Monday, November 18, 2013
The Witching Hour
I've been going through some transitions lately. Lately being over the past couple years, lets say 4. Now I'm the year of Jesus and I realize that I can't be satisfied with my life or anything I do in it if I live in the frame of mind of taking. Ive been taking calmly and eagerly for my whole life. I have to give. I have to give myself to service of mother earth and better people. Its sortof regretable I hadn't come to this conclusion sooner, I could have avoided a lot of painful lessons, but, whatever. It happened. Mr. Dali Lama, I am picking up what you are throwing down. And thank you. Its so obvious now. To be in service to others and a better world takes a lot of courage and
grace and deep love. If you have those qualities you will always be
fulfilling a dream of some kind because your reward is giving. Those who
chose to take as their reward will find themselves in a bleak world
surrounded by things. Theres just no way to feel ok about things unless you give openly of yourself as a steward to your planet. And thats it.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Living with 100 year old parents.
Sitting once again on this foreign bed at my parents place, may as well be foreign exchange. Moisture is building in all my crevices, it's gonna be a hot one today. Obsessing about the future, so afraid to make a mistake I can't seem to take a step, like climbing down a cliff side, one faulty move might send me toppling downward. Here I am, under the impression that I've been very good and very right, taking in the separate but equal versions regarding the course of life from everyone I've met, and trying to find the sweet spot where they all collide with my own cliff side trail. Being a creative person in an archaic world tends to create massive clouds of confusion and demoralization, but, historically, this is nothing new, and the beautiful minds that burst through the barriers so that I have the opportunity to complain so openly have surely faced greater obsticles. Thank you, my angels, for bearing the burden. I try desperately, in my moderate way, to walk in your footsteps and continue to blaze. From here, looking out to sea, it's a long way up and a long way down.
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Mission
It's cold
As cold as it gets on these wet streets
feces decaying in front of murals rain washing
the refuse of the unforgiven into sewers marked by stecils of dolphins
Heels click click hurried past spanish swearing
stopping only to admire a feathered cap
in the translucent mirror of a cell phone store.
The bar is a safe house
We drink and laugh and tell dirty jokes
the bartender yells the price with a wink
a good deal tonight
We chit chat and booty shake and talk shit
about the people we're texting,
easier this way,
they might hear it in our voice if we called,
the contact may vibrate through our subconcious,
though each syllable uttered positively,
the usual to and fro of polite conversation,
as we hang up we feel something, quick to ignore, like shame,
and we are afraid to speak again.
Perhaps I spend too much time trying to figure out that which has no equation; not a straight line of logic, but a collage of actions that spin and collapse upon themselves,
a social kalidasope, trapped in a pyramid that never changes structure.
All you can change is the light thru which you view it.
As cold as it gets on these wet streets
feces decaying in front of murals rain washing
the refuse of the unforgiven into sewers marked by stecils of dolphins
Heels click click hurried past spanish swearing
stopping only to admire a feathered cap
in the translucent mirror of a cell phone store.
The bar is a safe house
We drink and laugh and tell dirty jokes
the bartender yells the price with a wink
a good deal tonight
We chit chat and booty shake and talk shit
about the people we're texting,
easier this way,
they might hear it in our voice if we called,
the contact may vibrate through our subconcious,
though each syllable uttered positively,
the usual to and fro of polite conversation,
as we hang up we feel something, quick to ignore, like shame,
and we are afraid to speak again.
Perhaps I spend too much time trying to figure out that which has no equation; not a straight line of logic, but a collage of actions that spin and collapse upon themselves,
a social kalidasope, trapped in a pyramid that never changes structure.
All you can change is the light thru which you view it.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Safan
"It means Heaven in Indonesean," says the owner, Steve, as he dusts pot after pot preparing for sale. The pots are Indonesean, also, but not traditional. The traditional Indonesean pottery has a rounded bottom that you can sit in the ground to keep from falling over. He told the local makers they had to make flat bottom vases for Westerners, so he could sell them at local winery's--with his cut, of course, being far more than what he paid. He enjoys telling this story, since, to him, he is the savior of indigenous people AND makes a chunk of change!
Safan is the name of his ranch in the Sierra foothills, with goats and chickens and guineas and a few sheep. Everything has a purpose, even if the purpose is required by agricultural tax law, it still serves the ranch. Steve and Allison started the place together, and wanted to turn it into a graffiti art organic farm. He placed trailers throughout the ranch and tagged them, and the barn, and the house, and every surface on the property that could be tagged. After he ran out of surfaces he started to invite other artists to participate in the residency, along with some woofers to work in the garden. And truly, as a concept it's amazing. Really heaven on earth. But, after looking at all the dirty tagged trailers in the middle of beautiful outskirts of Yosemite, for some reason they looked ugly, and comically misplaced, like a bad joke. It's an urban art, and the city is it's frame. The trees do no justice.
This isn't Steve's concern, of course, graf art is the newest thing and he wants the newest thing. To be cutting edge with his organic farming and such. I mean, the one thing you can definitely say about the guy is if he thinks it'll sell, he will sell it. He loves sell-able art. Especially if you can mass produce it. One artist on the residence has 44 collage pieces, each looking almost exactly like the last one. He is Steve's pride and joy, and his work hangs at rustic themed winery, of which Steve gets a cut.
The rest serve a different purpose. 7:30 breakfast of oatmeal that could be as many as 7 days old. Steve doesn't like to waste, even to feed to the chickens who do not get feed at all. Rather, every day he takes the oatmeal from the morning before, stirs in fresh oatmeal, and cooks it again. Lunch is leftovers from the night before, or 7 nights before, same with dinner. The food, unfortunately, is old to begin with, because he doesn't grow anything in the garden. Instead he collects the rotten produce from the grocery store in town they put in boxes next to the dumpster. Of course, the woofers still have to work everyday for six hours, even if that means weeding empty beds and other forms of fruitless labor. One would be surprised how much work there is to be done in Safan.
Steve is a miser with his money, his property, and his love. Nature proved the detachment he felt to the people laboring for free for him. By this time I had grown used to mom goats and the baby calling frantically and desperately for each other in the pasture. Like the sheep, they always kept taps on each other. When I hear all these noises of the animals together, speaking, I can tell what they're level of commitment to each other they are. And a love for those you love. An unbreakable attachment to another living creature. It all feels the same. The artists and woofers sat around camp fires together telling jokes and smoking spliffs by their trailers. Steve remained in the house, where no one was allowed after 9pm.
He became like the animals in terms of eating the crappy food he served, like it was compost, and wanting to fuck during rutting season, but he was really stingy about dolling out affection easy as you please, as if being open was earned after you've proven a certain financial equity. Perhaps that's part of why he keeps artists around him, and insist he keep a piece or a few pieces of work. Perhaps love and imagination are things he can't evoke on his own. To create without purpose, or plan, or financial intentions, is mysterious and foolish. Like the indigenous peoples, he tries to save the artists with coprorate values, which, to him, are the only values that make sense, and will gladly take your work as his reward.
I suppose it would be unfair to blame Steve for not sharing his Heaven with anyone around him. He is, after all, a short man in a man's man world and does what he knows to do. Like nature, we accept the way things are. The mallard duck will violently attack a mom and ducklings for food. To see it is enraging, but to interfere? Morality doesn't play into the mallards behavior. He is of a type of beast that acts in his best interest without empathy or reason. We must accept that, even in nature, some animals are just dickheads.
Safan is the name of his ranch in the Sierra foothills, with goats and chickens and guineas and a few sheep. Everything has a purpose, even if the purpose is required by agricultural tax law, it still serves the ranch. Steve and Allison started the place together, and wanted to turn it into a graffiti art organic farm. He placed trailers throughout the ranch and tagged them, and the barn, and the house, and every surface on the property that could be tagged. After he ran out of surfaces he started to invite other artists to participate in the residency, along with some woofers to work in the garden. And truly, as a concept it's amazing. Really heaven on earth. But, after looking at all the dirty tagged trailers in the middle of beautiful outskirts of Yosemite, for some reason they looked ugly, and comically misplaced, like a bad joke. It's an urban art, and the city is it's frame. The trees do no justice.
This isn't Steve's concern, of course, graf art is the newest thing and he wants the newest thing. To be cutting edge with his organic farming and such. I mean, the one thing you can definitely say about the guy is if he thinks it'll sell, he will sell it. He loves sell-able art. Especially if you can mass produce it. One artist on the residence has 44 collage pieces, each looking almost exactly like the last one. He is Steve's pride and joy, and his work hangs at rustic themed winery, of which Steve gets a cut.
The rest serve a different purpose. 7:30 breakfast of oatmeal that could be as many as 7 days old. Steve doesn't like to waste, even to feed to the chickens who do not get feed at all. Rather, every day he takes the oatmeal from the morning before, stirs in fresh oatmeal, and cooks it again. Lunch is leftovers from the night before, or 7 nights before, same with dinner. The food, unfortunately, is old to begin with, because he doesn't grow anything in the garden. Instead he collects the rotten produce from the grocery store in town they put in boxes next to the dumpster. Of course, the woofers still have to work everyday for six hours, even if that means weeding empty beds and other forms of fruitless labor. One would be surprised how much work there is to be done in Safan.
Steve is a miser with his money, his property, and his love. Nature proved the detachment he felt to the people laboring for free for him. By this time I had grown used to mom goats and the baby calling frantically and desperately for each other in the pasture. Like the sheep, they always kept taps on each other. When I hear all these noises of the animals together, speaking, I can tell what they're level of commitment to each other they are. And a love for those you love. An unbreakable attachment to another living creature. It all feels the same. The artists and woofers sat around camp fires together telling jokes and smoking spliffs by their trailers. Steve remained in the house, where no one was allowed after 9pm.
He became like the animals in terms of eating the crappy food he served, like it was compost, and wanting to fuck during rutting season, but he was really stingy about dolling out affection easy as you please, as if being open was earned after you've proven a certain financial equity. Perhaps that's part of why he keeps artists around him, and insist he keep a piece or a few pieces of work. Perhaps love and imagination are things he can't evoke on his own. To create without purpose, or plan, or financial intentions, is mysterious and foolish. Like the indigenous peoples, he tries to save the artists with coprorate values, which, to him, are the only values that make sense, and will gladly take your work as his reward.
I suppose it would be unfair to blame Steve for not sharing his Heaven with anyone around him. He is, after all, a short man in a man's man world and does what he knows to do. Like nature, we accept the way things are. The mallard duck will violently attack a mom and ducklings for food. To see it is enraging, but to interfere? Morality doesn't play into the mallards behavior. He is of a type of beast that acts in his best interest without empathy or reason. We must accept that, even in nature, some animals are just dickheads.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
2012
Here we are, 2009, talking about Hope and Change and the Future as a futuristic thing, while lurking in the wings of this performance are zombies and horsemen and police on every block---the four flying cars of the apocalypse, the fear that our race will never advance past fear based psychological cannibalism. that, for whatever reason, our breakneck speed of intellectual development will end before it has even begun----a blip on the screen---I minor irritation on the earths surface, shrugged off into the rapture of extinction.
And here is the question it begs, the part that has me worried, Who makes the future? Dreamers? Politicians? Bibles? Stars? No doubt shots are being called and intentions are plucking the strings on the web of our collective unconscious, but who is making the call? What future will win? Rocker-fellers? Nostradamus'? Huxley's? Mine?
If we pause for a moment and pretend that the present is actually the present and our history is relatively true, I think we can agree that not much has changed. Sure, there's faster communication and different styles of clothing, but there's always been some powerful, untouchable, leader that the rest of us are forced to work for and obey. there has always been patriarchy, always war, always always enslavement for as long as our basic education has provided us knowing. The repetition bores me in the same fashion television does, and I, for one, hesitate to call this progress. if our technology, in all it's glory, only manages to allow us to do the same unimaginative work we've been doing faster and with less leisure time, then it's hardly advancement. I suppose a zombie attack would be a nice change of pace, for the history books.
So, how much future do we have left, exactly? the Mayans, and Nostradamus, and the Hopi, and ancient Egypt, give us another 3 years. Funny we'd be so close to the end (providing this is the actual present and not a mere loop of quantum energy occurring simultaneously with other moments of "Past" and "future"), and we've only just discovered the technology to provide everyone with a house, and food, and everything we need to take a break from all this working. We could burn down the federal reserve today and have all the technology we need to have an abundance of gifts and goodies and great parties.
There's also Peter Joseph and other astronomers that take us back into the stars (the beginning of the beginning---the first day of creation) and tells us that rotations around the sun, combined with the chaotic weeble-wobble of our axis, eventually rights itself into astrological ages, and a new age is being born 2150, the Age of Aquarius, of which we are on the cusp with pisces. I don't know many pisces, but if they are anything like this age we are living in, I can see why I'm not attracted to the type. But then, Aquaria's, from what I've been told, are ultra feminine, very structured, and have the largest collection of underwear of any other sign. Im not sure if this is an improvement.
And then, of course, Armageddon, which I find the least plausible, yet has the backing of millions of believers and even skeptical christian raised non-believers imbuing the prophecy with life, like the Golem, it becomes something out of faith alone. Our dormant subconscious bubbling and brewing signals fueled by fear--a very powerful form of mind control---even stronger than television. And what's worse! its a destiny centuries in the making; the dying vision of all fundamentalists to be proven right, and all the faithful given that elusive sign, the proof, that generations of repression actually mean something.
But I, too, have a vision of the future, and I know I didn't come up with it on my own. Its a vision that keeps underground, afraid of being trampled by the clumsy clogs of cynicism, or poisoned by political pesticides. Its a vision as old as Jesus. As old as stories, and magic, and wisdom, and intention. A vision that we might, someday, realize that we are all one. that when one suffers, we all suffer. And also that of evolution. That intention physically opens doors. That closing your eyes and pointing has more perception than eyes wide open. We've been burning witches for so long now that this vision has to remain quiet until we are ready for it.
So, who writes the future? Which side will win? Who has the most legos? Or is destiny an even bigger concept we aren't smart enough to grasp? Perhaps we should make room for a gander species, like the dinosaurs did for us. The Gods shall vacation here and amuse themselves by animating our bones and inventing stories about history. Or will it be more and more of the same?
2012, it's the End Times based on stars and planets alone, telling stories of wars and famine and antichrists and the end of calendars and predictions. Is this destiny? 3 years is not a lot of time for a bucket list at 28, tho I can't say I'll miss the capitalism, or suburbs, or E! entertainment, or cubicles, or blood diamonds, or hollywood, or marketing, or concrete, or stock yards....
But I will miss not having my vision. Truly, I was looking forward to that.
And here is the question it begs, the part that has me worried, Who makes the future? Dreamers? Politicians? Bibles? Stars? No doubt shots are being called and intentions are plucking the strings on the web of our collective unconscious, but who is making the call? What future will win? Rocker-fellers? Nostradamus'? Huxley's? Mine?
If we pause for a moment and pretend that the present is actually the present and our history is relatively true, I think we can agree that not much has changed. Sure, there's faster communication and different styles of clothing, but there's always been some powerful, untouchable, leader that the rest of us are forced to work for and obey. there has always been patriarchy, always war, always always enslavement for as long as our basic education has provided us knowing. The repetition bores me in the same fashion television does, and I, for one, hesitate to call this progress. if our technology, in all it's glory, only manages to allow us to do the same unimaginative work we've been doing faster and with less leisure time, then it's hardly advancement. I suppose a zombie attack would be a nice change of pace, for the history books.
So, how much future do we have left, exactly? the Mayans, and Nostradamus, and the Hopi, and ancient Egypt, give us another 3 years. Funny we'd be so close to the end (providing this is the actual present and not a mere loop of quantum energy occurring simultaneously with other moments of "Past" and "future"), and we've only just discovered the technology to provide everyone with a house, and food, and everything we need to take a break from all this working. We could burn down the federal reserve today and have all the technology we need to have an abundance of gifts and goodies and great parties.
There's also Peter Joseph and other astronomers that take us back into the stars (the beginning of the beginning---the first day of creation) and tells us that rotations around the sun, combined with the chaotic weeble-wobble of our axis, eventually rights itself into astrological ages, and a new age is being born 2150, the Age of Aquarius, of which we are on the cusp with pisces. I don't know many pisces, but if they are anything like this age we are living in, I can see why I'm not attracted to the type. But then, Aquaria's, from what I've been told, are ultra feminine, very structured, and have the largest collection of underwear of any other sign. Im not sure if this is an improvement.
And then, of course, Armageddon, which I find the least plausible, yet has the backing of millions of believers and even skeptical christian raised non-believers imbuing the prophecy with life, like the Golem, it becomes something out of faith alone. Our dormant subconscious bubbling and brewing signals fueled by fear--a very powerful form of mind control---even stronger than television. And what's worse! its a destiny centuries in the making; the dying vision of all fundamentalists to be proven right, and all the faithful given that elusive sign, the proof, that generations of repression actually mean something.
But I, too, have a vision of the future, and I know I didn't come up with it on my own. Its a vision that keeps underground, afraid of being trampled by the clumsy clogs of cynicism, or poisoned by political pesticides. Its a vision as old as Jesus. As old as stories, and magic, and wisdom, and intention. A vision that we might, someday, realize that we are all one. that when one suffers, we all suffer. And also that of evolution. That intention physically opens doors. That closing your eyes and pointing has more perception than eyes wide open. We've been burning witches for so long now that this vision has to remain quiet until we are ready for it.
So, who writes the future? Which side will win? Who has the most legos? Or is destiny an even bigger concept we aren't smart enough to grasp? Perhaps we should make room for a gander species, like the dinosaurs did for us. The Gods shall vacation here and amuse themselves by animating our bones and inventing stories about history. Or will it be more and more of the same?
2012, it's the End Times based on stars and planets alone, telling stories of wars and famine and antichrists and the end of calendars and predictions. Is this destiny? 3 years is not a lot of time for a bucket list at 28, tho I can't say I'll miss the capitalism, or suburbs, or E! entertainment, or cubicles, or blood diamonds, or hollywood, or marketing, or concrete, or stock yards....
But I will miss not having my vision. Truly, I was looking forward to that.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Watercolor thoughts
The blue penetrates all colors. Just a light drop takes any puddle two shades darker. You have to be careful, because after the pthalo blue you'll never get that brilliance back.
I default on Yellow mostly, it's easy enough to change and light enough to forget. It's best if you are not sure about what color's to use but already have the shape, otherwise you can't see it, can't see the brushstrokes. Sometimes I let my hand move till I see a shape. Red is good for that. Like blood making a life form. Catch yourself early to not make a blood wash, but that first ribbon of watery red is like a cut into the canvas opening possibilities.
I don't use green so much, it doesn't strike me as a particularly dynamic color, unless it was a green girl, perhaps, those are pretty. She's prettiest when she's opposite the color she's supposed to be. Green fairy girls with perfect breasts and playful poses--but then, that's not art. It's art if she looks sad, kinda, or serious, even though she's green. But not too green, no, you would definitely need to add some blue. Some shadows. Or at least some absurdity, like a bird with human arms, or gears floating haphazardly around her. Something to emulate the absurdness of her strange, darkened, beauty.
I really like orange, I gotta say, that color never lets me down. When you don't want reds drama or yellows plainness. It builds and brightens all colors around it, giving life to even the most neutral settings without drawing attention to itself. You can make it brilliant as the sun, or dull as filth, or gentle as meadows, or aggressive as neon lights. When I think of one solid color that I could stare at for days, like a Bing cherry stain, I would never pick orange, but I've never made a painting I liked that didn't have orange as a main ingredient. Like garlic. Actually, garlic, onions, and butter, orange is all three makin my mouth water.
Purple I use the least. She's a very powerful color and she gets away from me. Too dark yet too bright. Too feminine. Too loud. Too playful. Like the green, she needs to be subdued, wrapped in cold blue and taken to the depths of the ocean or the infinite universe. Only small doses. Or let her be the center of attention, have everything in the piece be about that one purple something, but that opportunity doesn't seem to arrive very often. When it does I get excited. Maybe it's a girl thing, but it makes me happy when purple becomes a good idea. I use it less often than gold, of all colors. I use gold all the time, and it never really works, but I can't help myself, I love that shiny metallic possibility. I keep throwing it in hoping one day I'll hit the stylized mine that requires gold every time. I'm still looking. Maybe more blue. That's the best thing about blue, it drowns everything. Lost in that cold primary tone, the yin, the mystery, washing everything away. You have to be careful.
I default on Yellow mostly, it's easy enough to change and light enough to forget. It's best if you are not sure about what color's to use but already have the shape, otherwise you can't see it, can't see the brushstrokes. Sometimes I let my hand move till I see a shape. Red is good for that. Like blood making a life form. Catch yourself early to not make a blood wash, but that first ribbon of watery red is like a cut into the canvas opening possibilities.
I don't use green so much, it doesn't strike me as a particularly dynamic color, unless it was a green girl, perhaps, those are pretty. She's prettiest when she's opposite the color she's supposed to be. Green fairy girls with perfect breasts and playful poses--but then, that's not art. It's art if she looks sad, kinda, or serious, even though she's green. But not too green, no, you would definitely need to add some blue. Some shadows. Or at least some absurdity, like a bird with human arms, or gears floating haphazardly around her. Something to emulate the absurdness of her strange, darkened, beauty.
I really like orange, I gotta say, that color never lets me down. When you don't want reds drama or yellows plainness. It builds and brightens all colors around it, giving life to even the most neutral settings without drawing attention to itself. You can make it brilliant as the sun, or dull as filth, or gentle as meadows, or aggressive as neon lights. When I think of one solid color that I could stare at for days, like a Bing cherry stain, I would never pick orange, but I've never made a painting I liked that didn't have orange as a main ingredient. Like garlic. Actually, garlic, onions, and butter, orange is all three makin my mouth water.
Purple I use the least. She's a very powerful color and she gets away from me. Too dark yet too bright. Too feminine. Too loud. Too playful. Like the green, she needs to be subdued, wrapped in cold blue and taken to the depths of the ocean or the infinite universe. Only small doses. Or let her be the center of attention, have everything in the piece be about that one purple something, but that opportunity doesn't seem to arrive very often. When it does I get excited. Maybe it's a girl thing, but it makes me happy when purple becomes a good idea. I use it less often than gold, of all colors. I use gold all the time, and it never really works, but I can't help myself, I love that shiny metallic possibility. I keep throwing it in hoping one day I'll hit the stylized mine that requires gold every time. I'm still looking. Maybe more blue. That's the best thing about blue, it drowns everything. Lost in that cold primary tone, the yin, the mystery, washing everything away. You have to be careful.
Monday, March 16, 2009
There are wild things lurking
I saw a large pit bull, puffed up and tough, ears clipped, a fierce and frightening creature, being held on a leash on the downtown Ashland plaza. The pit stared, and I looked back, and, though my friends dared not threaten the beast's space with eye contact, I smiled at him. He was a dog. I couldn't help myself. Then the pit got a little excited and started to wag his tail like a pup for just a moment. The ferocity of the show shattered, and I could not help myself again with a little coo, "Hey baby!" in puppy speak. That's when the leash bearer, whom a moment before was so dim I hardly bothered to register his existence, but after this gentle moment, turned his head and peaked the tiniest bit of elvish youth. He was homeless, there are many in this town, and my heart melted for his little rooz, for his impish grin as I cooed to his pup, revealing everything he tried to keep hidden, and will continue to hide, as wild things do. Clearly, if my little runaway's life made sense where he was before, he would not be hiding behind a dog so easily won over by a smile. So young, "Houseless, not homeless" he says to his companion as he puts the things he thinks he needs into a backpack and sticks out his thumb. I could have given him the cash in my wallet that I was about to spend at the bar, had I not been so selfishly wrapped up in keeping time with my friends. All I could do was smile and delight in that 3 seconds of trust glittering in his wild eyes. For all the following followers following followers I've done in my time, trying to find my place and my self, I realize that the truest story is the surprise when a wild thing spy's a wild thing.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
