like

There are so many forms of artistic expression.  Some are violent and storming, some planned and executed with craftsmanship, some drawn, sculpted, painted, some raised on a pedestal, some left to collect dust. These are the embodiments of idea, of self, of what has been, of what could be. The shapes that they take are a window into ourselves and the world around us. The shapes that they take have a purpose. Somehow though, the holes in our heads in which we perceive the world are smaller than these shapes. Light shines into our minds in the shape of a cookie cutter triangle and all that we see comes squeezing through it. When it plops down in our minds, the triangle forms a ridge. On one side are things that we like. On the other side are things that we do not like. When a decision is made we slide down one side or the other into the gutter of our choosing. And in either gutter, potential shrivels up at an equal rate.

There is the old question of whether art imitates life or life imitates art. I do not think that either one is true. I think that they bleed into each other, and as the axis of modern life revolves closer and closer to a system of "likes", our little windows become narrower in both worlds.    

ripples in the wake

You can set things up however you like. You can build them or buy them or paint them or carve them. You can set that block down and look at it from all sides. This decision of intent and deliberation is yours. These bricks. This planter. This effigy. The decision is yours. But when you set something down or jot something down or sketch something out it goes splashing though the ground and disappears. What you thought was yours is gone and how can you predict the ripples that are left in its wake?

lazy day

Living life to the fullest while reclining. Neglecting all sorts of responsibilities. Artistic projects go sailing unrealized through my grasp. I tend to dance around those little helium balloons and tug at their strings. a constant struggle to bring them within reach until they start to sag and sink and become manageable. I dip them into clay slip and fire them to a thin and brittle shell. A skeleton of what they were and a shadow of what they could be.  Finished art seems a shell. I like it with strings unknotted and sails whipping out of control. Today goes blazing by and I lay tired and uninclined to do anything. Today goes blazing by and I go blazing through it on my couch chariot. My psychic bobsled.  

On writing new songs......

My songs are pigeons and I am the stunted bell ringer in the tower. I try to nurture them and help them grow. I surround them with electronic devices so that I do not have to remember to feed them. I have programed my machines to feed them while I drink tea and watch you-tube tutorials. I snatch them up and and move though my days. Some of them are so light and frail that the wind catches them and they sail from my grasp, choking out a few breaths and then disappearing. Some of them are strong and they treat me like the clueless parent that I am. I don't know what to do except wake up each morning and hammer obnoxiously through the piano scales.  I don't know what to do except climb to the top of my tower and start ringing the bell.

fly if you are brave

Cool air and ground just dry enough to skateboard to work.  It is mostly down hill.  A skateboard does not quite belong on the sidewalk or the street so I move from one to the other, picking the smoothest route, trying to avoid cars and pedestrians.  What a good feeling it is to be in motion.  To decide your course.  To be alert.  I pause at a cross street and to allow a row of toddlers to cross the street.  They are accompanied by an adult at either end and they all look at me as they pass.  I smile at them and one of them waves.  I felt like telling them that they can roll too if they want to.  Even fly if they are brave.

chaos and idea

Sleep hasn't been coming easy.  I close my eyes and the floodgates open.  Phrases that do not seem to be my own relentlessly voice themselves without permission.  Images of unearthly creatures clearly take shape and then flash by:  Predatory multi-armed stick men wait and leap, a giant lizard creature with flaming nostrils slinks around devouring a coliseum full of people.  I open eyes.  Shift around. Sip some water.  Close my eyes and the line that forms between my lids is like a tightrope above an infinite chasm.

Yesterday I read about the Big Bang theory.  I read about the universe beginning from something called a singularity which was immeasurably small, dense, and hot.  One theory is that a singularity exists at the center of a black hole compressed by gravity into density that we could not even comprehend.  But this is a problem because it is also believed that once there was nothing at all.  No universe.  No singularity.  Just nothing.  Think of that.  I close my eyes and try to imagine nothing but my mind is in a perpetual state of explosion.  Fearful shapes are stepping out of the void.  How far down does that go?  If I keep my eyes closed could I be brave enough to watch?  I close my eyes and my physical being is a very thin blanket shielding me from existence.  Perhaps that is all there is.  A blanket and existence.  Or a blanket and nothing.  Or just nothing.

How far down does that go?  I don't know but I want to find out.  Maybe the roughest waters are on the surface and I am not yet skilled enough to move past them.  Maybe I have to swim through them.  So far it seems that art is the only thing that allows any sort of access into my own mind.  My own singularity.  My own void.  It gives me a certain degree of confidence and strength to close my eyes and proceed.  Or open them and proceed.  To navigate through the chaos that is the birth of an idea.  I close my eyes.  I open my eyes.  I close my eyes.  I open my eyes.  

this was in my handwriting so I must have written it.....

A golden tablet
wrapped in foil
its a new thing
its a new new thing
and it tells me
that youth is currency
it tells me that pleasure
is an allowance of latitude
in the deprivation of necessity
It shows me ideals through a
sealed plastic wrapper
It shows me ideals though
the eye of a needle