R. Deloro's Page

Soft sound of water crashing on the land, loudly reverbrating on the sand.



It washes over me, I realize. It took it's time, and things are what they are.



And then, I know what I want to be. The image in my mind develops still, placing it on paper



Helps.



Decidedly, I have embraced art. Shabby as my methods are the message, it is all. Confusing, elusive, insubstantial. Like building with water. That's how art feels. But I get it. Marked by the weeks… Continue

Ok I'm back from the ranch I went to. That's another story I might tell later.



So: Me, Nikorasu, my bro, the morochos Na' Util and Leo are up on the softball field.



The softball field is a great great place. Maybe I'll put pictures up.



Behind the bleachers there's a spot covered by a small wall were there once was a water fountain, but the waterworks are still there and we use it as a source of water (not to drink).



It is behind this wall that we dig… Continue

There is something I do with my very top dudes, my very ribs on my side, my group of ballpeelers.



I'm talking, of course, of my best friends, only that that term doessn't make justice to them.



Us five go to the club, probably sround 4 or 5, to have plaenty of time to prepare before the sun goes down. We go up to the farthest isolated place, the softball field. Boy, I wonder what I wouldn't be now had it not been for the softball field.



Up on the softball field… Continue

Interesting. Wonder if anyone will ever read this.



I'll just write to myself then.



The artist is based on ego...it is himself, his perceptions, his life, his wishes that he\she imposes with his tools. It is, in the end, what he IS. I was told this one day in "castellano" class (that's spanish class, which is the normal language class in my country). I didn't quite accept it then, but it was because I didn't quite get it, thus I tabled it on the basis that someone who did… Continue