One page randomly survived via The Web Archive on Stephen Mosley aka Mose Stephenson's profile at Pure Volume, which is available here. And before it too may be lost, what follows are quotes from Mr. Stephenson as to why he did his art. Some pictures follow:
Why I Write . . .
"I write for the starry-eyed, shameless, and audacious naivety of love; against a backdrop of a shaken and irrefutable futility; and of its obligation to the impracticable, even in the face of odds and lots that would defy the very essence, and the gist of actuality itself."
"I write for the broken poets strung upon the crosses of our collective lack of resolve towards all things infinitely possible; lips vinegar-wet, and aching in the name of simple courtesy, and for the sake of graces long-neglected, claimed unworthy . . . and . . . obsolete."
"I write for the misbegotten soul compelled to wear his injured state of place with a composed dignity . . . free of complacency; in spite of what has been intentionally swindled from his wounded latency and shackled potency, in the name of corporate infidelity."
"I write for the day when this species shall rise up and shake off our fettered dormancy; and face down the ludicrous with a calculated accuracy; that will rattle and shatter those footings formerly founded upon . . . perversity, prevarication, perjury . . . and . . . chicanery."
"I write for wage slaves and their households; degraded, exhausted and yoked to the great stones of temptation, distraction, intoxication, murder and despair; sandpaper wheels that grind down to dust; all things confident, authentic, spontaneous, and enthusiastic."
"I write for those un-mined diamonds and rubies of the soul; whose emerald brilliance will kindle a way for the lost and the lonely, the broken-hearted, and the violated chastity of sacrificial lambs and doves; fleece-shorn and wing-clipped in the name of rapacity."
"I write because I was once shoved into a corner with no other weapon with which to defend what remained of my honour, than a piece of paper; and whatever I could muster from the depths of my sullied self-respect and the perpetual broken-ness that insisted."
"I write because I once played the town clown, parodied and shunned by all; who swore on the grave of his progeny that he would out-wit, out-smart, and out-live his off-springs butchers; and drink deep from a cup reserved for those who cannot desert their sorrow."
"I write because I couldn't hold down a regular job, or support myself in the manner expected of me by those not inclined to deviate from the well-beaten track; and because I heard a sweet music in my head that beckoned me over hills and bourns that rang me on."
"I write because I hung up my hockey stick, and turned to chemicals and skirts just after puberty; and because I assumed I knew it all, and that I would live forever; giving no thought for what the long run might bring, until I'd all but turned into a pillar of salt."
"I write because I feel like something horrible is happening to this world, and that I've been singled out to address this thing; and that I need to reach my fellow creatures with this compelling urgency before the oracle shuffles her cards, and our . . . luck . . . runs out."
M. Stephenson, 2011
Why I Write . . .
"I write for the starry-eyed, shameless, and audacious naivety of love; against a backdrop of a shaken and irrefutable futility; and of its obligation to the impracticable, even in the face of odds and lots that would defy the very essence, and the gist of actuality itself."
"I write for the broken poets strung upon the crosses of our collective lack of resolve towards all things infinitely possible; lips vinegar-wet, and aching in the name of simple courtesy, and for the sake of graces long-neglected, claimed unworthy . . . and . . . obsolete."
"I write for the misbegotten soul compelled to wear his injured state of place with a composed dignity . . . free of complacency; in spite of what has been intentionally swindled from his wounded latency and shackled potency, in the name of corporate infidelity."
"I write for the day when this species shall rise up and shake off our fettered dormancy; and face down the ludicrous with a calculated accuracy; that will rattle and shatter those footings formerly founded upon . . . perversity, prevarication, perjury . . . and . . . chicanery."
"I write for wage slaves and their households; degraded, exhausted and yoked to the great stones of temptation, distraction, intoxication, murder and despair; sandpaper wheels that grind down to dust; all things confident, authentic, spontaneous, and enthusiastic."
"I write for those un-mined diamonds and rubies of the soul; whose emerald brilliance will kindle a way for the lost and the lonely, the broken-hearted, and the violated chastity of sacrificial lambs and doves; fleece-shorn and wing-clipped in the name of rapacity."
"I write because I was once shoved into a corner with no other weapon with which to defend what remained of my honour, than a piece of paper; and whatever I could muster from the depths of my sullied self-respect and the perpetual broken-ness that insisted."
"I write because I once played the town clown, parodied and shunned by all; who swore on the grave of his progeny that he would out-wit, out-smart, and out-live his off-springs butchers; and drink deep from a cup reserved for those who cannot desert their sorrow."
"I write because I couldn't hold down a regular job, or support myself in the manner expected of me by those not inclined to deviate from the well-beaten track; and because I heard a sweet music in my head that beckoned me over hills and bourns that rang me on."
"I write because I hung up my hockey stick, and turned to chemicals and skirts just after puberty; and because I assumed I knew it all, and that I would live forever; giving no thought for what the long run might bring, until I'd all but turned into a pillar of salt."
"I write because I feel like something horrible is happening to this world, and that I've been singled out to address this thing; and that I need to reach my fellow creatures with this compelling urgency before the oracle shuffles her cards, and our . . . luck . . . runs out."
M. Stephenson, 2011
