Welcome to the beginning. I have a lot of catching up to do in this logbook to get up to speed with the present. So, I will start out in an afternoon summer day of exploration in a dense forest, smack dab in the middle of an assortment of small ‘ancient’ towns and right next to a modern school. It was 1986. Joey Tempest was singing The Final Countdown on the hand radio tied to my backpack handle. The three of us were all singing along. On our way to the next town’s market to buy gelato and arance.

It isn’t quite as uncommon as you might think (in rural type areas) to be a curious kid walking around in the forest and happen upon a small group of older bullies beating the crap at of some kid walking home (at least where I was from).

At the time it seemed like it wasn’t real. Surreal actually. The three of us just stared in shock. The cries of a kid begging. Muffled taunting threats and laughter. That iconic music surrounding us. By shear unbound influenced reaction. Right as that synthesizer melody hit the air, my best friend grabbed a huge stick almost the same height as her and bolted toward the bullies at a full sprint screaming her head off. A battle cry I will remember until I lay on my deathbed. It was an amalgam of every one of life’s unfair tolls of rage and fury induced acts of defying oppressed feelings. It was the kind of outcry that turns your skin cold from electric shock. The forest itself became an empty echoing cavern of dread. My other friend fell backward on her ass; squeaking with panic, and I just stood there like a Roman statue, eyes fluttering, desperately holding my pee in. I had no idea what was going on.

It wasn’t until after they all scattered and she stopped pounding on one of the guys, that the two of us unfroze, got our wits back, and hurried over to her. The poor kid the bullies were beating on was gone as well. The unfortunate recipient ass hat that suffered from her insanity was covered in dirt and curled into a ball, shivering.

After we just stood there for what seemed to be a couple minutes. Which was probaby more like 10 seconds. She threw the stick down, walked over to the guy and screamed another blood curdling bellow. We all flinched of course; I farted and almost pooped my pants. We immediately hugged her while she stood over the traumatized guy and then booked it the hell out of there.

The rest of the day we would not shut up about the whole experience. I personally have come to believe that moment in the forest, planted the seed of ‘not taking any crap from anyone’. It didn’t really start to sprout until a month or two later. This memory, along with just a few others, has stuck with me my entire life, in crystal clarity. I can trace almost each step of that day, moment to moment. What we talked about. How our food smelled and tasted. And what was going through my brain as I failed to go to sleep that night into the early morning hours.

This kind of life altering shock is the kind of inspiration that drives my creativity. I have spent a good portion of my life trying to chase down and channel that level of visual emotion; be it happiness, sadness, anger, irreverence, etc., into my ‘personal’ artwork and writing.