I was born. My mother was an ex-Catholic who had watched her brothers be raped by the priests. She painted Matisse flowers on the walls, searching for her own peace. I grew up studying the strange shapes and bright colors. My father played reggae on his sound-system. My mother went to Africa. She brought home beads, tapestries, and drawings of insects. I was the youngest child, with two bullying older brothers, who I now love dearly. We grew up in a tight home in the countryside of Michigan, full of love and hatred, moments of grand joy within years of emotional violence and chaos. I would draw with my grandmother for hours on summer nights. These were the most peaceful times. As I grew, I became fascinated with music. I picked up instruments: banjo, oboe, saxophone. I wrote poetry. My parents fought, money got tighter. I suffered years of emotional abuse trapped as the black-sheep of the inescapable nuclear family. I forgive all, of course. Our ghosts are all at war. Tensions rose, and with it, my lack of safety continued to turn my nervous system into a battlefield. I resisted with joy. I started high school. I acted in plays, played in an orchestra, wrote poetry, directed films... I knew I was an artist. Then my brothers moved out, I was alone with my father. My mother had left him. He cried as he drove me to school. We fought off dark thoughts together. Family is beautiful, tragic. I was always sensitive, yet never allowed to feel. I found something that would take my pain away. Somehow, drugs gave the self-worth back to me from where it had been denied. They soothed the verbal abuse which was foundational in my self-image; for once I felt big, not small. It was set in stone forever now, I was to be a great artist. Then a psychosis sank in, a total dissociation. Maybe it was the pressure of all my life experiences culminating in my mind shutting down so it may process it all. Maybe it was a rude spiritual awakening. I disappeared into a thunderstorm. I moved to Chicago, sitting up late at night in an armchair, fighting this strange new insanity. My poetry grew dark within me. My life became a blur. My body was in a tundra. I lost myself: assaulted, robbed, ravaged. Culturally disconnected, thrown to the outskirts of the village. So by necessity to accomplish my goal of being a great artist, I found my inner strength. When it wasn't there, I prayed for it. I sought help from other cultures, I fought for my sanity, I found people who I trusted, I became deeply attuned to my body, I studied piano, I surrendered to the harsh lessons, I refused to give up. I believe that angels were guiding my experience. I learned how powerful the human mind is when it is activated, and especially when it is divinely connected to self-expression. I realized that if you seek, you will find. So I have become dedicated to the ultimate truth of the universe: a self-expression so exquisite that its spatial joy and vibrancy can liberate the minds of those who see it, who hear it, who feel its truth. An expression which transcends medium. A joy so supreme, that it never dies. I paint every day now. All day. I listen to reggae like my father showed me. I paint flowers like Matisse. I write songs. I play piano. I sing. I write. I think. I celebrate. I turn all my material into art. I waste no time. I transform darkness into light, weakness into strength, pain into love. This is my evident purpose in life, undoubtedly.