Sometimes it so happens that my inner process as an artist is strongly influenced by what I am reading. My most recent literary drug was Tom Robbins' dense, opulent, and even gaudy expression in his book Jitterbug Perfume. His poetic language animated and sensualized my mind as I traveled through the various levels of my imagery. I thought it would be interesting to reflect on the evolution of my latest painting alongside some of the sensual fragments from his book. 

I've a mind to lay you down and split you like a rack of mutton. What would you say to that?
You know very well what I would say. I would say those half-formed, half-crazed words the she-panther speaks when in the delirium of her seasonal heat she is mounted by her mate.
Upon those travelers who make their way without maps or guides, there breaks a wave of exhilaration with each unexpected change of plans. This exhilaration is not a whore who can be bought with money nor a neighborhood beauty who may be wooed. She (to persist in personifying the sensation as female) is a wild and sea-eyes undine, the darling daughter of adventure, the sister of risk, and it is for her rare and always ephemeral embrace, the temporary pressure she exerts on the membrane of ecstasy, that many men leave home.
...blasts of sugar
...existence can be rearranged
...nocturnal warmth enveloped her brain, washing her in star waters, translucent cherub sperms, and the midnight blue syrups that tropical moths lick.
...devouring delicacy
...night after night they dissolved their rope burns and fatigue in the salty flux and radiant slime of the glad-hearted fuck.
... he could not help but watch wide-eyed as this turbulent culture of flesh fought to gain control over its barbaric frontiers (bouncing breasts, swinging buttocks) and consolidate into an integrated empire as it slipped and slid down the hillside.
...mindless animal happiness
... the woman in clear communion with the booming bells of her meat... organism steeped in pleasure is an organism disposed to continue...
If you lack the iron and the fizz to take control of your own life, if you insist on leaving your fate to the gods, then the gods will repay your weakness by having a grin or two at your expense. Should you fail to pilot your own ship, don't be surprised at what inappropriate port you find yourself docked. The dull and prosaic will be granted adventures that will dice their nervous systems like an onion, romantic dreamers will end up in the rope yard... The price of self-destiny is never cheap, and in certain situations it is unthinkable. But to achieve the marvelous, it is precisely the unthinkable that must be thought.