I have to start getting things off my chest.

So..

These are my thoughts. I'll try to gather them as best I can.

An art career definitely has its polarities of good and bad.

My good pole is, to put it simply, fame.

My bad pole is, in a purely financial aspect, poverty.

People love my work, they just don't want to pay for it.

I make stuffed toys. I run a stuffed toy company specializing in custom work and, I guess, "minoring" in ready-made unique toys.

I've been doing it for 4 years and have had an assistant on board for about 1 year now. His name's Ian. He's a flippin' genius.

So. A little bit of context.

At this moment, it's a gray morning in Asheville NC. I'm about half an hour away from going into my part time job and I'm sitting at a crowded table at Izzy's Coffee Den on Lexington Avenue. Familiar faces surround me.

James H., a face I know from around town and an Orbit DVD customer (I used to work there) just walked in. Set his bag down. Got in line for coffee. He's a whiskery, slender fellow with out of control black, curly hair. Looks like a Lanes of Limerick Irish boy with a touch of Arab. He's friends of friends of a girl I used to date.

Tim G. has his back to me. He and his dad are architects. They have a business trip they have to make today, about a 2 hour journey. Tim's cleaned himself up a tad. It's a client meeting, no doubt. A more professional ensemble, Tim's getup. None of his usual denim. Just a button down and slacks.

Rob, one of the co-owners of the shop and a friend of mine is working the counter with employees, Moriah, a laughy, outspoken girl and someone new-ish whose name I think is Liz.

My good pal Chris sits across from me at the table. He looks a tad restless and it wouldn't surprise me if he's wanting to leave. Him and me have a lot to chat about usually. Surfacy stuff, mostly. Pretty ladies, our day's plans. We don't go deep most of the time. We're great pals, though. He makes sure I laugh and relax and stop working from time to time. He's just put his plate and cup in the bus tub. Announced he's gonna wander. How'd I know?

Every morning between waking up and getting out of bed, Chris phones just to say good morning. I love it. He's such an attentive fellow. My other pals have thought he's strange. I was never moved or impressed by that sentiment. Most of my other friends here in town I either live near or have known since at least college or longer. None of them check on me as frequently as Chris, but that's okay. I know they've got stuff to do. And it's not like I call each and every single one of them every morning either.

Chris is part of my routine. Phone rings in the morning, we exchange plans for the day and discuss breakfast, often collaborating and eating at his house or mine. Phone rings at roughly lunchtime. He tells me about his forestry classes, I tell him what I'm working on for my boss. We talk about lunch and sometimes we grab a bite together. Phone rings roughly half an hour before I'm due to leave work and we chat about our plans for the evening. We toss around dinner ideas. He says he's got pasta, I say I've got greens. We both say we've got partial sixers and then it's settled. His place or mine. Usually his. He keeps a wood stove going and it's nice and warm. I've got a leaky, non-weather-proof apartment with a couple of choking, popping space heaters. You practically gotta worship 'em to get any warmth. I think Charles Dickens "wrote" my apartment. I pass the video store on the way to Chris', pick up something funny or action packed, his frequent preference, and we eat and veg.

James H. has put down his book. Face down, splayed open on his table. He's grabbed one of those free weekly papers from behind him. Adjusted his position in his chair. Wrung his hands. Looked up and out the window. Back to the book again. Chin in his hand, fingers playing in his whiskers. Zits like to hide in whiskers. Sometimes really good ones. In fact, I've sometimes let my whiskers go for a week or so just to see what neglected pore might clog and produce a microsecond's entertainment in front of the mirror. Zits are fun. I get them so infrequently these days. The good ones are like seed pods from an impatiens flower. Bulging, tight, sensitive, effusive.. Touch 'em just right and BANG seeds everywhere. Unless it's a zit. In which case, pus.. Pus and lumps and clear pre-blood fluid, then blood to signify a clean, empty pore. It's fun to even revisit the swollen pore after it's purged. Sometimes you get a crystalized lump of dried pre-blood (plasma?). You can flick that onto the carpet. They blend into most carpets. It's the translucency.

People have pretty much fled Izzy's for work and wandering. I suppose I must do the same.

Now you know a little about who I am and the town I live in and what's at the forefront of my thoughts. I'd like to write more about the push and pull of fame and poverty soon, just to explain where I am in this career.

Ultimately I love this life. I feel like writing about it to clarify things and dispel myths. Thanks for tuning in. I'll try to post pictures soon.

J.