Zen-like, staring at the canvas, brush loaded, not moving till the moment is perfect, at one with canvas, paint, color, the great idea, all who lived before, the rocks, the wind, the milky way, blood in the veins, kidneys, skin, balls, hair, spit, all becoming one as paint hits canvas, and what have I done? I’ve made a mark. There’s a mark on, maybe a canvas, maybe paper; maybe my mark is a footprint on a trail on a mountain, field or swamp, or a footnote to a project or war, a signature on a proposition to ban this or promote that. It’s just a mark. It’s very similar to everybody else’s marks. From a distance you can’t tell mine from yours. 
    Are my marks unique? Everybody’s marks are a little unique. Do I put down marks to express my uniqueness or to explore the commonality with all things? Am I just peeing on trees to mark my territory? Perhaps my mark is the exact point at which I end and the rest of the world begins. Perhaps even the idea of such a thing is an illusion. But I mark up my canvas anyway, getting lost in color, texture, line and form, not thinking about it, just doing.

Yes, from time to time I get dragged back into the world of acting.
Nice Fish was a wonderful esperience. This button will give you more info!