Paris 13 November 2015

I got up early this morning, got the news and thought: 'this world is a sick piece of crap.' And I was thinking that the people who chose perpretrate this incredible evil and barbarity, might have similarities with the likes of me, when it comes down to it. I have read the Q'uran too, and I'm sure if I had ever met any of these people, there would have to have been some common ground at some point. This world is sick, and I am sick to the stomach. My God is the one of collective consciousness, and therefore, there must be collective responsibility, there is a big round picture of humanity, it can be beautiful and it can be kind and pure, and it can be supremely evil, as we all saw last evening. So I feel a certain shame, and I am near certain, that the negative can turn to positive. It is all down to us, we rule the earth, it is our domain, and we must give our love to it, and its people. Some of us have to be kept in check, when out of control. From unity, there becomes diversion, and in diversion, there is everything that the human imagination can dream. My dream is love, and no acts of hatred are going to kill it, in any way.

The Quest

Midday angel, and the Mexican lady, swarming like a love, and then lost like a rainstorm in summer, and tomorrow, and the dream of it, imagining, and aligning the self with its possibility, and money makers, and those on the edge or distraction, and this place that isn't home, and home searching on its way, to me, and I, here I am looking for the place within all of these relationships, and I sidle and sometimes, I would rather close eyes to avoid confrontation, but there is confrontation anyway, it never seems to want to stay at peace with itself, and yesterday, turns into today, without change, with difference in the sky, and feelings, perhaps accordingly, and a Chinese lady, given me less than her soul, and I fight with the warmth, heading for the outskirts of love, and then there is the corner, the place that one is driven to, and the rain, and the shape of the day, and the quest, and wondering why.

Life is a Fantasy

Life is a fantasy, the end is the beginning, and the beginning has no end, and the end, is a question mark, asking of you, 'where is it that you wish to go?' 'Do you wish to proceed?' The light of the eyes, determines the answers, words play no part, they have been always, only words anyway, vastly overrated by vanity, and vanity, is a selfish mirror, a false comfort, a deception. Truth looks, only to itself for answers, and it answers only to itself.

Love

You and I, Journey on paths of the personal, wishing not to be lost in selfishness, with an eye on togetherness, and we work toward the point of the battle of compromise, you from your side, and I from mine, and we search for love, from our lonely points of difference, and the need for embrace and acceptance, seems to come before, the need for projection and acceptance of the other, and then love really isn't love, even when we say 'I love you' and in the heart the truth lies, waiting to be faced, accepted, love, sure is a difficult thing, seems to me, like you have to lose yourself in the life of somebody else, seems to me like you have to refuse yourself, unless you care to lie that you love, but then, the heart will inform you of your truth, if you hadn't cared or dared to try to reach there before, so then, when you love, you really must love, with the purity of honesty of soul, love can only be truth, it doesn't deal in anything else, it is a difficult thing, a perfect thing, when we and our relationships are imperfect.

To Be an Artist

To be an Artist, you must not exist, have no self-opinion, look to the eyes of others, for the decisions of conclusion, remain invisible, lateral to life outside of the creation. To be an Artist, you create, and must move away and on. But to be an Artist, you must not exist. And if you are an Artist, then you must forget, and be with yourself in the moment of the creation. And to be an Artist, then, you must love, with the purest love, without mirrors, without applause, without acceptance, just a personal acceptance of love, and the art that you create. And you mustn't even call it 'art' it can only be something that 'just is' to you, you being the Artist. These are the secrets of the soul of Art, and then again, they are not.

Answers

History is gone, and all that is left is the present time, and it takes a certain kind of recklessness, and responsibility to be here right now. There are no shadows, nor eyes overlooking. The potential, is the silence within the moment. Fear must be waylaid. The silence seeks its requisite peace, There are no voices that can know the way to speak, and any way, they choose to only speak for themselves, and this is only what our voices can do for us. Sometimes the answer is in the distance, and sometimes, it confronts, Always, there are answers, but not conclusions or comforters. To any question, there are many answers, Perhaps the answer, lies in the question.

Moon

The stark moon in its fullness, firing its way into the nighttime, part of the clothing of the sky, and its a quiet fire, that he fires, and he fires in all of the world, calling on the tide, and calling on us to love, and driving us to our extremes and beyond. There is no escape, acceptance is vital, and then the day escapes, and it seems to believe that it has the power to be able to walk on its own, until darkness dims the day, and then the stark moon in all of its fullness, fires its way into the nighttime.

Beauty

Power of the beauty in the face of the lady, and another, with envy seeks competition, its a losing, winning battle, and valid, and somehow pleasing, And on Talbot Street, I saw her, and she gave me the quest for understanding, and outside of all of us, truth has to deal with beauty, and, you know, truth can be the greatest tyrant, and it lives on the side, and you could say that it is smug within itself, I'm sure that truth, really doesn't care. So one variety of plasticity confronts another, without looking to the eyes, without actually being alive, to the honesty of soul. And ultimately, I know that I am the one to blame, in my search for something, that in an off-moment I would care to call 'beauty.'