7/2009

Watercolor on canvas 30”X40”

 

Darling I’m moving more

Into the real

The wind moved me today

And did not blow right through me

I realized a leaf

My arms grew strong

I could sense the smell of you

Through all these bifurcations of me

The colors like pink and ocean aqua

 

I think maybe there are various forms

Various levels of being

This morning I woke up

And the world looked the same

Only it was more of the world

Then I could touch before

With just the dust

Of my memory

 

And so I use these hands

To gather dirt

And water

And I’m growing flowers

For you

Right out of my emptied head

 

And I look for you now

Because I want to perceive

You

seeing me

for the first time

 

 

Have you ever stood outside

At night in the mist

Looked up at the darkened sky

Felt the cool air on your face

And your lips silently form the words

I love you

 

And you want those words

To reverberate through all

The dark matter

To vibrate in the energy fields

The brown grass

Where you lay down

To imagine clouds drifting through the blue

 

You want those words to travel

On those imagined clouds

And if you should be in the mist of them

You’ll feel those words

And the magic is

I feel them too

This morning I was chatting with a healer/artist friend from Washington state about the ills of our global monetary economy. Well yeah, but it was a sick system before the crash too cuz it undervalues the core economy. I mean what gives with the fact that I get paid 5 times more for sitting in an office managing others to manage software programs, (meanwhile spending my time writing poetry, making connections and thinking about the painting I'll work on tonight), then my disabled son's aide makes!
Whew, I'm out of breath! Lol!
Well I happen to think the work I'm doing is important, cuz the other stuff I'm not paid to do is feeding into the core economy. Hey that's what art and poetry and making connections is about in my mind anyway. (Yes it's way right side but making a momentary excursion to the left, to the left)
 It's intended for healing, it's intended to connect us into what really matters and collecting green stuff ain't it! 
I mean DUH!
Right now a part of the art world is plugged into the monetary economy but I believe a larger part is not. All you have to do is spend 5 minutes on the internet and find all kinds of "free" art, music, writing. My vision is that art is a gateway between the monetary and core economy.

So what would happen if everyone pulled their content down from the internet for a single day?

What would happen to our world if the payment for art had to be made as time into the core economy?
"IBM you want my poem/ K let me get out my calculator (my 10 fingers).
That'll be 5 hours into the time bank TY!"

So I'll be the first convert and sell my artwork for time into the core economy.

Here's some more info.

Timebanks


A word to my fellow artists. Being paid money for art is not validating in fact it's a invalidation because art has no price. If it did have a price, the price would be your life. Besides the Art was never yours anyway, only the work was and that is time.

Blessings

Doug

6/2009 India Ink, Bee’s wax and pigment on clayboard panels

24”X36” (24X18” each panel)

 

I remember the shoes

I remember how she spoke to me then

The vast glass walls

The dirt floors

The surreal ash,

Wheels and sprockets,

clock parts,

pages scattered on the Tuesday streets

 

 

I remember the teddy bear

With the stuffing on the outside

The button eyes lost in the sheets

The pee stains smell

And the breasts not offered

In the age of Rational Mind

 

Children drew pictures

Of twin candles burning

As if it were our second birthday

A second age

A second coming

An age of timelessness

 

And the Balinese

Walked into the guns of white men,

We walk into the fire

Of shadow

Of clarity in the deep pool

Of Magical Mind

 

I think of the shattered glass,

A looking glass

Beauty created by accident

Some careless accomplice,

Creates with the artist.

 

And they hid from God

Because they where ashamed

Of their nakedness

And we will strip her bare

Because we are not ashamed anymore

 

Deep in a sealed wooden boat

The woman who abandoned the white BWM

In the garage below

Sails into the

Worlds beyond

The knowledge of light and dark

White doves descend

Into her deep pool of longing

 

 

And in this,

The last world

a woman

Gives birth

Watercolor on Canvas 24X36"


It's at some point
just behind the right shoulder
a place where we are taught
to fix attention
and there it coalesces.

Last night it shifted
and I flew out of the
third floor window,
saw my daughter
and her friend
entering the back door
below
I stood on the wall outside
watching
like a clown
doing some stupid stunt,
a trick,
because everyone knows
I can't really
walk on walls
but somehow I
think I could
imagine swimming
in warm living water
under the night wire
the spotlights passing
overhead
the illicit wet flowing
over new white skin
like liquid breath
caresses.

I'm thinking that maybe
this shifting is what
we did before we
fell off of the wall
before all of the king's horses
before all of the king's men
made
this assembly
that maybe I should
just
fall again
like maybe it's better
to be be broken
and shifting the dream
then fixed
and steel.
Is this real?

She seems pensive and the light is suggestive of late afternoon,
dusk,
and the lady in the window is still in her pajamas
like she is house bound.
A feeling like a child being punished by being sent to her room,
looking out of the window
wishing for the freedom to be outside playing
with friends
but instead alone here to contemplate
being alone and rejected.

If I were looking in from the outside
would I see a mannequin,
something made from plastic,
slightly used,
slight scratches on the body
paint, pink plastic flesh,
places,
where the careless striped her bare
too quickly,
hurling her rudely,
carelessly,
to the bottomless floor.
And now she is surplus,
thrown up on a website for the used
for the old,
offered at a discount.

I might,

and I might imagine
that blood still moved
behind the frozen Mona Lisa smile,
might imagine
that there is still warmth within
that slightly used,
slightly worn,
and plastic exterior.

I have seen that phenomenal woman through a night window and yes she is both tired and beautiful and I can be both her and that man last November walking in the rain. It was a Saturday and the kitchen lights were on, people were in the living room. She was wearing red, standing in the doorway of amber dinning room light. It was like sneaking into a drive-in movie and while it was so clear and you could see their lips move, still you could never hear what they say and yet I could tell it was a polite conversation, one held in a kitchen in formal wear. And in the upstairs, in those private spaces in this mansion on the corner of Wave and Pilacitos she dances alone, the skin screaming release from it’s cottony enclosure, sometimes staccato, sometimes a sort of flow, sometimes barely moving at all, like the fluttering of closed eyes, like that bending forward, head down crown rudely pressing through, like a waterfall, a thin membrane between this and the many worlds where beauty brushes silently passed the open window, Saturday night scents of stale beer and Lysol drifting through.

I feel my second opening into the colors
that white silk again
the way that slips down
a slight hide from my eyes

illuminated
where my fingers explore
the pink, the tropical moist
that intoxication of soft sea life jungle
flower scent rising
a rising tide washing away
the wheels within the wheels within the wheels
turning over and over again
to face me
where all our worlds whirl into white hot stars

I like to be silly and fun and young with you, hey I’m 16 and you know what that means!

A bean bag chair in my room those hot wet kisses while my mother is out, the first sneaking through the windows of morning to touch that center where it hurts, like strawberry fields, like that strawberry scent you used to wear when the musk of our own flesh was enough to cut the sweetness of our childhood dreams.

3AM and the buzz of overhead wires in the woods. We tried like mad men to reach the stars climbing those metal ladders on the rusty electricity of time,

falling into that open

that love

Those vast desert roads of dry, the chain link fences winded with beer cans and the wicker death of plant life replicating on the edge of it all,

Hoping for a rain

Drenching something after us.

 

Yes I am the on the edge

Can you fly?

 

There is an opening

In the white ceiling

Of a lonely house in a desert canyon

Do you see it?

Evaporate into tears

Of wishes

And embrace the harsh and the awkward

All the unloved stones of grey

Our tears create the pearls

Chaco Canyon Night Light
19"X25"
India Ink, Bee's Wax and Pigment on folded paper

I dreamed of pink desert highways,
night sweat
windows open and the
fan making airplane
noise,
with a night light on
imagined the red glowing eyes
of devils
with whip tails and dark leather wings
cowboys with white hats,
white horses,
night lights
stars
and the moneychangers
are thrown out
and the burnt bones
of the dry rainmaker
is thrown into the kiva
where the night light is,
where tears are too precious to rain,
where the stone people
are fired by the sun
where they fall
crashing in giant
night noise
like god fell
from a hot
summer nights bed
imagining that
he was just a boy
with a night light on.