SPIRE, INSPIRED
Walking the desert, north of the Apache lands, Arizona Out in the scrabble, the high light of the desert highlands -- the cactus plains, I thought about the ancient ways, the long walk. These journeys -- seeing the Navajo, out in the middle of nowhere -- I recall their figures, simmering in the mirage heat. Walking -- wherefrom? Wither to? It reminds of of other journeys -- traveling the roads round Kailash in Tibet, where pilgrims wander the sacred ways in absolution, walking -- and...
LOVE BUILDING | BUILDING LOVE
I'M STANDING; BUILDING. AND THINKING. I'm standing before a building -- it's uptown, off Central Park; it's not a beautiful day, and I'm heading to a meeting. I'm late -- in the striding fury of trying to put too many meetings in a day. In the beginnings of that time in the city, it's tiring -- moving from Seattle into NYC pace. Seattle runs half time, to NYC time. Getting to NYC, it takes a day to roll with the new schedule. All ways on. But as I round the corner, I can see LOVE and I recall...
THE SWIRLING PATH
WITH THE TRACERY OF FINGER STROKE I'm drawing on light, the smooth sheen of glass -- pouring the blackest, aged India Ink, some decades old -- a collection of bottles from the past. And that spreads a pool of raven spatters, swirled in a whorl with my fingers, as tools -- drafting the spin of tornados. From there, the heat of the glass surface dries the pigment, as the powders combine to outline the center of the storm. But in the center of any stormway, there is always the path out, every...
THE LIGHT BEHIND THE EYES
SEEING YOU, MOONLIT I think of you, with the light behind your eyes, the luminous gaze of meaning -- that which lies beneath, that which comes from within. I think of you, the being that you are, builder and maker of dreams, worker in the other worlds traveler in that -- seldom seen. I think of you, the moon lit, gatherer of the wondrous, that story which might be told in the volution, the spinning out -- new realms. I think of you, as I watch the movement of the moon, I look back the house,...
FREE
I contemplate the idea of free. I'd written a piece on that -- working with Chris Anderson (Wired), the notion of free as an enticement to relationship development. I designed the cover to that issue: Free! Be free and show freely to your world -- but to his thinking, the concept of free was more so to offering things for free to begin connection with relationships. If you start off with nothing, then use that as the foundation, making connections with people, then you'll come to a new level...
The Tower of Babel
approaching the corridors of power, the mysteries of the quest... Sent from my GirviPhone
ACTION
SOMETIMES, THE DRIVE FORTH OVERWHELMS THE SEEING. Over the last couple of weeks, the idea of doing anything but working has been far from my mind. People have commented -- "where is he?" Just working. Acting. Hard, round the proverbial clock, trying to meet a convergent storm of projects, aligning at just the right instant -- the vortex, perfected. That idea of active -- the act of moving, has some interesting side bars, reaching back. The bridge to the present is merely "a thing done" which...
THE CONCEPT OF NONESS
I was listening to someone, telling me "no." I watched, as they held their finger up, wagging it -- like a little, defining ruler, ready to smack me on the head. And I realized that the first inclination, in considering that word, was -- "what?" Why would that be "no?" Better still, and faster -- it's less about the no-ness -- the declaration -- and more about the idea of bridling against the concept of restriction. What I realized is that when someone tells me no, the immediate response is --...
THE HEART OF BULLETS
WALKING THE DESERT I came to a place of bullets, by the thousands -- some, to casings -- others, to spent bullet shells of the brass made. These lie in the sun like golden teeth -- knocked out, scumbled in the sand, fragmented and dusted with other litter -- charcoal, gun-powdered dust, the black of fused nitro, scented with metallic tinges -- a tongue of burned remarks. All in all, the masculine ground of things spent -- mostly, to my take, wastefully. Where, the bullseye? Where, the...
THE CRANK OF WATER
Being out on the opening plain, in the bold light(en)ing of the sun cast, black earthen shadows -- the desert, the wind rips across the line, tumbleweeds roar across the dustscape. And I find this windmill, that's taking me back to the same old place, back in the beginning -- back to Flagler, Colorado, and my grandfather's farm. There, the windmill turns and clanks and cranks -- and the water keeps coming. Right now, as the wind turns the aeromotor, there's a long clanking metallic draw -- the...