Sometimes words do not come. Sometimes energy comes. 💃 Movement comes. Colours come. And feelings come.
And sometimes the feeling is 🔥🔥🔥
See how I (sometimes) start a new painting. Enjoy the wash. 💦
Leaving the salt lamp low
I undress close to the open
window, watching the wind stir the trees
feeling the breeze on my skin,
Living on the edge of losing it all
pretending with non-attachment I won’t
care, at all – I love this type of faith
but still mine runs deeper than that
What illusion is this appearing to minds,
that makes material risk seem most perilous,
the highest stake. Meanwhile, everyone
puts their future on the line for a brief escape
regretted in the end, when such pleasures
almost always bring such pains
And still, deluded most times
I’m sure I would risk it all again,
If only to learn the swift lessons
needed for permanent escape, liberation
and if only for the benefit of others, complete
Enlightenment – the highest state
The greatest risk to reward benefit
of all, to all, for all.
Oil and Acrylic paintings
Please enjoy this conceptually abstract collection!
If you are interested in owning an original painting, contact me here.
If you are interested in owning an original painting, contact me here.
There was no way to foresee artistic talent in my future. But I think you can see the creativity.
And a love of purple I didn’t know I had for almost 20 years.
A rebellion against social media, the true corporate time thief:
Are you tired of being robbed of your choices, implanted and imbibed with capitalist messages dictating your every thought and move? Buy this drink and earn stars! Buy this and earn points! Try this thing and get a medal! Give your money and your freedom of choice away! Give your safety over to those with a track record of incompetence – a slate wiped clean by expensive lawyers and void of future liability (read the fine print).
Why continue to ignore credible sources who say the same thing: discover your mind. Go within. This isn’t a time wasting ploy like the invention swathed in your sweaty palms, tightly, vigilantly held, never disconnected yet always believing we’re disconnected. The paradox is not emptiness – the paradox is the life we’re living now: senseless, meaningless, when you add up minutes spent giving nothing to the world. Nothing! Giving nothing of ourselves to any being – just consuming and being consumed by a sickly intoxicant, cancerous and eating away at our minds, our senses until senseless we never drink our fill and wish for more minutes to pour into the void of despair and disaster.
No more!
Take back your time!
A Dream:
The King I seek is standing in the sun.
I cannot see his face.
He holds out his hand to me.
In his outstretched palm is a wax seal.
I cannot make out the pressed emblem.
On the tips of his fingers he offers an amber Jewel.
I long to take the Jewel from his hand, but I don’t want to appear selfish. I just feel this offer means so much more. The seal reveals his official business, but Jewel feels like a gift meant just for me. I reach out my hand to touch his.
The King disappears, and I wake up.
Another Dream:
I was sitting on the bank of a river. From a distance, I watched a female oriole weave her nest with dry plants and tree bark. Every so often she would pause and call out to her partner, working at a distance. I moved closer to get a better vantage point. From up close I could see that the lady in orange array had woven lavender forget-me-nots into her hanging home. As she flew off to gather more materials, I stood up and peered inside. I gasped, thrown by what I saw. A window into a deep red world. A ruby hung in the clear sky casting brilliant rays across a crimson lake. A couple cradled in a copper canoe bent in for a kiss. A scarlet glare lights my pupils aflame and, blinking, I wake up.
Dear Red,
My hands miss you even now. They miss the feel of your skin, the warmth of your body. They miss running through your hair, squeezing the soft skin around your neck, pinching your taught nipple, parting your lips, fingers swimming in the warm wetness, tight and strong, yielding walls.
My fingers miss you even now. They miss creating the causes for those small moans to escape your throat. They miss meeting your fingers in the push and pull games we would play. They miss tickles, and walking along the pale bumpy shore of your shoulder blades, raised pores, sensitive beyond measure. They miss control with tiny touch. They miss running for their lives to avoid being crushed in the roiling brawl, dark room, damp sheets, foot on floor, head on bed.
My head, it misses you even now. It spins and movies play across my lids. I yearn to close my eyes in every waking moment to bring you back to my here and now. My ears feel your lips, hear your whispers. My neck hair raises to think that near you passed. I smell the air hoping to catch the non-existent waft of your invisible scent – woodsy deodorant, dark amber and cotton candy.
My dearest Red, my soul misses you even now. It was as if it was whole until I bore into you and created the causes for my own misery. Misplaced attachment and tangible fear of loss to replace peace and joy and love. An uncontrolled desire that rewrites fact with lustful fiction on a cord I wrap ‘round both our necks.
Dear Red what mind is it that yearns for direct suffering as the product of a wish? What mind that reaches for the poison on the top shelf and strives to spill every last drop into its own being? What unabashed lust that craves bodily satisfaction over everlasting love? It is my mind. So in my mind we sit together now. All night long we have not stirred, and yet God has not said a word!
Request: Paint the glass bottom of a restored tea tray.
Instructions: Maybe a teapot or something summery.
Result: I went with tea on the patio of my grandparents’ backyard. Something I’ve had the privilege to enjoy my entire life. The baseball announcers sang the song of summer. Memories flow: listening to Yankees vs. the Jays (my grandpa’s team versus my grandma’s) while my brothers and I smack a tennis ball off the brick wall with squash rackets. Fresh cut grass and trimmed hedges. Sparrows sing and squirrels forage, rustling foliage. Hot tea and cold coca-cola.
My grandparents recognized it immediately and loved the finished result.
Evaluation: Success.
Saturday: the day I’m designating for the shameless sharing of my artistic endeavors whether they be poetic, painted or playlist.
We’ll kick it off this week with painting & poetry.
Below, oil painting, “Where is my mind?”
Below, excerpt from November-release poem, “Come Together“:
… as only magic that persuades
Come Together, 2020
the body move separate from mind
out of control, dancing in time
to art brought forth from empty space
a fire burns within this place
a story comes forth from your lips
I’m dancing with it on my hips
it is hypnotic as I twirl
no longer human, no more a girl
a spirit, light and transformed, airy …
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