Morse Code, an alphabet. Dots & Dashes reminding me of hidden spies, railway expansion, dueling cryptologist sneering over the Iron Curtain… the rhythmic fist of retreating VC patrols. The tom-tom drums of our industrial revolution. I paint in these dots-dashes, tapping woes in an empty cell as the aged turnkey laughs. A disheveled nests of punch drunk colors and deaf-dumb-and blind brush strokes encrypting the memories, dream and poems of those who raised, loved, and befuddled me. Limped bruised undecipherable paintings making amends for spitting at my elders.