A solitary lake shallow on the edges…deep and vast at the belly of the beast?
A keeper of few within her soul’s home?
A fractured window omitting promises of hope peppered with disdain.
The owner of a little circle as close knit…
as a pair of Grandma’s macrame Christmas sleepers!
What is a poet? An unhappy man (woman) who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ – that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.
Great art comes from pain and suffering. Thus, the near starvation, struggling artist. Writers, painters, poets…Our art reflects those with who we live and love. Both kindness and vice.
The need of continuum? Art shall never be beaten by affliction. There will always be another Artist to carry on.
For “Hauling” The Currier Museum commissioned over 100 feet of wall drawings. The exhibition also includes two large-scale works on paper and a 52-foot-long scroll drawing animated by a kinetic sculpture. Curated by Samantha Cataldo, this show is a collaboration with other artists, craftspeople, historians, and New Hampshire citizens. Hauling is inspired by the history of the Manchester region and its people, emphasizing labor and collaboration.
In awe, as a writer, poet, thinker, depth diver…I wonder…
‘How did we get here?’
Some of us so far in the minority. It takes a ladder to stand up to the wind. Faith and persistence must not wane. For as certain as, one open door appears ahead of us. The door shutting behind…never closes completely.
Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death–ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.
Today, I found a middle aged…pimple! And, all manners of imagination…soon followed!
“Self-esteem is for sissies. Accept that you’re a pimple and try to keep a lively sense of humor about it. That way lies grace – and maybe even glory.”
“Well, Daddy, I used to believe that artists went crazy in the process of creating the beautiful works of art that kept society sane. Nowadays, though, artists make intentionally ugly art that’s only supposed to reflect society rather than inspire it. So I guess we’re all loony together now, loony rats in the shithouse of commercialism.”