Cross My Heart and Hope to Write


Sunday, July 22, 2012

All The Others and All The Rest

I like to think that whenever an artist of any genre of expression is creating something, they are channeling all the artists that have come before them - all the way back to the cave painters of antiquity - as if they were all connected to some grand metaphysical internet. In all my interactions with people who identify themselves as artists, there is this nirvanic connection they have to their work that they speak of it as if it were far deeper and broader than themselves. It is hard to answer the question, "Why do you express?", "Why do you create?", which begs the question, "Why is it so hard?"
Then I think about all the artists that have ever existed; all the wayward expressionists scattered across history. The number of artists surely outweigh the names. Of course, there is Da Vinci, Bernini, Beethoven, Dali, Chihuly, and so forth, but what of those other artists whose names we do not know? The men and women who built things out of sand, hand rolled beads, and sticks, while their tribe looked on in wonder; the forgotten Florentines, the misplaced Mesoamericans, the disregarded Druids, the inconsequential Inuits, and the jipped Gypsies. Think of the incalculable artists who have lived for the sake of creating and died for the sake of the same endeavor.
I like to think they are all immortalized in each and every one of us who continues to build and create; to envision and embody; that that endeavor is reincarnated into the next generation; and that the same vex that has plagued artists since the dawn of creation persists as an itch we each cannot help but scratch.
Then I begin to wonder
About myself...              

All The Others

They were lost to history
The faces we tore from cities and towns
The names we peeled away from records
Hearts that were never heard
Think of all the geniuses and visionaries that never made it
Into history books
How many do you suppose existed that no one can recall?
That nothing can?
Can you imagine all the writers
And musicians
That excelled
But never were regarded
With affinity
Think of all the Einsteins who thought before the calculations
Surely there were others who pondered such things
Don't you think?
Its seems reasonable
Entirely possible
Though I'll never know their names
Where they came from
Who they were
I recognize
And can't deny
Their influence on me
On all of us!
They haven't fallen away
I will resurrect them
I will immortalize them
I promise

All The Rest

And what of after me?
Will I be recalled?
Will I be overgrown
And amorphous?
Just as well!
In the hearts and minds of the artists to come
Will I be understood
Or cast asunder,
Like the stones that tamper me here
Will I be there
Or shunned to the stars?
Will the temples that swell
Conjure my work
Or will the art of word be lost?
The day that expression dies
Is the day I wish
To never be remembered

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Purple Clouds

For millennia, mankind has stared up at the sky and pondered our own individual existence. Each of us has sat in a swoon and watched the sun rise or fall, in awe of the kolidascopic colors as they permeate the lolloping clouds. What exactly is it about the disappearance or reappearance of the sun that captures our fascination? Is it the keen awareness that sunset signifies the end of another day, another day in our short lives? Is it the hope that the rising of the sun will give us the opportunity to start again? Perhaps it is merely the colors. We have always been so sensitive to the changing weather. Snow has its sadness, rain its gloom, clear skies its hypnosis, and fog its horror. The weather has long dictated our life, such that in many ways we have been slaves to it.
I imagine, centuries ago, primitive humans were captivated by these very same sights, mulling over their memories, experiences, fears, and so forth, seeking to divulge the nature of their own illusive existence as they watched the light scatter at sunset and felt the rain splash against their cheeks, just as I have. It is one of the binding experience we possess as humans: The ability to look backward, forward, and to be aware of this moment; to realize that there is something more than just ourselves.

Though we may never be able to escape ourselves.

Purple Clouds
Childhood memories
Have come back to make me cringe
Are we to fear that which we have evolved from?
I look to the sky
To try and find a better tomorrow
Yesterday is long dead
And today is an enigma
Violent violet velvet
Draped and slain
Smeared across the dire sky
The blues of dusk can slow the eyes
And vandalize the breath
The light of dawn brings with it the quagmire of aleatory
Night is just the median in which we try to close in
Regret can be a lasting scar
Can we never forget that which we wish to?
Tears can be wrenched by even the simplest of dues
Why do people get so sad when it rains?
Do all those forgotten memories ascend into the clouds?
And when they get too filled with things that have been lost and let go
Must they let them loose?
Are there angels crying by heaven's maw
Or am I simply plagued and plunged at my atrium's pew?