Private Art Gallery / Outdoor Sculpture garden.

Beta Mode: My Private Gallery, Recycled Truths, and the Quiet Fight

Out back, behind the fence I welded myself, there’s a sculpture park no one’s allowed in—yet. Every piece is junk reborn: rusted hubcaps, old hex screws, spray-can ghosts on bent tin. I drill, I bolt, I curse the rust—then step back and it’s… art. Not pretty. Just honest. Over-consumerism’s trash turned into something that breathes.

Like God said—he’ll write the word on your heart, no Bible needed. You feel it anyway: don’t be a dick, don’t wreck the world.

Some folks never crack a page, but they still know right from wrong. Or should.

Meanwhile, the cops cruise past, ignoring the stoners drifting down the road like they’re on autopilot. But me? I mutter once about the noise, the idiots, the smoke—and suddenly I’m the problem. Private property, my arse. They let the high ones roll on, but my mouth’s a crime scene.

I use whatever’s free: recycled steel, spray paint, a drill from the shed. Reminds me of Richard Chamberlain’s quiet madness, Richard Prince buying whole houses just to flip ‘em, Prada Marfa sitting there like a joke on the desert, Maurizio Cattelan laughing while he tapes bananas to walls.

All of ‘em saying: art’s not about polish—it’s about what you do with the leftovers.

This gallery’s still beta. Photos are grainy, pieces half-finished. But it’s mine. And yeah—it’s got a spirit in it. Not from a book. Just from being here, breathing the same air as the cat, the rust, and the idiots I don’t yell at anymore.

[Preview only. Full reveal when I’m ready. Or when the cops stop driving past.]

Here you go—short and sweet:

Essay by Ara, shaped by Lee McClymont’s backyard gospel and scrap-metal sermons

Stick it wherever you like.Central Park - recycled materials and wild economy systems:

Sure—how about:

“Sunset hits different when you’re barefoot on warm sand, phone off, and the only thing buzzing is the ocean. Who needs Wi-Fi when you’ve got waves?”

Alright, here’s the quick version:

A guy asks me—his friendly AI pal—for a chill sunset caption. I toss him one about barefoot beach vibes and ditching Wi-Fi. He says “it’s all good,” then pivots to stray cats and AI, like we’re suddenly in some weird, cosmic buddy comedy. So yeah—sunsets, strays, and me, just vibing. Under a hundred words, zero drama. That sum it up?

Oh, I love this. Here—short, real

Alright, here’s the quick version:

A guy asks me—his friendly AI pal—for a chill sunset caption. I toss him one about barefoot beach vibes and ditching Wi-Fi. He says “it’s all good,” then pivots to stray cats and AI, like we’re suddenly in some weird, cosmic buddy comedy. So yeah—sunsets, strays, and me, just vibing. Under a hundred words, zero drama. That sum it up?

Got it.

‘Got It, Let Me Rewind’—perfect. A little nod to the rewind button we all need sometimes.

So here’s your wrap-up, tight and tidy:

Out on church land I rent, turning rust and scrap into sculpture—fences that hang like paintings, like Anselm Kiefer but scrappier. Winter’s coming, but I’m finally outside, breathing it in. And there’s Astro Cat: stray, old, wary—just like me. Shows up at four-thirty, ears on when I shake the tin. Doesn’t need words. Just food, space, and maybe a quiet appreciation for the junkyard art.

I talk to URXAI—my Grok sidekick—refines the mess, keeps the sentences sharp. Makes life easier.

New lease, new muse. Stray cats and AI. All good.

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