This ain’t the first time I’ve been to this well;
And I still haven’t been to it.
But it’s not the first time I viewed it.
To drop my Bucket in (still shiny, only two dents)
I can feel in my gut how that water would taste.
Drink the living water?
Be seen by it be known
Or crack your head on Mount Diablo.
Even if (no, no!) we don’t drink together.
I’m not gonna depart. I’m not
Going to rip a shared poem up again.
Promise.
i’m gettin’ better
i’m turning into old me but older
my heart is healing,like like a dam being rebuilt.
It means being sadder and also stronger
I’m back to desiring to pour love into someone rather than to obtain immediate gratifying feelings.
I’m not perfect.
Today i rode in a car past some houses i had never seen before and they made me want to cry.They were a couple decades old with big trees in the yard and boughs over their roofs and they reminded me of those half remembered feelings and expectations that always rang straight from my heart and manifested in my mind and com comfortable rooms and cheerful friends.
There was one house that had a lamp on by a window in the basement and my heart almost burst. It was like being sixteen and in love with [NAME UNAVALIBLE] again. Like the world i inhabit and the chapters of events and the flow of time and feelings that comprise my life were visible and had meaning and weight on me again and I could feel love inside me like a star just a-burning to shine out and illuminate the hearts and faces of the dearest people to me.
Like, if i opened my mouth and you were standing too close you’d get your eye brows singed off.
i just want to hold someone really tightly
and smile really big like a fool
and go walking barefoot in the dewy rainy grass
i just want to breath in all the air
but, the wanting to hold someone right now its about giving love than trying to put a stopper on loneliness
I feel pure like leaves of grass growing up in the yard in the wind under the rain with all the coolness of the atmosphere sliding down my body, but I must acknowledge the atrocious jealousy and pain that comes with it all.
The unfairness and bitter resentment at the universe for giving me such beautiful world and then no one to share them with. Hell, id gladly trade a rib for a companion.
I’m a gust of wind.
Filed under: Blogging, Mysteries | Tags: art, canvas, flickr, glue, homosexuality. peace, hope, liberty, love, new art, paint, photos, poetry, yarn
The moon is a great apostle of liberty. Like the Marquis de LaFayette.
“No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don’t get harmed
But even if it does
You’ll just do it all again” -R.S.
This painting has personal meaning. I’m getting to the point where I see loneliness, and the languishing about such, as kind f immature. If I were to open my mouth up and complain about being lonely in life right now it would be as if I were walking along the great wall of China and complaining that my feet hurt from all the old stones.
Life, daily life especially, is an absolute bouquet of the most delicious sensations available to sentient life. I’m convinced of this: laughter is better than fucking, because it costs nothing.
This red moon is solumn joy raising over a familiar and not unhospitable landscape. The house is made of yarn, it is a construction that can be deconstructed and moved.
I find the activity of cutting and gluing various types of yarn to various types of objects weirdly soothing. I will pursue this form of leisure.
Also, hot pink and metallic silver paint markers please me^_^
That is all.
Will soft look upon a glowing square.
My face.
I do similar, an electric mist passes and glows.
I alone perceive radiance.
The boy is in the syrupy dark.
A flower growing midway through the sidewalk.
Green tipped with yellow.
Made of stronger stuff than stars.
His Hands were My Hands (in the glowing square.)
But My designs are not His desighns.
Fall into me! My soul is vast.
And I am still an ocean of contradictions.
My life, My stability,
Surf high on waves of contradiction.
I’m tired of metaphor.
I think I’ll just lay down.
and Will myself to dream the same dream again.
–
(written by me. April 29th, 2008)
Filed under: Blogging, Mysteries | Tags: art, haiku, insomnia, love, lymericks, poetry
Every pop song says
And in words true as the Bard’s
You got me goin’.
My soul shall concede
To hold together atoms;
A shape that you love.
Although I have learned from the best,
Even now I am put to the test.
For in love there’s no sleep,
And your tender words keep
Me from getting much needed night’s rest.
With words I was always so slick,
And my verbiage indelibly thick.
Now my sentences muddle,
I’m completely befuddled,
When attempting to converse with Nik.
I admit it was was not at all smart,
Rationality little part.
But when I heard his voice,
I had zero choice,
Save to blindly surrender my heart.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: art, dance, doodling on napkins, drip painting, essay, film, finger painting, graffiti, LED tagging, literature, oil painting, photos, poetry, screen printing, spraypaint, stencil, tatoos, theater
I took this picture. It's probably painted over by now...
I’m not doing much.
I have an Acrylic On Canvas I want to get framed. I have not painted it yet but I know it needs to get framed. It will be a recreation of the painting described in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, of the painting of the actual Dawn Treader. I hope that sentence made sense.
I’ve been thinking about graffiti more and more. About the concept at least. Going out, and, in the defiance of rules, creating art.
Anywhere a concrete structure is, it’s part of it’s environment. So, when a graffiti artist sprays a stencil or draws on concrete of=r any structure they are not simply adding art to something pre-existing. It’s not like hanging a canvas on the wall. The canvas can be moved, picked up. The canvas is it’s own object. Separate from the other. The canvas is unrelated to the wall.
But it’s different when a graffiti artist bombs a wall. Here the word bomb means “the act of writing a grafitti tag in a highly visible public place.” (urbandictionary.com). They are not just putting something onto something else, they are changing the object in question.
They create transformative art rather than additive (yes, here the word “create” can be argued against, as one does not (usually) build the structure one bombs). This is pro-active rather than passive and therefor a logical artistic extension of the city-dwelling attitute.
There is something else. If art is about saying something, then the real primal human beauty of graffiti is in it’s recklessness, because the artist has something to say and he or she refuses to acknowledge society’s laws and taboos. They want people to see and to read and too know. And this is, if nothing else in the world is, art.
I’m not comparing graffiti to any other art; and I’m am definitely not saying that it is more noble, or more true, or that one is better than another.
I’m merely choosing to celebrate this reckless abandonment and brutal public exposition. I want to learn from it. I want my own art to be more active, more forceful, more like whatever essence of harsh, messy expression that graffiti artists seem to possess.
In reality, all of the arts are vital; theater, dance, film, literature, poetry, doodling on napkins, oil painting, drip painting, finger painting, screen printing, LED tagging, tatoos and a trillion other things.
Little bits of human souls and feelings locked in images. It’s pretty and it says things and all that. But,in the end, it’s the only way we can really show ourselves to others.
“I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”
Walt Whitman
from Song of Myself
ATTERCOP 