Some mid morning reading to pair with iron black coffee, but first, logistics:
January was dedicated to client work, as some sort of New Years ‘Resolution.’ Whatever that means!
There are now open spots to work with Souled Idea.
If I told you to wait until January clients were finished: now is the best time to get in touch.
You can reach out here.
We’re taking two clients/week for a range of ideas.
But, as compensation, I gave all paid subscribers a free month. Unfair for you to pay while I’m not writing on substack. Thank you for your patience, the things that’ve been built in the meantime are good! Vitality inducing!
Art House
- A central place to highlight Artist & Creators that are influencing culture. Here I write about musicians, painters, writers, designers… the list goes on.
Two Criteria:
Must not have billie Eilish eyes.
Must inspire LIFE.
Art House feature on Rattlesnake Milk - Austin, TX band with cult following. Open highway, burning Marlboro music. Call your mom from the bar phone, tell her you’re not coming home.
Art House is no longer able to be APPLIED TO.
We will tap you if looking to feature your work.
Enjoy this story of a Man, standing on a sidewalk, screaming peculiar things, things that tap at curiosity and beg to be invited in…
The man hollers across the street, “One dollar! Just One dollar and I’ll…”
until the bustle beside the sidewalk swallows his voice whole.
Street cars sing their song of impatience, honks that reverberate off brutalistic city infrastructure and the whole scene looks that of a cloudy Moscow day where the Sun chooses to hide from the frowns of reality below.
The people are draped in shades of charcoal just as the sky is. Slips of grey cover skins of a pale white, dark hued black boots stomp across cement of dreary ash ignoring the man, “One dollar! Just one dollar!”
Their eyes match their environment as is always the case. Held low as if their eyelids had rocks in them, or the pain of too much of the grey light would rip the cornea of all it’s protective layering.
I’m not far off them. My top eyelid, a result of 3 sleepless nights, hunts its bottom counterpart begging for a meeting of holy matrimony where the can lay together in one long, silent and intimate eight hour period free of outside trespassers and peace stranglers. Still there’s some life, enough for the grey ambiance to creep into my sight and allow me to absorb all of the scene outfront: Hustle and bustle, briefcase and umbrella, baseball caps and square rimmed glasses, she’s walking her dog and he’s walking his kid and both look like the task is something to be rushed, not enjoyed. I don’t see a flower in sight, or even a piece of greenery for that matter, except the lone tree, 8 or so feet tall, that stands beside a fire hydrant and a YIELD road sign. Under that -out-of-place piece of nature stands our man, “One dollar!”
Curiosity has got the best of me, enough to put my healthy legs to action. Plus I have an extra dollar in my wallet (a rubber band wrapped around cash, ID and Credit Card.) Simple. Creeping closer towards him and his message opens up
“… Show you your enemy! The one you must look out for! Only a dollar!”
His features increase as I step forwards: the physiognomy of a fox. Devilish in point. His clean shaven face free of any blemish except a small, half inch long scar on his right chin. Crops of frost white hair shine below the dark navy hat perched on his head. His eyes are scorching, intense and it’s the kind of look you only get from people that move without a shred on anxiety. A challenging look, a test to see if you know yourself as well as he knows himself.
“I have a dollar for you” and before the sentence leaves my mouth, before he’s even turned to my direction, “are you certain about this, young man? I’ll take your dollar just as any old spider will take the gnat that flies unwittingly into it’s web, but is your curiosity worth killing your peace of mind?” he cocks his forehead towards me, angling it down, the body language of a question mark, an invitation to play.
With the same tone, “something something the cat died grinning, right? one last rock overturned and his curiosity was answered just as he lay breathless.”
“HA!” and the laugh cracks across the city look thunder but stops with the speed of lightening as his face regains composure, the hint of a smirk still showing, “I think you’re right… I’ve always imagined that cat smiling while signing his own death certificate.” and he winks at wink before continuing, If that’s the picture you paint where’s this mysterious dollar, young man?”
I pull it from the makeshift wallet. Crinkled and folded and twisted and abused this is my last dollar and I’m using it dance with this homeless devil who looks too well kept to be out on the street playing games for pennies. But if anything, i’ll get a good story out of it for just a dollar.
He reaches lived hands out to take it and I see his whole wrist-fingers have words tattooed on them in a faded grey ink. “Ideas and beliefs of decades ago, look how old the ink is, it’s nearly invisible..”
He answers me wordless thoughts, “these beliefs still live on,” before smiling like a man holding a pair of Aces in hold em.
Visibly shaken, a confused stutter backwards and he reaches out in a disarming way, “it’s okay, don’t be afraid, you’re here to…
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