‘Twas my speaker, not me. 07.14.21
Tag: artist
My dreams are getting weirder.
02.04.21
Categories
Question 3
Where do you feel the music?
07.03.20
Categories
Oily CRUSH | V5
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. 💦
Categories
Artist’s Way | FF 19
Are we artists all the same?
we, the multi-disciplined
divining a spiritual path
questioning unquestioned reform
Novelist, short story author, essayist, poet, painter
We have a list beside our names
objectifying our existence
and grounding us a permanent fixture
While we strive for freedom
against false gravity
the weight of awards and titles
the pain the being misunderstood
consistently
The artist is but a reflection of the mind
the life a play, a temporary gimmick
a genius’ work is rarely critiqued
by a mind of equal stature
The spiritual path appears to isolate
and still we cannot help but wonder
when others will understand
that it was worth it in the end
Categories
Eroded Out
Do not feel special because
I felt you so deeply —
I’m an artist
This morning, I wept for
a fallen tree, I had fallen for
over these summer months
Now it lays stretched, dead
over the creek bed, highest branches
brushing forest floor
ground eroded out from underneath
the roots
The artist’s curse is attachment
masked as lust, even love
but the object isn’t special just because
it’s the perception, the artist’s deception
that gives rise to conception
We may have loved this thing before
and here we are losing it, once more
Don’t be fooled
To be felt deeply
is no honour, because
an artist is a slut for feeling
And now you’re just a bore
Categories
Solipsist | Letter 5
To My Muse,
A figment of my diabolical imagination. Silly lustful yearning, for you, a character from a fantasy novel I have written. You’re just the right amount of work, and we are ever unwittingly competitive. Keeps things exciting for an airy mind. Don’t you agree?
Of course, every dialogue we’ve held, every discourse exchanged has been in my mind. I try to throw you into my material world, but you don’t hold fast. I watch you release yourself time and again. So I have become addicted to the yearning for you, my muse, more than friend, almost lover, pedestalled perfection. Unconquerable, you stole my heart.
You are no strawman, and I cannot set you alight. You burn with your own passion and you spark something within me. I press on, inspired by my muse, yearning to show you what you’ve never before seen in this lifetime.
In quiet moments, when we can visit, I set us in the most unromantic places, so that a stolen glance is worth more than gold and the brush of an arm is too much. That touch, a subtle message for skin, instructs to flush. Grasping at flesh beneath clothes is knotty and taking too long. I worry the forbidden entanglement be discovered.
Out of this reverie, I am bound to chair and desk only by my own resolve to commit a fictitious tale to tablet, entertaining who it may. Spurred on like my muse’s mare, pressed with gentle kicks, cropped with supple whip, and treated with ultimate kindness though used at his whim.
My heart stolen, when you pressed yourself upon my chest. Your bosom lay where no man’s did, and so you have taken it, locked it away, like chastity, rare and precious.
I feel as though I watch you from behind a thick tapestry. Perhaps one revealing the fairytale of us, the almost ever afters, spiraling toward oblivion, time immaterial.
I whisper, I’m going to make one of those shifty eye paintings, and you shall be my star.
You lean over me once more, whispering your muse-like song:
I shall take your mind to moorelands far away. I shall dance you through the night and day. Joy and fun and boundless love and romance between us, this is where I long to stay.
And then, once more, you fade away.
My muse has gone away.
Just for now,
Adieu
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 …
If you’d like to stay up to date with new releases like “Come Together,” receive a monthly recap, and score sneak peeks, subscribe to The Halfwit’s Newsletter:
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