2.10.12
Little glitter makes friends go away
or disinterested
old means dull in the eyes of others
sometimes I wonder where they are
and why they don't see what they once did
Their indifference is insensate and callous to me
...
How many people have I made feel this way?
Perhaps with a flippant glance or an offhand wave goodbye.
or disinterested
old means dull in the eyes of others
sometimes I wonder where they are
and why they don't see what they once did
Their indifference is insensate and callous to me
...
How many people have I made feel this way?
Perhaps with a flippant glance or an offhand wave goodbye.
27.9.12
This is from March... It has an uplifting ending I haven't written yet
I am a new human today. Sick of the filth of yesterday. The grime that I thought was pure gold--that sought after gem in the rough trenches of earth...only to identify its true worth: a contaminated attempt at pure beauty.
Is that what I was all those years? A contaminated attempt at pure beauty? The putrid scent of raw flesh dressed in fashion. Fashion is pretend. Just a covering of insecurity with swaths of depravity and lonliness--all pretending to be glorious and expressive and alive.
But I'm not talking about fashion. I'm reacting out of my old mind-set in regard to what I wore, how I wore it, who I wore it around, why I wore it. And not simply just clothing. Clothing is hardly any of it. Everything. My music, my art, my car, my house, my personality, my laugh, my face, my hat, my shoes, my fingernails, my journal entrees, my blogging, my judgments, my on-line profiles, my conversations, my voice, my intonation, my humor, my friends, my interests, my pathways, my college, my God, my classes, my coffee orders, my nutrition, my job, my sense of irony, my politics, ethics, my cynicism, morals, my charities... everything. After years of stuffing my life with everything I believed in--valuing its important above all else-- I have since discovered what it was, after climbing on top of it. A Dump heap. The sewage of vanity. The soot of pride.
Is that what I was all those years? A contaminated attempt at pure beauty? The putrid scent of raw flesh dressed in fashion. Fashion is pretend. Just a covering of insecurity with swaths of depravity and lonliness--all pretending to be glorious and expressive and alive.
But I'm not talking about fashion. I'm reacting out of my old mind-set in regard to what I wore, how I wore it, who I wore it around, why I wore it. And not simply just clothing. Clothing is hardly any of it. Everything. My music, my art, my car, my house, my personality, my laugh, my face, my hat, my shoes, my fingernails, my journal entrees, my blogging, my judgments, my on-line profiles, my conversations, my voice, my intonation, my humor, my friends, my interests, my pathways, my college, my God, my classes, my coffee orders, my nutrition, my job, my sense of irony, my politics, ethics, my cynicism, morals, my charities... everything. After years of stuffing my life with everything I believed in--valuing its important above all else-- I have since discovered what it was, after climbing on top of it. A Dump heap. The sewage of vanity. The soot of pride.
Fragrant Love
In the depth of a valley
Your goodness retains Its sweetness on my lips
Even in stagnant waters
The fragrance that I've come to know guides me to a
Spring Fountain
In the frailty of my body
Your heart rushes life like a rapid river
Crushing dams and leveling levees
to the ground
------
In the pit of my greed
You offered me riches that far exceeded my lusts
In my vanity you blinded me before granting me new vision of my self:
the perfect bride of Christ
In my ego you pierced through the facade and revealed my true identity:
A humble Child
In my nothing you made something
In my lack you made worth
In my abandonment you adopted me
As your own
Your goodness retains Its sweetness on my lips
Even in stagnant waters
The fragrance that I've come to know guides me to a
Spring Fountain
In the frailty of my body
Your heart rushes life like a rapid river
Crushing dams and leveling levees
to the ground
------
In the pit of my greed
You offered me riches that far exceeded my lusts
In my vanity you blinded me before granting me new vision of my self:
the perfect bride of Christ
In my ego you pierced through the facade and revealed my true identity:
A humble Child
In my nothing you made something
In my lack you made worth
In my abandonment you adopted me
As your own
25.3.12
... sad artist... ?
Happiness is worth the work. Is it more work for an artist to be happy than sad? I'm not sure... I suppose it takes more muscles to frown than to smile; but if the muscles are so accustomed to frowning, than maybe it comes more naturally. Lately (in the last ten years or so), I've noticed how deeply sad artists can be; especially the truest ones: the ones that other artists look to to find inspiration and refuge, the ones labeled "Best and Most True to Himself." Why are artists sad? (And by artist, I assume most people know that an artist can be anyone who pursues a craft in creative inklings). A sad artist is like a sad puppy...puppies just shouldn't be sad.
There are a lot of happy artists in the universe. Many times, struggling artists look to these happy artists and think one of two things: the artist is happy because he has found success(fame/recognition/fortune...the three are not always simultaneous), or he doesn't take himself seriously (hasn't found the "depths")as an artist and should really just "get real."
After contemplating the phenomenon of why artists are sad (as I said, about ten years or so), I've discovered many very explainable reasons for it (just read the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, or listen to Elizabeth Gilbert's "A New Way to Think About Creativity" and many other resources for explanations), but there's another huge reason.
Artists feel they have the right to share their sadness with the world at large--in whichever art form they choose. Other people who don't proclaim to be artists (but very well may be), either don't feel entitled enough to express it, or don't know how.
What if sadness was a universal affliction regardless of personality/soul/artistic enlightenment, creativeness, gender (etc.) ?
This is just a thought. I haven't given much to it (that's a lie). I like to remain inconclusive in regards to creativity and emotions. Creativity is a labrynthine mystery; one that comes very naturally and supernaturally to humans. There are annotations for this, but I won't plumb into those.
Go and be happy
There are a lot of happy artists in the universe. Many times, struggling artists look to these happy artists and think one of two things: the artist is happy because he has found success(fame/recognition/fortune...the three are not always simultaneous), or he doesn't take himself seriously (hasn't found the "depths")as an artist and should really just "get real."
After contemplating the phenomenon of why artists are sad (as I said, about ten years or so), I've discovered many very explainable reasons for it (just read the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, or listen to Elizabeth Gilbert's "A New Way to Think About Creativity" and many other resources for explanations), but there's another huge reason.
Artists feel they have the right to share their sadness with the world at large--in whichever art form they choose. Other people who don't proclaim to be artists (but very well may be), either don't feel entitled enough to express it, or don't know how.
What if sadness was a universal affliction regardless of personality/soul/artistic enlightenment, creativeness, gender (etc.) ?
This is just a thought. I haven't given much to it (that's a lie). I like to remain inconclusive in regards to creativity and emotions. Creativity is a labrynthine mystery; one that comes very naturally and supernaturally to humans. There are annotations for this, but I won't plumb into those.
Go and be happy
2.1.12
Word of the Day
CLEMENCY
first thought: oranges
oranges... why oranges? because of those clementine mini-oranges of course.
Second thought: my cousin in-law named Cameron Lemons.. Clemons.
third thought: cleaning supplies... I'm not sure why, maybe cleaning and lemon combined?
fourth thought: (don't have a fourth thought)
Fifth thought: OH! Clemency...
-compassion-
-grace-
-a soft heart-
Clemency...
first thought: oranges
oranges... why oranges? because of those clementine mini-oranges of course.
Second thought: my cousin in-law named Cameron Lemons.. Clemons.
third thought: cleaning supplies... I'm not sure why, maybe cleaning and lemon combined?
fourth thought: (don't have a fourth thought)
Fifth thought: OH! Clemency...
-compassion-
-grace-
-a soft heart-
Clemency...
12.12.11
When you break down and cry about not having time to write... and then you sit down and write about that.
The remarkable outcome of suppression is freedom.
It is a difficult task to write like a tortured soul as I am sitting on a sofa cozily typing, while my fiancé brings me tea…not to mention choral music wafting in from our bedroom stereo. It is even more difficult to articulate this mysterious inner-longing to be an indescribable human being. Sometimes I want to say profanities just for the hell of it. But I am not an unhappy person. Truly I am happier than I’ve ever been-enjoying the beauty of the earth and its heavenly pleasures—provided by an extravagant lover who is God. Do the feelings of insecurity go away? I have asked for them to go before, but they only seem to become more manageable and less prominent as I produce art and lovely sounds from instruments. By “manageable,” I suppose I mean surrendered to the Father (that’s God).
I would be a better writer if I didn’t live for the things I write for, or, perhaps if I didn’t have the things I’ve always desired. I have a lover now. Desiring romance is, outstandingly, the most frequented topic by artists—whether deliberately stated, or found subtle in the under-tones of music and poetry or paintings. The pursuit of something not yet grasped is what excites the reader or audience or spectator.
Is this why artists get divorced? Is this why the romance of the most romantic Romantics crumbles or darkens or separates the love from the lover?
Is the importance of having words to express more important than having someone to whom those words are shared?
It seems a vicious cycle. The greener grass cycle.
I have an uncanny relation with the most angst-ridden and distressed art-makers with dark spots in their souls, and waves of emotions on any given whim—while simultaneously enjoying the freedom, happiness and profound joy of child-like simplicity and faith in a gracious, good God.
I am blessed to have found someone to spill myself to daily. In five days I marry him.
Thank you Jesus Christ…
It is a difficult task to write like a tortured soul as I am sitting on a sofa cozily typing, while my fiancé brings me tea…not to mention choral music wafting in from our bedroom stereo. It is even more difficult to articulate this mysterious inner-longing to be an indescribable human being. Sometimes I want to say profanities just for the hell of it. But I am not an unhappy person. Truly I am happier than I’ve ever been-enjoying the beauty of the earth and its heavenly pleasures—provided by an extravagant lover who is God. Do the feelings of insecurity go away? I have asked for them to go before, but they only seem to become more manageable and less prominent as I produce art and lovely sounds from instruments. By “manageable,” I suppose I mean surrendered to the Father (that’s God).
I would be a better writer if I didn’t live for the things I write for, or, perhaps if I didn’t have the things I’ve always desired. I have a lover now. Desiring romance is, outstandingly, the most frequented topic by artists—whether deliberately stated, or found subtle in the under-tones of music and poetry or paintings. The pursuit of something not yet grasped is what excites the reader or audience or spectator.
Is this why artists get divorced? Is this why the romance of the most romantic Romantics crumbles or darkens or separates the love from the lover?
Is the importance of having words to express more important than having someone to whom those words are shared?
It seems a vicious cycle. The greener grass cycle.
I have an uncanny relation with the most angst-ridden and distressed art-makers with dark spots in their souls, and waves of emotions on any given whim—while simultaneously enjoying the freedom, happiness and profound joy of child-like simplicity and faith in a gracious, good God.
I am blessed to have found someone to spill myself to daily. In five days I marry him.
Thank you Jesus Christ…
9.5.11
For Kayla
Do you recall the feeling of feeling small?
When even the hands of time were smaller than mine?
When the thistles scraped our ankles
...As we ran through the fields behind Panacake's Barn
Do you look back on?
Do you recall the horses, the spotted white one
Was your favorite--and I thought it was a stallion
Can you recall the untamed woods behind our yard
And charting our trails as Lewis and Clark?
I can
When even the hands of time were smaller than mine?
When the thistles scraped our ankles
...As we ran through the fields behind Panacake's Barn
Do you look back on?
Do you recall the horses, the spotted white one
Was your favorite--and I thought it was a stallion
Can you recall the untamed woods behind our yard
And charting our trails as Lewis and Clark?
I can
27.4.11
31.1.11
Friend
When you craned your neck to look for God, you invited me
I always came
When you dove in the depths of unknowns and water-filled craters that looked black and scary, you invited me
I always came
You kept me in the water, I kept you afloat
Our feet were always wet, our hands always dirty
Our hearts clean with the purified air of God's breath
I always came
When you dove in the depths of unknowns and water-filled craters that looked black and scary, you invited me
I always came
You kept me in the water, I kept you afloat
Our feet were always wet, our hands always dirty
Our hearts clean with the purified air of God's breath
18.1.11
Winter
Winter,
Your company is limited to the rusted, dangling, empty tire-swings and the barren branches that hold them.
I'm sorry.
Your company is limited to the rusted, dangling, empty tire-swings and the barren branches that hold them.
I'm sorry.
19.9.10
When You Happen to Me
Nathan Pickles
I Find You
I've heard it's impossible to catch
The in-betweens of a season's lapse
The moment before dawn breaks the sky
The moment before the flowers die
I find you
So easily
I happen upon you and you happen to me
The wind changes and blows unkind
But I'm not quite scared this time
The autumn chill it nips my bones
But I'm unafraid of being alone
'Cause I find you
So easily
I happen upon you when you happen to me
OooO something in your name
And I run to you as quickly as I can
OooO you're my refrain
You're the song I sing, the only muse I have
The only muse I have
People come and friends they go
They leave their baggage on my road
I get tripped up 'cause I miss 'em so
But people come and friends they go
Then I find you
So easily
I happen upon you as you happen to me
My soul is piqued with highs then lows
The ebb, it ebbs, and the flow follows
The wind switches up the way it blows
And I'm stuck in a state of who even knows
I find you
So easily
I happen upon you, and you happen to me
I Find You
I've heard it's impossible to catch
The in-betweens of a season's lapse
The moment before dawn breaks the sky
The moment before the flowers die
I find you
So easily
I happen upon you and you happen to me
The wind changes and blows unkind
But I'm not quite scared this time
The autumn chill it nips my bones
But I'm unafraid of being alone
'Cause I find you
So easily
I happen upon you when you happen to me
OooO something in your name
And I run to you as quickly as I can
OooO you're my refrain
You're the song I sing, the only muse I have
The only muse I have
People come and friends they go
They leave their baggage on my road
I get tripped up 'cause I miss 'em so
But people come and friends they go
Then I find you
So easily
I happen upon you as you happen to me
My soul is piqued with highs then lows
The ebb, it ebbs, and the flow follows
The wind switches up the way it blows
And I'm stuck in a state of who even knows
I find you
So easily
I happen upon you, and you happen to me
8.8.10
what didn't make the cut for Proverbs...
“I cannot serve both God and wealth”
“The mind ain't faithful and the heart's just fickle. I gave 'em a gamble with a dime and a nickle”
“I just want my musical career to sing circles around other people”
“The fear of failing is worse than the failing. The aftermath of emotion is much more manageable than prior to”
“It’s so easy to love when you feel to love, but, it takes quiet strength that can only come from Him to love during times of hurt feelings, jealousy, pride…”
“The mind ain't faithful and the heart's just fickle. I gave 'em a gamble with a dime and a nickle”
“I just want my musical career to sing circles around other people”
“The fear of failing is worse than the failing. The aftermath of emotion is much more manageable than prior to”
“It’s so easy to love when you feel to love, but, it takes quiet strength that can only come from Him to love during times of hurt feelings, jealousy, pride…”
28.6.10
Sister, Your Ears Are Closed
Sister,
I could tell you
Your ears are closed
I could tell you
Your ears are closed
Sister,
I would tell you
Your ears are closed
I would tell you
Your ears are closed
Sister,
This too shall pass
Your ears are closed
This too shall pass
Your ears are closed
Sister,
I know where love is
Your heart is closed
I know where love is
Your heart is closed
Sister,
I know where life is
I know where life is
Sister, I know where life is
I would tell you, Sister
But your ears are closed
I would love you, Sister
Your heart is closed
I would share life with you, Sister.
I could tell you
Your ears are closed
I could tell you
Your ears are closed
Sister,
I would tell you
Your ears are closed
I would tell you
Your ears are closed
Sister,
This too shall pass
Your ears are closed
This too shall pass
Your ears are closed
Sister,
I know where love is
Your heart is closed
I know where love is
Your heart is closed
Sister,
I know where life is
I know where life is
Sister, I know where life is
I would tell you, Sister
But your ears are closed
I would love you, Sister
Your heart is closed
I would share life with you, Sister.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)