Coffee House Stories, Volume Two

Chronicling the Events, sketchpads, over-heard coversations, and revelations at the Twin Cinema Coffee Shop, in Chapel-Hill, North Carolina.


Ripped Page from a journal, found at closing time, on January 12th, 2003.

Coach whips, lollypops and Caterwauls, the visions on my pad today are of a more supernatural nature, coming off of a twelve hour sketching binge, where my only concern was not jumping out of my skin eternally crawling over the canvas. I figured if I could only keep up this pace, I might have enough sketches for the upcoming show.

Feeling restless about my work, like I may be stuck in a rut. The rat race in my brain keeps producing the same responses to stimuli. Perhaps a painful event might help.

That’s the inherent nature of art and pain, how you don’t want pain, none of us do, but that to truly create art, it must come from painful experiences, or at least reflecting on them.

But much of my painful past experiences have taken place years ago, or perhaps I’ve been too detached as an artist for awhile, and I need to get back into the swing of things. The nature of love is to feel pain, I hear this, and I know this, but at the same time the responses I get to my own pain, my own genuine feelings differ from that, until I feel that I am cycling in the same direction, with the same amount of force on each stroke.

Thought about Melissa again, despite what happened between us, the truth lingering above me, like an idea that won’t translate into an image.

What is it with my quest for the perfect picture, one that explains how I feel everyday?
Perhaps my own expressions are fruitless?

I wish I had more answers. Other artists have answers; they don’t draw puzzles, but solutions to the puzzles in their own heads. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped, without any way to get out.

I called home today, leaving a voicemail message for my parents. Haven’t spoke to them in months. I get into these periods where it’s just the work, and nothing else. The sound of brush on canvas and the loud music, as my parents try to get through over and over again, it must be fucking maddening, having a son like me. Not that I would want to be anyone else.

I think I’ll tear this up, there’s too much incriminating evidence on this page, stinking of three day sketch binges and the notion that its all been done before.