A flute played at night

Calls all awake.

and draws us towards it.

We all want to gather. there

Like angels downloading themselves

Into mid air, a flute is.

I’m

Too

Old

To chase that sound to her origin tonight

But I can see the journey implied.

Flutes know where the mountain of sound begins

Which we are left to trace our ways towards….

After being interviewed about my art….
I like spheres, space, fish, things with life in motion. People’s eyes are also a favorite! I like energy in colors in motion and active conversations. I like enough representation to imply but not state a story or narrative. I like the essence of things! And each particular name. I like the act and art of seeing itself. To see deeply, through Love’s lens, is to know.
Stuff like that came out in the interview. Love it when people behold your art and ask you questions!
I also like things which are anomalies or not obvious. I like two headed brooms and marbles. I like seeing what else an object can be. Seeing things not just for their function, but for their possible meanings.
I like it when creatures that fly are walking in wet grass—things reveal their true identities when out of their natural context. My art is about stuff like that.
And about some silent music behind and within us all, that holds things together.
In short, I like looking at everything until I love it, and discover its inner name.
Art is like prayer for me. Create until you really see something for what it is.

To the girl that took his photo that day

The girl, her name was Sophia, who took his photo just being himself in a corner of a tiny local bookshops reading Kafka, that photo she took became more interesting to him than all his books and travels. Even the book he was writing about his life, and his next trip to Paris, which was already booked.
He had been seen in his secret place.
She had asked kindly, can I take your photo, you seem like an interesting artist and thinker, or just someone who is being themself.
Of course, he responded, do you want me to just keep being, or to pose or make a representation of myself for you.
Ha, she said, great question, just keep reading.
So he did, and she took several shots, and he gave her his email so she could send it—“If it captures something.” He had said.
It was a year later, when she sent him the image of himself. It was quiet, meditational, and did indeed capture that day of the season of his life.
So, he wrote her back: “Thanks for the photo, I felt seen, but not violated; beheld rather than observed, or voyeured upon.”
You have a kind eye, he added. And keen. And he meant it.
She never wrote him back, but he always knew, that for one day while sitting in a corner of a small bookshop he had been seen by one angel at least. And that was wisdom enough for him to keep reading.
He was fine with never seeing her again, but she had given a gift to him of being seen, and he had her email, if he ever wanted to make contact again.
For he wasn’t sure if he had ever been seen, which in part I suppose was why he was writing his memoir.
He stopped writing it, once he saw the photo. There was no use in trying to capture more than what she had seen that day.
It wasn’t like the Silicon Valley gatherings he had had to write about, or the many festivals he wrote up. No one was “taking” anything from him in her photo. He was just as much, if not more himself having been seen by someone who wanted nothing more than to see.
This must be how God sees us, he thought. That is when he decided to be a photographer and move to Paris.

//
Another Party

He knew he wouldn’t be around for the next party. He had gotten the diagnosis, and this would be it.
He had been, when younger, the life of the party, but this one he was not hosting and it would be his last. He just knew it.
So he wanted the right costume mainly and to make a good entrance and exit.
He decided on gold for his theme. Like the golden years, or the glory of aging.
He got the right tie first, then the gold flecked polka dotted suit.
He ordered it from Atlanta, as the African Americans knew how to step out on the town there.
The shoes he got from Italy, and they added a touch of silver like his hair at that point.
The hat, from Ireland as usual, but this time he got a tall one which looked stately and funky at the same time.
Earlier in the evening, he shaved and tried it all on. Looking in the mirror, he saw his younger self looking back.
He was ready, and just couldn’t bare to take off the outfit.
“I’ll arrive dressed just like this. It suits me just right. It’s wearing me and I’m wearing it, just like I like it to be.”
Just then, he got a call from his friends. The party had been cancelled due to inclement weather. He looked out at the rain. Sure enough, he said, sure enough.
He thought of the opera, or something which would be heightened enough to wear his suit. He knew time was out soon.
Then, he thought to himself, incredibly quietly for him, “I could die in this suit. And surely someone will throw another party.”

The first American in Buzet, Croatia

When I was young, I would get on a train and just go. I didn’t care where really, but I would just buy a ticket to the end of the line, and go.
One time I did this in Croatia.
After many stops and several bribes to continue going to the next station, a group of teenagers got on. I liked them, they liked me. So, they invited me to their village.
It was a beer making village, they said, and I would like it.
Sure enough, that village made beer, but they also had one discotheque.
They invited me out that night, after finding a place near the castle with an old man and his daughter, where I could stay, “for as long as you want!”
I met the old man and his daughter, both erudite, having studied in Zagreb.
They were also happy I was there: “You are the first American in our village, so to us you are exotic.”
I had never been called exotic anywhere, so thought I should play this out.
At the discotheque that night, a group had gathered out front. The lights were typical Eastern European dance club neon blue and red. Something like a brothel, but with strobes and of course disco balls.
The first question they asked me: “Are you more like Tom Cruise or John Travolta?”
Quickly, I responded, “Travolta, but with a bit of Al Pacino and Deniro mixed in; and also Daniel Day Lewis, although of course, he is not American—but no cowboys (even though I was from Texas, I had no cowboy in me at all. I wanted to be real with them.)
After many questions, we drank their local beer-a simple clean slightly citrus pilsner style- and danced, until I was tired and went to my temporary home to sleep the day off.
The next day, they all came to the house and asked if I wanted to help them clean up trash around town? They said the whole community does it each Saturday, are you jewish?
“Not technically.” I responded.
“Ok then you are catholic, let’s get to work!”
Little did I know that the old man’s daughter had alerted the Zagreb press that an American was in town helping pick up trash.
When we started, roaming around the village and the especially the old castle’s grounds, I had the feeling of being part of an extended family, cleaning up a house on a weekend, but then we got into a large open truck and hauled all the trash to this great heap on the edge of town. There, the press had gathered, and my friends said, they want to take a few photos of your hurling trash into our collective heap.
I had never felt so glamorous and yet for hauling trash with new friends.
Sure, so I threw trash off the truck in the direction of the cameras.
The next day, the old man handed me the paper. I was on the front page with a banana peel flung in the air, seeming to be sweating with my bandana on.
American cleans up Croatia.
After translating it to me,his tall dark haired daughter, asked me if I liked the article?
I like the photo, but it makes me a bit too Tom Cruise.
I didn’t really come here to clean things up, but more to dance with you all like John Travolta.
“I thought all Americans were or wanted to be famous.” She said.
“No, some of us just want to wander making new friends on the frontier, or buy train tickets to anywhere just for the adventure along the way.”
“Oh, so you are more like John Wayne, I see-but you also like to dance.”

Each day, in the morning, i walk out before walking my dog and raise my arms and hands up to the sky and say thanks for today, here we are! And i try to include everyone i love and know.

It has started to worry my neighbors, but i still do it! Finding The Day in today still matters to me.

“This is the Day that God has made, i will rejoice and be glad in it!” Was my grandmother’s mantra. I still do it.

I’m sure they think i’m doing morning stretches or yoga, but who cares.

Like David dancing half naked before the Ark of Presence, i will continue my morning stretches towards the sky and saying Yes!

Why not?! It seems to make the birds and my homeless friends, who camp nearby happy, if not my neighbors.

Alas, judgement is God’s not mine. So, I’ll keep doing my morning prayers!

We all need heroes along the way, to keep us wanting to be our real selves!

My first hero I can remember, outside of Jesus
Was that French wire walking artist who walked between the world trade towers-
Prophetic stunts fascinate me. Jeremiah’s way has always been mine-
Go bury your underwear, God told Jeremiah-he knew symbolic stunts!
Then there was Ghandi and Martin Buber (my favorite practical jewish mystic!), my father, my mother, all the abstract artist who tried to paint essence
(And Chagall and Paul Klee for some reason who both made sense to my heart; one for recovering the spirituality in their religious tradition; the other for remaining child like-as that is surely the only way to enter into the Kingdom!)
Trying to paint essential essence of life matters; then there was my art mentor and friend- who taught me to see art all around me- a seeing jew
From Argentina; then the fantasy writer from long ago, then….well the list goes on!
When you see someone really being themselves, it’s hard to ignore.
It makes you want to do the same, or figure out how they did it. True identity is contagious.
In the end, they were all friends with Jesus,
So I re-picked Him as my arch-hero.
It matters who we try to emulate.
Pick your heroes well friends!
We become what we stare at!
Or as the prophet Daniel put it better:
“Fix your gaze to gain understanding.”
It matters where our inner gaze is aimed!

My first spiritual experience was ecstatic. On Pilot mountain (a local “high” place where I’m from), and then again in the church pew, I was possessed.
Then I had to think about it all for many years.
After thinking, I went with what I knew.
God entered me that hour, as I’m sure He was already there.
But that hour, I knew it. So that was my given in life.
The rest has been friendship-a bit outside
Of religion and culture, but somewhere inside
Of art and my heart.

//

We all need heroes along the way, to keep us wanting to be our real selves!

My first hero I can remember outside of Jesus
Was that French artist who walked between the world trade towers-
Prophetic stunts fascinate me. Jeremiah’s way has always been mine-
Go bury your underwear, God told Jeremiah-he knew symbolic stunts!
Then there was Ghandi, my father, my mother, all the abstract artist
(And Chagall and Paul Klee for some reason who both made sense to my heart; one for recovering the spirituality in their religious tradition; the other for remaining child like-as that is surely the only way to enter into the Kingdom!)
Trying to paint essential essence, then was my art mentor and friend- a jew
From Argentina; then the fantasy writer from long ago, then….
In the end, they were all friends with Jesus,
So I re-picked Him as my hero.

Just before sleep I had a dream
I was real friends with my wife
And kicking red rubber kicking balls
Up to angels to play with.
My circle of saint friends were all there
And we were laughing at life together.
That was a good pre-sleep dream.
Plus, all my friends on earth who have died
Were also wanting to play kick ball with us.
I hope this was a true dream. It felt like it.

When caged feeling
I make art. So it never ends
My art is everywhere, under every bridge
And in every bathroom, I can place it.
My wife complains, but this is simple survival for me.
When death, war and sickness comes, I make art
To offer hope, say thanks for existence, I make art
As my prayer of praise for the gift of being here.
And it won’t stop even when I’m dead, I will be making art
As I cross over. It may be good or bad art, but I will be making it.
For, how can I keep from singing.

Having once been possessed
This urban garden on this ghetto corner where homeless naturally are drawn
And birds, and fruit trees—is enough to say thanks over and over daily.
Thanks becomes one’s only thought
And turns out to dispel all that is not in life.
Love displaces all that is not loving.
Love changes the atmosphere, or rather
Makes it what it really is—more itself.
Yes, Love makes things more themselves,
Therefore more named and beautiful.
For God is Love, as they all said in different ways.
Our response to love is thanks. And the birds
And homeless know it when they see it.

Saying yes to being here:

It is enough to say yes daily
I am here, thanks. When we do,
The birds gather in our trees and sing
Each in their own names.
And everyone becomes a new friend.
Every creature newly named by Love.

Take walks, read poetry listen to the birds
Be. That is Sunday. There is nothing left to do today
But be. That is all. Thanks.

Love is a direction not a state.
Love is a way not a goal or ideal.
When one loves, one is leaning in the Right Direction
To make knowing more possible

With all my circle of saints above
I sit here, on this day, in this room
In thanks. Hearing all our voices being themselves together
All praising in their unique cadences and tones.

On naming things….
Everything has a name
Which does not divide it
But makes it whole. Whispered by Love,
That name is all we are.
Says the Father of all names.

On staying alive:

All that is alive inside is welcomed here
My urban garden monastery is open for that
Business twenty four seven. And the birds
And homeless know it, and father naturally
To what is living. And the dead come close
To resurrect. And I have become that
Urban monastery on this corner, for all who pass by!

This is to become local
To be so deeply in life and love
That birds and homeless gather
And children wave and smile
As they pass by my urban monastery
On this ghetto corner. In me,
Love has been localized, shining right here
And drowning all that is alive
Into the arms of her urban garden.

Know Him in planting trees
Know Him in watching breeze pass through leaves
Know him in building
Know him in demolition
Know him in singing
Know him in silence
Know him in words
Know him in what is not written
Or space between words—Ma.
Know him in positive and negative space
Whether in palaces or prisons—know Him.
Know him in pleasure
Know him in pain
Know him in sunshine
Know him in rain
Just know him.
Know him in health
Know him in sickness
Know him in wealth
Know him in poverty.
Just know Him.