It has been so long in between blog posts on here, I wonder if its even KOSHER to write on here anymore.
The year that has just ended has been one of the hardest and most full on I have ever had. It was the second year of owning a business and it just kind of took over my life and enveloped every part of me. Its not a bad thing in any form I don't think, sometimes you have to sacrifice things to focus. And focus I did. I came out of the tunnel into Christmas exhausted and ready for the month holiday from all things work that Liv and I decided to treat ourselves with. Im not sure tho treat is the right word for it, as we were so close to a burnout I could smell the smoke catching up with me.
To date this holiday has been the best thing! It has rained for most of the summer so far, but I have seen so much beauty emerge as I have to from my exhaustion. The rain has made for the most lush green grass, the brightest red Pohutukawa flowers (picture attached) I have ever seen, colourful wildflowers and so much JOY from everyone around me every time the sun does pop from behind the grey clouds.
This year I have made one resolution (Im not sure I should call it that tho, as every time I do I get over it and it becomes a chore). Theone thing I would love to do is pay attention to the people around me and let the ones who are important to me know it. It seems simple, but when work and life get busy it is too easy to become numb. I was talking to someone once and they said they lived (or tried to live) like there was a giant highlighter scribbled on their life, I would love to live like that this year and also scribble that highlighter on other peoples life. OOOH!
Ok well, I will be back at the end of the summer.
Ciao.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Friday, November 25, 2011
Circus. Mona and the Nine Knives. Winner.
Outside of town yards upon yards of
canvas are being stretched and elevated on and over the ground. The
ground is wet and clay with green grass growing in small gathered
portions. The grass exist only at the clay's mercy. Foot prints
engrave the ground and create tiny canyons and gather water to the
bottom of each treads ravine. The canvas cloth has long since
forgotten its life of pure spun cotton. Even the hands who form it
view the canvas as a ancient deity of existences and not a commodity
of common man's trade. This skin we shape is dragon's flesh upon
shafts of wood taken from the Trojan's Horse. The ground it inhabits
is no longer earth, nor heaven, but somewhere that exist on in the
privilege of the human mind. Welcome one and all to the Circus.
There is a girl who has lived for the
Tiger's Circus for the whole of her consciences thought. She has no
true start in her life. When all are born we cry out and scream for
our Mother. Our arms push at the air and our eyes open from birth to
see what will become familiar. The Girl Mona of the Tiger's Circus
had no such start. Her mouth did not sound, and her Mother did not
answer her because she was lost in the process of bring Mona here.
Mona never felt her Mother's touch, and therefore she never cried,
and she never opened her eyes. Rather she opened her eyes but saw
nothing that is the start of familiar.
What is easy for common man, is
unfamiliar to Mona. What is familiar to Mona stands as uncommon to
the whole of man. Mona throw the Nine Tiger's Knives at a audience
volunteer in the Tiger's Circus. To the audience member of such a
privilege, they are left without description of the experiences that
follows the Nine Knives of Mona to pass nearer than fate to them in a
circular fashion. For to describe the in describable, it is as though
hearing your first child cry his or her's first cry after birth. To
those who have no children, you may try to imagine the experience
with a melancholy state of mind. To the parent who has heard this
call, you are made familiar with that which is very unfamiliar.
To my best friend whom I see now in my
mind I want to call back and tell you something about yourself. Maybe
the words are too full of great notion to be any present day help.
Because the ideas I have of you sounds more as the speech of Marc
Anthony to the Murdered Body of Caesar than to the real life man whom
you are today. Still this version of you lives in the halls of my
mind and my description of you will only be larger and taller than
all other men once I am to the age where the young want to listen to
me. You wore a smile that drew a line of division to the men of less
confident self faith around you. Your dreams lived at the height of
your voices volume. Your enemies were numerous and your closest
counsel was the man who stood to your side. You made war at social
peace treaties that others had formed in alliance with one another.
Your Love rose to new heights daily, by your own professing or your
own forgetting. You won, you loved and you won. To all who did not
know how you did this, you did it through the rejection. To every
conflict, there is dirt that we are ground in to, and blood that is
pulled out of us. When others tremble at this thought, you addicted
yourself to the sensation of it.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
"you will see it once its finished."
I have a dream for a new painting. I
have been thinking of it all week long. It is not far from any of my
surface level interest that I always express. The mysteries of my
obsessions are common market place goods for all to access. The idea
is not inside of me because I have to reinvent the world, it is only
a interest to me because I want to imagine it and dream about it. I
want to try and think about it. I feel very much in debt to the poet
Luis Borges who wrote the meditation of “dream tiger”. My debt
now tells me that there is no shame in trying to envision a tiger,
not a tiger as all see, but a tiger that exist inside my view. It is
my debt that says my dream tiger is not better than the real tiger
because the real is even farther out of grasp to me than my dream. It
is my debt that says the creation I make is not my dream tiger, nor
is it my real tiger, but regardless it fulfills a portion of its
offering to the inspiration.
I have the day off to my own pleasure.
But a servant is more valuable than a self seeking ruler. A Lion can
roar, but without his prey to tremble at the call a Lion is shorted
on his pleasure. Writing also has a audience and woe to never be
heard. The voice never used brings permanent damage upon the vocal
chords in contrast to the voice lost in screaming. The pride of man
is to be seen and to be known. How do we justify this condition, with
the curse of pride and the use of not being in use? God placed Man in
the Garden to work, and God's personal expression of His creation was
that it was good.
In writing about the condition of
expectation I find myself guilty and riddled with holes in my hull of
floating self confidences. The beginning of this diagnosis comes with
a view of the well developed symptoms. The least path of resistances
is the fastest, and we begin creatures of habit form trails both
visual-able and invisible in our lives. When faced with unmet expectation we are than in a battle with either
negotiating with or surrendering to disappointment.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Just as Scared.
Everyone else is just as scared as you
are to make art.
I am currently reading John Steinbeck,
East of Eden. As I myself read and explore, I am remembering accounts
of peoples feelings about this book. I use the word feelings, because
at best this is how I have heard everyone relate it. It is a unique
thing to be a author who relates feelings as oppose to principle. But
rather it is a odd thing to under take the telling of a story. In
each one of our lives we have attempted it several times. Whether it
is a account of your trip to the grocery store, or your account of
your family reunion. We are all story tellers. I say this not to
discredit a author from the originality of his or her work. I would
like to say that each one of us has particular need filled when
telling a story. Even your most quiet friend can be brought to
surface at the prompting of the need to tell a story or to give a
account. The joy of this process, is that there is no set standard
for why we need to take place in the telling. Confession is good for
the soul, a well told tale of personal accomplishment can increase
your favor or a crux for a laugh. But if only all of our sharing
could be metaled down to form the purified gold of our timeless
messages, what would be the glory of that shining element?
I wrote you three pages all about
myself. I hope you can say, “ thank you for the gift.” upon
finishing the reading of the letter. But in truth I feel like I have
sent a emotional anthrax letter. Please don't flag my blog page
because I have used such colorful anarchist imagery. I am only
researching the depths to the definition of friendship. Like a ship
takes sounding knots, I myself am not sure what waters are to shallow
to move upon in a friendship. But if I had to voice myself as a Sea
Captain, I would wisely say that no two shores are alike in image or
face, in sounding and in depth. If that is the wisest statement to
make in regards to friendship and sea sailing adventures, what is the
point and purpose to hire yourself a able bodied crew? If each
friendship is new to its vices, clauses, claims, and endurance who is
to say that sound logic will hold you on course? Maybe its simply
because a well groomed Captain of the sea of friendship can describe
the events of his or her breached hull with so much more conviction
that we can only wait to join them again upon their next death
defying adventure.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Marks on the Pages of Time
Often times in my mind I have
conversations and say things that never really come to see the light
of day. In other words I have a private personal opinion. The caution
to the boy who has everything is that possessing is a false sense of
security. I have in my mind the memory of the day I realized that I
was not the best tree climber in the world and yes I could find
myself stuck in a very scary situation high up in a tree with no one
to help me down. Our opinions can climb high in the trees of the
fictitious situations. Meaning we judge the past, we judge the
future, and we try to change the now based upon how we think it
should occur. There is no shame in trying to orchestrate your life,
but in the same regard there is a shame to the individual that thinks
that there motions as a orchestra conductor to life really determines
its course. Even now I am asking myself to hear the music of life's
orchestra and to turn over my motions of fret filled living to the
Conductor who knows how the song should be played. I am grateful for
the times that I keep my opinions to myself. Let right living be my
legacy, and let me be so anxious to hear the Conductors Symphony.
Taking the first steps toward art. I am
sitting at my kitchen counter drinking coffee and thinking about a
half finished painting in my garage. I am in love with the painting,
a love that I would possible describe as a fatal attraction. The
reason my love for my painting is a fatal attraction is because art
and the process are two different things. Doing a craft and making
art are two different results. Craft is repeatable, Art in simple
explanation is not. Our bodies love motion, and our bodies love
accomplishment. I remember hearing a amazing story of man who
recorded his entire life, all of his actions each day. The man truly
did record his whole life, but in order to save time he created a
style of short hand so that he could save time daily. The end result
was a vast world of information that bore no true information as to
the delicate way our lives play out each day. However the man, was in
love with the process, the goal, the stroke of his pen upon the pages
of time itself. It is not a shame to fall in love, but when we find
out the rules of our attraction we can often find ourselves
sheepishly embarrassed of the item loved. Mystery has such a personal
wonderment to us all. The first step in art is to know that you will
fall in love with it, regardless of the value that your audience has
for it. Do not be ashamed of your love and do not validate it by
others sight of it.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Destiny of a Book Reader
Why does the reading of books feel so
often like fashion? Our eyes see more that we can possibly take in of
both the art of fashion and the existence of literature. Our personal
buying is based upon our self image, much as we do not wear some
apparel because it does not compliment our body type. Worst as of
yet, once a agreeable look is found, we do not than easily break from
the mold of it.
I am currently reading the book, “
Destiny of the Republic: A tale of Madness, Medicine, and the Murder
of a President”. This is the Author's second book she has ever
written. This fact should not detour you away from her writing. Her
writing in wonderfully fact filled with a extra emphasis on fun
filled. She has taken the time to examine little pieces of
information that she can use freely at her disposal to make the tale
of non-fiction, something of a fiction in your mind. As the President
lays confined to his bed because of a logged steel bullet hidden in
his body causing him vomiting, fever, and pain, his view from his
make shift White House Presidential room is the view of the
unfinished obelisk in memory of George Washington. A Memorial long
overdue to be finished, but lacks funding for its development. It is
colorful facts like this that make this book such a real tale for
every American to hear. Only sixteen years after Abraham Lincoln was
Murdered, James Garfield shooting brings a early America to a stop as
it inhabitants wait, pray, and wonder their fate. James Garfield life
is beautiful, and tragic, his love is sweet and bitter, even his
enemies love him.
I mailed a gift today. It feels good. I
hope my had written words in the note make the world feel like a
smaller place. It will take at least two weeks to get there. Its good
to be a friend and to have them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)