I am still only sketching, instead of just doing charcoal or graphite; I am incorporating color with pastels and colored pencils. The sketches I have done are Warhol-ish self portraits, there will be 6 8 x 11 like the portraits he did of people. One is purple, black and white (shown) another will be primary colors and one earth tones. I have not thought yet as to what the others will be.
The Because of Wichita series will be featured through the University of Mississippi Forensics Department ( Sept. 19, 08 ).
I am still sniffing my paints and brushes, like lovers attracted by scent or someone huffing glue. Makes me feel like I'm ( back ) with the love of my life. I miss painting and doing encaustic more than I have ever missed anything in my life. I am becoming depressed and just feeling down right off balance. I am reminded of something I read. ( I do not recall the author )" At the core of us, as an artist. It is in our work, by our work that we re-assemble the fragments, re-create wholeness". This statement is appropriate to the circumstances in my life.
September has always been a busy month for birthdays, etc. My Daughter Areca's, my Brother Bryan's birthday ( both on 9/15), my Son Jason's birthday on the 26th , A few other personal events, 9 – 11 and should I now include the month Tom Brady went down as well as a few other good players?. Well time for me to stop writing and finish diggin' on Cyndi Lauper The Body Acoustic. Enjoy the full moon!!

I found this on another site that I do not recall the name of. I thought I would edit my September 11, post and I am adding it. I think it's hauntingly prophetic, in it's own way.

from September 1, 1936 by W.H.Auden

I sit in one of the dives

On Fifty-second Street

Uncertain and afraid

As the clever hopes expire

Of a low dishonest decade:

Waves of anger and fear

Circulate over the bright

And darkened lands of the earth,

Obsessing our private lives;

The unmentionable odour of death

Offends the September night....

Defenceless under the night

Our world in stupor lies;

Yet, dotted everywhere,

Ironic points of light

Flash out wherever the

JustExchange their messages:

May I, composed like them

Of Eros and of dust,

Beleaguered by the same

Negation and despair,

Show an affirming flame