Ceiling Tiles and Other Floating Objects Above My Head

Ceiling Tiles and Other Floating Objects Above My Head

  I was born in the city—New York, Manhattan, The Big Apple—filled with the fast-paced dreaming of artists and musicians, Wall Street money, high fashion, big science, yummy food, Broadway musicals and everything light, dark, in between and beyond. As a kid, the nighttime noise of the city was my lullaby and I would lay awake in my bed listening to the sounds. I would stare up at the vast white ceiling above me, imagining pathways filled with vibrant swirling colors that I could follow deep into the dream time. Manhattan was wondrous to my little kid eyes and I would take it all in, watching the city go by as I stared out the windows of the public bus on my way to school. I had to catch the cross-town bus at a stop by Central Park and the old wall and hexagon like stone tiles that made up the sidewalk surrounding the park mesmerized me. I would wait at the bus stop, running my fingers across the bumpy textured wall, staring at the tiles, their shapes burning into my mind. Each individual worn edge, none the same; created by millions of feet over a hundred years all fit perfectly together. There was a deep black of what once were grout lines between them and the different shades of gray reflecting against the dark brown of the wall and the benches where I would sit and wait. I memorized those lines; each tile was a mandala to me, some sort of graphic meditation while I waited for the bus to arrive. Manhattan was wondrous to my little kid...
Meditation on Painting

Meditation on Painting

When the closure comes and the finale is apparent Running is no longer possible As paralysis sets in, the fear is overwhelming. Only floating is possible Because nothing else is real The desperate search for truth leaves you lonesome and sometimes useless Only art is real Only creation is full The emptiness is lost as timelessness begins. In the frenzy of birthing, the thick liquid of color The mixing and melding of a soul. Only here is reality When I begin Crawling inside The fullness of space, invisible yet so tangible Screaming with life Sonic sounds that vibrate and pulse Causing chaos and churning and gasping for breath Takes you to that place of solitude Where quietly and subtlety penetration begins The silent part that hides and waits Till the emptiness is complete Saying, yes, I am here And for one single moment fills all things up All holes and crevices where energy has leaked Calming the chaos Preparing the dreamer, the soul, the body, for what is to come. Here is the turning, the spinning, the wonder, The whirling and whirling That cleanses the soul and casts out the devils With outstretched arms Embraced by a beat more ancient than time All lifetimes pass by, meshed together in a blur of memory And the clearing is made The choices are clear The painting...
Sunday Meditation Just Before Dawn

Sunday Meditation Just Before Dawn

To go within and fly.  Fly deeper and faster than ever before.  I, released from the form that binds me to this world, in the open door of the universe, I flew between the stars, through the galaxies, into a sun and out the other side.  To be a part of the spiraling arms of the Milky Way directly towards a triune structure that is the infrastructure to all we know in this universe. In between the stars, the sparks that are falling and fallen from the point of nothingness into existence. I, nothing more than a beam of light, a heartbeat, a breath, I, having no self to be an I; flew faster and deeper to the place where galaxies line up and spiral around each other, where they emerge from the point of nothingness. I, nothing more than a beam of light spilt into a rainbow and joined the stars and the sparks which are the stars and the suns nothing more than the breath of God. I, became the triune structure and then collapsed into it, being nothing more than a glyph among a million trillion billion other glyphs. Falling down the center of the structure only to be caught by a hand of light that filled me with love and kindness, and lifted me back up to the top. Back to the singularity where I could peek in and see that there was much more than nothing there. Inside that point of light was the beam of the lightest pink ever known and in that pink was the love, which created the triune and the...
The Way of Ivory Black

The Way of Ivory Black

I’m obsessed with pencil drawings.  Grey lines that layer each other and fill space.  There is something silent about pencil drawings; and these in particular.  They don’t speak loudly, and they won’t accept color and they won’t accept the depth of black.  They reject dark matter, they reject that there is an unknown in this universe.  I keep trying to put color into the lines, trying to place it somewhere under the grey; a subtle dark blue or true black.  But the lines don’t want it, especially the black; they want to be grey. Ivory Black, it says on this pencil.  What the does that mean?  For all these years, I have my Ivory Black pencils and Ivory Black paint and I always look at that name in wonder.  The obscurity of the deep black with a name called Ivory Black.  It seems wonderful and strange and almost yummy, like some comfort food that you turn to when nothing else will suffice.  And the yin yang effect, almost bounces me around in a balanced way, the same way a yo-yo moves up and down it’s string, when you achieve the perfect balance between your body and the speed of the yo-yo itself.    But the metallic grey lines of my graphite don’t like Ivory Black.  It’s too dense, it breathes in a different way than graphite does.   Maybe it’s the paper.  I don’t like thin smooth paper.  It feels not right.  I need weight and strength to the paper, so I used my watercolor paper.  The heavy rough raw cold pressed paper that has been my friend for so very...
A Matter of the Universe Climbing a Thread

A Matter of the Universe Climbing a Thread

I’m watching a spider hanging down from a thread in a tree. The weavers of the universe; the threads of their webs like pathways into different dimensions, circular in nature, revealing the structure of the multi-verses and how they connect and layer upon each other.  I’m following the thread with my eyes; the morning dew around it warps the sunlight and shows me the bending of space; the way out of this world and into the spiraling calm that opens the doorways to the other-worlds.  I’m breathing in and I’m breathing out.  Breathing in and breathing out, watching the spider moving up and down the thread that is attached to the tree branch just above my head.  I close my eyes and listen to a cricket singing softly not too far away, and I’m letting go of all the thoughts in my head.  I fell out of balance with Earth’s rotation last week, tumbling into the 3D world of the physical and crashing into civilization, asking myself the age-old question of what am I doing here? And why is the world so confused?  So I’m trying to get my balance back, and I’m breathing in and breathing out and closing my eyes I begin to calm and drift deeper towards the other world….. What is that spider doing?  Is it close to my head?  What if it comes all the way down and jumps on me???!  It could be sitting on my back! Just waiting for my most unsuspecting moment and then, hours from now it will bite me….  I snap open my eyes and look up, to see...
The Chicken Question

The Chicken Question

So I’m thinking about cubes.   What is a cube exactly?  Four sides; four times; squares on top of squares, inside of squares, next to squares.  Is this dimension we actually exist in?  Is this art?  Can I paint a cube?  Can it be inside of a flower?  Can painting a cube within a cube within another cube inside of a flower teach me something about the circular nature of the universe and all the dimensions that co-exist with us?  So I’m thinking about painting.  Paint.  Oil paint.  Tubes of paint and gallons of paint.  The thick creamy tubular shape I squeeze out onto a palette.  Can all of this fit inside a cube?  A golden cube, held up on the backs of angels.  This is the art.  This is the way through the door, to transform a flat white surface into another world, filled with dimensions and the shifting of light. So is that all inside a cube?  Butterflies inside of cubes; Grids of Butterflies, flying through the connected cubes that fit inside each other.  Is all of this happening within a flat surface that actually holds all the dimensions and all the universes all the time?  Sounds like a painting, sounds like art.  It makes me think of the flea circus in Another Roadside Attraction, and Calder’s circus and how Pollack painted.  How did Pollack paint?  Billions of lines and dots and lingering drops of paint that swirled in massive confusion that somehow made absolute perfect sense and could easily bring a person to tears.  Layers and layers and layers of dots and lines and colors and more...