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.'

Christmas

There is good in the hearts of men, much of our goodness goes unpublicised. We so readily hear, about all the bad in the world, from tyrannical governments, to murderers and general evil doings. There is good in the hearts of men. We are not always comfortable with expressing our love for them, to others, but we show love, and even to perfect strangers, we can show love. He shows you an act of love, as you ask for simple directions to somewhere that you wish to find, and not being content with informing you about how to get there, he may even take you there. He has shown love to you, a simple and honest expression of human love, that has asked for nothing in return. And Christmas is the time of year, I believe, when people have become less inhibited with their expressions of love. Christmas is a thing of natural human beauty, and we rejoice in it.

The Science in the Mystique of Art

The Science in the Mystique of Art.

The Joyful Onion Peeler

The joyful onion peeler, and dark love of infinite gaze. Memories of tomorrow, history is conquered, lost in its hollowness, defenceless at the dawn. Joy and sorrow merge as peace, turning to the day, and the sky, and the past has returned, to find its story confronted by an elongated present time, life and death sing the one song, mind has given way to feeling, and truth, awaits its rightful time.

Stillness

The ragged moneylender, is changed to a different fit, and the evening appeals in relative nakedness, to a temporal pursuit, curtains drawn against the recent, closure against an attempted conqueror, in the time of a barren stillness, yet he is still to the moment, without trepidation or dread. And all over the air, the phantoms present, and often there is nothing said, when the words have been spoken, in the reliance on emptiness, in a twitchy time of fear of a moment, and then suggestion of diversion, that will take and steal from time, and the barren stillness, will become the peaceful stillness, and the moment will be absorbed into the living stream, and other eyes will settle upon the peace and will be drawn, be drawn to the same stillness.