Saturday, September 12, 2009

The self is contained in its demeanor

I didn't like what I wrote, so didn't post daily as I thought I'd do, and didn't write more... But that's how it is. Writing emerges in the way it emerges. While we can shape it a bit, mostly we have to accept what is manifesting. Trust it. The artist stands aside to let the work emerge in its fullness. Are we guardians of the creative impulse? Gatekeepers. Filters. Beacons. That which flows through us, from our fingers, in our words, or the strings of our instruments, or the brushes we hold full with paint, through our heartminds. We struggle to give form to our visions, yes. It's work, yes. But we still have to stand aside to allow the shining.

What I wrote, which didn't please me:




Less is more. I forget this on the short ride in the elevator.

The self is contained in its demeanor.

The demeanor in the business suit in the high security corporate world in the role. It is professional, underplayed. Wealth glitters everywhere in diamond rings, Rolex watches, talk of trips, events. Hinted. Happily. Less is more; more is more; a code for what is secure, safe.


A way of sitting, like a bird on a branch, sleeping. Upright. Aware, awake, lucid dreaming.

Allowing strange logic. Deep inner mind unfolding dream image sequences.

Rushing past the moment catching up with us.

Faint etchings of the body on the back of the eyelids, like bird scratchings. Strange, thin stick things in suits.


In the park at lunch, a man shouting, furious anger. People placidly watching. His emotion rises like a maniacal tide in him and unfurls spitting salt on the other man, who stands before him.

And again, he is asked to re-do the scene.

The park, lunchtime strollers, people sitting, birds pecking crumbs from the ground, fountain spraying into the air, sun, the film crew at a distance, the camera like a voyeur, the actors alone on the path, a light held by someone, a reflector by another.

That emotion found in his depths, brought curling in fury to the surface and spitting out his mouth.

I don't know how he does it.

Willing it, summoning inner dreampower, the believing heartmind, imagination.

When we watch the movie, we will be suspended in the reality of the dangerous narrative filmed in the sunny gentle park.

3 comments:

  1. Anonymous12:48 PM

    Well I would have said, it seemed a little sketchy, the rhythm seems maybe odd, but to me you completely save it by conjuring the idea of somnambulistic dreaming. That's exactly what it feels like; you're caught in a waking dream...

    Tha place of the artist in all this? I suspect we're little more than observers. The process may occur or be modified somewhat in response to our belief in ourselves, but I think we are simply allowed somehow to experience ourselves as participating, when really the decision to do that is given to us, as well. It all "just happens" and "we" take credit. We can't help doing that, though. Heh!
    Unless we dig deeper, maybe. I can't help trying to do that, either.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Anonymous12:53 PM

    Also, I'm liking your "Bliss Queen" work in the sidebar there.

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  3. I agree with you, A.Decker... once you begin to paint, or write, or compose, it happens, almost by itself... so that, yes, "we are simply allowed somehow to experience ourselves as participating," and even that decision is given to us as well. I suppose what we most have to deal with is inertia, getting started, and that's a big one, and then 'marketing' (sharing, giving, presenting) one's work if one is inclined in that direction.

    But the flow from nothing to something that any kind of art production is, that's as magical as dreams, as unreal and as beautifully strange and exhilarating.

    Thanks for your response to the writing... it is sketchy, but necessarily so... I'm working full-time, have a contract position for half a year, up at 6am, home at 6pm, and no access to blogs or anything personal all day (other than my cell where at least I can read email), and so am perhaps beginning a series of jotted notes, lines and images stolen out of the day, written secretively, posted here publicly... :)

    Thanks on the Bliss Queen, too.

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A Pulsing Imagination - Ray Clews' Paintings

A video of some of my late brother Ray's paintings and poems I wrote for them. Direct link: https://youtu.be/V8iZyORoU9E ___