I completed this text at the end of art school. It appears in The American Trilogy.
I'm not sure it'll ever appear solo.
It was meant to make sense. Meant to give some meaning to it all.
HERE I WILL POST SENTENCES WHICH ARE A PART OF IT:
The seasonal shift. Ride out winter in a slump.
We had left the crowds behind. Cars and busses grazed us. Horns in the night. Biting air.
...wasn’t really moving between mediums like some wise spirit, but rather falling down the slope of a rocky cliff occasionally hitting the rough jagged outcrops of different mediums. It was always about the falling.
...just snow globe of dust.
I was working on paintings of words. But words were beginning to feel empty, like outlines slipping and floating and falling on the edge of obscurity.
He sweet talked the assembled into listening and communicated the passage in his growling west-coast accent an east-coast tale.
Colour stained in streaks and faded. Stars floated and dropped from the sky.
"...you knew that somewhere, was the point you were trying to get back to.” Chopin was 20 when he composed Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9, No. 2. He noticed a plane overhead, with a vapor trail blooming behind it.
(img of planes)
I felt nothing. I felt the bead of sweat on my forehead. The cellist’s face vanished with a wink. Darkness. Peace.
And maybe we had been on the same jumbled path to spirituality all summer. Winding up at a similar state of gleaned buddhist koans. Contemplating the nothing within. The insurmountable interconnectedness of everything.
Allen making angels on the hardwood floor. And then making angels.