forward ----->

from my florida home, to new york city, and now in the western peninsula of france; this is a statement that reproves itself daily:

"Sometimes I despise the familiar, but simply out of the want of something that’s not. For this reason, I will swim upstream while floundering about, splashing awkwardly, and gurgling my words. Somehow I love this struggle. Eventually, I bear my path into a new pond of bigger fish where, being the little minnow that I am, it is only a matter of time before I’m eaten alive. Yet, mine is never a story of total self-depreciation as at some point I will be pooped out and become part of the filth at the bottom of the lake... and man, I do love life’s filth. Still, I miss the familiar."

for 11 months, I found place well upstream with a blind leap to an unseen apartment in the northern-most borough of NYC. then and perhaps more so than any other setting, it was a time consumed by a forced adjusting; adjusting to being a minority, adjusting to harsher mentalities, adjusting to the hour (+) commute to manhattan.... as a romanticized concept of adaptation fell way to a genuine struggle of the experience, I patiently await the reality of this unforeseen scenario to set in. patience gave way to craving the familiar. the familiar settles as the senses adjust. adjustment comes as routines are established...

here, I mark my days:

"i enjoy climbing 19 floors of stairs in the evening to smell the different aromas emanating from each floor. the 12th floor always smells like fried chicken. yesterday, i found a condom wrapper by the door of the 16th.
i often drink a cup of tea at night while meticulously measuring squares and circles that will be painted the following morning with an assortment of pattern while i drink a cup of coffee. sometimes i'll have toast. other times i'll have a banana. once i had a plate with english muffin eyes and pistachio teeth.
from 2 to 6pm my eardrums resonate with the sound of childrens voices. at 6:15, i am always surprised to find the physical remnants of these hours: a sticker on my leg, a bead in my pocket, sand in my shoes, paper in my hair. to hold these remnants, my eardrums rest assured.
and everyday my eyes take in some new subtly of this unfamiliar palette- a palette that was always there. even in it's changes. but through this recognition i am suddenly connected as my joy begets a different step, and a slight smile, and i smell breath as a head returns the flavor."

and now France…

with the school year coming to a close and so to my employment for the summer, I'm pressed for new ground to stumble across, and an even less familiar terrain to travel. In a single chance and with what some would easily describe as fate, the long neglected NYCraigslist once again serves to pave future roads.
finding employment from july to october as an artist's assistant and general helping hand, I spend 4 days per week painting landscapes and other details, along with some basic studio work and the occasional domestic task. for this I receive (delicious) meals, a (beautiful) room and studio space, as well as the cost of the flight from my US home. in my amply remaining time off, particularly throughout much of september, i am free to travel at will. this may be for a local weekend in France, a weeks visit in Spain, or a long intended month in Italy. regardless still and aside from these destinations, the cobblestone house (and the place I'll call home) set in the sprawling Bretagne countryside; there is sight alone for traveling eyes...

and again, from those trying urban confines, I'm in awe at my good fortune.

in attempts to share this experiential wealth and as a means of 'keeping in touch', or perhaps above all as a misplaced expression of gratitude; I have intended to use this blog and the next in entailment of its title. ever floundering and flopping about, while often being consumed over and over daily, I write on, leaving gurgling trails behind me.