HOME | DD

Description
Sometimes I wish I was clinically insane. I don’t mean insane as in killing someone and eating their fingernails then using their intestines to spell “particle-board stole my virginity”  no I mean insane as in stuffing a handful of lettuce in my mouth then attempting to whistle “Row Row Row Your Boat” into a snorkel in the middle of a busy intersection in down town Los Angeles, you know, the harmless kind of insane. you might ask “why Jake? why do you wish you where insane?” first I would correct you by saying “clinically insane” then I would answer “well I guess its because deep down I know that I’m just another regular person and that’s what kills me.

Its been one year and four months since I realized that the reality that we live in is my prison. Every morning I wake up with the same putrid taste of intolerance and distrust in my mouth. I can smell the nauseating scent of greed and contempt, the kind of smell that sticks to everything like cigarette smoke or week old spilled milk that has sunk into the carpet. I can feel the ever so light brush of fear on the nape of my neck, I can hear it in everyone’s voice, even my own. The feeling is like when you know some one is watching  you, you cant see them but you know they’re there.

“The worst crimes committed are not by those breaking the rules
but by those following them”
-Banksy-

There are two ways I can escape  this prison, the first is staring  up into the clouds but for me there is no outer space, only more sky; an endless sea of clouds that one day I can leave this horrible place and live among them with little concern for the latest  and  greatest technological advances that will change everyone’s lives for the better or the blockbuster action thriller must-see of the summer produced by some slimebag who slinks off to Taiwan once a month to have sex with an underage prostitute. The other way I escape is through art. This way not only can I escape but the viewer can escape as well if only for a short time before reality calls them back with its taxes, lawn mowing, and latest fashion trends.
Hmm,

More about art..

Every time I finish a sketch, painting, or essay I feel the indomitable compulsion to show everyone what I’ve done; like a two year old who’s just finished with a crayon portrait of his mother and waits impatiently all day for her to come home so she can smile at it, post it to the refrigerator, and tell him she loves it because at that very moment he knows for sure  that she loves him. I tell myself that I don’t care what others think and that “if they don’t like me then they can go screw themselves” but the truth is that I am so desperately in need of others approval that I am not even satisfied with myself until someone tells me that they appreciate me. Art is how I prove that I am worth the acne, pale, blemished skin, and greasy unwashed hair that I am made of

I have heard people tell me that I am good at thinking outside the box when all I’m doing is thinking inside my box..

My prison.

Description
Sometimes I wish I was clinically insane. I don’t mean insane as in killing someone and eating their fingernails then using their intestines to spell “particle-board stole my virginity”  no I mean insane as in stuffing a handful of lettuce in my mouth then attempting to whistle “Row Row Row Your Boat” into a snorkel in the middle of a busy intersection in down town Los Angeles, you know, the harmless kind of insane. you might ask “why Jake? why do you wish you where insane?” first I would correct you by saying “clinically insane” then I would answer “well I guess its because deep down I know that I’m just another regular person and that’s what kills me.

Its been one year and four months since I realized that the reality that we live in is my prison. Every morning I wake up with the same putrid taste of intolerance and distrust in my mouth. I can smell the nauseating scent of greed and contempt, the kind of smell that sticks to everything like cigarette smoke or week old spilled milk that has sunk into the carpet. I can feel the ever so light brush of fear on the nape of my neck, I can hear it in everyone’s voice, even my own. The feeling is like when you know some one is watching  you, you cant see them but you know they’re there.

“The worst crimes committed are not by those breaking the rules
but by those following them”
-Banksy-

There are two ways I can escape  this prison, the first is staring  up into the clouds but for me there is no outer space, only more sky; an endless sea of clouds that one day I can leave this horrible place and live among them with little concern for the latest  and  greatest technological advances that will change everyone’s lives for the better or the blockbuster action thriller must-see of the summer produced by some slimebag who slinks off to Taiwan once a month to have sex with an underage prostitute. The other way I escape is through art. This way not only can I escape but the viewer can escape as well if only for a short time before reality calls them back with its taxes, lawn mowing, and latest fashion trends.
Hmm,

More about art..

Every time I finish a sketch, painting, or essay I feel the indomitable compulsion to show everyone what I’ve done; like a two year old who’s just finished with a crayon portrait of his mother and waits impatiently all day for her to come home so she can smile at it, post it to the refrigerator, and tell him she loves it because at that very moment he knows for sure  that she loves him. I tell myself that I don’t care what others think and that “if they don’t like me then they can go screw themselves” but the truth is that I am so desperately in need of others approval that I am not even satisfied with myself until someone tells me that they appreciate me. Art is how I prove that I am worth the acne, pale, blemished skin, and greasy unwashed hair that I am made of

I have heard people tell me that I am good at thinking outside the box when all I’m doing is thinking inside my box..

My prison.