I reached for the paragons of sequential odyssey found in those Benday dots and four color processes, but found I could barely contain transitory moments. Attempts lie aborted like a motel rendezvous . Groping with half understood elements of the trade, I would sputter random doodles, resulting in abrupt skits. At best the narrative became an exercise in improv of the absurd. Stubbornly I persisted and sketches started building up like magnolia leaves , pine needles or crunchy old palm fronds, perennially molting . I started a blog to keep track of the moments I spent spilling ink in this way, and these books are an attempt at manifesting something more tangible , and… perhaps in vane, more permanent.
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