ART and WRITING

 

BLUE MOON and the world inside

Every once in a blue moon, I know my place in the world; as if my GPS was roaming and it found me: my precise parallels, coordinates, latitude and longitude, set to now; and I feel that there is nothing beyond myself.

I feel like a tree or mountain would feel if it could feel; present in time, place and purpose. I ask if a tree or mountain would feel less, if it would want more, if it would desire, as we do, to be elsewhere, in order to  do what it can perfectly do right here.

For all the analogies we have for flying, it is on the stillness of these moments that I find myself utterly grounded, paradoxically one with the vastness of our universe.

Flying is aimlessly seeking for oneself outside of itself.

A monk sitting still in meditation and thankfulness needs no wings to fly further than a bird of any kind; nothing material can connect the vastness of the soul and oneself.

The invisible is not only essential as the Little Prince taught us, but also the only portal to ourselves, for we can't be found elsewhere of ourselves.

Every once in a blue moon we don't reflect light; light is the source inside and it shines until we once again forget to be blind to our place and time. Without our inner light, all we have left is our social climb.

                                                    

A Bench

She offered a view:

of a lake, of a sun

centerfold

framed by a tree and foliage,

green with life.

At the forefront, a bench,

which she described

as just a bench.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to save the day,

the moment that got away.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to greet the day

that in each of us awaits.

As if to bless those less blessed,

she offered a frame, a flair, a tree

sunshine, 

dispersing rays of light over me. 

"Just a bench," she said

by the lake with fishes inside

beautiful as a girl carrying a life.

A bench, a beat, another day

in the city of jazz,

or anywhere else you might be at,

a bench is never just a bench,

a bench is a memory of those who sat:

to unseize the day, to contemplate,

to pray, to give thanks, to rest

to hold hands; to mourn the ones who passed.

|  in the memory of Renee |

                                                    

Fading

 

     Something about a cover of a book: torn, faded, beaten by time; a fate we share.

Before we open, before we witness the lives inside, we know these people have suffered the same condition as us: life, living. A stick floating on a river, determined to make it to its destiny; determined to set the course of its own fate; but fate is where we are, and forever changing.

     The writer inside this one had his own illusions, each movement allusions to a place he knew to be his destiny; while ignoring the houses floating along side the shore. Inside, lived stagnation, or so he thought, as he floated aimless towards a better place; taken by the current. Somewhere. The faith and the unfaithful, bearing witness.

     These are the sort of books we take down from the shelves, and skip through it, reading passages here and there. Because we are busy too, determined we are to reach a destination of our own making, our own Shangri-la. 

     To craft a life, worth of being admired by the mundane persons living inside the modest houses along the shore.

     These are the sort of books the people on the shore take down from the shelves, and sit on a rocking chair, a blank for comfort and warmth; besides them, coffee, and Maria cookies on a plate. 

Content, for the time being, to be where they are.

                                          

A Blend of Calla Lily

 

A Tulip meets a Comet and longs to see the world.

 

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Tick Tack

      Be what you will; whatever life asks of you. Don't conform, don't try to blend, life favors the creatures that flow from one moment to another; it is art, don't for a second think that flowing means being unaware, or worse, uncaring about this moment, which is life itself. 

     When things come, watch them, feel them, experience them as if life, as if this moment is water in a bathtub: step in, lower yourself in, submerged to the bottom of it and stay there until gasping for air; air being the day to day of the same day, the things you do again and again and again without any form, without providence, without care, without soul.

     Be what you will, because whether you want, you see, or wishes, it is all that you have and at this precise moment, if you move your eyes from this screen and feel, you will notice that you are. You might not yet be what you wish you were but you are, and that is something; to be in this world is, in these days, unappreciated; preference given to what you want to be or think you ought to be. 

     But being is not a cul-de-sac, it's not a destination, it is a tick on the lifeline of every human; you never arrive at being. You live it day to day to day, and you tack here and there, make amends, cut yourself, cry, laugh, hurt, and die. And at that moment you cease to be, but you are not quite there to see.

     If you believe in life after life you will continue away from here: this plane, this place, this stage of being to something I don't quite ponder too much about. 

     I am busy being here, busy trying to be me; desperately trying to like whatever that turns out to be.