My writing, other writing, music, graffiti, film, photography, art of all flavors, chemistry, philosophy, literature, hate, love, politics and all things beautiful and pure and eternal and also some corrupt insanity mixed in for equanimity.
The art:
Yo, artists in Seattle, who the FUCK is jacking handles, shitting on our ideas? Someone got me for my AMORE tag. I adored my AMORE. Somewhere out there in Capitol Hill, some ugly 16 year old juggalo street-kid is writing my fucking tag for his "family". What the fuck happened to coming up with some shit on your own? Originality?Creativity? Working within yourself to come up with something fresh and new? The graff writers need to be the first to step up and come correct or we'll be nothing but 100,000 banksy's with shitty movies and keychains at urban outfitters.
the dead weather: the difference between us
To the toy that stole my tag, fuck you, now it's all about the yarn, kid. Indeed, I might be unraveling, getting to the point of blasting tag-jackers and art thieves and hipsters from a tall-ass building on Pike with a high-caliber rifle. Just kidding, idiots.
Y A R N
THIS IS GETTING RI-SICK-ULOUS
So this is y a r n out of Los Angeles, home base Seattle. I'm puffing on sacks of bluedream & I finally made a blog. This magical Cali chronic has me autism high. That shit right down there:
BLUE DREAM
The view from the lab.
But as I live the good life some nameless coward stalks the streets of Seattle with a can of paint mocking my art, painting my AMORE on walls. AMORE is not sweet italian love anymore, but fucked up, envious plagiarism. If everyone went around the city blasting the same fucking tags, graffiti would suck, the city would look like a homogenous bowl of alphabet soup and art would wither because true art emerges from the streets like the heavy steam that rises up from the sewers.
welcome to the yarn barn kiddies
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