The Monster and the Wise Man: Painting through emotions

As Above, So Below. The painting can also be turned around. Above, what is sewn in the alternate plane of subconscious and intention is planted on the earth level. Below, aliens are admiring the universe with wonderment.

The Monster and Wise Man. From a distance the wise man is a woman, up close, you can see his ‘wise’ beard and ancient face. The Wise Man is healing the monster. The monster is also the wise man. There is the earthly plane between them. 99% of the time I do not know what I’m painting. I paint as a type of prayer, meditation, and therapy. I did not paint the face on the wise man or beard — it popped up when I was wiping the canvas with a wet towel. The sapsucker or woodpecker to the far left was also not intentional. The monster appeared on his own.

Bird Man and The Lady. I painted this over an old watercolor that had images of love. Atop the layers, on the left, is my honey, David. The Lady is protection, light, and represents my love and admiration. I was also contacted by a Facebook friend stating a baby bird she found. and tried to save, passed on right before I finished my painting. If you look to the far right, there is a little girl standing sideways facing the left (her sleeve is rose) and pointing to the left at a mushroom. Not intentional.

Autism Angel

I was trying to represent an angel. I ended up tearing up napkins to create her. It represents all the people I have meet that are on the autism spectrum.

As Above So Below

I know what I am not but not what I am. I know when to stop but not when to stop starting. I can inch my way into the middle and get stuck in the molasses of neither here nor there. I don’t know how to swim upstream without pounding pain, and instead, in alternate route, float downstream away from the waters where all else abounds.

Somewhere I have forgotten myself, and I search to find her, thinking I have arrived, only to once more find I am at the backdoor looking into what was and thinking I had known then.

I cannot remember who or where I have been, anymore than I can visualize where I am going. I am lost, in a time maze of confusion, falling upon a self I cannot fathom or detect.

She is there, in the shadowed-tunnel, collapsing and reborn into another, faster than humanly feasible. She is multitudes unopened and reopened—an anomaly in form. To be and not to be. To care and not to care. To unravel into the very depths of reason and peer down into the pond of ‘me.’ Only to question what it is that stares back with such disregard and wonderment.

I am but enough and then I am unequivocally lacking, never measuring up to the enforced standards absorbed from the path I walk. I clamor for explanation and find a thousand books untouched, though in some fashion taken into the realm of reason. I can feel the words: the spoken, the whispered, the silenced, the ones that never came and ones that never speared the element that is I.

They make me. They form me. They penetrate me into something I know not. Clay to my mind. Dirt to my heart. Scattered residue of earthly wants and needs. Goods that I am neither capable of grasping or acquiring.

I am this existence that the observer watches. Reformed with the passerby. Morphed into their reality and then left, unscattered and splattered, broken and unbroken, in a pool of endless duality.

I am what I am—yet only for a fleeting moment; a chance to take glance towards the outline of my palm, the beat of my heart, the opening of a billion universes. Everywhere I am, and at once I am alone. Isolated. A loneliness no less difficult to explain than the essence of what I have become. ~ Sam, 7/24/15

Of She…
She mounts, as the tuft ribbon, torn
Riding the circumference of questioning
Mind turned, trembled-wavers
Across endless cause
I cannot, I can, I will, I shan’t
And over the mountain terrains
She treks
Feet, aching soles
Upon beaten battleground
Heart opening to the chasm of reason
She is, and she is not
Twisted and reborn into
This something new and un-new
Opened and closed
Reexamined and brought into the light
Distraught and brilliantly aware
Carrying the global basket, woes
Torrid tears racing down bones
Outlining, this shadowed-speaker
Born into prism
Walls, resurfaced and reshaped
Made into what almost is
Until fleeting moments weep away
Left idling, still,
In creviced thoughts
Of what has come
Fragmented semblance
Slivered whispers
Claimed identity
The torrential gathering
Of she
~ Sam, 7/25/15

My Other

Where am I?
I knock at your closed door.
Am I found in the shadows you cast out?
Am I your lips that move in tenderness?
Am I the world, itself, spinning without pause?
Am I your casual gait moving ‘cross the plains of my awareness?
Or am I this echo that beams and bounces out of you, into the cavernous wake I be?
Where am I?

I knock again, upon your sleeping soul.
Am I but this longing?
A kneeling at your entrance craving to be carved into the grace of your being.
Wishing to be a part of this enticing imperfection.
To be that ever-flowing voice beneath the rivers cascading through you.
Pounding , pounding, pounding against the rocks of denial and destitute.
To be part of the stream of consciousness, you name doubt and confusion.
A part of the salve, of your choice and doing, lathered upon you, sweet comfort devoured,
As honey to the bashful bear.

Oh how I wish to find you there in the opening of vulnerability,
And sway to the tears of your coming.
To be that which you scream out for—the guardian, the angel, the attendant to your qualms.
To caress your aches fully, and salvage every part of you dismissed and excluded.
Each outstretched avenue, previously tossed and forgotten, journeyed.

I want to be.
Your frailty.
Your outpour.
The act of you bending in demand of rescue.
I want to be that which you reach out for in desperate isolation and cling to.
I want to hold you in the cradling of my heart, until we are one.

Where am I?
I am here,
Standing at your threshold, the blank canvas cleansed,
Ready to be painted with the richness of your surrender.

Ancient Winter

There’s a place inside of me, so ancient, so old.

Determined in her non-determination.

Agile in her fragility.

Broken in the places twice repaired.

Again, she deems herself worthy, and the gods pour down her sacrifice.

Some golden maiden lost in the ages of time. Lost onto herself in the blizzard of story unlocked, untold, and drifting in the land of unreachable.

To touch her is to dream and to dream to be with her, in this open space of nowhere.

I can see her, in the window to the opening of self, through the ancient scrolls of yesteryears.

I can see her drifting by from side to side.

Her transparency the truth.

Her echoes the star-seed set out long before her eyes began.

I am to her the river, flowing and moving.

Uninterrupted.

My everything exact.

My every part perfection.

To her there exists no concept of failure.

No word for incomplete.

No word beyond the muttering of the winter wind.

She is the snow woman, gathering the flakes as innocent beneath the magic.

Mouth upon the rigid ever coming cold, swallowing in delight what transpires from above.

She is the maiden pouring her forgiveness out into the soil rich, splendid in her own making, molding her being between her hands, dripping the love-lips of pleasure—kisses to the earth, her home.

She floats in a manner that seeks not to serve or surrender.

Only to be.

As the wave upon the waters she travels, a part of existence released again with each breaking.

Had she but a wish, if thought arose, her dreams would be of me.

To hold me in her diligent joy and whisper the sound of air.

Silence blown through me, tucked beneath me, as the dissolving blanket transformed into sheltering grace.

Eternal is her essence.

Eternal is she made.

Some lady of the night, seized from the day, and taken into the chamber of this self.

Locked away, she is.

A willing captive capsized within my being.

Living as the shadow of my calling.

I come to her in the midnight hour.

Reeking of pain.

The sorrow as belt around my neck.

Jaguar intermingled with boa—squeezing softness biting at my flesh.

The comfort comes then, in subtle surprise.

Burrowing into me as the sunburn of summer season.

Scorching with the nurturing rays.

Swallowing me in suffocating pleasure.

The external light submerging.

The remembrance reborn.

To be made as her.

One in her all.

My tainted longings scooped up and divided, sorted into her basket of merriment.

Laugh, she carries on, laugh, her body speaks. Holding me, her open babe—her story found.

The Tremble

He enters and all trembles. The bees. The birds. The very sky.

The whisperers of words shushed.

All silenced.

Say, his fingers.

How they weave and break, as the wave at the peak of servitude, pounding on the sandy shore proclaiming his arrival.

All is still.

Say, his voice.

Gentle comes the tellings of before.

And he weeps in his confession.

In his confusion.

Hush now, she comes, his mistress cloaked in blue, bathing him in gentle promises.

Pressing her cheek to his, her sign of blessing.

Her skin the touch of delight. Her taste still lingering beyond his breath.

Inhale as he does, her beauty. Taking her with his eyes and the quiet plenitude offered through the beating of his heart.

His hand to hers, he releases his guard, and the air escapes him, embracing the delicate freedom.

Her wanting sets upon his chest, the broadness thick and inviting. To hold him again, her only bliss.

To be taken into his stronghold, the only desire.

Oh, how she misses him in their shared withholding.

Her ache easing back to the familiar home. His passion seizing—lightening disassembled and reborn down the span of his center line.

Tell me, she asks, without words. Take me, her every layer screams.

And still he stands, the weeping man, forging through the land, this warrior come home.

In thought. In long ago deed.

Reliving where he’d traveled, and mourning his departure.

Lastly she moves, swaying her silhouette beyond reach. Her last desperate plea trapped in the quake of her throat.

Love me, she bleeds.

Before embracing herself in tremble.

Asleep

Asleep

In the darkest hours

The world moves

As master puppeteer

And puppet

Both

Disappointed in the performance

The drill and the hole

The very duplicate of the invented peg

Shriveled slugs

Shells

Inhabited by falsehoods

Illusion that claims fact

Trapped in the twined ball

Eyes closed

A fiber in twisted imaginings

A race to nowhere

Like the wheel set free

Down the endless hill

A contest

Warped

Within a magician’s spell

Cast out

When each is born blue

A prized ribbon

Left to unravel and bleed

In the reign games

A veil aching for recognition

Bleakness

Shaking

From this place

Phantom ink scribbles

Truths

With vulture-tinted egos

Thousands born apart

Behind the layers

Where tears

Awake

Through the labor

Of birth

Asleep

Capsized

“Love”

Capsized

Luff to the wind

Your sails

My cloth

Curved as wings

We gather

Moved

Descended

Propelled

Riding the feverish waters

I am

The calm

Turned sultry thick

Canvased skin

Dimpled white

Folds of flowing ghosts

Calling

With strong voice familiar

Captured in enduring flight

Starboard forgotten

Sunset entered

Through the ache of voyage

Capsizing the maiden

Nape upon nape

In the storm of you

Love Moves

“Thank You”

Love moves

And she comes

In gentle ways of shadow’s delight

How she runs, the wild woman on the wall

How she shines, though eternal night

Tickle me she giggles in blissful merriment

Dance  in this spinning of time

Kiss me in the pink of summer

Bury me in the blanket of snow

Find me in the valley

Chase me through the canyons

Capture me in your holy delight

She sings

And I come running

To find her once more

To fancy her ways

To laugh at her glorious lust

Her undeniable longing

Her echoes of opened-vaulted freedom

How she flutters

Pure butterfly

Unafraid

Unhindered

Naked in the day hours

Scattered in gold dust with the moon’s blessing

Her grace

Her wisdom

Her eternal brightness

Take my hand

She teases with her starlit eyes

Take my heart

Take my All

Come enter the womb of pleasure

Come sit in the chamber of silence

Come gasp in the ear of lover

Undo your self

Undress your frailties

Your questions

Your fears

I am here

I am here

I am here

My sweet adoration

Come in your innocent ways

And feel the fresh waters

Bathe in the release

Tender your mercy

Kind your embrace

Break me

This shadow I am

Fissure my shell

Bust open to yoke

And devour all that is