L. Edgar Otto 26 April, 2012
If in the thinking some alpha state where the white noise brings the peaceful cloud as we go blind into the light for lack of challenge or as enduring states and cycles of thought the thinker in the familiar and natural world sits in contemplation, his best and lesser sides presented to the camera beyond the scene and throughout the free hour of enquiry we find him thinking about the hidden reflections of himself in the dream and observing the dream, the white or pink board and the marching in line, waiting, against the school room board where in the end when all is left but the desert of concrete and smog we dye it green and fill it with the chalk dust of others as we bedeck awhile the broken dreams on the checky shores of infinity that Newton faced- on his philosophers walks and writings in the language of Holy Euclid and Latin that the people could understand.
In such a world, the source of dreams, sometimes the prison for a child as hard as the seeming endless labor of his lifetime he will not miss until expelled from the cave and garden, all is but art after all in the pallet of this world, and what I have casually done as the sand when wet will harden proves but art after all and not just some hopscotch pattern for I know I am but a child with a color box and wide eyes that leaves some drawing, such perhaps is the God, of many things including the Lilly so arrayed beyond the wisdom, until the rain, the rain that is there because the real flowers will drink of it.
Yet I know I am not that good a sculptor for as in the Thinker and the Kiss, the Soul and Love cannot be broken. But here in the printing made of light and dust, grass and steams, blues and greens, cold white snow and cardinal feathers out of place some season upon it, was made by hand and not of one piece that came together as love and wisdom seeks to find itself whole again by the quills and ink and quoins that start our rusting and suspended bridges of disbelief- so in our journey of bonds and secretes, that salamander between being and non being so said he who saw no windows in all he possible worlds and architectural spaceships of our ongoing modeling in real time of our cities and cathedrals or having forgotten to read after the plagues we work in the creeping lead the creeping stained glass windows.
If you have not seen and felt the day, the wind and trees and the grass and ghostly pebbles the gnomes once gods but solid stones, or the river so whispering soft its star song, or seen someone lost and hurt in dreams that must doubt yet hope that love breaks through the dance or never will by our intimacy of dreams shared with each other alone even with the soft warmth of flesh once encountered and in the memory of light's twists and turns at a distance is not forgotten, I do not know what it is that thinkers may share of words and colors when release of hopeless dreams is the death of dreams themselves, the salve and glue of love not the honey of which we hoard too much and it is sweet that all smaller things instinctively desire to eat us- how full of sweetness she was says he. If you have not felt at least this and known this and seen this My Child of Earth, then you have not understood me, nor yourselves.
* * * * *
No comments:
Post a Comment