a silver plated gravy bowl and a photo album. Inside, pages and pages of anniversary cards, ticket stubs and postcards from Hawaii along with some long forgotten 50th year wedding celebration on a Norwegian cruise ship to the Bahamas. Was it the beginning of the end? I flip flop the yellowed pages back and forth and recognize an image – the Sears Tower , Chicago . It’s from me. “Hi Mom, what a great city! I think I’m going to like it. Hope you’re well. Wish you were here.”

Part III

Art is my life, my wife, my drug, my heroin, my addiction. I don’t believe I want to stop. It is my muse and my worst enemy. I am not alone in this endeavor. There are many like myself, I am grateful for that. Perhaps you are one of us? Look around. Realize that what you see here today, on these walls, is the soundtrack of your daily life played out on a 78 record over (skip jump scritch scratch) and over (scritch) and over again. Art is what you make it.


Kevin Freitas