Hm. Well to anybody who's reading this, to the two of you out there. Haha. Just going to go Blog and be whiny or contemplative for a second (or an hour, however long it takes you to read this for this post shall be a long winded one).

What am I as an artist? I can’t say that I am a terribly good artist in the sense that I seem to fall back a lot on whatever floats my boat or makes things easier. Lately I've been trying to expand upon my visual dictionary and I have come to the realization that I probably am going to be limited by it greatly having no real grasp for perspective. Remembering my choice to shift courses in college (my sad pathetic life issue 598- Ed), my first choice was literature, and then as fate would have it my uncle advised my mother to encourage a shift to fine arts instead. He saw some shit Van Gogh sunflower knock off.

At this time I had started 2 comic Indies (One about a flamethrower equipped Jesus and one about feigned sociopolitical concerns, both never finished). I'm not a good illustrator. It’s not that making art doesn't come natural to me; it’s the quality of the work in terms of more than just self expression. I quit drawing all together back in high school since back then, and focused on writing, but my output was comics oriented. I'd draw the odd short here and there, but the way I drew it was keeping this in mind:

"I’m not going to try, and I'm just going to draw because what's important is that it gets the point across and I am so funny and tortured"

It was in college that I decided to relegate comic making to be just a hobby (how many other artists out there with me on this one? Dami nyo sigurong nag sabi nyan!) That would pursue with as much vigor as becoming a doctor. I still primarily considered myself a writer, and just (even back in high school) desperately wanted an artist to collaborate with to do the stories in my head justice with more than just mediocre art. Never found one, still searching for one, but on an interesting side note I remember starting to draw when I was in kindergarten and the other kids wouldn’t let me in their circle to see the crayon drawings of my pal Ralph and I decided to draw myself so I wouldn’t need to see his doo ultra man drawing. We became friends in grade school, and rivals eventually. He was serious about art, and up until college I thought he would really be the one to become an artist. He chose music, and he was no natural musician by any measure, but what he was, like me, was someone enthusiastic to create, more than just imitate. He was sick of cover songs. He left for the states when I was still pursuing becoming a doctor and feeding my equally important hobby of making comics. . .

But wait a minute, how the fuck can a hobby be equal to and as important as a career in medicine?

It can't, at least not for me. I respect my parents too much to just allow them to allow me to be a mediocre healer. And even though they never forced me to become a doctor, I knew they were more than just a little displeased with my shifting.

Couldn't be helped. I’m an artist deep down inside... hey, wait a minute, kapeng mainit! I thought you were going to shift to Literature? Well I was, and even now I don't understand why it was so easy for me to just say yes to my uncle. Was I so unbelievably flattered at his suggestion and implication that I had smear of talent that I was overcome with some sort of hypnosis? Or was I deep down inside just a closeted artist clutching at a broken pencil and my uncle was searching for a tie only to happen upon my malnourished soul in search for said article of clothing.?

He should've just strangled me in silken splendor if red green and red (most ties are Christmas gifts after all). I’m still considered more of a writer than an artist. I guess in the past few years I have improved, but I’m still more of a writer. But a writer for comics and it is how my comics are still viewed by the few who take care to notice. Not for the art of ill refined lines and wonky perspective but for the relation to the degradation and depression and confusion (hey, I learned that Shion in German means pretty, I think!) found in the words I put to them.

I guess what I’m trying to get at is (apart from justifying my short comings) you are going to do whatever you want to do and there is no shame in that. You gotta burn yourself and be reborn. Go to the moon and look back the shattered earth and piece it back together with a smile. Who cares if you’re alone in the quest? If its worth it then fuck all and end all, just try and see how polarity treats you and eventually balance will return and you will find yourselves somewhere in beautiful balanced grays that will be your life from here on out. But only the grays you see will be more than just desk and pen, keyboard and monitor, and that awful 9 to 5. It'll be the blur of a twirling world that's made up with all the things you hope for and have done and will do. It'll be the gray that'll punch you until your nose bleeds and then it'll help you up only to kiss you and then hit you again.

Rinse, wash, and repeat.