In this day and age, where information is abundant, misinformation reigns supreme. We are bombarded with all sorts of news and stories; some are fictitious yet they pass under the radars of our over active minds, others are plain nonsense but might seem amusing to some, if not for their harmful after-taste. But when we are given Truth we shun it and dismiss it as being mythology, or even as being passé, or worst yet we say it is "hard to believe", yet we beleive the most atrocious of lies when it suits us. We are creating a waking dream that is built on our self-destructive intentions, whether we realise it or not, we have all contributed to the situation we find ourselves in now. But don't believe me. I for one don't want half-truths and I don't want to hear this cacophony anymore. I, my friends have reached a mighty level of saturation and can bear no more. I don't beleive myself.
I would love to go somewhere where no man/woman has treaded; a place where there are no man-made noises, cars, radios or newspapers; a place where only God's creatures roam on all fours and where birds fly and waves crash. Somewhere where such "frequencies" cannot reach my mind, for somehow it needs to obey me, and in this mitote, my mind is simply overwhelmed. But Peace must be found within, wherever.. but can it when we are constantly bombarded with all sorts of energies?
I am fed up. Yes, my friends, I am. I don't want to hear a word uttered by egos let loose. I am as guilty as any. I don't want to hear or believe myself either. Don Miguel Ruiz's words ring true to me now more than ever, he said to know the truth one must follow three rules, "Don't believe me, don't believe yourself, and don't believe them." At this point in my life, it seems befitting to follow such rules. I have discovered many lies, many betrayals and many illusions. I am not to exclude myself from them. I am as guilty as you lot. We all have an ego, we all have wounds we need to cover and we all suffer as a result..lets get naked for once in our lives and let us look those wounds without embellishment or lies to make them bearable..let us stop suffering and start living.. let us stop "trying" to heal and start healing..let us just BE, whatever "being" means...easily said than done.. I know, but yes, don't believe me either.
Angel in the dark, Where are your dreams? You painted blue the meadows, You cried crimson the streams
Your heart was sorrow Your eyes were defeat Where are you Angel, why did you leave?
Angel in the tunnel, where were your beams? You left the whispers hollow Your tears wet with screams
The lights in the tunnel have been lit by your grace But the world did not follow the path you did trace
Angel, I'm sorrow, I'm grief and I'm frail, I left you to cold steal, on rails upon rail Angel I heard, I saw and was weak Angel I'm sorry I never did speak
Angel my sweet, that promise I keep Never will sorrow be left asleep Nor will a loved one fall in too deep My heart is a fountain for all to weep
The story of my first portrait-head is one of spirituality, contemplation, introspection and gratitude towards God.This was my final assignment in figure modeling, the one that would determine whether or not I had grasped the subject. I was petrified..I want to be a sculptor..my teacher told me I had what it takes, but was that enough to calm my doubts? My teacher was funny and sarcastic as well..he said: " relax, you don't have to do a masterpiece now, you'll do that later". And right he is, my portrait-head is still raw and naive..but it is the beginning of my journey... and I enjoyed every single moment working the clay.
I sat watching Antoine the model for hours.. his pictures hanged everywhere in my studio, top, bottom, profile, 3/4 views..His skull, I had to close my eyes and imagine feeling his skull with my hands..If he were in front of me I would have probably felt his face, his head, ears, neck, trying to decipher the language of bone and flesh to transmute the clay into what would then become the "portrait-head of Antoine". The work of an alchemist at this point seemed to be more approachable!I then drew Antoine from various angles..I felt like I knew him..He became familiar, friendly... old, wise, mysterious...I named him "The thinker"...then I thought: "revolutionary"!... Robespierre might have looked like him.. Antoine became a thinker, a revolutionary.. but the revolution was mine...I had to turn that mass of clay lying at the bottom of the bucket into a head, one which looked dignified, real, close.. I prayed..and I knew that the only way I could work this is to yield to God and Glorify Him/Her..
Antoine, the portrait-head is my way of glorifying God and thanking Him/Her.. my way of showing His/Her beauty in all of His/Her creations.. I hope to continue this journey, which is cleansing and replenishing to the soul.
You speak of freedom, that of religion, of peace and harmony.. What precision!.. And you mentioned pride! The men and the women side by side? Vive L'Equality! I must be blind!
Oh yes!
And the centuries of bravery, of science and great strides, of astronomy and chivalry, of love and of poetry.. Phenomenal was your drive!
I beg your pardon one more time, may I correct you? (What a crime).
A civilisation you once had.. But, are your women ripe, might I add?
Yes!
That is the question I pose to all you gilded knives, would you prefer a cutlet of lamb or that of your succulent wives? Of mothers and sisters, of daughters and blisters.. a piece from here, another there.. Scattered is her might but why should you care?
Yes!
You! You over there, you wondrous steeds, you chivalrous men of good breed, you are more than that, indeed. Indeed, you're everywhere in Arabia.
Perhaps you'd prefer her sizzling? On a bed of fire, frizzling? Under sheets of humility, spread with no dignity, she'd lie under your blazing light? Awaiting your sheer delight! A glimpse of your paradise? You gallant men backed by history, Arabian steeds of predictability, are you glad of her demise?
Or did your wheel come to a sudden halt? Before you managed to add the salt .. Cardamom, cumin, love and spice? What ever happened to all that nice? Some Rice?
How sad .. and how sour she must have tasted to you that night she dared to waste it for you, too bad .. In fact a factory would suit her best! What say you? For she'd lay a thousand and one eggs, then rest.. Till her chicks grow legs, and time to her begs.. to leave.. Your side order?
Oh yes!
The main course! Time for some ribs, perhaps under another's hips? I think fresh meat would suit your Highness, much better than that old one's kindness.. Hooray! Shall I replace that dish for you? Right away! Perhaps some white fish.. You say?
The feast did suit your palate I trust? Another might satisfy your lust? You must! But I fear for a week or so it shall last, not more .. Her crust might grow, thin? Quick another chin! You win? For how long? And how low must you go?
Your beard still as black.. I say your blade lay it back.. somehow .. and think.
Youre too late, too weak, look your steak has feet!.. Women (no longer yours) are ripe indeed, for the time has come for her to lead.. Her life as she wills, her dreams not of your whims.. Surviving the cruelest schemes, she seems.. Still radiant.. Still veiled in beams.
So, sit back and enjoy the cigar, while you're nearly not as far .. As the flame that still burns her scars .. Centuries of shame, and pride is the least to blame.. You still owe her a thousand and one stars. But she asks of none, she begs not one.. She peels and heals and gracefully breathes, same air, same heat.. same victory and defeat.. Yet, you still fear?
Courage held her hand, and so must you understand (If you can), that she paved the way for the sun to lay in the palm of her rising hand.
Slide the pen, come, watch me move inside you.. in circles if you twist your will, with a shrill, break a vow and promise to run my ink dry.. over your eye..I.. Slept.. in a word, in that corner.. there beside your lip.. the tear on your right cheek, the pain relieved from its limbs..I..Speak .. in your left sigh... that is I.. But Ay.. you drew your pen near, closer to your thigh..drank the water from my spring, wiped the sheets across my smile..I.. Am the pulse above and below, the heart that overflows..while you sleep on silk drunken steel, I drew ink from my fear.. the illusion of a you and an I.. No longer ..I..swept away, the ink, washed away, the link.. the flame away from its torch..I did blow.. and all that remains.. like water I came and like wind.. I.. Shall go..
My art is meaningless.. I speak from ignorance to the ignorant.. I paint from emptiness to reach nothingness. Do not try to read into it, do not even attempt to analyse it.. Free it.
My art is fruitless.. aimlessly lines draw yet another batch of lines, like dry leaves falling unto hollow grounds.. suspended over a virgin canvas, they lay soundless, motionless, waiting not for peace.
Do not try to pick the blossoms.. a blind gardener offers not his symphonies while in the bloom, his music is but a string of fragrant notes which lend a heart to deaf ears..a Chinese adage it is not, the I-Ching has not yet revealed.
My art exists only to cease existing.. do not think at it, erase it, then think from within .. it ..dare not venture along this path to non-existence, the road you will not chose is the most oblique. And when you ask the Sufis .. it .. will not concede.
Absurd as my words may seam.. they are crudely just sown. I have nothing to offer, nor do I know how to receive.. I do not even own my powers..the power to speak.
I lay my pen on shameless naked paper.. a sigh.. I then watch my lines undress your frail lines.. I lie.. moving into my caresses with a brush dipped in ink, I etch their confessions on your paler than pale skin.. I think..then turning them over, or over them I turn into raw linen, into smouldering straw .. I burn.. stretching them on slabs of wood..they stand.. they stood, leaving their imprint en relief, they moan cruel release, they ach sweet arrest..words of words..just words they are..and how swiftly they blend to become one with the wind.. and so gracefully I decline, and blow them your way, no rhythm do they carry nor tempo or rhyme.
Just Turn your backs and hurry, the blizzard may steal away your prime along with the memories that had once filled you with eyes.. I wonder how with those two the truth still manages to turn blind.. and how is it that they speak of a third when one is all I have.. I plead with you, Flee! and just stay with me.. Here, in this ignorance, here inside me.. and the bliss of its embrace, dripping languorously on our foreheads, dripping languidly..
Finally it is dark again, and we no longer own the urge to see..in our forgetfulness we my friends are Free..
Dolphin nosthyrl, UPWARDS UP Cupid arrows a swift avalanche, towards delicate buds..
Rose of Smells, UPWARDS.. Bells and Hell's ring of joy, Relentlessly ringing Calls and Crawls of pure Sand.. and the Journey begins.. IT LANDS.. Nares thus Flare, the Aria commences.. Glares and Stares, the Septum Dares not Seperate them. THE DRAGON sleeps on a back OF STEEL While FIRE falls To GRACE those pores. Flagrant as it may seem, my stream runs through HYMN
I bore the tides, the moon my own the sun his home.. Gravitational attraction, I bore the tides and made them whole.. I came unequal, I came unborn, to find my freedom in another's soul.. Never to meet yet bearing delight, his sun, my moon in shades touch light..
With inner heat, my inner ear observes you Energy sweet, emerald green, I heard you Molecules unite, in their crazed delight, in dispersion Warm the atom, the leaves, the birds of trees by diversion Splitting my soul, I divide you Into me, into you we collide You are me, I am you we ignite Atom free WE no longer WE And I have ceased to be Existing internally Non-existent for eternity..
Where am I in all the sounds I hear? Who am I amongst them? "I don't care," a sound said from within the alcove.. resonating... rings growing wider as they reach towards the surface of my consciousness DISPERSING... I manage to capture ONE as a remembrance of the myriad notes living within me
Should I have worn them on my fingers? An oath? Taken solemnly to remain faithful to each and every one of them? Have I lost consciousness within that consciousness? That of each truth, the certitude of each voice within that voice. Who am I, and where do I go?
"I don't care," it said once more..
And once more I say:
"Who are you and in which cavern are you hiding? Why do you emerge just while the soul tries to hover beyond your stalactites?" With each birth a frozen arrow springs and a stem breaks while its flower fades. In this fountain of doubt, I quench the thirst of ages gone dry, of paths destroyed by voices un-dead.
I ask once more...
when will their existence flee mine? are we one? the same? or are we...
As far as my eye is to Altair, shining bright, summer in nights and still it remains a silver dot in a sea of skies.
