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.
“That is mine,” He or She says to the other while pointing, to which we think what actually do we own? Is there anything ours? And we know the attempt is being made to be nice by asking the question. We don’t want to seem rude by knowing the answer, it fundamentally clashing with the principles of the other now on the spot being thrust into a possible revelation. Or what of this attempt, the attempt being made to write a bit, just enough to complete the task, before I go to sleep, me here on my back on the edge of the bed tethered to the strings of the A500 listening to Anthem. We will wait for this to pass. There’s an immense pressure on me right now, and we feel it on my left shoulder & place where this external weight seems to fall & where I seem to carry it. Sounds. There’s nothing good here, not at this time. I might as well practice the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The sentence with all the letters in the alphabet. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. You can feel how dry this is. Is it possible to recover? Yes I think so. Let’s begin. A tall man walks into the room and waves hello at the guests before & underneath him. He is the owner of the establishment. And he wears a smile. He tips his hat, retains the smile, and walks toward the back room. Eyes do not follow where he goes. He goes alone. Nothing is followed. He simply just sees, only ahead. With long arms & delicate hands he turns the knob of a door & opens carefully not to expose too much of what is beyond. Again, no one watches him. They are focused, his guests, on the things going about: a bingo game, a television, some alcohol, a rocking chair or two. They’ve seen him come in before, many times, & all that was expected from each so it would seem is some cordiality between or among those inside. The rule was not spoken about, or even questioned: the backroom was for one man only through which to enter. There was no schedule. He showed or shows up sporadically. Sometimes in the morning sometimes at night, then he disappears into the room. And what if in the room God sat, & no rule ever existed that one man only could enter his chamber, it’s just that all the others were distracted with the things.
I have much to work on, and will give a higher best to grow into your fuller partner, one who fully trusts without exception, unshakeably, so convincingly. For sure, this is unfair (the difficulties) because you deserve ease for the best effort you’ve ever given, as you tell me, in the subjects of loyalty & honesty, as well as trust. I do believe we will come together into this ease, and not just then will it be beautiful, but we will see the whole process & journey of shared individual growth as such. We each bring to our table histories, and at this time, I have habits of self-preservation that no longer serve myself or our collective unit. There is no doubt, in my heart or mind, you are worth braving my own demons, and coming out the other end as a full partner. I love you tremendously, whatever it takes, I understand.