Open your eyes to a Utopian morning, no alarm, instead a songbird, dancing on the window sill. Feathers softly shake you halfway awake, to singing angels, to early sunlight, lost in whispers left over from dreams, trumpets as loud as clouds, violins like rainbows, a harp reflecting every heartbeat, voices without words, every breath a joy, all the beauty of the world. No one left out, no one forgotten. Even if you do not know it yet, someone is waiting for you.
Matters not if the bird is white or black, nor if the feathers are large or small. Doing the work of angels, they need only a sharp eye and long sight, a quick response! A musical voice. An intention to help. A companion along side of you, traveling the same path. A common goal. For the good of all.
What danger is overhead? What enemy is incoming? Who is approaching the horizon, too far away for you to see? Perhaps invisible. Evil intention.
How wide are the clouds? Filled with dark or light? What does the wind say? This way or that? Does the forest applaud or turn away? Walk softly. Watch which way the birds are facing. Which way do they fly? There is always danger, on every path, high or low, sunshine or shadow, slip or slide, fail or fly. Free will. Do what you will. Whatever you will. Every moment is a choice.
He never did show up, probably because he died back in 1992.
Yeah, I know…..
Anyway, we waited around most of the morning, drinking Cuban coffee, scribbling and sketching and scratching and screaming about the darkness of space and the emptiness of time, about the layers we are always moving through, in and out, like breathing, but always forward, never back. About worm holes and black holes, antimatter and eyes. About perception. Deep space and time travel. Expansion and entropy. About continuity, distortion, illusion and the impermanence of reality. We gave up around noon.
This is where we ended up.
No. Not really. It’s just something I do. I enjoy it. Maybe you will enjoy it, too. Have fun watching, if you can. If you can’t, tune in later. Things are bound to change.
Someday, perhaps, everyone will be doing this. Robots will be doing the work and artificial intelligence will be running everything else. What will we be doing? Enjoying beauty? A revival of art? Creative self expression? Is this our most human trait?
Into the wonderland, the underland, the underground, the psychic common ground, the collective unconscious, the dream land, channeling, stream of consciousness, fantasy or delirium. These are fairy lands in which I live.
Come, take my hand.
You will be Alice. We will go together.
We will dance on the edge of the cliff. Then, hold your breath.
We both know why. We both know the way.
Get ready. Set. Jump!
Why a leaf? Why not?
First, a leaf is not flat. Flat is not very natural. Flat is man made. In nature flat is the surface of a pond without a ripple of wind. Insubstantial, temporary. A flat stone perhaps but, heavy, unmoving, unchanging. The flat wall of a cave, in darkness and shadows, cut off from the light. But, a leaf glows. A leaf was alive and life is not flat. Life is three-dimensional. Two dimensions is an illusion. Life is full of angles, sides, contours and light. A fallen leaf has been full of life, has had experiences, dreams and emotions, thoughts and desires.
A fallen leaf is on the way out. It won’t be around for much longer, but then, who will? Is art meant to be permanent? Is it really about right now? Is it a longing for yesterday? Is it a longing for tomorrow? Is it a reminder to celebrate the continuity of the patterns and force fields of butterflies and flowers? You figure it out.
He was quite clear. “I don’t get it. It doesn’t do anything for me. I don’t see anything in it.”
“It’s too broken up. It’s too fractured.”
Have I become too obscure?
Don’t you see the door in the middle? You can open it and go in. Perhaps, if you go inside you will see the tree. You are already on the path. Here, turn around and let me show you.
Relax a little and slide into it. It is a Wonderland tree in an abstract landscape. I am very familiar with Wonderland. I’ve been there many times.
What do you see now?
How to look at an abstraction, anyway? What is the essence? What does it mean? Reality seen from a different perspective, substance striped away, only an impression left, one angle or another, no rules. A delightful place to play.
Maybe it needs a bird.
“One must have chaos within oneself, to give birth to a dancing star.” – Friedrich Nietzsche
The goats are dancing this morning,
With smiles and rectangular eyes.
No one seems to know why.
Least of all me.
The mist, not yet burned off by the sun,
Hangs pale and blue over the earth,
Caressing the tree’s roots,
And, the candy stripped mushrooms.
Fogs in the forest,
Ghost gray in the branches,
Kisses under the falling leaves.
This is not a surprise,
I was up before sunrise,
Under the faded moon.
Even then, before the stars closed their eyes,
The sky was the color of water,
And, catfish were laughing at their own whispers,
Jumping out of sinkholes,
Swimming in a river of stars.
“It took me four years to paint like Raphael but a lifetime to paint like a child.” – Pablo Picasso
Not there yet but getting closer.