The Winter And The Clear-Eyed Boy

The winter, the clear-eyed boy feels more confident in his abilities, within the human trenches of diversity. How to live, as if there could be a right way, potentially all roads could be the wrong one, or limitless in ones effort. Pouring-out some personal account , just one more practice in the art of epigraph, if not a tombstone . Like all Tombstones, that are made to last, in the end the earth will reclaim.

Human experience, the accounts add up, as the parts of a conversation, a generated commentary, messy, frustrated and often awkward attempt at glory. Building a mountain, one pebble at a time, at the end an old man seats on top of it and looks out at his own end, a refection on the present moment, as all moments in time. The ant hill and microcosm of the mountain tops, at the top of the ant hill the Ant is accretive, the man only forgotten and changed, evolved as his life has taken different turns.

The great landslide, only a pebble falling, or the sky opens and the raindrops come in accumulative songs, prolific productions.

Cold nights, are accumulative, if not prolific in perspective, a landslide of cold, a foundational metaphor of connectivity resources. The weather is recounting the experiences, sustenance and ritual, struggle mirrored in geographical shared sense of community of mind. The pebbles, only ideas, fragments spilled over, histories illustrated at a coffeeshop, the self-portrait depicted by free will.

The bitter battle, a life always too short, and fought with small and uncertain successes, life is shamefully limited, in a dramatically insulting way so often. Ant-hills and Mountain tops, Ants or Humans dependent on the perspective, a point of view and order.

Cold nights or antediluvian survival, a study in rocking life imparted by tides of great Gods, that drop from the sky, transparent, you rise your head for the event, and plunge back into the ensuing landslides.

Art Work to Review : New

 New ART works, always interesting to see something come from nothing. Sometimes there is a surprise in store.  The image tells a story so often, about feeling or just a new view of everyday objects.

 

  The meal, with friends, offering a bird to sing, the conversation is open and alone both warm and
 cool.

Seem like it has been some time for that I have written down if not typed on the keyboard of time.
Many things are happening in my life, as in most lives happen can not be helped.
 No matter what I do, doing is what I be doing, in a matter of word or speech.  The Schedule
of days and hours or moment of time, takes me from here and there, mostly here not so ofter there.
 Art and Writing become a system of thinking, the visual and the visual communication system of words.  Words are visual for to be sure of this as fact.  My last working ART work is more the story,
but no less the visual of expression.

No a titled work, but more a feeling of time a PLAYROOM in days gone by or timeless days, the reflection of space and action of the human mind can open up the Pandora's Box or the window
of imagination.

 I had some update problems that now seems to be ended-
 Hope to be back with new postings- very soon

Stolen

 On August 3, 2013  my computer was stolen as I was working in the local University Library.
 This was an act of planned intent,  the reason was pure and simple, to take advantage of my
 creative work, to steal my work, to stop my work.  I am still working, still online working as
 an activists and researcher. The Artist continues on --- more to come

The Night Angles

The Night Angels are standing like solitary mountains, as hard forms transplanted during the day. They are vanished like dreams, lost within degrees of bias.

The one shipped principles of Angles, like all visions is as Hurried Principles; The thoughts swept like sand in white foam, for our final words are measured in space.

Only the whip-lash of days end, this bring the Dark Angles to the night, to put back the broken pieces that have fell on the grounds of our longings, our possessions, our life.

Thoughts silvery,  shower of hail, words of images seemed to brood in the air,  benevolence of a myriad child, slowly stood in darkness, fish with hook, hook with fish-measured.

Music of our days, frightful as the serpents touch unheeded, faded in the sunset,  watcher of the skies. Theories sprouted in daylight die merged, conquered in bent positions.

Sunshine deep falls from the heart, as butterflies might rest, the Sun's snowdrift starts than ends as the world wavers, the circle of dreams-measured.

The Night Angles seemed like a thing of stone, the bitter tears flows like streams of blood,  tolling of bells upon indefinite stacks of souls.

Fate, the voice rings night as a bugle call, pierced the uproar like arrows,  reflection of a our vile future is now promised vision, carries passengers-measured.

The sun writes in red-gold, as blue blackness lies in our white moon. The terrible past day is afar, our dream gliding behind us as freight.

Ideas as project tattered books, breaks like colorful birds to  air,  strange night skies, as luminary silver pages of a thousand tears, falls to earth as others inspirations.

In Time Night Angels brilliancy harden, as the sky gleamed  stars, than fade to mist, solid air around me, roaring ocean of day is here, on board I have traveled.

The Night Angles crush by the earth into a million pieces, in the silvery morning of broken glass,  sheeted phantoms of day are now being measured.