It is the problem of the pounding of the surf.
Fear holds me
captive; like the Tarot card where she is bound and blind-folded, unseeing and scared, though all the swords are stuck, blade-first, in the ground.
It's not a question of personal safety, Monsieur. It's a lifelong problem with creativity that I have, she has. Monsieur, I split myself into a third person, a she. That is me. Or her. Does it matter?
If we deconstruct the subject-object construction, does it matter who swirls in the salt spray, its turbulences of disappearing foam?
Who says the invisible be rendered visible
through our perceptions?
I am the subject; and I cannot look upon myself lest I turn myself into statuesque art, lest I turn the Medusa touch on my seeing eye.
An unblinking gaze. The object of the subject is the subject. Only in the self-portrait does the ruin of the self break down. We are decomposing into text.
Into iconography.
Immortal.
Immortalizing ourselves in time: statues, broken rubble of stones amid the hissing of the broiling waves.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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Woman with Flowers 7.1
(7th sketch in series, first iteration of this one) Woman with Flowers Flowers, props upholding the woman. The flowers, fragrant, imaginar...
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The Buddha says: “ You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself .” The path is uncertain. Uncertainty is the guiding for...
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What if relationships are the primary ordering principle? What if the way relationships are ordered clarify, explain, and instruct us on th...
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"I hope you are all creating every day according to the inner map you were born with. I know it sometimes seems that map is written in ...
Looks like you haven't lost the inner poet
ReplyDeleteThis composition, as well as the former, deep into haunted places they reach~~deep into the Archetypes~deep into the mysterious soul where the seed of creation germinates and is held captive by the light and shadow~contemplating it's existence~
ReplyDeleteThere is a trembling in these works~that is the only word I can find to describe them. Something beneath the shimmering~something quite profound~something caught from the Fire in the Ether~The deep sadness of mortality coupled with the deeper sadness of immortality~perhaps
Blessings~
...there are these myths, of wet green fields where the ghosts pull their long buried swords from the ground, and ride down the mountains to create things anew. And there are stone statues representing those myths, but they were carved five hundred years past of soft stone and now they are often blank of face and blurry in concept, perhaps ready for us to paste our dreams onto...
ReplyDelete"Only in the self-portrait does the ruin of the self break down. We are decomposing into text." And so we tell stories that keep us just a bit removed, just a bit secure, just a bit in control...
Although i DO post pictures of myself once in a while on Xanga...in no mood to do so now...but here's one of them:
ReplyDeletehttp://x66.xanga.com/e6080616671303755545/m3511719.jpg
LIKE to keep a low profile on stuff like that...so don't mention it on Xanga...
EminemsRevenge, thanks, and wowsa. Don't look like you were born in 1920!
ReplyDeleteLaurieglynn, "The deep sadness of mortality coupled with the deeper sadness of immortality~perhaps"...wow. That blew me away.
Narrator, those myths, the wet green fields, the ghosts, the stone statues, the swords, that blew me away too. You leave poetry in response... that ignites.
Twoberry, it's all very curious, this creativity, isn't it. There are so many things we can say about the process, but it still escapes ready definition. We do grow through our 'works,' yes, I agree.
Thank you everyone for these thought-provoking comments; without your feedback, input, support, parallel
creativities, ah, how much harder it would be to write. Don't know where I'm going with this... possible title: "enTrapped WOR|l|DS"
Decomposing into immortality....
ReplyDeleteWonderful juxtaposition.