harold_maude's journal

A voice from the corner of the room

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# 41506

...I'll stand in the wings and wait. That is something that I've been feeling this morning alot.
Playing spider solitare and trying to win at least one game.
A wake up ritual to get my brain functioning.

Last night I actually got to work for a while in peace. Which was something that was wonderful. Something I haven't
had in so long.
The need to do art and then having any time inturpeted by constant requests for this or that has made the time
I do get very limited.
There was a time when I could do art with people around. I let their energy tap into the flow of the work and show
me what the end result was.
And it was good for a while, but as the months progressed it got harder and harder to work.
People constantly wanting to talk.

So now it's all battered and broken. And I'm wanting a quiet space to work in, to get back to the privacy of working
with no one but the sounds of dead composers telling me their stories through their music.
I dance with them while their music wraps around me and infuses me with their life.
The majority of my teachers have been dead people, their work. They made this statement and hundreds of years,
or years later here I am listening and learning from them.
Wandering through their place in the fields of what they knew of the creative fire that exists.

One of the important lessons that I have walked away with is that creativity can not be taught, the only thing that
can truely be taught about when it comes to art is what the tools are and what is possible to do with thoes tools.
Unfortunately so many people out there don't understand that they have this creativity inside them already,
they are terrified of this unknown and believe that they can't be creative, and so they look to someone to tell them what
to do.

A good teacher is simply a guide. That's all. A teacher is not a parent who is waiting for people in the form of clay to
reproduce themselves and so insure their immortality.
The people who have ended up in front of me asking me to teach them are told that all I can do is show them the tools
and what's possible with thoes tools, and the rest, finding their own voice is up to them.
It's always my hope when this happens that some brilliant spark will catch their eyes with in their own soul and they
will pass me by with works of power and beauty.

If that is accomplished then I've been a good guide.
I do what I do. It's my path and job on that path to keep exploring, pushing what I know further and further and hopefully
find lots of brilliant sparks that catch my eye.
The only thing I could ever want to reproduce is children from my flesh and I did that.
I don't want students who paint just like me or draw just like me. That's an insult to both me and them.
That negates both what I do and what they are capable of.

I say let them take what I've laid out there in front of them and go as far as they can with it. And I hope they suceed, and are
set free into this powerful place of creativity, and who knows, maybe years down the road or sooner I will be seeing their work
gracing the covers of magazines or on tour around the country.
That is an awesome possiblity, because it means that the doors have been opened and they are free.
Yea for freedom!

Someone else's sucess will never stop mine. I have my own voice and there are so many people in the world there is enough room
for all the voices being spoken in the language of art.

I'm not against art schools, but what I am completely against are thoes artists who are standing in the role of teacher who
are so insecrure about their own voice that they see their students as potential rivials, so they teach the studen to be a copy of themselves
but never give them the confidence to find their own voice.
Many students have dropped out of art school because they keep running into these kinds of teachers.

Each of us are only passing this way, we are not the stone monuments that stand in front of great halls or even the halls themselves.
We are only passing through. And we have to understand that the torch was passed to us only for a little while, and the responsiblity
of getting the torch passed to us comes with the understanding that we have to pass it on at some point.

The part of the world I was born into is full of artists who don't trust each other, simply because of the accepted types of art that
sell and are promoted there.
It is only a tiny fraction of the art world that is accepted there. Charles Russel, Thomas Kinkade, Norman Rockwell, Bev Doolittle
and the works of many famous and very dead artists, many of whom spent their lives living in poverty because they were trying to
make a living off of the one thing they loved more than any other.

The rest of the art community that exists in that place are in fierce compititon for the remaining money that is dangled like an impossible
to reach carrot in front of them so they become bitter rivals against each other.
Instead of it drawing them together to give each other the support and encouragement that artists need from each other, they view each
other as the enemy of the almightly dollar.
It's a sad thing to watch, and an even sadder thing to be around.

What ends up happening is that many of the wonderful artists who could be the leaders in a huge art explosion in the area end up
leaving for greener and more lucritive pastures. Cities known for being art centers of the world. And when they become
sucessful their art finds it's way back to that area and the people who buy it see only that the artist is from this city or that.
They don't realize that the artist who's work they are buying is the same artist they wouldn't give the time of day to while
the artist was right in their mist to begin with.

While I was still living there I heard this story about a couple who had an open house for a painting they had bought in another
city.
They bought it because they believed they had the work of a very talented artist who must have been from that other city.
All the people who came to see the work oohed and ahhhed over the work.
Things were going swimmingly and this couple was so proud and even arrogant over what they had...
then a funny thing happened.
One of their neighbors who was at this big deal said to them, "I know this artist, they used to live right down the street."

The couple was instantly horrified to learn that they had actually bought something from a local artist who had just
left because of the attitudes that persist about the local artists.
They were embarressed and humliated.

When I heard this story it reverberated what I knew and had run into so many times when trying to get into the galleries
in that town.
I thought, how sad.
The artist was an awesome artist. It shouldn't have taken them moving away to have their work appreciated, and then when
it was discovered where they were from, the attitude about the work changing from being wonderful to being somthing of
shame.

Since I've moved away I've had two one woman shows. Both of them I had in a state of major reluctance, due to my past experiences
from the town where I grew up in.
I was shocked to discover the response of people here. They were blown away and lots of work sold.
Since the last one I've had lots of people pestering me about doing another one. Waiting for my next show. I have a feeling that
if someone from the town where I grew up came and bought a peice of work, thinking about it like what thoes other people thought,
that the same thing would end up happening.

Because of the way things have gone here in my personal life, I'm getting ready to move on. To another city, one with a bigger art
communtiy than there is here. More acceptance of different kinds of art. A place where the people living there both support
their local artists and just simply love art.
That's what defines a real art center. The artists are accepted and encouraged because the people there just love art.
That's the kind of place that seems more like home.
A place where artists arn't fighting each other for something that that other people in other walks of life fight less over.

When I get there I'll find out if the stories I've heard are true or not. And I'll find out if the artists there are supportive of each
other and encourage each other and are glad when someone's work sells, even if it's not their own.
That's a place I want to be a part of.
Yes, I get thrilled when someone else's work sells. It means that art is getting out there. And the creative fire that burns in all of us
is still being heard, and it means that the push from the machine that desires that we all becomming lemmings is still being
fought against, and each time a peice is sold that machinery is being denied and told no.
That's why I am happy every time a peice of work that goes outside the box of what the machinery says is the frame work of "True art"
gets sold, and that artist makes it big.
Yea for freedom!

Every artist who stands against the winds of the status quo is my hero. More power to them. Keep up the good fight, keep speaking
the language of art the way your heart and spirit and soul are desined to.
It helps the rest of us who struggle and fight the same fight from the trenches. It give us the courage to keep going and not
conform and not give in, and not compromise our own visions.

Little things

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# 41414

This morning one more of life's little ordinary occurances took place.
A flat tire. One more expense on a very long list of things that I don't make enough money to even begin to try to figure out how I'm going to spread what is already thin even thinner so that things still work.

I know from the recient events that there is no way that asking any of them to take a few minuets out of their lives to give me a lift to a gas station to get some temporary fix for this tire until I can get it fixed is likely, so I call work and let my boss know what's up.
I can hear in his voice that tone of frustration because of the endless list of people who before me have given excuses why they can't come in or just don't call and don't show up.

I make my way down the driveway that is sheet ice with the occasional streak of sand or cat litter and some salt to the flat on the drive way and make my way up the hill to where the road is.
It's biting cold and I didn't think to find my gloves or hat.
All I could think about was what I needed to do.
Walk to the nearest gas station, roughly a mile a way so I could get what I need and get to work as soon as possible.

All that walking and running my ass off at work is paying off.
I realize that I could probably have walked the 10 or so miles to work and have been tired but would have been able to work a full shift in shoes that are falling apart.
Another thing on the list.
It's waiting for a while with the hopes that they hold together long enough to make it.
I've got boots, but after a couple of hours they make my feet feel like I have steel rods with spiked ends boring into my feet.
so wearing them for any length of time is really not a good idea.

I get about half way to the first light and a van pulls up and the guy sitting behind the wheel looks likes Santa clause.
I'm not kidding.
This guy is a dead ringer for the jolly old elf.
(who says that elves arn't real)
And he asks if I need a ride.

I think about this for a minuet and the possiblity that I could end up in some really nasty circumstances by taking a ride with someone I don't know.
But with the way things have been lately, I figured that if it was my time to go and this was the door well ok.

So I say yes, and he opens the back door, moves a sack (yeah, a big one, but it's a garbage sack, but other than the color it looks like it had boxes in it,*smiling* this guy is looking more like santa than just in the face and body)

And we talk abit on the way to the gas station. I tell him why I'm on my way there and about my flat tire, and he asks if I work there, and I tell him no, but at another place.
And he drops me off.

I get my stuff and make my way back here to fix the flat and then take off.
I get to work and the boss has gone on a delivery and the people I work with durring the day smile and greet me, and one of my favorite people there says to me "How are you sunshine?"
And both she and I just bust up laughing.

This woman has been through everything from a crazy bad marriage to her house burning down, and she is one of thoes people that are so down to earth about life that they are really cool to be around.

When I came back to work the following monday after I tried to vacate the earth, she treated me normal. It made me feel so good that there was one person who wasn't holding a microscope to every move I was making ready and willing to call the guys in the white coats to come and take me a way.
This woman is amazing.
And I'm glad I get to work with her.
My life would be less if I had never met her.

This morning, when I was on my way to the gas station, my ears freezing in the breeze, and this guy, who I am convinced is santa shows up in a white van to help me when I needed it.
Pretty cool.

....I do believe there is a santa clause...for many years I thought of him as an idea of what people should be like to other people and not just for a few weeks out of the year, but all the time.
We are fragile creatures, and we as a race do such stupid cruel shit to the earth we live on and to each other.

People hurt other people, often for no other reason than they are scared of the people they hurt, or want to control them, or are jealous of what someone else has or are just plain cruel because they can be.

And to me the idea of christmas and santa and every other symbol that we celebrate should be a reminder that we are capable of really good things, honorable things things that show our fellow memebers of the same species that we understand that we need to be there for each other and not spend so much time shitting on each other.
There is enough shit that happens with out humans being dick heads to each other.

so I figure it this way, my life has been a real war zone for a while, and I have no energy to keep going, but I do, and I have to deal with all the mess in private, and for a brief moment I got to be in the company of someone who didn't have to give a shit, but did.

that was santa. No one can convince me other wise. I got a belated christmas gift in the middle of a very long and exausting personal war.

...and my heart isn't so heavy tonight because of that one act of kindness out of the blue on a very bitter and windy winter mornning in January...

It's raining shit

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# 41370

October 1 of last year I was in an accident. It wasn't my fault. There were witnesses.

If the driver of the other car hadn't been in such a hurry to get around the corner (she saw me comming
and so instead of slowing down and letting me get through the intersection and then going,
she sped up to about 45 miles an hour. Her thinking was she could get around the corner before I got to
the intersection.) the accident wouldn't have happened.

Now my insurance rates have gone up almost $40 a month because I was in that accident. I called
to find out why they had gone up if the accident wasn't my fault.
I found out that I have to get the police report and take it to the insurance company and if the report
has been filed in the state captiol, then I have to get ahold of the state captiol and have them send
a copy of the report to the insurance company.

I don't know what happened to the girl who was driving. She wasn't insured. And she was driving a borrowed
car from a friend who lives in another state, and the guy had let his insurance laps on the car that she was driving.

My insurance which is already expensive and takes a good chunk out of my income, isn't enough to take
care of the damage which includes a bent axle so I'm basicly stuck with something that I can't get fixed.

I heard someone call insurance, just in case something happens, instead of insurance.

The guy I talked to said it used to be innocent until proven guilty. Now your guilty until you can prove
your innocence.

I'm looking at a huge hospital bill as well for the few hours I spent in the phsych ward. If the people here had
listened and the guy who is truely responsible for making me so angry because he wouldn't leave me alone and
take no for an answer, that friday wouldn't have happened.
If the guy who brought him into the house wouldn't have been so caught up in getting another roommate in here
so our rent would be a few dollars cheaper, in other words, greedy, and we would have all had a chance to meet this
guy ahead of time, he would never have been here.
It doesn't take long with this guy to figure out something isn't quite right.

About 6 years ago I had major surgery. 16 months later I had to have the surgery again because the first doctor
didn't put mesh over the place he repaired.
Although he charged me for it.
The second doctor did, but I got double charged for everything for that surgery. And that I found out is perfectly
legal in this country.
You get charged by the doctor for the surgery, and then by the hospital for the same surgery, because when the doctor
does the surgery the hospital looks at him as an employee, how ever temporary.

If the first doctor had done his job right, the second surgery wouldn't have had to be done.

So what have I learned from all of this? That in this world that very often it doesn't matter if you do the right thing
or try to, the person who does bad shit often never has to take responsiblity. And you get screwed in the ass for someone
elses screw ups.
You get to pay for their shit.

What I've seen in this country is a larger picture of these kinds of things. The goverment does stuff that is screwing up
alot of people's lives.
And we get the tab.
And that is screwed up.

The guy who brought this recient problem into the house had surgery last night. His gal bladder went bad.
He survived. I found myself, when I herd about it, not feeling any kind of compassion for the man.
Every time I've accomidated this man I get screwed. I've lost work because of this man, and the asshole he brought
in here and then refused to listen as I was telling him and one of the other roommates that there was a serious
problem with this guy not leaving me alone, and wouldn't do anything about it.
There are other things as well that have happened.
But thoes haven't ended up costing me as much as this recient crap.

I'm glad he survived. But I don't care how long it takes him to heal, or how much work he looses because of this,
and how much financial crap he has to go through because of this.
Or even if the company he works for fires him because of this, and he has to go find another job.
I don't even care if he ends up homeless, although he's got family here so that won't happen to him.
They will take him in.

But he loves this place, and the way things are in the world, I could easily see him getting fired over this.
Especially in this state. A right to work state. It should be called a right to get fired state because an employer
can fire you on a whim.
No good or valid reason.

In many states it's that way. And us, the american public has to just go on, and try to keep from ending up
on the streets.
While the corporations and the businesses keep doing things that are screwing with our enviorment,
the goverment supports the corporations and businesses by continuing to reissue business liscenes to
corporations which violate enviormental acts.
Like dumping raw sewage into rivers, crap like that.

The senator who was drunk while driving and killed a guy on a motorcycle and only got a hundred days jail time.
This isn't the first time a senator killed someone and got off lightly.
The experiemnts payed for by the goverment that have ruined lives, because life is expendable to the goverment.
Congress giving themselves pay raises while the rest of us can barely afford the tab of living in this country.
And lots of other wonderful things that keep going on, and we the people have to keep paying the tab.

The only hope I can hang on to is that at some point it will all collapse and there will be no way to reconstruct it.
All of it makes me want to move to another country.
And get out of here, while my car is still working.
I love this land, but this land isn't the land of the free anymore, and when it sends men to fight against a people
when there is no other reason than there is oil and money at the bottom line, then this country is nothing more
than a degenerate self indulgent cruel place to try to live.

But I don't suppose any place else is much better. That's the way of the world in this time in history I suppose.
People who get in power who only want control and power will do terrible things, and let terrible things happen,
and support the criminals who commit them.
And the rest of us, well we get to suffer needlessly and pick up the tab for all the loss of life, loss of freedom
and anything else that comes up.

Is it any wonder then, with all of this, that there is a growing number of people who are so angry and so disgusted
by it all that they have gone haywire in someway.
No one is listening, and if they are, they arn't doing a thing.

So much for a wonderful future. If the future is now, it sucks big time and it's only going to get worse.

Breaking

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# 41236

I broke yesterday and after comming home I spent some time writing about it. I went over the edge completely, and my intent was to stop the pain and agony that has been growing since the arrival of the newest person in the house.

When I was much younger I made some attempts to commit sucide, yesterday was the closest I have ever come to suceeding.
It was the only answer that I could come up with because no one was listening to anything I had been trying to tell them.

I just wanted the house to be at peace once more. A place of sanctuary, and a place of true healing.

This is the account of yesterday. I am doing better. The place where I put the knife to will heal and leave very little scar.

December 30, 2005

A fragile awakening. Snapping in two. Light years pass, in just a few hours. Traveling at the speed of waking up
in some place you know you don't want to be.
And that's pretty damn fast when just a few moments earlier you felt fine.

So many thoughts. Too many to count. Brusies to the soul. Deep gashes in the heart. All of them.
the past. Both recient and distant.
Exploding inside me, and the only thought that mattered at that moment was this:
"Peace. That's all I want."

It's most likely a good thing that I couldn't find the small box of exacto blades, because the next thing I knew
I was standing in the kitchen, with a knife pressed against my wrist.
Wanting to stop all the insanity.
Wanting to stop all the anger.
Wanting to stop feeling like natzi germany was taking root in a place that just a few months ago was a sanctuary.
Wanting to stop having to scream to be heard. And then having what I needed ignored.

I heard my self shreeking, maybe thinking if I yell loud enough the deafness will be broken.
And finely someone will listen, and do somthing.

The cops came. It was a good thing. Finally someone who was impartial would hear and do something.
Finally someone with the authority to do something that I had failed to do.
Stop the madness that had consumed me.

Take this man away, and make him stay away. He has driven me quite mad.

The ride through town was quiet. My guide, dressed in blue was a man named Paul. He had kind eyes.
He watched over me. I know it was so I wouldn't escape, or try to harm anyone or my self.

But I choose to look at it as this: He was my gardian for a few hours. A kind of hero that helps someone
who has fallen down get up.
And tell them with out saying anything, that it's ok. We all feel things sometimes too much, and don't
know what to do.

It was a nice feeling to have someone to trust for a little while journeing into a dark place.

Everyone I met was so kind.
And even still, the place was the most frightening place I have ever been in my life.
For a few hours I was a prisioner in a place that could deem that I was unfit to go back out into the world.

Some journeies are ones that change you.

No matter how long or short they are, they change you.

The birth of my children changed me.

The death of my father changed me.

My divorice changed me.

Finally leaving the home town I spent the first 43 years of my life in.

Going along a path where my life was suddenly mine.

Learning to be homeless.

Learning what it means that the work you do means whether you eat or keep from freezing at night.

Learning the hard lessons of being alone at the most terrifying times that come into any life.
Surgery. Not being sure I would wake up.

Not being close to my children at that moment, and not knowing if I would ever see daylight or them again.

And today, spending time in a phsych ward.
I don't understand how they can believe that an enviorment like that can make a person well in the mind.
There are locks everywhere.
Double paned glass.
Cameras watching you.
Having to ask someone if you can use the bathroom in your room because it's locked and has to have some
one who is watching everything you do unlock it.

no matter how nice and gentle they are, they are the guards, and you are in a place that makes you crazy.
How can you focus or think, or rest or even heal in a place like that.

They want to make sure that you don't do anything to hurt your self.
I felt my mind breaking in a different way this time.

Not good.

Madness added to madness. And no one listenes completely. No one has time. Everything to a set schedual
with the times your not eating left to you to decide what to do.
It's as though a chess board is set in front of you and you have no chess men and you are told that you need to play
chess.

It's your job to figure out how, so that the guards watching you know if your insane or not.

I have no idea of how I felt other than I wanted to just come home.
I was terrified.

Broken. Alone. Blind in a thousand lights.
Searching for a thread of something concrete to hold on to.

Talking to social workers, doctors, nurses, and other people.
You can talk really quiet to the other patients and they can hear every word you say.
There is no noise in that place, but the pain is overwhelming.
It's funny how I could feel the brokenness of the patients around me and I understood that they all wanted
just to go home.

Home. A place where it's safe to be who you are. Surrounded by familiar things, and people that you love,
and animals.
And you realize that all you wanted was peace. That you were at that place where the only answer you could
come up with was to stop your life.

Stop the pain. Once and for all.

I find myself walking in short measured steps, legs as close to gether as possible.

When they told me I was released, it was so awesome.
Free.

They got me a cab, and the driver was awesome. A hippy. *Smiling* Someone who was very relaxed and easy going
to take me home.
Another gift.

I feel so fragile tonight. I'm ok. But I need to heal. I need quiet. I need to not have to perform. I need seclusion right now.
And a place where it's truely ok.

And so here I am. so many things broken inside. And I have to pick myself up and keep going. There is no time to rest
in the way I need to, so it will become work and quite at home.
Solitude.
In familar surroundings.

I've written much durring the road to this place. Right now, that's enough said about things. They will be looked at when
the time is right, to remember and be able to see more clear from a distance.

All I want now is to go forward. Gentley. And see where the road takes me. The light at the end of the tunnel.
And that is all I can ask.

And it will be ok. I'm ok.

Thoughts on love

# 40769

How deep does this go?
this love that holds me captive.
Where is the end of the universe?
That would be an easier question
to find the answer to.

the love I feel for you
transforms me
takes me so deep
and so far
that the ocean isn't deep enough
to compare it to.

the love I know
that is solid and real in me
gives me strength to go through the day
knowing that it will be more
than what it was yesterday.

How can you compare
a living
breathing
growing
life, which love is,
to something that
although brilliant
is so much less than.

Oh to be loved
with so great a love
as I know,
that is my wish
for all who walk to the earth.
For the whole world
to know
even for just a moment
how much rapture this holds.

I would gladly lay my life down
to be impaled a thousand times
by a thousand blades
than to have missed this
love that I share with you.

....I would love to know that in that way and know they love me back just as deeply in return.

It's not that no one has ever loved me, but this kind of love is something that dreams are made of.
Something we see when we watch some movie where it all turns out perfect.
And after long trials and tribulations, the lovers, seperated are now rejoined.

I know, it's called a chick flick. But that doesn't mean that guys don't want the same thing.
They do.
Every person does.

You wanna be loved with the kind of love that surpasses time, and every objection that time could
or ever would come up with.
It's not just a sexual thing either.

Sex is great, as far as it goes, but there is so much more to this than that.
this kind of love doesn't need sex to help it. Sex is just the icing on the cake, as it were.

This kind of love is deep. It's roots are lost in a friendship that goes so deep that if you followed them
you wouldn't be able to find the end of them.
And it's upon that basis that this kind of love grows.

That's what I want to know, at some point in my life, I want to know this kind of love.
To be loved so deeply by someone that it makes them feel like a part of them is missing when I'm gone.
I don't think that's wanting so much.
Or maybe it is.
Maybe in this world there is no time or room for that kind of love to exist.

I've met a few people who have loved other people that deeply. And what I've noticed that every other
person they come in contact with is a kind of waiting for that person to show up.
And when that person walks into view, everything else for the person waiting just stops.
Their face lights up like christmas and the fourth of july all rolled into one....

And they forget you are there, or that they were talking to you...

You are a poor subsitute for who they would rather be with....

I'm so glad that I have my art. If I didn't, I'm not sure what I would have been like, knowing and seeing that.
Yes, this has happened to me.
I've been in love with someone who settled, because they couldn't have who they really wanted.
Every time that person showed up, I could see it in their eyes, and their smile...
and yes it hurt like hell.
But I believe the choice to love someone is not dependant on them loving you back in the same way, or
even loving you at all.
So I have loved and gotten half baked love in return.
sometimes less than that.

I've gotten different kinds of love from different people over the years. And I'm still waiting for that
person to show up who will love me in the way I would love to be loved.
And I want it to be someone who I want to love back in the same way.

It won't be a smothering kind of desperate thing. That's not love. That's a wet blanket thrown over your face
until you can't breathe.
that's lust gone emotional.
I don't want that. I've had that, and it sucks. For a while it's wonderful.
It's the top of the mountian....but no one tied the ropes off so the fall and the subsequent crash was really
a mess.

It's hard to discribe completely. I know it's possible. I've seen it. And it's made me ache inside
watching two people who love each other like that.
You can feel the love between them.
It's so beautiful. And every time I see two people in love that way, it makes me ache inside for want
of having it too.

I want to share a bottle of bubbles with this person in the middle of winter. On a sunny day so we can
see the rainbow orbs floating and then comming to rest on the snow.
I want to eat popcorn in the middle of the night with this person under a blanket as we tell each other
ghost stories.
I want to be there when they loose someone they know. And hold them as they grieve.
I want to take long walks with this person and talk about everything with them.
And share stupid silly moments just because.
I don't want them to be afraid of me. when I see inside them and see their pain, I don't want
it to scare them.
If I want to hand them my world so they can know what I know I want them to understand what
it is that I'm giving them, and what it means that I'm doing it.

(I want the student to have the same understanding of the art and when I hand it to them, I do want
them not to be scared by it, or think I'm being weird. that's the part that I want to have in both places.
With the person I love and with the student I pass on my understanding of art to.)

And I want to see myself reflected in their soul.
And if they smile at me it's because they can see themselves reflected back.
I want to do the things they love and are passionate about with them, at least once.
More if it's not something that death is always a possible constant, like being blown out of
a cannon, that type of thing.
I'll try it once, but after that, I'll just watch.
Or blowing up buildings, or cliff diving....that kind of thing.

....sometimes I think that the art and all it is to me, is compensation for not having that....
and if it is, it will be enough.
more than enough. It has been so far in my life.

A chapter....

# 40768

This is a long post...:)

a day of celebration. A day off.

This afternoon I sit here listening to Ruffus Waynright. A very talented aritst, who was at one point in his young life an
opera singer.
His voice is like listening to velvet that is dancing in the sun. And for all the ladies out there, he is as delicious to look at as the sound of his voice.
Enough to give Antonio Bandaris a run for his money in the view of a beautiful work of living art. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I reconize physical beauty. I know it fades, but just as getting lost in the beauty of a waterfall can capture me,
and the words of a poet who's heart is so on fire for the word that it aches in his bones.
And this same poet gets completely lost in the rythems and chords of dreams entwined with waves of electric sound, that the rest of the world is known as music.

So it goes. I love art. Everyone who has ever stopped to read my wanderings of the overloaded mind knows that.
I even went so far to discribe how deep this love goes and that I really am so passionately in love with art that I put
up 3 peices of art for all of you to get an idea of what the end result of this love affair with art has produced.

I love how it feels to draw a paintbrush filled with light drenched color and sparkeles that I put in the pain on purpose
to add to the work, across the softened skin of a sheet of white watecolor paper.
How it runs up and down my body like some tender caress that lets me know I'm home.

I love to get lost in the wonder of a journey unfolding before my eyes.

It's alot like getting the news that 9 months from now your going to me half yourself.
And the other half will be someone you shared a deep full filling passionate moment with. And if you are so lucky
to still be walking with that person, sharing their lives, learning to love them more everyday,
then you are rich beyond words.

So you begin. A journey about life. A journey of unknowns. And a journey of who you are. In a way that would
never have happened if you hadn't enjoyed that moment with someone you wanted to love right then, right there.

And it's magic really. Here are these two parts. Female and male. Two halves. And they come into contact and caboom!
Life. A beginning like no other in all the universe.
A new creation.
All at once. There it is. The two become one. And that creates the first platonic solid of sacred gemotrey.

That blows me away. It's a magnificiant reality that tells me that what I have known all my life in every cell
of my body is the same all over, everywhere.
In fact it's such a reality and truth that the whole universe does the same thing when something new is being created.

How small we are in the light of the cosmos.
A single thought.
For a brief moment
a shooting star
that blazes across the sky
making the eyes of the universe
stop and take notice.

This is what it's like for me when I paint. How quiet, how powerful and how magnificant.
Everytime. It's like this.
and all I want to do with my whole life is have that all the time.

There are other things I love too. Not as much. But just as strongly. Just as passionately, and it makes my life
an adventure all the time.
I don't remember the last time I was bored.

I can be all by myself for days and I'm so content and so busy in that place that even day and night disapear for me.
I love it.
I'm lucky too in that way. I love it when on the rare occasion someone does show up that stays around for a while,
and there is no pressing need.
Just hanging out, having a good time bulshitting, and talking about everything that means anything.

But at the same time, I'm ok if no one shows up. In my life I can count how many times that has happened.
And thoes that are no longer in my life, I remember them. Details and conversations. The color of their eyes,
and their laughter.
I remember tears and other bits of the important things about a person your getting to know.

and they are all still here. Right here. In my heart. My mind and they are part of my soul and skin too.
"Smiles....it's like having a box of animal crackers that you carry with you everywhere you go.
And any time you want you can pull out one of thoes animals and dream and remember.
(I know, you eat animal crackers...but it was a good illustration none the less.)

This is the problem with writing long entries. I get so side tracked. :)
It's all important. Things that matter.
Not stuff that you put in a box and hide in some back closet. This is stuff that makes up me. It's the same when
you write.
Everytime you put one word down on paper or on your journal, your putting a little bit of you on that page.
And because of that it's powerful.
A living thing. You can change the world one word at a time.

You can simply write the word "yes" And to anyone who reads that word they will immeadately thing of something.
What did you think of when you saw that word?

What that tells you is that what you write is powerful enough to catch the attention of people passing by.
Even if they are asleep they will see it.
Everything we see is stored in our brain. Sometimes that information goes into waiting.
Then something comes along and triggers that awake.
Boom! An explosion of power.

When you do anything that creates something new, wether it be a poem, a essay, a painting, clay pot, a song
a building, a house, a car...etc. we are releasing power.
The power to change things.
The power to make things better than they are.
The power to answer the question of a searching heart or a lonely soul.

And we go around, day to day missing it. We go to jobs and loose so much life there. And why?
Because the norms of the society we live in say that to be a good upstanding memeber of society we have to
have a job. And pay taxes.

That's insane. A true explain of what insanity really is.

Money, they say makes the world go round. Money, is the death of the path that leads to creative life.
That is unless you are one of the lucky to have a job that allows for the creative expression that exists
inside you.
I envy you. It would be like going to play all day and then get paid on top of it, everyday.
But at the same time I'm happy your there doing that wonderful creative thing.
You are the gatekeepers now.
And as long as in this world there are companies who need your services in anyway shape or form
the connection remains in the visual sight of the world.

I'm greatful to new film makers. I'm greatful that I'm alive durring a time when a man like Tim Burton
is making films.
And Jonny Depp is acting in them.
My world is lit up by watching their art. I get to see their dreams and visions. And I can do it anytime
I want.
I just have to watch a movie.

Everytime I read a post by someone, I get to see a little bit about them. I get a chance to hear someone
else's voice for a while.
It's nice. It's like listening to a really great peice of music in totall darkess.
No light to inturpt the voice.
Just me and that other person. Them, talking to me, from where ever they are. And although I know
they arn't writing for my soul bennefit, the written word has the power to make the reader feel that
the author is talking just to them.

that's the magic of words. And it's awesome. I love lines of books that start out by saying something
just as a simple statement. Like you walked in on someone talking out loud.
Like maybe there could have been a whole string of days and weeks that were all connected and they were
talking about it and you stepped into part way through....

when I read a poem that has been created by an artist lost in a moment
they are telling me about that moment.
And I can see by the look on their face that it is real.
Their eyes can't hide their heart in that moment.
And though they don't see me while the poem flows from their heart...
I am there.
Watching the tears fall from the eyes of a lover
who is lost in the depths of their heart breaking....

I'm seeing the clouds part
like great curtians that hold back the stars.
And as the curtians are drawn away,
the magnificant opera begins...

Their voice so beautiful, as to make me catch my breath.
They tell me things.....
And I am there.
At that moment.

And at that moment it doesn't matter to me if a thousand other people are reading it at the same time as me.
They are experienceing things too.

We are the captivated audience held in individual moments by the words of the poet.

And then there is music. Ah sweet surrender of the soul.
Harken to my voice oh muse
come to me and with honey in thy touch
sweeten the aching of my soul.

Again,
Oh sweet delight!
Again,
until my soul takes flight!

That is music. The genere doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if it's Beetoven or Def Lepord or Pink Floyd,
Or Jimmy Hendrix, or Chopin or Sound Garden, or Liz Story, or Marylin Manson, or Bach...
Or anyone else who plays music, or writes it or sings it.
All that matters is this:

that in the moment that music is released into the air and finds it's way to your ears, it carrys with it
the power to change your world.

The power to make you scream, cry, dance, laugh, feel like your riding a rocket, or that your lost in
some dream world.
That is music.

It is the eccestasy of the soul. The place where all of you gets emersed in a deep electric pool of liquid
velvet.
And it runs into every cell and says...."yes" :)

when I sit down and begin the journey of music on the keyboard, something happens to me.
I feel it penetrate me to my soul.
And it's like ...it's standing there...hand extended....a smile waiting for me....and says in that soft tone...
the one that makes me melt and go weak...
"common, lets take a walk"

Yeah it's that....

Each note takes me further and further away from everything. I can see the music in my head. Hear it in
my bones...
it's funny how sometimes when I'm searching through the notes it feels like going through boxes of color, looking
for that one color that showed up in this picture.
I'll know it when I see it.
And the horrible thing is I didn't make extra of that color and it's one of my favorites.
I should have kept a recipie book.

wish I could write music. That would be a recipie book for all the notes that have come together and led my fingers
on a really cool journey.
So someone who reads music could sit down and have the same experience I just had. Any time they wanted it.

When I think about people like Beetoven. How much music he wrote. And alot of it after he went deaf.
Can you immagine hearing and seeing the notes of huge complicated peices of music and knowing when you put
a note on a certian line that when it's played, the rest of the world will hear what you have?

And to keep all thoes different intstruments straight.....amazing.
Simply amazing.

All the people who compose music and can write it down as well as compose, are amazing. Just for the act of
being able to do that.

I wish I could actually write sheet music. But I never learned how. I can barely read sheet music.
A few peices that my sister who loves music and can play and read the stuff with such ease that it's amazing.
She taught music for a while.
And she loves duets. Classical peices.
And she worked with me for months to learn about 4 peices of classical duets.
I had to learn how to read thoes notes and traslate them to hand possitions to be able to play the music with
her.
When we see each other, that's one of the things we still do.
Sit down at a piano and play the duets.
And I have to read the music. And sometimes it's years between visits.
And it's just as hard now to read them as back then.
I felt most of the time like I was studdering through the peices.

She plays like I paint.

I've always wanted to learn to play the violin. And the harp, as well as the mandolyn.
And a gitar would be good too.
All very physcal instruments.
Part of it, is that you get to feel each note.
Like clay in the potters hands.

A rich delicious feeling. I can't play any of thoes insturments, but I've had the great fortune
of being allowed to touch and pluck strings now and again.
I love the feel of them, as the notes are released. I don't know what notes they are.
But each one feels like warm summer rain.
they run down my soul and make me smile.

All of this....comes from that place of art. The ancient language that ties all humanity together.
Gifts scattered like diamonds over time.

the eyes of the artist looks up
the sky
a brilliant azure...

unfold for me
the stories you hold

and change my world
by your presence...

change it forever.


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