jackinblack

The time has come Oysters and Walruses and Carpenters and bits of ceiling wax

Iam going to rant with the utmost of egotistical self righteousness about.... painting

yeehaaaaaaaaaaa

Despite the horrible clich
- and I cringe when I hear other painters say this
I do feel at a loss, a self damning unexplainable loss, when I havent painted for a while.
Its like I start to lose my entire sense of orientation, the life I lead suddenly drops away
into a blankety blank Nietzscheian abyss
The days and nights fill up with stark raving monsters of mad goyeristic nightmares with wings
flapping about my head chasing my mind every time I stop and think.
Even the supermarket queue becomes an exquisite medieval torture device
I have to concentrate in order not to pass out waiting whilst eternity blithers in the skulls of sheep

Blah

And than once I paint I remember,
with a lightening bolt of jarring mind unscrewyness
once again,
what the entire purpose is
Sad and tragic and a stupid art clich, but inescapable like breathing in sleep

Iam relieved to have painted again i had stopped for a few weeks
stopped by delusions and hammers and anvils and inbetweens

Even if the tiny bit I did today wasnt much to rave over
Just the tiniest fragment where something works and I dont know how , who, why, what force and where

I suddenly feel reconnected with the greater cosmos like an astronaut and a twig

Like iam apart of the air, the rain, the seasons, and all the single creatures locked into their individual existences.
blind but reassured that its all as one single speck of the same dust

I feel totally connected to it all
The universe makes sense even the stars have meaning

This is it for why iam sticking with this goddamn horrendous human swamp of putrid quad limbed folly driven wrecks

So under the veil and skin
it is definitely of the spiritual skeleton ,
that is belonging to the essence of the ghost, pointing spirit, meandering soul,
the same blue smoke of existence as which the clouds inhabit
the molecules moving between the trees
the spacetime under the leaf on the ground

Its like being connected via the placenta of existence, millions of free flowing heavy nutrients and barely grasped meanings pour directly through the chain rattling time sands of the mind

There is no comparison and I just want to be locked into the state of painting forever,
the world of pigments and mediums, brushes and oil and turps,
the mixing containers which like an age old alchemy conjure up new colours of subtle variations
the smells and the textures and light hitting sight

Sometimes its just about the movement of the body
and connecting with the eyes and the mind to a flesh
which is still to be brought into existence as a totally organic thing

The paintings become imbued with a lifeforce they carry with them such human touch caresses and love and hatred The loss and pain and exuberance
than they go beyond this into an mind twisting immortal place of mystery and longing

To do this
to be wrapped up in such arms of a moment of creating really is all i could need it is enough
nolonger alive
yet not dead
someplace else entirely

I could continue this forever
if only I could hold onto such a state of being
It is an oneness and a fullness that nothing can ever approach

And every time I arrive at it iam singularly and
totally to the core of my being shocked by the intense power

throughout all the hardship and hated poverty and sense of social and materialistic fringe dwelling iam driven by the urge to reconnect to this umbilical cord of timelessness

holy shit man
if anyone gets that than i will be powerfully shocked
in so far as having explained anywhere near to the truth