The rain falls at a 45 degree angle as I think of dinosaurs and watch pelicans diving for fish.
The earth will wash itself of humanity with bright indifference.
The styrofoam cup will become oily sand on empty beaches with water so clear you can see the soul of the universe.



Decaf delirium

I watch condensation drip from the car air conditioning onto the asphalt laid by men who cannot afford to live in this town. For a moment, I am sure I am not far behind them. I drink decaf coffee and Steely Dan comes onto the café sound system. I am glad my girl cannot join me today. But I hear her words anyway. “Those guys sound like pretentious frat boys.” I wouldn’t disagree. The waiter gives me my check and I walk home in the heated September LA morning, slightly high on caffeine.



The Architecture of Indecision

Everyone knows what’s behind the door… subconsciously, at least. But it takes the free thinker or the bravery of the artist to push the door open for all to see. There’s a price, of course. Just ask Galileo (the world is round).

But once the door is open, after the artist has paid the price, everyone goes inside as if the door had always been open.

  1. Go through the open door.
  1. How do you know the open door does not lead to the same place you think the locked door is keeping you from?
  1. Maybe the room you’re in was only meant to be a hallway.



Photo by: Susan Overberger

Why are we here at Black Market Yoga?

A student approached me after class asking about a song I played.
Turns out they had been writing a script and were a little blocked. The subconscious or the muse had momentarily stopped delivering. But in the middle of yoga class, when that song came on, the flood gates of creativity opened. An answer to the question and gift from the universal mind. Their script would be completed.
Where are we going?
All the way, to where the unconscious meets the conscious.
But maybe you don’t think you’re an artist or have a creative life.
The termite doesn’t think he’s an artist either.


Foundations for living

In an attempt to keep me and my brother and sister out of the streets and off drugs, my mother signed us up for art classes at the Cleveland Museum of Art. At first, I probably considered this the cruelest joke you could play on a 10-year-old boy, one that stood to rob me of my summer vacation… until I got there. I wandered the rooms and eventually settled and spent the afternoon drawing what I saw. The teacher would occasionally pass by and say, “Oh yeah, that’s cool man.”

Thinking back now, I’m sure she was stoned. My aunt stopped by one afternoon. We walked around together. They had a big room full of armor and they had a large selection of swords and spears. My aunt looked at me and then she looked at the spear and then she looked at the security guard in the corner. She then said, “How far do you think we could get if we grabbed one of these?”

That afternoon, I did a painting of my aunt spearing the security guard. Unfortunately, it did not get saved, but this one (below) is still in my parents’… attic.

I have never aspired to be a “painting-drawing artist.” I have always tried to express myself through music and eventually the teaching of yoga. It’s interesting to me, all these years later, to see how the early days of your upbringing can impact your place in the world.

I cannot go to a museum without considering grand theft. Or a stoned art teacher walking around with no bra on.