A PIECE TO REMEMBER ME BY January 06 2016, 0 Comments

"If you could only be remembered for one piece you've done, what would it be?" - @scottyboost

I don't immediately think about art when I think about my most important piece because I enjoy writing more than I enjoy designing or creating visuals in a lot of ways.

The answer is pretty simple - I would want people to remember me for a piece I wrote on June 24, 2009 called, "Face it. None of us are really that great".

I once sold screen printed posters of this piece written in the shape of a coffin but took them off of our store because they didn't sell. What I think is important or memorable isn't always what is popular, I guess. It's just what I felt I wanted to present because it held some level of importance in my mind and I think still holds relevance in society now, especially with how self centered the world is in the digital/social media age. 

You can read the piece below:

Face it. None of us are really that great.

What we’ve done hasn’t changed the world, and it probably never will. What we’ve said has been nothing more than self inflation in the guise of humanitarianism. And our “art” is glorified garbage. We’re crafty, not in our creation, but in our promotion. So the outfit is better than the pussy, and the bulge is better than the bang. Our talks are pro-self. Our travels are used as a means to explain our worldliness. We wait for the perfectly timed jab just to counter. 1, 2. And we’re in there as quick as we’ve been trained to speak about ourselves once a relevant enough punch comes our way. Our models for hatred are our models for love. In the same room, consuming us with the confusion of what we despise and what we wish to be, are our idols and the reasons we have become idle in pursuing anything beneficial to the promotion of positive living without the glorification of self. We are greedy, decaying parasites. We damage everything we touch. We nourish nothing. And are rich by the self-proclamation of wealth rather than the manifestation of truly rich human qualities. Loyalty is an issue of “me”. It is an issue of how one fits the expectations of the other rather than how one fits what is right for the relationship. Trust has been replaced with belief. We no longer wish to be trusted. We wish to be believed. But belief is a liars wish for trust. When we give honestly of ourselves, we don’t need believers. But we are frauds. We are actors. We are characters in a production so bad that it’s audience has grown accustom to it’s level of impurity and gum stuck floors. We have failed miserably at many things. And we are confused at the victories of being alive. None of us are really that great. We are scared of truth. Both hearing it and speaking it has become so taboo, that any mention of it makes us defensive. We create excusable reasons for our actions and embrace our deliberate faults as human flaws. We are full of shit. We are full of shit. We are liars. We are full of shit. Repeat. The truth is a mute, ignored and thankfully unable to speak for itself. And we have managed to cloak it with performance art. Being has been swapped with acting. Act right, but do not be right. Act like a man, but do not be a man. Act as if you know what the fuck the problem is, but never be willing to be an at-risk member of it’s solution. Then craft an arguable explanation for how you are a part of it’s answer. “We” makes “me” vomit. And there is no poetic way to end this. Brutal honesty is the enemy of today’s Real Life. Brutal theatre is what has become of yesterday’s Honest Life. Lies and allies. Fashioned alibis and talking your way out. We have damaged it all. We are garbage. The trash of the earth. Worth nothing but the curb, and for nothing but ourselves. We are a shiny landfill, a tiny manhole, whining ant hill of pests in the dirt, working for nothing but to put our own chests in a shirt that looks better than the next piece of non-reusable scrap we claim to be in “community” with. We really are not that great. We scream from the tops of stools with our every move, “Look at me!”, like juggling buffoons. We are embarrassments; replaceable, deplorable, mounds of conceit, sitting in leather recliners, listing everything we’ve done right for the world.


TRAUMA & TRAINING WHEELS January 05 2016, 1 Comment

Written at 3:19am.

People think that growing up with psychological trauma is like having a flat tire on a bike that's too small for you - It sucks but you'll surely outgrow it. But that's not it at all. It's like being the bike and always having the flat tire and always having to learn to trudge through life going a little slower than most and never quite having enough momentum to move at the rate of the world that outgrew you when their training wheels came off. Because guidance, parents, confidence, reassurance, support, motivation, encouragement, empowerment, attention, affection, and security are training wheels we don't all get. So it takes longer to learn how to pedal, let alone ride with no hands.

LOUDMOUTH HOT SHIT COOL GUY FUCK January 04 2016, 0 Comments

Oh, you're noisey
And noise my nights. 
You make restless my rest place
You poise my plights. 
You're horn pressed,
Wheel screeching,
Cold as ice. 
I wish you would lose your life.

- Bryan Espiritu #brycry

EVERYTHING AND NOTHING AT ALL January 04 2016, 0 Comments

Originally posted on my personal blog on August 17, 2013.

I’m no good at this game and I despise its players. Aside from a hood I can’t hide my layers and it isn’t enough to disguise my face.

Sure, I cry in spurts but I’ve been dry for months. I can’t remember the hurts that had my throat in lumps and I’m not certain I miss the taste of tears; the wasted years spent embracing fear so hard I thought I’d never let go.

So, who am I now and of which girls making? Being unsound in song makes us switch the station but then no tune is ever fully played. And we don’t dance no more since we fear the steps. All we do is this, yes, all I do is this, heck, all you do is that thing that has you always missed and I still wish I could be a mister to a miss; stressed.

From what I heard romance is no longer cool. So I'm still fortunes fool and eluding luck, my thread of hope has been diminished to a spool.. from which I’ve sewn nothing that’s lasted longer than a fleeting mood. A few evening grooves, me just being honest and she’ll see I’m not the easiest dude to get along with, I’m just great to accompany the booze.

Vomit, and I’m still reeling; bedding with a friend just to fend off a feeling where flickered flames can still ignite a ceiling.

And this wound seems like it will never heal. Either my lack of balance or the ground’s to blame. It was traveling that made me see that some seasons don’t change and when I’m home I fear I’ll never be the same. Cus see, a man with no sense of home carries much baggage and this is more than I can hold in two hands. No matter that weight, I’ll have to carry-on.

Because when you fall out of love only one person lands and in the shade no one wants to under stand. Especially when it’s sunny and the days are long. Especially when the expression on your face is “please love me” and the actions of your crush is “let’s fuck”.

Funny, am I a man or a mannequin, a crash test dummy or a last ditch pitch at the sun? I think I may not only be just one.

So I run like I’m being fearlessly chased. So my heart can feel beat from the pace. Instead my heart feels broke from losing my option. It’s a slippery slope and hearts are delicate things to walk on, God, why did you choose to wear heels? To make me feel smaller or make you feel taller or make things more awkward for when we walk in the mall and I don’t fit into the crowd at all?

Love, you were too high a height for this fall. How can your everything feel like nothing at all?

- Bryan Espiritu #brycry

A ROOM FOR VULNERABILITY January 04 2016, 0 Comments

Originally posted on my personal blog on September 18, 2013

You can’t “sleep off” crazy. I don’t smoke weed, so I doze off three shots of Smirnoff daily. My dreams seem to trail off the tracks and I’m wired like spokes and I’m tired like maybe I could use a rail of coke. These days I rarely hear speech. I carry ’round a grudge like I hate bad cops. Put notes in a bottle that get soaked since no matter how hard I tip the glass to provoke that last drop, it won’t budge. And there goes the ink. And gone goes the good. And gone goes every want for me to do as I should. I’m haunted by the obsession over my needs versus the want for me to flaunt all the possessions of my greed and trying to get over what’s not understood. I’m a man on stilts. A plan meant for action can’t be designed off stills. A giant in a hole big enough, with a soul on a crutch won’t budge if he hasn’t got the will. And a taller man just needs a shorter rope. Clinging to the ledge and I’ll jump if friends think it’s a joke. Again with the notes. And then there’s the tears. And then another night spent stooping and I might just coup myself up inside my room with some beers. But in the end I just want my family and friends and my sanity, a Benz and my vanity to subside or to spread. Why can’t it be pretend? I wanna build a fort. I wanna jump the bed, I don’t wanna fuck for sport, but of course in the presence of other men that sorta makes me sound weird, but my dear, nothing I ever do is forced. Romancing a stone. Storming a rock. They keep telling me I’m soft, but it’s just to absorb the shock. My hearts on my sleeve. My arms in a sling. They’ll give you all you need but you’ll still want one thing and I’m not sure what that is anymore. My ceiling is your floor, I built walls and forgot room for a door.
- Bryan Espiritu #brycry 

SELLING OUT & LOSING INTEGRITY January 04 2016, 0 Comments

"At what point do you think an artist, designer, or brand has SOLD OUT?"

There are plenty of people who create art for the love with no intention of creating for business. It’s the difference between wanting to be a professional and wanting to be a hobbyist. The purpose of business is to sell a product at a profit, so it’s important to remember that there is no selling out without first being able to sell. But the concept of selling out is not based on who buys your product, the volume at which you produce it or the vehicles you use to sell it. Selling out is about sacrificing the integrity of your art strictly for the sake of making money. And only the artist can control that. 

The best way to gauge whether you’re on the path to selling out or risking your creative integrity is to ask, “When all I wanted was to do this for the love, would I be doing what I’m doing right now for the money?”. If the answer is no, it’s a good time to reconsider your motivations.

- Bryan Espiritu #brycry