First of all...Wow! Thanks to ~liadys and ^ArtisticAunJuli for the Daily Deviation! I really means a lot to me, not only because it's seriously mind blowing that my Rorschach painting has received so much positive attention, but also because it was the first oil painting I've completed after a horrid dry spell and it's nice to feel appreciated. For the past few months I've been shriveling up creatively and feeling like a shadow of myself...and that's no fun at all. So it just feels refreshing to get that spark back...and I was shocked to shit to feel inspired to paint something after seeing Watchmen and subsequently wandering around some shady streets in Chinatown. (And believe me, it took the greatest amount of restraint to resist the urge to flip up the collar of my trench coat---which is on its last leg, by the way...sad to say, but I actually noticed in the theater that it smelled like ass. Or at least something or someone sitting near me smelled like ass...) Bah...anyway...thanks everyone! I really appreciate your comments and I'm going to try to respond to everyone to the best of my ability.

On another note, I added a few things to my website, including a perty set and a treasure box I whipped together for a shoot I did with =Athansor. Also, if you haven't checked it out, I was able to get a hold of some pictures from a few sets I worked on for the film Growth. Here's the link to my site, in case you don't have it bookmarked already: [link]
And for anyone who goes to look at the sets but hasn't seen the trailer: [link]

Again, thanks everyone...and because I was reading some Bukowski yesterday, I'll leave you all with an excerpt from a story that really hit me:

Excerpt from A Rambling Essay on Poetics and the Bleeding Life Written While Drinking a Six-Pack (Tall) by Charles Bukowski

Sitting there at the library table, starving, sitting in the sun, I felt it all: the shit of war, the dullness, the death, the buzzing of flies. Then I was lost and young; now I am lost and old. There I sat in that library, the knowledge of generations there and not worth a damn to me, and not a living voice in the world that had spoken anything of what I was thinking. There I sat among all those books and I was thinking the way they kill people, they ought to use screwdrivers and pliers and pour acid in their eyes; they ought to break their legs right off; they ought to put them in cages with tigers. The way they kill people not one or 2 come out alive in a million, and who's doing it, and why?

And if I left the library I would have to walk the streets and pass doors with locks, windows that were bolted at night. Women who tilted their heads up at me because I was dressed in rags but women who would sleep with any fat swine who owned a string of race horses and pawnshops. I would walk through the streets of dead men that moved and spoke and had names and pride and possessions but who were really dead. Any avenue of faces would be a dream of horror--the viscous & bone dry & shit-bowl faces
...I would reel dizzy after viewing such a parade, not from hunger but from knowing that I lived and I would live forever in this life, in a world of the dead.