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—->
And so I return home, & am like, “I’m so sleepy,” like NOT EVEN BEFORE I’VE ENTERED MY HOME & STUDIO, my bed & my dream-killer, my place of nourishment, my place of depletion, my space of higher purpose, my place to be private & do private things, & though I don’t have a room of my own, & much space if any to be chaotic with mediums & supplies & ideas, & though the ideals are not being met in any shape or form above expectation, GOD HAS ALWAYS GIVEN ME AN ABUNDANCE OF EVERYTHING, & it is only through my human intelligence, that I imagine my room, & my time, & an improved discipline, & perhaps even more leisure and abundance, & other things more like “ideals,” & not to say the clouds are always stormy, or tornadoey, or hurricaney, or absent, because you & I know the clouds shift in form, in simultaneous shared time, & that sometimes our written or visual or spoken or demonstrated expression reveals to us our current, present form & we achieve the under-standing of our own existence, as we sometimes need to do, as you & at times go ahead & relax our eyes & cast them away, to eliminate the illusions, & we stop the music other’s lyrics, & we quiet down & power down, & we stop with the untangibles–the unrecordered voices, the unfilmed looks, the landfill destined napkin art–& we make permanent the things you & I know for some great purpose we know exists found, unfound, defound, profound, defound, befound, nonfound, refound, & that it’s like okay, it’s going to be okay, the colors don’t always have to have meaning, choices choices in the expression are made. The control of how they are recieved <- is in the moment of creation. It’s so easy; just do the best, abandon excess rest, fail every test, & perhaps head west, to the carving out of new beginnings on something as legitimate as a canvas, then maybe they will accept the–our–choice of non-edit, & only then a super deliberate act of throwing the canvas into the trash could be made, it then truly protected from everyone’s hands, including our own, to modify or destroy, or forget, truly then, “yes!” is or would our intention of tangible expression of simultaneous shared time be had, is had, at that time, at this time, on this day, on all of our future days. And there it is, the discovery of an evolution in medium, right before my eyes, your eyes, our I’s in this beautiful pursuit of the Present to reflect back on in the future for the purpose of expanding the then present through appreciation of art done with a growing master of intention unintentionally, so humanly, simultaneously, greatly weak & feebly strong, magnetically powerful & dutifully done, under the constraints given & the warnings & words of others as newness emerges from the rushing imbalance of our stories of the past, and it settles, & it rushes again twice thrice many times again the reinvention is had, the sacrifices are made, mostly of imagined ideals, peace is created and words begin to massage the neck of strained shoulders carrying a world’s weight without stable direction, & the words flow & flow, just like had promised they would, thousands & thousands, millions & visuals too & sound! All tangible, mostly, decreasing loss, and the map genuinely coming together, internally legitamizing itself, of a 44 network, just one so doomed & blessed to fall short of so much, to the hero who enters the lair & cares not, concerns himself not with the return of his slain dragon, if he slays it at all, which he will not, & in the darkness not one will see his print of foot in lit, full form, he having left to the simultaneous stay of increased abstraction, a wolf never truer than in the clothing of all these sheep. 1 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10–and this is not to say the count ever stops, it is to say there is a high willingness & ability for the form to adapt & change to make best use of the container or space given. It’s unpredictable. And prepared. The changing colors do not signify different times of entry–it & they are simultaneous. They & it & this is done at the very same time, in the exact moment of consciousness. This is why a prolific body of unedited art is so beautiful. & it’s also why the concept [& how] of UNIVERSI is made possible: to capture a skilled, lengthy, & fully transparent consciousness perhaps will or does reveal truth about everyone & everything.