That's when I was born. 32 years ago. In a little nothing town, found the greater state of Texas, was the cry of a child heard, sounding the trumpet of the royalty.

My mother, named me for Alexander the great, and from a young age read all the classics to me. Stories of Achilles, Odysseus, Narsis. Stories of Arab princes stealing their way to glorious thrones, or tales of tragedy and mystery. Aliens, Gods, Demons. Witches that cut the heart of a man out and still claim to love him.

There should be no wonder that with the childhood I had, that I should have sought to tell stories, and become a bard all my own. My teenage years was spenot in collecting all I could and learning from the masters of ink, and storytelling from Silver and Bronze Age greats like: Jack Kirby, Neal Adams, Hiroya Oku, Akira Toriyama, Gian Luigi Bonelli, Antonio Rubino, Stan Bush, and so many more, allowed my your mind to appreciate the wonder of the illustrativery process.

I have since my youth yearned for the day that my stories could be haile in the guided halls of published artifacts that those younger than me can read, digest, and pursue the knowledge of art as I have.

Every day I become older, I find I'm getting closer, to etching out my nitch, and producing a brand all my own.

Im 32, I would have hoped I'd ov leared something along the way.

I remember when I was 15, I took an art class. Not that I needed it, but I wanted to test my skills upon a rigorious curriculum, and state standards. I was saddened by the idea of how limited yhe expectation was held upon us to advance in the skill of placing lines upon the page. The desire to create was there but you hand the craft to the teacher and he looks at you with awe and says, "There is nothing I can teach you."

Impossible, for my young mind to bare. I left art alone for years from lack of a supporting party.

I was 23, when I decided to pick up some paint and illustrate the city landscape as it was upon the wall of the city I happened to be in. I stopped the scene and placed people where I desired them, continental the sketch, placed another and set a fast tempo, lest the police came to disturb me. The overall sketch set in place, I painted with the determination of the attention starved and finished the mural in two weeks. That corner of the city remained filled with people and the local produce market would use that section to sell food, cigarettes, and wine. I'd drink my fill and cast my eyes on another section of the city that could use my hand.

I was locked up for my public displays and most murals were destroyed, because I did not set about to get the cities permission. Not that I felt I needed it at the time. It's art, it's pretty, the world needs pretty in this life time and it won't get it unless we set quills to canvas.

I was 25 when I began to fill journals with my thoughts of life and pondered why I never illustrated them? What was holding me back? I was doing myself no favors and the world is only going to continue to depress the inadequate. They call you a comic, they believe you to be less than a dog, why not combat such vilifery, with a talent that will out live you?

In my teens I had no such worries. I had the best childhood a boy could have, buy no one took comics seriously. Now it's what makes movies. They are the script, and storyboard set to color, a frame of entertainment, without sound. As they always have been. 32 years and I'm glad I've lived to see the galleries printed on 8x12 ink jet paper. That I too can be found through the Google search bar, and win the applause of the passing teenager, set on their own road of barding tradition.