Friday, July 16, 2010

cycles of golden wheat, fields in decay, Sun.

II.  how we relive the furious energies of history—we are accumulations of earth’s narrative energies. . . . God’s transformative organic state, biomorphic & self-celebrating.

Adrenalin & Thrust.

III. running painting cooking working (as prayer).

weds juillet quatorze—bastille day. 10 am. kyote rests for the moment. a thunderstorm harvests the silence of the morning, tearing clouds with bass throbs, slinging rain against window pane where a spider dances in rain-jerked web. coffee dark as the clouds.

Brahm’s second string quartet, rich and varied.  my current wet drawing series: Pennsylvania landscapes. beethoven’s late fugue quartet. natl geographic road atlas paintings. white and black acrylics with charcoal vine, the dusty drags into wet pigment.  (thoughts of baselitz, keifer, richter.)  oil sticks on paper, yellowing under linseed oil.

made my first sauce with (mostly) homegrown ingredients. a ragu of tomato, basil, oregano, all from my garden. . . . I then added store-bought garlic and spinach, simmered the ragu with rigatoni, pan-sauteed some organic chicken breasts. kyote and kas and I ate luxuriously with some hot black tea and iced water; very gratifying.

friday 11h39am. 6 mile run this morning. hot but fluid, observational and grateful, rather than the recent dread and agony of the work of running. . . . felt good and strong and even braced by the heat, with a cool breeze pouring salty from the ocean.  a massive hawk landed, posed on a nearby branch; a salamander with steel skin skittered. 
thought of philistines, the poetry of a run, the old testament warning against the philistines, where science overwhelms art and natural wonder with systematic efforts to reverse-engineer god. . . . to simply allow the abstract of a thing, its splendor and art, neither unimpeded nor distorted by theory and analysis—but instinct/ impulse appreciation of a canvas or a poetic transformation. to celebrate the organic with rituals of the spontaneous. reckless anarchy of awe.  to love, briefly.

I know my ponderings are paradoxical, self-contradictory, and often completely abstract. but there again, we live in a time in which an ocean--at least the gulf of mexico—is on fire. it is an age of gluttonous rhetoric and imploding paradox and torn wings. it is an age of the initial stages of love-lust: adrenalin and thrust. sturm und drang. it is the politician's language and industry's coaled breath.  loss and dismemberment of memory, derangement of the continuum, of history's narrative, of Whole Life, of Holy Life.  we are the incompletes, children of godel, vacant masks.  gouged galleries, recursive and vague.

god is an ephemeral orchestra of which I am a distinct voice. . . . . a holy joker, an empty vessel or a mute epiphany. the sounds of shoes kicking into sun, charcoal against cotton duck, psalms & ohms. laughter.

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