Letters to an Imaginary Friend

Letters to an Imaginary Friend 2009-2011, 2022

I'm in that place again. Remember the one? I told you about it on that too-warm summer day in Vermont, the last time we were together.

The Existential Crack, Marcelo, where I am down in something dark, and I can see high above me on either side, meaning, a purpose. But where I am: nothing.

Marcelo, I am going to try and climb out, again. What else can I do? So long as I am breathing, I can create – and perhaps through creating, I can build meaning, even out of nothing. I'll paint some gnarly portraits, write some brief notes, put it together under the innocuous title of "Letters" and dedicate it to you – you, who always understood my predicament.

Maybe in these marks on paper and canvas, I can begin to discover some meaning. Maybe something will come out of it. It's the only way.

And anyway, isn’t that what God did? Existing as a solitary power, condemned for all eternity to being and nothingness, God created all of this out of desperation. That's what they say, at least – And what is art but an echo of this original act?

All works ink and collage on paper, 10” x 8”, $150 unframed.

(These represent a few of the more than 100 works in this series, about half with printed sayings, and half with hand-written sayings.)

All I want to do is talk about God. When I meet people in a bar, or grocery store checkout line, or gas station. I want to ask if they believe. If they say: "Yes," then I ask: "Why?" "How?"

I really feel that we haven't been given the proper tools to figure out what is going on here. I mean, you call this a "consciousness?" This?

Death is the beginning of all human creativity. Without death looming, we would feel no urgency to do anything at all, let alone push forward into the unknown. We should be very thankful for death.

Do you think this whole thing is God's idea of a joke? Not funny!

Do you want to know what really frightens me? That everything is exactly as it should be.

Don't you find the whole notion that we are "not" a primitive civilization patently absurd?

I mean, from geologic perspective, what are we going to be? Some plastic detritus in an impossibly thin layer of sediment? Does plastic even fossilize?

God, life is banal! But if it wasn't, would I yearn for banality?

I am currently watching a TV reportage concerning oatmeal. What are you doing?

I keep reaching the end of my rope. And then I find a little more play in the system. Still, someday . . .

I know the meaning of life. (But I'm not going to tell you.)

I order a double espresso, and the guy inserts these two "liqui-packs" into the machine, which mix with hot water and drip into a plastic cup. See?!

I pull off the turnpike to scribble a few notes to you, capturing my thoughts before they flee. How can you say that I'm not completely committed to our friendship?

I talk to intelligent, educated, highly successful people all the time who aren't the least bit worried about where we are headed as a species. Doesn't that prove my point?

I think when you ask: "What's the point?" You are already lost. Right? Or is that when you begin to get found?

I wish I could just figure out the point toward which we are supposed to head, so I could get started.

You told me not to think this way. But still, it haunts me. Everything that I will never do.

Why are we programmed to be the way we are, and not some other way that would make it all a bit easier?

What if "Truth" lies out beyond "good" and "evil?" How are we to set our course?

What are we again? Was it: "the sum total of our actions?" That seems so basic.

Today: rain. Tomorrow: Armageddon. Do I feel that way just because I didn't sleep enough last night?

The problem is that the great confidence that we have in ourselves grows out of ignorance, not wisdom.

The only hope that we have is acceptance. And that can't save us.