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
Artists
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
Plausible
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
Overwritten
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
Now
Later?
Then?
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?
Unfathomable!
The day that expression dies
Is the day I wish
To never be remembered

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?

Yellow (or An Old Man And His Kite)

There are moments in our life when we are struck with a pristine moment of awareness - where we are suddenly taken out of our comfortable confines and deposited someplace strange and all together curious. Some call this an epiphany; artists might call it inspiration. Anything can evoke it: A sight, a sound, a scent. What often follows is a realization. Knowledge is acquired in an instant that seems far deeper than can be instilled by years of disciplined study.

     I walked across the hot asphalt of Field 8, a parking lot adjacent to one of Fire Island's many beaches, making my way toward the ocean. I had seen the kites soaring over head as I drove up, but as I returned from walking to the lighthouse with a friend, I found only one lone kite remained: A bumblebee. The man flying the kite was an elderly man, quite old to be out on the blustery beach alone. He stared up in amazement at the fluttering kite, reveling in its mischief.
     I suddenly became aware of that moment, aware of the joy with which he must have traveled, anxious to watch the kite thrust airborne. I imagined him hobbling into a local hobby store, perhaps a regular, purchasing the crisp, new, polyester kite, anxious to tether it into the air. From a mere glance, a peaked interest that burst into a vivid revelation, I gained a deeper understanding of myself and my connection to the world. I became aware of his fascination, his appreciation, and his general sense of wonder as he stared up at the dipping kite.
     And in the same instant, I became aware of our relation to each other. Our shared humanity. The quaintness of the scene made me appreciate the day so much more, bringing into perspective the beauty of the waves, the placidity of the sand, and the uniqueness of the people around me. My third-person observance of this man's personal relationship with flight made me savor my existence so much more.

Search always for those moments which attest to your gift of humanity. They are all around you.

Yellow (or An Old Man And His Kite) 

The trunk of the Buick

Parked

In the handicap space

Is ajar,

Not far from the crashing surf

Of Fire Island.

A man sits,

Cane within reach,

Nestled in the space between

Oilcan

And tire jack.

Gripped in his aged hands is a fishing pole:

Makeshift,

With a majority of its length cut away;

Electrical tape scores the grip.

Attached to the line is a kite

That soars high above his head.

A little yellow kite,

In the shape of a bumblebee,

Dips and croons in the blustery air,

Drawing his drooping gaze skyward,

His jaw slackened

In awe of the majestic feat.

This last fascination

Compels him

To drive

When the wind is just right

To cast his life-savings

Into the sky

He channels Da Vinci’s preoccupation

Without the ambition of the Wrights,

Baiting the world’s breath with his kite,

Though he never catches anything

But a deeper fascination. 

UPDATE: Death By Active Movement, A Place So Dark And Cold, and Self Portrait

    When I was 11-years-old, I envisioned someday having a band. The name of that band would be "Death By Active Movement" (D.B.A.M.), which some of my friends at the time pronounced "Da-Bam!" The idea was that we are continuously dying in every moment (perhaps this has something to do with my future fascination with death...). I began a project of working on songs for the first two albums of said imaginary future band, the first being called "Images Withdrawn From Blindness" and the second "A Portrait's Depiction Of Nothing". In hindsight, I realize the silliness of such aspirations, but, hey! I'm a silly guy!
    As I was oft to do in my childhood, I began to idolize the concept of D.B.A.M., eventually growing it into an entire mythos, chronicled on a now defunct webpage (which I have spent many Google romps attempting to rediscover). The webpage included a rather lengthy story - about a post-apocalyptic super-computer that powered an army of mechanical harvesters that gathered wandering herds of surviving humans and used them as fuel, while a very special little girl attempted to infiltrate and destroy the computer, thus regaining humanity (how this was at all connected to the concept of the name is beyond me) - covering the various characters, locations, and symbols (oh, those symbols of mine!) of the story. The exact details about the story are lost to me now, but I remember something about a card game (from which the symbol for this blog likely originated from), the "national color" being black or red, and the "national symbol" being an eight-ball. Man, I was a weird child!
    Though this band idea never really died out (I am currently working with some friends to make it a reality) and took on several other forms (as will likely be included here in a later post), some other things were birthed from its mythos, such as the mural I've included a few pictures of below. I apparently drew it on the wall in pencil behind my bed around the same time. I completely forgot about it until I found it behind my dresser while reorganizing my bedroom not too long ago. I've also included two "singles" from the two albums I thought up for the band, "A Place So Dark And Cold" from the first album and "Self Portrait" from the second. I hope you enjoy the lyrics. Maybe one day they actually will become singles... but I won't keep my fingers crossed.  

The mural is meant to look like a hole has been broken in the wall, revealing a little girl in a pink dress and bow standing on a ledge with her back turned to us. Her teddybear lies at her side. Scattered around her is a thorn bush, a pile of disemboweled books, and a huge block of melting ice. In the sky is a blazing eye where the sun is supposed to be.

A Place So Dark And Cold

As the inhabitants of this

Faceless existence

Wander aimlessly down darkened paths

I can't help but wonder if I'm really here

Or are these demons inside me just showing their wrath

Are they blinding my eyes from

The truth and despair

Or are they merely protecting me from

All the things that are evil

And ugly

And shameful

And all the things that have yet to come

Oh woah, oh woah, oh woah!

Why!

Why can't I deny you?

Why can't I define you?

Why!

Why can't I deceive you?

Why can't I please you?

(CHORUS)

My hunger for a place that is mine

(Place that is mine)

Is killing me slowly

It's awfully lonely

Inside!

My chest it is dark and its hollow

It's getting harder to swallow

Help me!

I think I'm starting to suffer

Heading for somber

How long?

How long until the poison has

Entered my veins,

Ending my pain?

As I walk on in this

Faithless illusion

I'm forced to admit to the fact that I'm gone

My life, it is over

I'm finally sober

I cannot deny

That the demons have won

Oh woah, oh woah, oh woah!

Why!

Why can't I deny you?

Why can't I defy you?

Why!

Why can't I receive you?

Why can't I please you?

(CHORUS)

It's ending my pain (x3)

The blood in my veins

The thoughts in my brain

Leaving dark stains

They bludgeon

They maim

Why?

(CHORUS)

Self Portrait

This is my self portrait

(Painting my life and self)

I'm not worth it

(My face trapped within pastels)

I deserve this

(The words that pour from my mouth)

They're not worthy

Of virgin ears

I just let them fall out

I see these faces

Can I erase them?

I'm going to have to

Paint them all away, paint them all away!

I see my faintness

May I disgrace it?

I'm going to have to

Paint it all away!

What is the point of me?

(CHORUS)

Seeing all of my dreams drift apart

Killing all that I used to love

Wanting all of this pain to depart

I'm painting a portrait

Of my broken heart!

This is my disservice

(Hurting all that is in me)

I don't deserve it

(Blinding all that I see)

Abandoning the purpose

(This shit brings me to my knees)

I will dismiss

From this life

Please, God, save me!

I see the places

Can I replace them?

I'm going to have to

Paint them all away, paint them all away!

I see defacement

Inside the quaintness

I'm going to have to

Paint it all away!

What died inside of me?

(CHORUS)

This broken heart

(Beats inside my chest!)

This broken heart

(The pain within will infest!)

My broken heart

Screams with the sounds of all the things I've lost

Inside of me

All the things I cannot see!

(CHORUS)

My broken heart... (Fades)

UPDATE

I have chosen Death By Active Movement as the official title of my first book. You can order your copy by following the link above.

Art and Paperclips Are For Bending

So, it has been some time since I included some art on the blog. Thus, I thought it pertinent to do so. Once again, you will notice the continuous use of the heart symbol mentioned elsewhere. Let me know your thoughts on these in the comments section:


Here is a rather primitive version of the polygonal heart symbol I use often. It is distorted as if swollen with "LOVE" within.

 

Here we have a more classic version of the symbol, rigged up with tubes and devices that make it seem like some kind of machine. Below, we have a detail of the sketch.

Again, the heart symbol here appears with a bullet home in the center and a smattering of blood that makes it seem like it were pinned to the wall. 

We have here two praying hands held together with nails, sutures, pins, and stitches. It meant to draw criticism to the "obligation" of prayer, as it we have no choice. (I must admit, however, my fondness of prayer). 

 
I have several versions of this figure, which I will most certainly include in the future. This was the first version I drew. They are very emaciated in appearance and evoke various "senses". This one rings of sadness.

 
Here we have a withered tree with the last of its fruit expunged, laying in a pool of blood at its foot with a drip suspended in air. This piece is unique because I usually do not sketch in pen (due to my many mistakes), but this one came out wonderfully. Above, we have a close up of the apple.



This is an example of my more surreal pieces. We have a ball of yarn shining like the sun with an unravelled string hanging down and forming a noose. In the center of the noose is a tear drop, with the paradoxical words "HeeD The Silence" labeling the piece.

Here, the peace sign has grown to include three protruding blades, each stained with blood. It meant to evoke the fact that many have fought and died for the attainment of peace, a rather silly fact if you ask me.

To conclude this blog post, I've added a rather old poem of mine, "Paperclips Are For Bending". As with many of my pieces, the title does not fit the poem itself. Once more, the style resembles a run-on sentence, moving from one though to another. I hope you have enjoyed the post, and please feel free to send me an email or leave a comment with your thoughts.


Paperclips Are For Bending

Crush the chalk between your hands, 

So you can trace the accident

Confound 

Confined 

Profoundly blind 

Is that all you wish to see?

All is beyond your comprehension 

Am I too much for your soul's discretion? 

Let me take the fall

Crayons on the wall 

For these balls have been broken 

And its time I bent these bones

The bars are breaking

And I let it go

Wigs for the wearing 

Pigs for the caring 

Bread for the sharing of poisoned mead

Bred?

Dead from Death's commitment 

For the one to shape the sides of this barrel 

Shoot off a round in my direction 

So I can catch some sight of death

Evade the breath

Invade the breasts for hibernating 

Call to me

Call me out 

Take me down

Or drag me around 

Ribbons choke the childish throat 

A goat who milked its soul dry 

Pry, try 

I beg for you to lie 

Disregard the only thing I have left 

Martyr 

Charter a cart for the cancer 

Or a fart for the zephyr 

Heftier, for the better 

Butter me up

Schism

Prism built from the fission

Make clearer this vision

I can't seem to reveal 

Feel you floating farther 

Further from the one thing left that's real

Intact 

Distract 

refract the light that's growing dimmer in me

Glimmer

This seed

Feed or bleed

Is blood the love I longed for

Or need?

Want in me

Woe

One for the lost 

One for the lonesome, too

The last is for what I love 

And that one isn't you

True

I felt some sorrow

But I borrowed it from the truth 

Cruel

Cruel for the cold relief 

A relic left on the wall of my mind

Set there by a hand 

A hand I kissed, but never will again

Death

The solemn vow 

The crusted crown I don for you

And no one else 

Why?

I try to answer

But Death's sight caught the bullet for me 

Because I shaped the barrel 

Bent the corners inward

All for you

Go on

Rub the chalk around your linger tips 

And trace the line around my body 

Around where I fell

For you 

Oh, and one more thing: I have recently taken up a new project. Some of you may have heard of diptics or tryptics, two or three pieces of art or photographs meant to be viewed together. Well, this is a similar notion, something I'm calling a "Sextic". It consists of six painting that can be viewed separately as individual pieces, each uniquely designed. However, when brought together and arranged precisely, they form a whole image. I have included a preview of the project (which should take a significant amount of time) below. I hope you're all as excited as I am.     

Haiku and Senryu

I have officially updated "The Hearts Series" with some new photos, some of which come courtesy of some friends (I'm loving the enthusiasm). Which got me to thinking... maybe this can become a joint effort between myself and others. So, consider this an invitation: If you stumble upon any heart images in your wayward travels, feel free to send them to me at Licardist@gmail.com with your name (first name or moniker), age, region, and a little bit about the photo. I can't wait to see what you guys have for me! I will place your photos here, on the blog, as well as on the Facebook page. Don't hesitate to send me anything you feel is heart-esque.

Anyway, I was recently made aware of a contest being hosted by yet another local poetry organization. The Performance Poets Association is currently hosting their third annual haiku contest for residents of Long Island and Queens. Though haikus are not something I wrote often, a group of friends and I have been carrying on a haiku battle for just about a year now, so this contest comes as sort of an omen. I like the simplicity of haiku, (which generally refers to short poems of seventeen syllables about nature) though mine usually take the form of senryu (which is generally used to refer to those about human nature). Considering most of the images in "The Hearts Series" are of natural phenomena, and to commemorate this contest, I have included a few of my haikus and senryus below. Let me know what you think of them and maybe I'll draft you for the haiku battle. Enjoy!

Dry, empty cocoon

lies withered on the concrete:

New life is naked. 

Running water coos,

Like the child in my arms.

I hold him under. 

A glossy seashell

washes up on the shoreline:   

An abandoned house.

I probe the hole with

my finger; cold crimson walls.

The gun is still warm.

He slid his gentle 


finger across her lips, "Please,


Don't say, 'I love you.'"

Tear rolls down my cheek.

Dry eye blinks, quite perplexed.

Rain from skies above. 

Love will set you free,

if you believe in yourself


and the love you have.

Smooth, sexual skin,

perfect, erotic, a tease:

God damn I look good!

She wanted something


beautiful for Christmas:


She got a mirror.

The Nature of a Promise

Well, well, well, it has been a while, hasn't it? Believe me, I have not neglected this precious medium of expression intentionally, oh no. Merely distracted.

Irregardless, I am here to post yet another entry. What will it be this time, you wonder: A poem, a photograph, perhaps a piece of art? No. Today I have but a blog entry and nothing more, not unlike the usual ones sweeping the interwebs. However, I believe it is a unique entry, for it concerns something dear and important in my eyes. 

What is the nature of a promise?

We all make them; little ones, big ones, silly ones, crazy ones. Some make more than others. They're common place, really. Yet, I rarely think we stop to consider the severity of such assertions. I think every common man or woman would attest to the existence of a certain twinge or pang at the utterance of a promise on their part. Of course, there are exceptions, but most recognize when they make a promise to someone, a certain degree of obligation and fettering comes standard with it. There is a tyranny to the promise.
When we promise to do or not do something, we are aware that we must, regardless of want, fear, or exception, abide by the conditions of that promise. If I say to you, "I promise to complete this blog entry," I am making a general assertion to fulfill the obligations set down by the promise, namely to complete this blog entry. I can make this promise with confidence because I am certain that I can complete this blog entry. That is the important thing about promises: They should be made only if they can be fulfilled. We can never assert with absolute certainly that we will or will not do something - I cannot know for certain that Blogspot will be shut down, the Internet will fail, or I may die a horrific death before the completion of this blog entry - but we can know if it is within our power to do or not do something before it is promised. I will not promise to literally place the world in a box (though perhaps metaphorically, if the metaphor is agreed upon or explained and understood by the parties involved) because it is not within my power to do so, though I certainly can make that promise.
Here too is another curious facet of promises: They can be made even if the obligations they put forth are impossible to meet. This is the treacherous business of promise making, for we cannot foresee the events that will unfold after it is made. I ask, which is a greater gamble? To make a promise that at the time of its utterance can be kept, but over the course of time is prevented from being fulfilled due to uncontrollable circumstances? Or to make a promise that at the time of its utterance can not be kept, but is allowed to be fulfilled over the course of time due to uncontrollable circumstances? Certainly, one can access their power before the promise is uttered simply by evaluating whether or not the promise is within one's ability. Only a fool would make a promise beyond his power, and fools certainly do. My challenge to you, than, is to decide for yourself, to stop, and sincerely consider before you make a promise, whether or not you can fulfill that promise.
Now this relationship between being able to make promises we can't keep and being certain we can keep a promise before making one seems kind of contradictory. Some might think, if I can make a promise so readily, why should I concern myself so pensively with the severity of a promise? If you consider the cultural representation of promises, there are dire consequences for their breaking when used in media and entertainment, as plot points in stories and screenplays. Ideally, culture places high stakes on promises, though they seem rather ambivalent. I have only used the example thus far of general promises; promises of the "I will or will not" kind. Promises of this kind place their burden solely on the one making the promise - whether or not they do (or can), the consequences fall on them. Unless of course one promises to do or not do unto another person something, whereupon they take the form of "I will or will not X unto Y". In such cases, fulfillment of the promise may impart onto the person (Y) the promise is focused its consequences, while unfulfilling has little to no affect. The exception to this would be if the person unto whom the promise is focused (Y) is concerned with the outcome of the promise. This, however, rests solely on the person (Y) and their indifference likewise does not affect the one making the promise.
Still, there is another form of the promise that is perhaps the most severe. Promises of the "I promise you (A) I will or will not X" are particularly important. In such cases, the fulfillment or unfulfillment of the promise affects both parties (I and A), though not necessarily equally. If one is more invested in a particular outcome of the promise (say, A), this one may be particularly damaged upon its completion or incompletion. That is the risk one takes upon making a promise of this kind, and why it is so important to recognize if it is within one's power to fulfill that promise. If you make a promise, recognize that you must keep it, and if you cannot, make it clear that it cannot be completed in the clearest way possible. If a promise is made to someone and is broken, the severity of that injustice may be multiplied inconceivably for the other party. Promises are not things that can be tossed around - they are absolute.
Then there is the issue of adding the terms "never" or "always" to the promise. Promises of always or never are incredibly dangerous and should be made minimally, for many promises of always are never cannot be fulfilled. To say, "I promise to always breath" is a promise that cannot be fulfilled, because we will all do and cease to breath. (The stipulation may be added, "I promise to always breath while I am alive" and is, however, one that can be fulfilled, but notice the clarity; ambiguity in promises is also a dangerous endeavor). Likewise, to say, "I will never make another mistake" is impossible to keep, because we all inevitably make mistakes. Again, clarity in the promise is crucial.  
Lastly, I believe there is one particular promise that reigns above all others: The promise of love. I believe society tends to categorize promises into vows and oaths, themselves perceived perhaps more severe than the promise. And yet, they themselves are promises, and therefore seem collapsible into the over-arching notion of a promise. Therefore, all promises are sacred, and none more sacred than the promise of love. Those that take the form, "I will always love you" or "I promise you, I will always love you" are supremely sacred, and should not be uttered unless one is absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, of its fulfillment. It is one of the few promises that can be kept without exception, beyond death, and therefore should be considered extra sensitively in regards to one's power to fulfill them.

Can you love someone forever, beyond time or circumstance, into infinity?                  

Think hardly on this.