Some days are better than others.
It's difficult to realize how many of the works I produce are just purely inspirational i.e. automatic, and how many possess any degree of skill. Is there any difference between the two? I have seen many works where this line is undoubtedly blurry.
And so, the days that I realize that nothing of what I do holds any sense of skill or merit, are the days that I want to just give up. Other days I am drunk :-)

more pen work from the boredom box - oh where was i sitting when this was preformed? Maybe on the bus or walking to the corner shop to buy a pack of tabs.

another piece done in the same light - this time on a piece of copenhagen council stationary - will i get busted for copyright?

some of the doodles are done with the most basic of materials... ballpoint on a4 writing pad for instance. I think this was done while watching the clock in danish class. is it a SP - perhaps.

I am going to start to use this blog for more than just my own personal whinges. So here goes - let us see how long it lasts - I have a very strong snese of myself and know that when I start something I hardly finish it or keep it ongoing - unless I have a deadline or am being paid, that is.
I will post a load of drawings here - what has to be remembered when viewing these drawings is that most of them are doodles - little things I do to pass the time perhaps at the smae time as I listen to the radio or watch a film - they act as generators of bigger ideas, symbols, colours, arrangements etc etc.

I am getting the uncomfortable feeling of age and annoyance of professional football creeping up on me. Why these two things you may ask - growing old and the most beautiful game in the world? Well, I matched a match last night, Celtic vs Arsenal and realised that, this sport, art even, has succumbed to what at the end of the day we all have seemed to be trapped by - money. You must know what I mean? At this level of football there is no way for any other team to break into what the big clubs have - except of course, with a huge injection of cash. It will be interesting to see how, after all their spending, Man City will come up with. I have heard it so many times, other managers saying that money can't buy you a winning team, so how then could the "big 4" of the english premiership stay on top if it weren't for the money?
With age come cynism, so I have been told - and it annoys me that in the past I was able to watch Celtic play and hope beyond hope that they might just win - why not? They did it in the past. And I watched, bypassing the commercials, the prawn sandwiches etc etc hoping...
But last night even that hope passed me by as I was brainwashed into thinking that this is ok - and cynism took over telling me that it not ok.
Sell sell sell...

thanks for rain, cigarettes, thumbs and the ability to remember long distance memories from the hint of an aroma on the street.

Message? There is no message! That is the message.

After having watered the valuable plants, I stole the cd's, watched the misgivings of the world - Nato, manmade waves, doctor who and a dead iguana - and fled so as to begin the appeasement of the recruitment agency. They want proof, goddammit, and I ain't got any - so a circle of lies and deciet must be generated - wonderful, my potential shall actually be used today.

sometimes, everything just goes too blue, or pink, or green - sometimes brown, when they all intermingle then converge on a single point and explode like some gigantic atomic shitbomb. But, the worst is when it is all blue - that primary emotion, as the colour, envelops everything and only blackness can supply any respite. Then pink, (the two colours of childhood, depending on what side of the fence you tended to be conceived on) with it's red, primary again, and then an ample splash of purity, of light - blood and divinity - why should Christ not wear pink? More suited than pure white, methinks.

But yellow, clean buttercup yellow - a splash of yellow on everything - melting butter on fresh toast - there to disappear, only to be savoured and then remembered.

6 months or thereabouts later and nothing, like the vodka, absolute, nothing, has changed - just older, grumpier and more disenchanted.