July 15 - Are there paintings in here?
What about paintings? I flip throughthe latest Art News mag, and anything goes, honey. The decades are rolling along, and my art gets to change. When to transform, when to let go. First works: fantasy lake sunsets and horses horses horses. Next: island romantic decline. Next: art school-chaos. Then: road paintings, the sweeping horizontal ones. Next: trippy visions. What happened to art? In Florida – dabbling and commercial. Ithaca, reawakening, then the tangle series emerges. Find that drawing of tangled trees the big things I did at Hillcrest and the Pandora drawings! Maybe time for them to re-emerge.
Painting: what’s that? Time to hurl color, cover canvases in a rage, and get the dancing figures going again. Get CF to pose. Find a place to clean rugs dammit.
Morning fog. Evening mist, cows and weed. Walking in the stoned night again, this time in my amazing new world, the deep and lush forests of southern Mary’s Land. There are some paintings right on top, that flooded mist meadow for with hint of moon, and posts looming like figures out of the gloom, and cows startled awake by us passing, and the trees all singing with moist light pulsing.
What is it to be stoned again – an old world once the real world, now a shifted one. What the purpose – I think toke and wander, although really the toke part c’nest pas necessaire. Foggy damp moist sticky morning.
Oh that river, that lovely river, we paddled out to a sand cliff, strewn with round rocks tumbled from all up the eastern coast, and I swam like an otter in grasses waving under water, and I felt like a god or a god’s child floating in bliss. The surge of the rivers pulse, the waving green fingers, the caress of the weeds, the silk of the water – to allow my body surrender to the sea, she touched me through the brackish bay and then the river and then the little river.
Tannic honey blond brown water spills from tepid creeks that ooze beneath their blankets green running with ancient firelight seeping from cedar veins. It's clear like a sienna glaze and the cinnamon colored dragon flies flit and flirt. The water changes as we go out, and the river’s breath mingles with the forest, and a coffee cream milkiness comes in, not quite occluding the underwater forests.
Strange diving geeze and swimming things appear shimmering. Darkness gathers on the top of the bay, a menacing soft cloud. I am so distractible it’s not funny. I don’t think the weed helps.
Morning pages what do you share with me? What would make this a good day? Some housework, some gym time, a dog walk. Sane food and work on WCA.
Leaving the central states for shallow grave. Home in the valley but the rents not saved. You said the urn's half full and I said it was half empty. With what was left of our fair city? From Death Cab’s architect. Call in the army corps of architects. To flatten the skyline and begin again. I knew the years would move quickly, but never quite as fast as this. So bring on the arguments or.
The wistful piano gets me every time.
A longer-term result will be the general destruction of the dust by the energetic starlight. The dust knows its reign has passed, but it still clings to a former form, still resonating with its once concretizing state. Its intent was to aggregate itself into a planetary body and whirl around the star, but the delicate balance exists between enough mass and too little to remain coherent. But now, the unraveling: the energetic starlight teases apart the wisps of structure, dissolving the body of dust in to threads of shimmering fluff with no hope of every coalescing into anything substantial.
Substantial. Substance. Form. Intent. Formulate gather coalesce.
Get moving.
Painting: what’s that? Time to hurl color, cover canvases in a rage, and get the dancing figures going again. Get CF to pose. Find a place to clean rugs dammit.
Morning fog. Evening mist, cows and weed. Walking in the stoned night again, this time in my amazing new world, the deep and lush forests of southern Mary’s Land. There are some paintings right on top, that flooded mist meadow for with hint of moon, and posts looming like figures out of the gloom, and cows startled awake by us passing, and the trees all singing with moist light pulsing.
What is it to be stoned again – an old world once the real world, now a shifted one. What the purpose – I think toke and wander, although really the toke part c’nest pas necessaire. Foggy damp moist sticky morning.
Oh that river, that lovely river, we paddled out to a sand cliff, strewn with round rocks tumbled from all up the eastern coast, and I swam like an otter in grasses waving under water, and I felt like a god or a god’s child floating in bliss. The surge of the rivers pulse, the waving green fingers, the caress of the weeds, the silk of the water – to allow my body surrender to the sea, she touched me through the brackish bay and then the river and then the little river.
Tannic honey blond brown water spills from tepid creeks that ooze beneath their blankets green running with ancient firelight seeping from cedar veins. It's clear like a sienna glaze and the cinnamon colored dragon flies flit and flirt. The water changes as we go out, and the river’s breath mingles with the forest, and a coffee cream milkiness comes in, not quite occluding the underwater forests.
Strange diving geeze and swimming things appear shimmering. Darkness gathers on the top of the bay, a menacing soft cloud. I am so distractible it’s not funny. I don’t think the weed helps.
Morning pages what do you share with me? What would make this a good day? Some housework, some gym time, a dog walk. Sane food and work on WCA.
Leaving the central states for shallow grave. Home in the valley but the rents not saved. You said the urn's half full and I said it was half empty. With what was left of our fair city? From Death Cab’s architect. Call in the army corps of architects. To flatten the skyline and begin again. I knew the years would move quickly, but never quite as fast as this. So bring on the arguments or.
The wistful piano gets me every time.
A longer-term result will be the general destruction of the dust by the energetic starlight. The dust knows its reign has passed, but it still clings to a former form, still resonating with its once concretizing state. Its intent was to aggregate itself into a planetary body and whirl around the star, but the delicate balance exists between enough mass and too little to remain coherent. But now, the unraveling: the energetic starlight teases apart the wisps of structure, dissolving the body of dust in to threads of shimmering fluff with no hope of every coalescing into anything substantial.
Substantial. Substance. Form. Intent. Formulate gather coalesce.
Get moving.
posted by Ven at 5:18 PM
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