As an artist conceived on the crest of a cultural century in an old capital (Belize City), cultivated on crumbling colonial architecture, I often find myself lucky to be armed with an unsteady hand and an often screaming cultural membrane. You see artists are not 9 to 5’s, not assembly lines, not Made in America, not machines, but pure soul. A soul which is not seen on t.v., not gift wrapped, at Macy’s, not pulled by political lines but felt. Felt by those who know  sanity is just a word which would be nothing without in-sanity.