i was facing the computer, playing spotify and other programs and noticed a fly above my head. I tilted my head up and spent about 30 seconds watching it stop, buzz side to side and round to side and round and buzz then took my camera and filmed it. the fly was a tiny black speck against the walls, which's only defining line were the three representing the dimensions of spaces. or at least the most simple of dimensions. this made me focus on that world alone like the world in my flat. a blank white, represented in three shades whilst the fly set the composition. I thought of it both painterly and existentially. both seemed flat in comparison to simply being there.

Thu 00:01

I seem to enjoy writing out local, common and simple narrative, laced with symbols and basic though imaginative descriptions, which i can then perhaps go back to, and convert into more refined and sophisticated poems or songs or some kind of verse of which to take a kind of pride in.

An example:

the park was wet on the bars as the boy brought up his heavy lip to stare in to the yellow truck he held in his two hands. he made the metal toy look as if it was both porcelain and slabs at the same time. his mother was out with the photograph that was to be taken of him. he was quiet, though if you;d wandered up close you would have heard him whisper to himself, 'frrr, lmmm, nummmm srrrr....' and other kinds of phonetic things and muffled speech. His stare appeared to stretch deep into the structure of the toy as he pretended it was a plane.

A sense of free association and spontaneous prose aligns the text.

Thu 00:00

"that's the one" he said, "the cheapest sort you have."

she took the silver cap down from the shelf and his eyes dropped onto the bottle she

based on the drop across counter slat. She had a striped blue and wipe apron on, making more vertical her barrel

body which had all the safeness of a smile guaranteed, even if rained spiked the pavement outside.

The weather was becoming quite bizarre in comparison to the past. he had black shoes which squeaked. The skin

of each shoe had wrinkles from front to back. He never bother, though always felt compelled to reach down and 

tend to his shoes when he noticed. He alighted back of to offer the shop lady a smile before walking back out into

the rain.

Three boys past. Each with their hand inside their blue sweaters with hoods. Often he noticed the younger lads walking

around the streets with their hands buried below the pockets of their hoods, trousers and down. A very strange thing that

he seen develop in his brothers before them. This kind of masculine punch of sexuality pushed always made his 

understanding plummet. That and the fact his own thought police strangled his curiosity.

Leaves blew off the trees like flakes of skin. The pavement wrinkled more dramatically than the man's shoes. His hair

threaded the wind as he blunted his posture and walked beyond the stores, takeaways, bookies, italian cafe, aquarium,

SAS muscle build store and all the other stores. Some signs crumbled, some signs looked like sores.

The black jacket he wore was dragged and wilted round the shape of his body as he planked his feet foot to foot through 

traffic lights, across pothole roads, under the shifting sky. The only sky he could remember when he looked up was a bright, baby blue sky. This challenge the grey wet sheet that hung tight on behind the reed stone tenement stretches.

All the details of a walk down the street at times overwhelmed. The sharp shine of the sun blooming was enough to slice a smile throughout he thick, grey morning. The red bricks lit up. Legs made lines across the pavement as another italian cafe passed by. The bank, the fishmonger, the bakery, the corner shop, the corner shop, the corner. Always wondering how many coronership could line a side walk, he went into one which had been a different from the other the other day, and bought the 20p independent. Always a gloomy paper, though at 20p, who can argue.

"i'll have a packet of Hubba Bubba too thanks".

Taking to a random inclusion within his day, he looked at the sharp lemon yellow, bubbly font agains the blue/purple background making up most of the composition of the little packet. It was like a private joke. All of the other products lit up a little. He was in a fine photograph decorate with myriads of parcels of sharp and intoxicating colour. 

Wed 23:27

i'm drank 3 modest glasses of red wine. red wine than was cheaper than the rest in the store. i have a puffy tongue. and a wondering mind. i'm bipolar between a kind of existentialism and pure joy. both share qualities and differences which make them wonderful in their own. it's all within harmony i think.

i've been sifting through old photograph that have fingers in my heart and head. other than that, images occupy me. websites, books, printers, colour, structures, layouts, drawing, love, death and everything else in the kitbag of events everyday deals.

there's too many adverts. that's what i do know. what i do know should matter a hell of a lot, because what i don't know is incredible, and thats exciting.

cinderella she seems so easy. it takes one to know one she smiles. she's coy i believe. but thats just the linguistics.

i'm going to draw out particular parts of the old 1990s photographs i found which has my youth nice and represented. i want t'segment parts of the photographs, rendering them in coloured pencil, felt tip pens, watercolours or water acrylic, colourfully and on, and see what becomes of my subba jecta vitivy.

their quite similar to drawings i was looking at which focused what happens when you allocate a concentrated drawing a quite less prominent than usual position upon a big big page. it seems to be striking due to the peripheral place place it sits at. asymmetrical, off centred, outwith the famous 9 and all other positions you'd expect.

though what struck about the photographs i was looking at was looking at myself as a child. the subjectivity that jumps inside the images. the metaphors i calculate from the form.

occupation: metaphysician.

i see my brother, jumping inside the camera. my other brother blown away by big blinding winds. my father's present sturdy, straight, narrow and steady. a mother not there. all big ingredients of me.

i want to stare into myself. un-selfindulgently. in a structuralist manner. i want to use the ingredients of me to create something quite well. something quite developed. something quite complex i gather.

one come to sight...Guston

'Guston firmly believed he was a narrative artist at heart. He wanted to "tell stories".'

http://www.nysun.com/arts/philip-guston-at-the-morgan-library-and-museum/75658/

'Guston was pulled to the things and to the "thingness" of the world, especially its detritus. 

His friend Philip Roth recalled, "We discovered we both liked American junk."'

GSA degree show work

this painting by Sofia Stavropolou, along with the work of Robin Everett, seems to me, to be, the more striking works of the paint and printmaking sections of the show. wonderful work.

GSA painting and printing making: Sofia Stavropoulou

booklets

i woke up at 5am this morning. its fathers day and for that recent, theres a small bout of excitement in my socks to make something. i made two things. quirky, intellectually bound, and constructing with appraisal towards concept and intuition. baby.

a booklet sharing my ideas on mountains which i produced for my dad to compliment him on fathers day, a day full of mystery and attention.

the first booklet expresses an indigenous desire to unfold the wheel. the wheel in its very essence is ever ending and ever beginning which is wonderful.

both booklets can be found with inner pages at my portfolio site: 

BEHANCE!