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 dots and lines, more universes and newer dimensions.  Can you imagine talking to a guy like that?  Drunk, stumbling around, throwing up, painting in circles, painting into his paint; pure brilliance. Was his world was traveling inside a cube that was inside an orb?  Like all universes, simple orbits around and within a flat surface.

Sometimes deep in meditation I’m working my way through a cube.  Long thin corridors that are endless and portals to places that are unimaginable outside of the meditative space.  I wonder about those places, the places we go in the deepest of meditations, are we flying through the universe?  Are we tapping some aspect of our brains that is filled with a psychedelic memory of some other existence, or are we just soaring spirit, pure consciousness, free from the heaviness of form and free from the confines of this Earth?  Spiraling towards the sun, golden light filling everything and going everywhere.  Where is everywhere?  Or, should I ask… what is everywhere?  Yes, “What” seems more appropriate than “where”.

So I’m back to the cube.  Since everywhere is a “what”, then “where” exactly are the cubes?  Are they floating in a universe?  But if the universes are inside the cube and the cube is part of something flat where is the flat?  Now I’m back to being 15, staring at the starry night and promising myself I’d never think about these things because I was completely obsessed with finding the answer, and I’m still not sure I should think about these things.  But I’m staring at a blank canvas and I know I need to paint a cube inside a flower, so I have to think and think.

Somewhere off in the distance I hear a noise.  Is there noise in the cube?  Does anyone go to sleep in the cube?  I definitely am hearing something…………..  “MOM” !!!!  o !…. “Mom, stop painting now, lets eat!”  “okay” I say, trying to remember how to use my voice.  “MOM what are we going to eat?” they ask.  “Ummm how about chicken?”  “NO!” they yell, before I even finished the chicken question.  “Okay, how about watermelon and ice cream”?

 

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