Frank Picasso's Page

I've been many things to many people. I've been the elephant in the room. I've been the turd in the punchbowl. I've been a fly in the ointment. I've been the deer in the headlights. Of all of these, I prefer being a fly because I'm a something instead of the anything.

They found this abandoned train station out in the middle of the desert, where a train station ought not to be. No one could figure out how it got there; it just appeared out of nowhere, and a low-flying airplane spotted it one day. Experts traveled out to the area, looked around, and took some pictures. They found no evidence whatsoever of train tracks leading to or from the train station; there was only the train station and nothing more. They left it alone, deciding that it wasn't really caus… Continue

I lay beneath the Wyoming sky, remembering why I left, but unable to recall precisely the circumstances that led me there. It was the ride, seemingly, that intoxicated me so, as I felt freedom and innocence that I'd never experienced previously, nor would I feel again for many years. Her breath against my ear, gently yet methodically tickling and teasing me, beckoned and pleaded for me to stay.

"The sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party," she sang softly yet playfully.

"I kn… Continue

The path of an artist is, indeed, a lonely one, fraught with angst, turmoil, personal trauma, and other kinds of stuff. We toil, we suffer, we love, and we pour every fiber of our beings into that which we long to become. And, in the end, it's what we give to one another--those gifts of words that we hold and cherish--that forms the construct of our fellowship. Few around us understand our struggles, and even fewer, still, support our endeavors. Yet we endure, and we survive.

And we live.