Vasari, so the question I see us asking, outwardly or inwardly, maybe it matters maybe it doesn’t, not us for us to know—just thoughts, is “am I special, I mean, am I actually special—I know, I am in THAT sense, in the sense that we all are special or in the sense our mom’s believed sense, of us—but am I, are you, we—am I special & outset clearly from the millions of others, who, undoubtably, are doing special human things, being unique & gifted in THAT sense, but are we, are you, am I actually, perhaps, an incredibly rare once every 2000 years kind of special, the kind who sees & dreams, never fantasizes, & is stricken with something no else seems to have, but he assuredly had however bottled inside or let loose the thing he sensed, you & I sense, She senses & sensed all along, that there is something. I, we, are onto it, are supporting its release one degree, one act, one wedge, one listen at a time, despite its resistance, & its fear, & its shame, & its guilt, & its disbelief, & its isolation, & its darkness, & its confusion, & its fanaticism, its craziness, its…And when we dream, what do we dream of, is it the happy times or is it the memories, or is it the fantasies that allegedly don’t exist…To be important..To be confirmed… to be assured… To be responded to… to be held & seen with the same kind of care & the same kind of instant understanding & that I’m not being difficult, I am being full & it will take some time before my full is had out for you & others to drink. And so it occurs again, to which object is the real or complete canvas? Again, where does it end, where did it begin, why & how & who & so forth & so on but for how long is it on & when does it “off,” & does it hang this way [NOOSE] or does it hang this way [CROSS] or is it this [RECTANGLE], or maybe this [DOOR], & at what point does the story end, does it end with the life or does it end with life in general. To be clear, when does the creation stop if it stops at all? Does it stop when the weathered sharpie says no more of this undry spray paint on wood I refuse to permanize your strokes any longer? And what of this life beyond 8, beyond what we know of 7—in other letters, what do we know of the “I’m”s beyond the canvas; where does it end, where does it begin, where did it end, when does it start, why is it here, why is it this, how was it done, why was it done, where does it go, who is it for, why was it done, who did it, who’s doing it, why was it done, why are they doing it, what does it mean…Henry clasped the rings of his binder closed & went off to work.
I feel right as red & I’m not sure why, well I know why, but I don’t know why the why is why I feel right as red. I got into yet another name-calling, human degrading, blame throwing, damage instilling, thread breaking, connection deconnecting, anger & hatred filled kind of loneliness sparking resentment resuming, life in the moment obliterating kind of dispute. & though this is or was here, the sun shines onto my canvas without judgement. & the bees fly. Who knew bumblebees & wasps were such great friends, are such. The heat of the sun can be seen. The flight of small insects can almost be felt. Sillouhettes of sun-shadowed things create the backdrop for this human to enjoy his & the life swarming around his vibrating self.& to what or when is the decision made to react & respond to the knife or hand out in front, perhaps a tool of red inspiration or perhaps one of friendship formation. Coming to the middle is an exhertion of higher self & with it therein brings a special kind of clarity, a sigh of actual presence, for what it is, that is, is there is no hand there is no knife, neither hand nor knife & this reduction is again an exhertion. The making of truth is felt physically. Just as wings of curious bees hold unpredictably still, so do our selves, & both the movement & stillness felt with frightening unassurance & chaos or, or and, swanlike patience, floating particle like presence, a complete surrendering like self at all times to the forging right nows littered with hypocracies, extremes, & contradictions to the beeps, or flaps, or red sight, or commands, frustrations & beauty that come with the territory of Simultaneous Shared Time, & gift of God, no limits—->
in the most serious efforts to retain my sense of self–who I am driving to be, in these moments of my life (THE ARTIST), I have spent what appears to be the extent of my monetary worth on supplies to further open the doors of my expression. And I told of my plans to the cashier, who had asked, “if I was a painter,” to whom I replied, “no but I am an artist.” & I described to her my search for mediums, & that yes, “I paint but only a little,” “It’s a new medium,” I said, “& what lately I’ve been pulled to is graffiti, & “how, there is this isolated tunnel, underneath a road,” & it seemingly stretches for miles,” & there I wish to paint the entire tunnel with words,” & interested she commented about how very long that would take, and & I said “no I don’t think so.” “But maybe, I’m not sure I said as my debit car declined. There was enough in my life to cover it, just enough I knew & she asked if I would like to try again, & with a fearing, flushing face, the kind of display after brutal rejection from the universe itself, I told her yes & prayed & prayed outloud & it prompted me for a signature (it didn’t do this before) & I said outloud, “it didn’t do this before,” & I signed it & hit accept & it went through. Kitty litter, art supplies, & a new pair of Ben Hogan’s: my self had been RESTORED.
And there really is no better way to start a sentence than to start it with the word “and,” or at least this is how I’ve been feeling & thinking for at least a year, maybe two or three, or four; it’s been a while now & my love for And has grown, never diminished, always prized & always inclined to use. There’s a context here. This doesn’t mark the beginning of my body of words, neither that nor is it the end. “And,” recognizes its middle stage of inconclusive wordage, message, & point. It states there is a before, and the excess of words post-And with little to no movement in any stable direction hints with strong under & overtones that there is & will be many words to come, “millions,” & neither the weight of pre-And nor post-And fall on my shoulders, not anymore, never again, just this word right now & now. And if it’s not the word it’s the stroke of it, & the way my breath is or was during it, if my eyes were glazed & resting or are or were they reflecting the manic dreams blue, were they paying attention. “How are you feeling.” Without the story, really focus on the feeling, nothing else. Really just feel the feeling, accept it, feel it, & notice the space you immediately create. It’s like a miracle. Breathe & don’t think, just feel. & watch how quickly the edge of everything goes away. It just goes away; it just goes like a wished miracle. It goes in the sense the feeling of sadness no longer feels like the good ol’ crippling sadness I’ve known, the kind attached & anchored to the present, this kind is just a feeling & it’s cool for what is & how it assists these so right now carvings of this moment. & how these moments blend together because of this like wierd way we hold memories, & the way we naturally percieve the space and distance of things in relation to ti-me. Even weirder, or “wierder,” is how it all can be reduced to the electron, like how things are simultaneous, all of these states of perception, from the simple to the intensely complicated, all simultaneous, all simultaneous shared time. To the boring & the fictional & non & descriptive & to the general and to the personal & the visual and the micro & macro, to red & to blue, now green as middle, are all then now no wonder stability is never out there. 402 words, on canvas, with so many mediums available–paints, brushes, pens, pencils, paintmarkers, oil–with so much blank space, so many options, so many choices, without limits. & damn do we feel wonderful carving them out with words in cursive. This is our medium.