New Paintings: Functional and Not.

Some more images for my book.

More New Stuff: All in progress as we speak.

This is Brooklyn

Transfixiation of abstract thought.  Pulse of city streets surge in and out of conscious precipitation of pigmented daydreams.  Sinking teeth into concrete and electronic tidbits, jobless but not without directions.

First Book Image

Cleveland, OH- 8 1/2 X 11 In.- Acrylic, Micron and Paint marker on Digital Photograph Print.

More to come shortly.

Playin banjo outside the music inn.

New York, New York

Arrive in New York City a couple of weeks ago and have been in the process of getting my life together.  Good stuff, looking for jobs, working on finishing my novels, painting pictures to leave in the parks, busking in subway stations, safety breaks in the case room, things of that nature.  In love with the humanity present in Brooklyn and Manhattan and Queens and Harlem.  Buzzing heartbeats of the living concrete.

Huron, Ohio - 564 Miles to go

"Wind at their backs- the day starts off in fast forward motion across the remainder of eastern Montana. Finally after what seems like the greater part of the trip thus far. But not before a stop in Wolf Point on the Fort Peek indian reservation and other various shorter stops.

In Wolf Point, behind the local grocery store, Tonten & Estes scrounge in the dumpsters, finding full plates of fruit and bean dip. The pineapples ripe to perfection sunshine manifested in the flesh of golden triangular slices. The other fruit, excluding grapes busting with sweet and sour pungency, is sub-par. But the pineapples instill the taste of god on their beholders. While feasting behind the store, an indian kid saunters up and begins with admiration of the two, wishing and remarking his once there plans of a bicycle tour. He stands short, but is built like an ox, he has traveled around before and keys Tonten and Estes into the various hot spots on their rout, missions deploying food to the hungry, college towns relinquishing good times on those passing through. All in all a magnificent resource to happen upon. We walk back to his squat. A quaint white house with blinds drawn, a rusty white pickup parked outside, it's bed full of junk. It is dark inside and as a joint is rolled, Cool Breeze awakens to join in on marijuana festifities. Neither had smoked hash before, so it seems to be new experiences for all. The two living on the reservation just won the recent rodeo in the event of catching, saddling and riding a wild horse. Marcus, the propieter of visitation was the rider, cool breeze the roper. Marcus is a war veteran and is in training to become a UFC fighter...."

I'm ready to get off the road...but im close.

Traverse City, MI

A few days of rehabilitation in a sun soaked town of Traverse City, right on the bay of lake Michigan, drinks and conversations of phone service in the outoftowner residence of Shea's parental units.

An excerpt from chapter three:
"Pulling into Williston a stop at a closed gas station and hardware store follows a brief layover at a bakery outlet's dumpster where oodles of donuts and rolls and other bread products brim the circular dumpster. At the service station they rinse their bike components and panniers, but allowing their clothes to retain mud covered memories. At the local grocer, approached by a couple- amy and charles, who offer a shower to the dirt ridden cowboys- with no backstory required. Again the beauty of humanity shines through. After marching around the large super market, bulging with summer sausage and energy bars, bulk foods and beef- they saunter to an apartment building and up smoke stained stairs to a modestly decorated homestead where internet access is provided, a shower with waterss raining from heaven, purified water and a bowl of ice cream complete with artificial chocolate topping. A ninety year old living by herself driving into town, trips to indonesia in the near future and work in group homes. Refreshed relishing on the appeasing nature of the canadian hosts. Of to set up camp in the city park which seems to be a bustling center of town.

Mealtime shared- ground beef and beans, a real cowboy roadhouse chili made on the spot. Sips of whisky flask and wine sips from rolled appendages. Life is real and now, happening and unfolding before Estes's once unsure psyche. Glittering skylines vast above uneasy households, begging for more of what makes the world go round, while others bask in the excess of americana.

A deep sleep in cacoon spreading and stretching to the light of new days. Fuel to be seeked out, but not before youthful boys extend endless curiosity of the journey. Estes plays the banjo for the young chaps. They want more. More answers, more entertainment, more life, more art. All on in the same a sampling of purity neglected from drab simple caring lives of western North Dakota. They ride on small bmxs through the concrete park that accompanies lush green lawn, ampitheatre, and locked bathrooms. Estes is forced to the ajacent corner store for his morning movement, where he is given a cup of cheap watery coffee for free. The boys heckle Estes and he evenually must blow them off and head out and exit the welcoming town. To stay on highway two or to extend to 1408. The first is decided on with the intent of camp fuel and free cook pot from walmart. Everything goes off without a hitch, exiting through the garedn section, leaving his previous mealtime whoas behind."

Minot, North Dakota

...Montana is extra wide, realizing this from a bike is even easier then on a car (though I've heard that it seems wide even from the speedy perspective. Have been grinding away on my bicycle and think I'm about halfway through the States. Going to take a little break in Michagin and will then continue on, to see and seek out rocks unturned.
Pictures and another excerpt from chapter two:

"After and in the duration of eating, Tonten and Estes decide to ride further, while Jay and Hayden plan to camp in the area and hike around the park, while forward motion has become an addiction of the newly formed duo. The couple of days spent with Jay and Hayden full of paper, rock, scissors, undiscernable card games, beers, pork and beans, eggs, huckleberry coffee, snacks of meat sticks, steep climbs, eternal plummits, and the like has done him well. Estes and Tonten bid farewell to the couple and just like that they're off. Another hill to climb accompanied by windy roads thereafter- an up and down day. Tonten an offwhite bullet; Estes struggles to keep up, sometimes ahead and sometimes lagging far behind. An exciting new challange compared to the past couple of days meandering with two spinners. Tonten is a masher, while Estes falls somewhere between the two. They pull off about halfay to the town of browning sharing trailmix and a joint.

Tonten went to school at UC Santa Cruz, where he grew up and still resides: living out in the woods in a tarpshelter full with a double burner stove and a futon- a white wine wimper wispering softly to bed. He happens his way into free food- in whatever way that may happen- dumpsters, fanny packs, cross eyed jokers. They immediately take together a quest or at least the shared company of the open road eastward, twoards the same New York State.

Blasting through the foothills and into the next town, where streets are blocked by cop cars after they exit from a sheapish burger filled with free fries- snatched from the table perpendicular. A quick grab before the waitress has the chance to do her job of relinquishing unused foodscraps to the garbage. They step out into the oddity of mainstreet, doubling as highway two: the duo's route for another 800 miles or so. The town is busting with life-

"Watch out for the horses!" people continously hollar, as if a trample is inevitable.

"Get outta tha road!"

Estes and Tonten look at eachother, confused and conflicted, but pull off near the end of town, taking shelter from the howling winds behind a dirty building who scatters paint chips with the slightest nudge. They set out to find a grocery despensary, but now they stand in gaffaw as 200 wild horses barge through town- the start of the rodeo commencing the following day, as memorial for one killed in a drunk driving accident. Laughing, strangely amused, they saddle up as new age cowboys and follow those groping to the past's version of similar tradition. They arrive at the grocery store and stock up on neccessities. Estes finishes his shopping first, posting up alongside his radiant cycle and plays songs- urging to be heard over the hussle and bussle of Rodeo season. Though almost inaudible he makes a cool ten which evidently covers for the food just purchased. Off and out of town, a firstly shortsided mission, forgetting water and trickling back to the edge of town to brim up their various recepticals.

Finally off after a long day of passes and windy roads, strange controlled stampedes on a highway, oodles of tricks about life on the road. Tonten and Estes pull off with a sigh of relief- duck through barbed wire after throwing their bags and bikes over, reattaching mountains of gear and treck over a gully to a wide open field invisable to passerby. At the edge of this field is a little white cottage, followed by a shanty; looking completely constructed from clothes lines. They share Tonten's tent since there are no trees: Estes stares at the sky and eventually works up the energy for a nights rest."

Shelby, Montana

Everything's flyin by, more of chapter two:

"He Wakes up, a little slower then desired, expected and regretfully pulls his physical ailments behind a veil of wonderment that shadows him from the violent sun. Tearing down camp he strikes conversation with Umar; again an american spirit rollie, this time with more of the pure-bred all american family. Umar has work and Estes has a road to follow, eastward. Toards the concret forest of his future. He finishes packing and saddles up, first having to force his high horse up the steep tretcherous path followed the night before, near the top, control is almost lost with accompaniment of pitterpattering heartbeat, a tragic end to the beginning of his journey it would have been.
Onward through a clear fog of uncertainty, Estes dominates his pedalbike to the brink of peak performance. A machine so perfectly designed to unite man and land. One must wonder as the speeding vehicles wizz past at top speed, connected- if they really understand their destination or if it is just a cover for the fear of a life connecteed, living in surroundings. There is the sprawl of the west, constructed and fed by automobiles insistent rampage on the lives of simplicity possible with condensed population. The rocks bear distressed lines which act as present day proof of our misunderstood dominence- the earth works slow, but eventually catching up is inevitable. A flip 180 degrees would be a viable option to save us from imminent destruction, yet in due time the circle would end itself. Estes is headed towards Sandpoint, Idaho, a moderatly sized town that radiates an artsy yet tourist driven feel, with bicycles ll around. 11 am and he is in the tiny town of Priest River, where he fenangles his way to both the local library and to the local post office. There is a run in at the post office with a bitter old log time man who is sour and unhappy about all the "butterfly chasers and daisy pickers, this used to be a loggin town." Toungs bitten as hard headed opinions cannot be altered. Estes feels for the man, stuck in the past, but doesn't completely understand his hatred for the future."

Whitefish, Montana

Here I am, across the border of montana and almost at the feet of glacier national park. Everything continuously gets smoother and smoother. Thoughts of breaking around here for the night, but I will probably push forward.

Excerpt from chapter two:
"A quick cross over the Idaho border and Estes is in a new state, new people, places, attitudes, altitudes, climbs and descents. First of which is down a rocky dirt road in the nights fresh cool air, to the first legitimate camp site thus far. The atmosphere is thick with insectual beings, making each breath of air a gamble. Estes rides into the site unnoticed after hours and explores available spots. At the furthest end of the rec area is a section of "tent only" sites where the decision is made to guide his extremely heavy rig down a steep viney rooted incline which puts him right on the lake. A family is car camping right next to him, and is receptive to the vibes radiating off of Estes, supplying him with bug repellent and a meal consisting of ramen noodles bulked up with bits of chicken and vegetables, indiscernible to Estes as he devours graciously.

A phone call with Shea reiterates the emotional cause and effect of physical departure; seperate3 yet undeniably connected by underground or extraspiritual ties. This is true not only for long term relationships between lovers, but of any interaction between humanity, potential or otherwise. A ring from russel comes during intense conversations about the cold clawlike grip of reality, but once a closure comes about his message is checked.
"it's fuckin Russel dog, I love you so much man, I'm just out here hollerin at you, waitin for yo ass to get me back dog, once you say fool, find somewhere, give me a call on my phone, you got my number dog, lemme know what goin on out there with you man, I respect you alot for what your doin man, and you know I love you every day and I love to see that shit happenin man. I want you to be out there and I want you to be doing that shit. And I don't want you ever to give up man. I want you to be out there man cause you really got somethin man. You got a gift. So put it out there man. I love you boy. And if you get this get this and get back to me boy but if not, stay tall man, I love you boy."

A new boost of self accomplishment begins to set in; being that his entire family is behind him in spirits, shocked by his vigor and determination..."

Times out at the library.

PICTURES!!!!

Priest River, ID

I crossed the border from Washington to Idaho last night around Eight Oclock. My first state of many to successfully cross. People are open friendly, excited amazed about my journey. Everyone wishes me luck and safety. I am seeing America for the first time in my entire life. Another excerpt from Chapter one:

"Next morning Estes awakes at five and is headed up the next pass by six, after a heat flutter about water when he is saved by another gas station. One who's attendant has a goofy grin remarking
"what was your mom thinkin' when she dressed you today. Looks like you've been shot up with paintballs. You painted that all yourself though?"
The climb begins, this time everything seems easier being his lungs began acclimating even with the smoke being filtered through them. Cycle of motion begin second nature, almost nonexistent after a couple of days. Estes is along but not: with parts of everyone he meets inside of him; this world is full of wacky encounters, while zipping through little towns, big cites, open prairies that just beg you to take off all your clothes and run through them at full speed- because people have been there. The whole country resonates with kinetic energies of the past, as human kind has decapitated dear and thrust their throbbing member into the molten hot core. We are part of the world whether we like it or not. Estes feels these thoughts surging through his veins as his lungs pump air so fresh, so pure that you almost can get high- his spine tingles as he feels his place at least for this moment, the next and so fourth. Estes is here now, and there next. No fictitious bouts of schizophrenia, just purity reborn through the advancement of this beauty- tainted by American slumber.
Hacksawed knees, bees following him a reincarnation of Tom, Reading close to the so built up Sherman pass, a glimpse of what it must feel like to be unreal. A a wrongfully accused scenic outlook he decides to stops and smokes a hash ciggarette and just take it in. Shitting off yet another highway railing, this time making an effort to cover up fecal matter. Contemplation and he finally searches the scenic area, drawing a picture or two, playing his banjo."

MORE TO COME...Hopefully pictures soon.

Colville

Here I am in colville, WA at the public library. AND i still cannot show you any pictures from the trip since all the libraries across the country don't allow uploading. THings are getting easier, and I'm getting into the groove of things. Meeting so many crazy people, seeing beautiful places and just feeling alive. I am no longer going to post entire chapters of my book but instead just excerpts that tickle me pink. Here's some from the first chapter: of course more to come.

"Of course the post office is closed, but the mailboxes inside are available and Estes is able to find an envelope for his excess weight. After much contemplation he leaves a small bundle of juggling balls, books, clothing, and unnecessary tools beside the road- some of this is retrieved later but that's beside the point. Off to find a bite to eat, but then realizes his harmonica was left on the red plastic bench- that litters the streets of America- in front of the Post office. He scurries back with heartpumping speed to find it resting inconspicuously in front of the post office.

The smell of pizza illuminates the air guiding Estes to a restaurant deemed Eastside20Pizza. Gawkers dig his bike outside whether they understand or not. After a calzone and dark beer, served by a cute blond waitress, he finds his way back to his bike after being offered a free place to camp tonight. The offer is tempting. At his bike the banjo decases itself, a harmonica hangs around the skintight neck of Estes. He begins playing a haphazard aray of sonic vibrations. People do what they do: watch, listen, breathe, drink, masticate on greasy pizza. A glint of happiness creeps over Estes's fidgity hands and feet as onlookers become interested.

A couple of songs go by and one of the cute waitresses from before makes a request that he play the stage setup in the back quartyard. Climbs atop the triangular stage littered with various instruments, at first attempting accompaniment with the father of the owner of eastside20, as he plays absolutely wretched beat and undiscernable keyboard and guitar. Estes edges his way into control, slipping into the spotlight and shows vigor and his performative side shining. As if a new shell has been entered by a wandering vulnerablee hermit crab. Someone gives him a tip afterwards and Estes is on his way to find a place to sleep. The area has become desertlike, with urine radiating sagebrush and scattered pines instead of the usual cactus and sand. A couple of potential spots to hang his hammock fall through so he instead lays low beneath sagebrush and his tarp, blocking himself from view, on a sleeping pad, being stabbed in the back by grass, but totally content on his surrounding. Sleep comes easier then before with dreams of future places to busk and show artwork."

I will try to get pictures up soon through a warmshowers host. Stay tuned.

Tonasket

Day two has gotten me all the way to tonasket. Knees ache and all of that, but I just got rid of ten pounds of dead weight that was unnessary. I have a long climb ahead of me today but thought that I would pick up where I left off on the story.

"Levi is a dramatic hard headed gangster, who seemed to be on top of his game all the time, or at least likes to appear so. He went to school in portland for a degree in anthropology where he picked up habits of studying hard and playing hard. Estes has always looked up to this brother through all of the fights and faults that humans seem to accumulate. As young brothers Levi, Russel, and Estes felt strong connections and thought nothing would ever change.

Estes had trouble leaving austin, battling with his own habitual cycles but finally made it out to pursue a degree in visual arts, though he had not yet decided on this, it was ingrained into his future. Her tried science classes for a while before realizing the allure of the mighty paintbrush. Once fondling his way into a class which incubated his lust for art once more, he became a maniacal lust for more and more painting all of the time. Now a constant, a month, week, day, or minute without at least some sort of creation is one wasted.

He began to be enthralled in the early stages of post traumatic stress disorder, for no apparent reason at all, until he met a sweet little midwestern girl. Shea is a cute woman with aspirations of saving the world, through the use of environmental law. This was not always the case, her dabbling in various other sciences, but by her junior year she had figured out that was the best way to help out. She wears her dark brow hair up and sometimes down, framing her beautiful almost cherubic face with eyes that penetrate even the darkest of days. She helped combat the addictive personality of Estes and was able to lead him in the direction of his passions as a more constructive and beautiful way of dealing with the world.

As his schooling progressively became more and more interesting, Estes began planning an even more ingenious mission: A journey across the states to New York City where he would meet up with old friend Oliver and see all the art he must now compete with on his quest. With the bee in his bonnet, Estes planned and planned for an entire year the physicality of this trip; prepping all the necessary gear and riding his bike on an obsessive daily basis. But it is the emotional angst that such a journey causes on its maker that cannot really be planned for.

Of course this is part of the entire adventure. Forgetting what once was and instead facing forward and trying to figure out what is next.
"What this world holds is great," remarks Estes. He sometimes speaks to himself in an effort to combat the loneliness of the road and his nervousness about being out there, being alive. Estes, by now, is greaed to the teeth, his bike littered with paintings of life and death that envelope all of his various camping gear. He sleeps in a hammock by nightfall and by day pedals his bike as far as his twenty-one year old sack of bones can admits. While he rides he plays a harmonica tune, dreaming of big things to come.

Yet Estes still thinks of the wonderful people he had the cance to meet in olympia before his departure. Tom and Bon effortlessly faded into his life with the situational bliss of a cold drink on the hottest day of summer. Tom, who stands like a giant, towering over just about everyone he encounters, has a passion for the same type of life as Estes. A passion for the same type of life Estes longs for. One full of creative endeavors, big cones, the occasional nightcap, bicycles, tonka trucks and musical harmony."

I have much more to type out but the library I'm in has a thirty minute limit and I'm already over it. Bleh

Introduction...So far.

here's what I have so far as the Introduction of the novel that I'm writing. I leave Olympia in a couple of hours to embark on a journey that has really has no end.

"The horrid mist rose suddenly over the sunset, myriad adventures seemingly lost in a white wash of dirty days. Estes sat on the back porch of his parents small delapitating humble abode, pondering his next move.
"What's next?" he asks outloud, not really directed towards anyone. A banjo is strapped to his thin wirey frame, a smirk plastered across his face lets the camera know of his general nature. Though he has no ida of the ancient banjo traditional songs, his soul is in it, just as it is in his paintings.

Growing up in a house of love and good food worked to the advantage of Estes, being that he learned the significance of human interaction through the sharing of food. His mother an optimistic catylyst for his entirety; a wonderful woman with unrelentless belief in all of her children. Jane is a master of many things: puppets, pickiling, pie making, money management, and looking on the bright side of life. She grew up in a house of cooperation and brotherly mayham just as her three sons have come to understand present day reality.

Estes's father drinks too much whisky with a firey breath that accompanies his pyromania, most of the times kept at bay by oral fixations. A chimney with the woodworking skills of a fine artiesan. Times are rememberd by his close friends of flaming chirstmas trees that surround nelson like a buring aura, or of his wizard staff that blows fireballs high up into the wide open Texas skys.

Growing up on the east side of Austin gave Estes a daily dose of urban reality. No white picket fences with fancy cars, but instead-- tricked out gallopies that rattle house windows with deep bass as they drive by. Riding trykes down the front hill of our estate, on track to catch lizards and pretend there is nothing else. Estes learned a great deal from the kids growing up around him. In fact he even learned to put ice inside his bubble gum.

His two brothers sandwich him in their wisdom, being that Estes had the chance to be a middle child. Never being the first or last one seemed to teach him patience and preserverence, something that was then passed onto his younger brother Russel. Russel is plastered in freckles, like he was born behind a cow in the field. This was only partially true, being that Estes and all of his siblings were born at home-- on the mattress that his parents slept on for a good 15 years after their first child Levi."

Earthy, Unearthly, Unearthed

http://www.ulesegisa.com/files/2009sosartin3d/

Pictures from my last group show in olympia. Everything went superduper. Picture of my stuff are from 300-314. I shall have my first blog about my bicycle trip up here in the next couple of days...Stay tuned

-SEB

Bike Pictures

Time rushes by and slowly at the same time. While stationary working it doesn't go slow enough. But while thinking about future plans it seems far away. I have around a month and a half before I leave and it's starting to dawn on me.

Here's pictures of my bicycle in its close to current state. I have also been painting clothes and preparing all other aspects of my life. I will get up to date pictures before I leave. Art pirates are interesting characters; ripe beards tucked beneath bandannas. A small price to pay for corn beef hash caught on the floss of your eyelid.

CLICK ON IMAGES FOR FULL VERSION!

Newsstuff

Refined.
Rialto Beach Did it First - 48X36X1.5 - 2009

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Ripe Ribs Recovering - 48in X 24in X 1.5in - 2009
1.


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Ninetynine Percent: Close, but still working

- 48X36X1.5 - 2009


MOdErN MAn - tW0 - 36X48

Circulatory Spinal Neurosurgery- 48in X 35in X 1.5in - 2009

Sometimes you have to make a choice and directions and projected futures. But it's whence you get back to your roots through new excursions that you get to a new and more sophisticated place. All art is a quest for the warmth of feeling the juxtaposition of your past and future; a visual memorial blip on the screen of green glowing radars that fades into your repertoire like so many other things. More patience; a virtue that is hard to learn but almost impossible to practice. If we could all just have some more of that.