In winter

the few trees

With leaves left

Get to hold the whole sound

Of wind for us all.

How privileged

They are

And burdened

To chime well.

All told
The bridge in Paris
The adverted suicide
The voice which said
Check you out
The art house of the old mystic Jew
The steeples and women
The cars, particular roads, the church pews
And poetry of rest stops
Nights with the circus on the road wherever
The books which kept gathering around
The collections of maps, and bird books
And sighs, defined him

stacked in the trunks of old cars.
His life was a timely text of encouragement
Written by an unseen hand
That got it written, despite him
His life was mowed in the grass of global parks
He was street art
But written with a holy quill peacock feather.
He obviously heard birds and angels as a kid
And the rest is history.
In his dreams he wore a
Suit of chimes
And a jacket made of
Disco ball.
He reflected
More than projected.
All told,
He was ok
With that
By the end.
And an eagle
Landed nearby
When he died
No-one knew why.

And a rainbow trout jumped out the water just then.

A few short thoughts on finding the right spaces for the right weight of activity

//
On finding the place from which we write:

Writing is a denser weightier space than most, and requires some entry and exit time, strategy and space around it. It’s a deep dive into the self and back again. To fairy land we go when we write, and the way there and back each have their own unique challenges.
So one must make room around both ends—the ascension which is often slow, and the descent which is often more rapid both require their own types of wisdom.
If one ascends too quickly, dizziness may occur.
If one descends to fast, as in scuba diving, pressure occurs as you re-enter the daily normal taking out the trash world.
Over the years, my ascents have typically been better than my descents into that “other” space which is always with us, but which we still must intentionally visit.
At night, in dream we enter and exit more weightlessly. But during the day, we must hike with intention. Sing those old ascension songs as they were going up to Jerusalem.
You notice there aren’t many descencion songs in the book. Wonder why they weren’t singing as they left?
Well it’s hard to leave once you’re there. And I’m not sure we ever do leave Jerusalem really, nor that place from which we write.

//
Thoughts on making room to pray or write.
Writing like prayer requires enough space to step slightly outside of time. And both require room to enter the imagination, so we can see what we are praying or writing about. If you are just writing down thoughts or ideas, you can do so in a grocery store parking lot.
But if you are really praying or writing, it’s a bit dangerous to pray or write and drive.
In my father’s church, they used to actually have prayer rooms. And in life, these are also needed. Writing is similar.
You need uninterrupted spaces to find what you are really thinking in that deeper strata of self.
The inner life takes room to cultivate. And some of the things I see when praying or writing, I wouldn’t want to see in a parking lot. Some of those wild dragons might cause an accident.

//
I try to arrange my activities based on their weight. Counseling a friend weighs more than, watching tv. Calling my mom, weighs more than writing a text to my landlord. Etcetera.
Each activity in life has a certain density. Wisdom gives each the space each needs.

//

Rooms where our metaphors grow:

I never quite trust the permanence of my art studios, as I have had so many throughout the years all over the place.
They are more like portable tabernacles to me, with important metaphors in them. Rooms made of symbol! Old watches, half finished paintings, antique lamps, poster art from the 40’s, speakers which glow, old parts of pianos, and way too many cameras, old type writers, radios, and every type of recording device ever made (which I’ve collected since childhood)….
But, every season of my life, I always had to have an art room! A place to just let things be in process. A place to collect my metaphors and let them just be.
Perhaps there is an intrinsic ellipses in all art studios. A, to be continued, implied in them.
Regardless, it’s nice to have a studio to dream out loud in, and to allow room for them to inform your next metaphors in life.
I seem to need rooms which float like a Chagall painting, or may suddenly disappear and reappear elsewhere. It’s one of my own metaphors I suppose.
We create, therefore we are…but we need rooms where things are just sitting and waiting to see what they are….
I have all shapes and sizes over the years. Huge warehouse spaces, and small ones like now. Ones in old abandoned schools, and ones in church balconies. I wish I could collage them all together, but many have sense disappeared. Or moved on…..still the metaphor of art studio or gallery house has been permanent in my life. A space for things to just be, wait, be formed and become….like me.

Rooms where our metaphors grow:

I never quite trust the permanence of my art studios, as I have had so many throughout the years all over the place.
They are more like portable tabernacles to me, with important metaphors in them. Rooms made of symbol! Old watches, half finished paintings, antique lamps, poster art from the 40’s, speakers which glow, old parts of pianos, and way too many cameras, old type writers, radios, and every type of recording device ever made (which I’ve collected since childhood)….
But, every season of my life, I always had to have an art room! A place to just let things be in process. A place to collect my metaphors and let them just be.
Perhaps there is an intrinsic ellipses in all art studios. A, to be continued, implied in them.
Regardless, it’s nice to have a studio to dream out loud in, and to allow room for them to inform your next metaphors in life.
I seem to need rooms which float like a Chagall painting, or may suddenly disappear and reappear elsewhere. It’s one of my own metaphors I suppose.
We create, therefore we are…but we need rooms where things are just sitting and waiting to see what they are….
I have all shapes and sizes over the years. Huge warehouse spaces, and small ones like now. Ones in old abandoned schools, and ones in church balconies. I wish I could collage them all together, but many have sense disappeared. Or moved on…..still the metaphor of art studio or gallery house has been permanent in my life. A space for things to just be, wait, be formed and become….like me.

Unlike Plato, I’m a big fan of artist being welcomed into the ideal city! He thought that art imparts ideas, and so unless the artists had a noble or good ethical idea, it would corrupt people with a distortion. He was right that symbolic language imparts things directly into the imagination and heart.

Art doesn’t just teach ethics, it also beautifies otherwise only functional spaces. It facilitates a conversation between design and function, which feels truer to life, at least to me.
Art is not meant to be propaganda or an advertisement for an idea, it’s meant to be an invitation to something closer to how life should be and already is, if we see well. To behold well is to heal, as the best have said. Art teaches us to behold more truly, or closer to what things look like through a lens of Love.

When art serves commerce it’s purpose dies or is corrupted. When art serves politics it becomes a bumper sticker. But when a person expresses symbolically…

Beauty helps dignify neighborhoods and my neighbors. Glad that our airport here spends money having monthly installations by local and international artist. People also need art in transit. It helps us be and treat one another more as “thou” than “it”, as Martin Buber put it. The most recent installation at Austin airport, which mimics a gate, and invites the waiter to go anywhere imaginable including outer space, is a nice metaphor to add to a place of exits and entrances. Makes you aware of the airport as metaphor. Glad this city is still creative, even though it has grown so fast that we pray it can still remember its roots, and that it has always been a creative haven for those who needed a safe studio to make the art of their lives in!

Historically the church also used art as propaganda. What a gross misuse of creativity, to slur the image of God.

Reading a great book on the death of certain narratives in art history, so that art itself has to be re-contextualized. I would suggest it be re-contextualized inside of identity—what it means to be human. We create, therefore we are. Or, we are, therefore we create.
Why do we look at art? Why even more so, do we make it?

I disagree with Plato that artist are not also philosophers. That they don’t have a higher intelligence because they only mimic based on inspiration. Although I do make my best art when inspired, I also consider what is “channeling” through me. I’m not possessed, I believe in Jesus as God, and allow Him to teach and direct my art through His Holy Spirit.

That is not an ecstatic knowing, but rather it includes reason, without idolizing it.
Plato divided us into reason, spirit (emotions) and appetites (desires). And suggested that reason is meant to rule the three. But there is always Another Ruler. The One Jesus who rules over the whole soul of phyche. And I would add imagination to the human makeup.

We think, we feel, we express. And all three are ruled by Christ, once we are aware of His Presence.

My take on Paul Klee’s life’s work, and why I like his paintings still!

Klee’s work invites the viewer into his warm emotions towards color and his subject. And let’s there be just “enough” realism or representation to let us in, but once in, we are overcome by color itself. He doesn’t exclude us as some both expressionist and abstract artists do.

Instead, he uses the abstraction and the emotions of color, to include us in his warmth for and towards the world. How he sees is part of the meaning of his art, and he doesn’t lord it over his viewer, but offers it like an old man offers you their reading glasses to help you see more clearly, or maybe a bit differently.

He never just copies what is “out there”, like the Greeks and Romans, or just teaches ethics which was the Greek idea of art’s role, but invites us to encounter it with him, and through his heart’s eyes. Much as Van Gogh did. And others of the post-impressionist.

Art not as imitation or mimetic (Greek) or an objective social realism, but also not so subjective, that you can’t relate. I also like his combination of love of color with child like naïveté! It’s like he blended color theory, cubism with child like primitivism—lots like Chagall, my favorite!

And what comes out is almost like illustrations to a children’s book! Love it, again, after re-sitting with the great Swiss artist, Paul Klee today!

Also, his subtext (or implied, “message”) is not, look how talented I am, as I often feel with Picasso. It is rather, an invitation to look at the world through his kind color loving eyes.

My “take away” is it made we want to make art, and see the world in a kinder way! That made me happy today!

Lastly, he’s not escapist, but had more of a redemptive vision of life, even though he had been through war and lost friends, he still believed in the warmth of colors to heal our vision of things. Nice borrowing his reading glasses today!

It was twilight again and I was cleaning out my parents house.
In the dark garage was my father’s old convertible-an eggshell blue MG 1973-whose top was always down.
But I won’t clean that space today-too dusty I’m sure-not yet. I haven’t found the keys anyway.
I’ll play the records as I clean. I’ll catalogue which ones have scratches and exactly where in each song. That’s a good start.
My parents, at least they weren’t horders. That would be worse. Plus my boss said have the week off, until you feel success. Odd use of that word, I thought. How can one do this successfully anyway.
Well, there won’t be any alcohol, so I’ll have her bring some in the evening. Maybe we could sit on the porch and have a hot toddy, and listen to the least scratched albums…
But it’s probably all that big band crap or even tuba music. Still, I may find some jazz in the stacks somewhere, I pray.
What’s the right music to start the day? I’ll play mom’s favorite from that blind Italian jew. Yeah, that will set the tone. There’s implied hope at least in the fact that a blind man can sing like that!
The needle drops electric level releases the weight of the songs. And that tiny blue white gold light of glowing tubes glows again The old metal arm, with that glow play light illuminates the room. All those years, I never dared do anything but listen. Now I’m the DJ. It’s up to me to play these records, to see them through to the next generation or even eternity.
Twilight passes into that glow. And maybe we never know, what dust the sun must pass through to create such glory.
Maybe that’s why he always kept the top off that convertible . Fuck it, I think I’ll start in the garage after all.
Now, where are those keys.

I like bees, and creatures in general. Tiny and huge, big and small, minuscule and all-I learn from them all. And as my next door neighbor has a bee hive house. I decided to write a quick poem about my experience of the bees and birds coming in and out of our daily life, and what metaphors they always remind me of: bees know community, hawks solitude and hummingbirds know color theory, was my quick observation today, as I listened through creatures….

The kingdom of bees exist

Beside my house.

My next door neighbor’s painted white bee hive haven house

Welcomes them in-

With perfect bee-shaped carved openings-

Keeps em coming and going, alight all day-buzzing away, just being bees…

Climbing on top of one another to do what they already are like mini trees.

No doorbells, just a noisy but contained invitation, for their slow withdrawing of wings,

Which causes an air-stirred irritation/ invitation, each time they enter in again, like a single violin string in wind.

Then, again today, two

Neon green chested

Hummingbirds suddenly join in that buzzing chorus, out of sheer

Curiosity I presume. They fly nearly into getting caught in my long wet hair

In search of color and wonder

At the constant communion of those bees.

Or maybe, the color yellow itself confuses them

As glory blinds our eyes at certain points of day.

A Cooper’s hawk overhead, in its way,

Can wait all day, hovering in circles, for one swoop at a Vole or mouse by dusk.

But in my house, the tiny generations of bees beside me

Making their honey as a by-product of just being

Makes the land around me seem more yellow

And communal today.

I must get out and be near friends!

This gives me room to consider

How close to be

To things to know them well-like hummingbirds know color

Or bees one another’s potential honey,

As the first kibbutz, they must be,

In the kingdom of bees.

So are we. The one to come,

Which is somehow here already

Today.

The kingdom of bees exist
Beside my house.
My next door neighbor’s painted white bee hive house-
With perfect bee shaped openings-
Keeps em coming and going all day-buzzing away, just being bees…
No doorbells, just a noisy but contained, withdrawing of wings,
Which causes an air-stir each time they enter. Today, two
Neon green chested
Hummingbirds suddenly join in, out of sheer
Curiosity I presume. They fly nearly into getting caught in my hair
In search of color and wonder
At the constant communion of those bees. Or maybe, yellow itself confuses them
As glory blinds our eyes at certain points of day.
A Cooper’s hawk overhead, in its way,
Can wait all day, hovering in circles, for one swoop at a Vole or mouse by dusk.
But in my house, the tiny generations of bees beside me
Making their honey as a by-product of being
Makes the land around me feel yellow
And communal today. I must get out and be near friends!
And gives me room to consider
How close to be
To things to know them well-like hummingbirds know color
Or bees one another
They the first kibbutz, they must be,
In the kingdom of bees.

Studying the Jewish teacher from the 1300’s Ramban (love how they all got nicknames!) better known as Maimonodes today.
Real name Nahmanides! Wow, I knew he translated Torah and Talmud (all 63 volumes of it!), but didn’t know he made Aliyah or pilgrimage to Jerusalem found her in shambles because of those Crusaders (who mainly built fortresses, but weren’t great at gardening or humor or kind to jews-alas not the best in christian history, and they didn’t even made good beer!), so he built a synagogue and yeshiva or learning center, in Jerusalem that is still in use today!
Wow, you never know what people did, til you read their stories!
Of course, some orthodox didn’t like him, as he was a bit of a Philo (early second temple philosopher who translated lots of jewish thinking into greek categories of thought!) character, being familiar with secular philosophies, and translating some religious ideas into those categories (hello St Paul!).
But Ramdan did write the 13 principles which are still in use today by most jews—and include resurrection and expectancy for a messiah and messianic age. For those Christians who like that idea! Ok, this fellow had a thought or two in his life. Honor your parents as the book tells us! The only narcissistic commandment—if you do so, it will go well with you! And you’ll live long and prosper!
And he was sepharic (western Iberian and those great Portuguese Jews who when Columbus was sailing the ocean blue, got kicked out of their countries! Many of whom moved to The Land, and started new streams of judaism including mysticism!), which is ironic given the historical tensions between Sephardic and Ashkenazic Jews, which still occurs! Anyway, fun studying these high impact fellows today!