I am feeling fragile and frail. A thousand years old. A thousand ways to go. Temporary, transient, hesitant. A long way into life. Guided by the gods? Is that the way the wind blows? Who knows? I don’t know. No one knows. Nothing lasts. At the end of the day, where will we be?
Closer to transition and invisibility. How long? Who can say? But, today is golden, ripe for the taking. A bright sun polished landscape. The flavor of peaches. The impossibly blue sky impossibly far away. Clouds hover. Far away thoughts are thinking of singing. The forest is alive. Pollen, the forest of tomorrow, is everywhere. The coral seas are full of polyps. The goats are rubbing their horns against the trees and trying to fly. The garden is waking up. The azaleas are in full bloom. The moon is going to meet the sun tonight. Ice is still possible. Everyone is exaggerating. Everyone is seeking to expand. Everyone manifesting expectation of creation.
Art happens all the time but it is alive only in the moment of its creation. Afterwards it is static, unmoving, unchanging, stuck in its first moment until it is eventually unwound by time. Is it created for right now, only for today? For tomorrow? Forever? For posterity? For history? The expression of an age is never really understood in another time. Is art relevant only in this time line and this life time?
No, a leaf does not last long. Even if it becomes a memory of itself the memory only lasts one lifetime. The best it can become is a story, but even a legend is living beyond reality and is only a name. We come and go and I am feeling fragile and frail.
Who Goes There? Where? Where? Behind the mask. How could anyone dare? Does the mask conceal? Does the mask reveal? Does it deny or affirm what’s real? Accentuate, inflate? Exaggerate or denigrate? 50-50. All made up. Does anyone even care? This is America! America!! Land of the free and the fair. Here you can be whoever you want, Wear whatever you want to wear. Covered by costumes and make-up, Dread locks or wild flowers in your hair. One trillion lies on Facebook. Fake News is broadcast everywhere. Everyone is an actor. So, you might as well do it with flair.
Does anyone really know, Who anyone else really is?
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.
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?
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.
I have recently been involved in a serious discussion with the Frogs, who believe their mother is the night and their fathers are the constellations, regarding their considerations of the impossible versus the improbable. We do not agree.
My personal opinion is that surrealism lies outside of reality, absurdity lies within reality but outside of logic (such as the existence of mules or placebos) and insanity lies opposite to, or on the contradictory side of, reality.
The opinion of the Frogs is that everything is reality, absurdity is inevitable and is the natural outcome of total awareness due to the nature of quantum leaps, warps and worm holes, force fields, perceptions, connections, reincarnations, explanations and adaptations to the convoluted evolution of the expanding universe and insanity is the inevitable result of inventing too many words (such as incomprehensible, incongruous, irrational, irreconcilable, irresponsible, irrepressible, inconceivable, unbelievable, unpredictable, irregular, irrelevant, irreverent and nonsensical).
A thousand green leaves thick
Inviting Bach and song birds into its arms
Caterpillars bristling under the breezes
Purple lichen and spider’s laces
Dark blood Pluto
Stirring the truth in my bones
Leaves turning yellow
The blazing orange of autumn
Falling into the thick, black mud
Covering discarded twigs
Sheltering snakes and beetles
Waiting for the frost
Dancing on underground roots
Embracing enticing perfumes
And, the silhouette of a hawk
Etched into the clouds
Laughing at the afternoon moon
And, the arrival of winter