Collapsing polarities keep reforming in the folds surrounding that event. Pounding in the brain, get the new thoughts down when they present. Perpetually caught in the moment just fading away. Staying fraught at the thought of staying slightly ahead , completely different then what was read last autumn. Still knowing that the summer is almost free, so say yes. Who will confess? No more obvious decrees revealing molded archetypes with thoughts ripe, already before the person out of the inside understands. Eyelid twitches, remembering all the stitches sewn into the skin.
Explode onto the grass, spiders in-between the toes no one knows those peripheral notions waiting like potions inside your brain. Do not refrain there is no stain deep enough that it is not a layer of a prayer in a new way. Day to day through every night reveals no more moons as we drifted without a planet beneath us. But not us only me I realized after much too long. Maybe still some day a heart song. No more wrongs take me back to any place I could know. Only forward is every thing there is that I must go to. So many arms still waiting to receive my chest against them, my words exchanged between our brains, disdain waiting to be resolved inside each others hearts. Deliver unto us a rhythm of raucous laughter how many faces caught in a schism blend their tension like daggers barely piercing the heart. Every last minute of the new day falling away.
Going home alone again for the last time
Rowing ashore, given a fine line in kind.
Knowing this between here and what I will find.?
Mist rolls through all the hills I have seen in these summer days,
Fist unclenched, finding new thrills, finally felt the rays.
Every golden key, every week an age, a dream in a new sign.
Drawing down molten rhythms in sage and calling them mine.
every place I go I see love through fear in faces of no foes.
Turn around in your places reveal the shining in your toes we all know it bursts forth
through all of our eyeballs, we eat what we sow, through the eyes of the crow
we see what calls us now.
When it dances well it uses everyone around you.
Everything you learn is a mirror of your brother and sister's souls.
Our bodies your souls.
Every body is another piece of our puzzle.
raise the spirit seen in every mistake.
Envision a manifestation of a revelation of love every infinite moment.
Alone home in the cave again you find that sleep and reap the rewards of a life well lived.
Rabbit runs on the peripheral vision,
bird flies right beside you when you ride on the bicycle,
looking up and the sky moves forward.
The clouds surround a living warmth in the chest,
Lizards abound under porches and
not every wizard hidden inside a rock sees true.
Some time despite whine you know a gift far greater then you have given.
Walking up a staircase in the lair of a mad professor.
You see the hair of the woman in front of you, and you want to caress her.
Each and every step is a waking hour in another man's dream.
Day to day worries doing nothing for your own scheme.
Take into space every chance you get, clear the clutter.
I didn't stutter, I remember the old man's name it was Cutter.
The last chance to take her hand happens in autumn's coming.
When you hear that glassy eyed bard's guitar a strumming.
Head for the hills, say yes, do not distress believe, believe.
She has to be pure enough for you to project your own balance.
Come so far to be who you are do not give it away.
Add it to another's time and place for a time and see the joy.
Don't forget that own fire that own soul that own being eternal.
Dance and the walls are around you.
Moonlight begins to fill your soul.
Dance and the walls move around you.
Leaves on trees fill the corners of vision.
Dance and the walls dissolve.
A fire starts to burn in your soul.
Dance and the world dances with you.
Colors swirl, emotions converge, unity ensues.
Wind fiercely brushes through hair and ears. I knew when the waves crashed gathering mine and your fears, all across the horizon when in the ocean. Subtle motions reveal flashes of reconnected memories. You realize on your knees, experiencing this moment from many points is possible. Joints crack, powerful intentions aggregate. Frozen stares dispersed fate and curses from angry lips when you know no one is hearing. Cannot find a clearing no matter where you ride. Release the reaction embrace quiet reflection, know this when the wind is strongest in your face.
You should be fearing these indiscriminate reactions. Find a place for your anger to build a fire, clear the brush of your weak and inadvertent notions. You will gain no traction when you are in the deep end of the ocean, legs dangling no hope of sand below them only water for miles. Heart pounding lungs bursting fly up the hill, beat pumping in your heart, legs spinning sky rushing, watching like a hawk for any possible outcome. Coyote watches as you pass and follows behind. Bare skinned birds circle in case you give out.
Between the shadows cast from the ghosts of her eyes in my doorway,
And the sound of his worn-out shoes running all over the city to get back here.
A young man looks out of his bedroom window, into the gnarly haunted looking bushes.
Reminding him of how he felt inside, so twisted and broken but finally free in the night.
Awoken at long last, but finding himself in so many pieces; They started to, . . .
Fall into his stomach as the words from her lips, still in his mind; hit the ears.
Those will always be the ones that cut deepest, hit furthest, first.
Maybe always knowing it could be no other way, he fought against the tide.
It pulls you in and pushes you out, soon you look and shore is far away.
Stories of the way it could be should of ended long ago in his mind.
As the summer unwinds desperately trying ways to stop thinking.
Walking the streets, feet sinking ever further into the soul of his shoes.
Feel the beat of the street everyone downtown in the morning,
Holding their coffee like armor.
In the middle he kept shrinking, no riddle solved of his brain could help the cause.
No walk through any more city blocks would give his mind only the slightest pause.
Only praying to stop hearing the the sound of those words falling softly from her.
She was always a grey shade of pink, a soft shade of brown, and she left town.
The story was fluid like and at the same time completely different each new window into a world. People, mothers, sisters, brothers are different each time. Hard to tell how soon the shift happens, things would be completely different again except for one thread. I would focus on a frying pan for example and the whole thing shifts, like flying forward in a four dimensional square and then the colors come back in and the people are different around me. At first I could only notice one thread the same each time, then it was two or three threads that I could recognize or even weave myself. I've had dreams like this before but this is the first time I managed to get close to writing down, this is what I am doing right now.
The key is the phase shift while focusing on seeing as many common elements as you can in the next sequence even when everything shifts, people, rooms, situations everything within short spans. The common threads might even shift form but you still know their unique energy and can follow it. Like minutes or every 30 seconds, but sometimes maybe years or just an hour. Writing this I know I stumbled onto something. Overturned the underworld of dreams, found the child like knowing; the remembering of, a timeless way of seeing all the shifts of people's intentions. It all happens in the space of the now that we are all in each of those moments happening presently.
Always on the tip of the tongue are the fruit from the outstretched limbs of the waking mind's grasp, slipping between phases; deciding which place is more real. Feeling the dreams that come of other's emotions instantly on their face, you never even knew them, but they feel the same. In so many places and years you felt her hands, and her eyes felt the wounds inside your heart; though you never knew her.
When the heart turns be grateful that it is moving, follow it's lead no need to bleed needlessly dripping all over the floor, your thoughts, emotions revealed in all the small notions on the slight twist of the lips, eyebrow slips release the teeth the, tongue gets heavy, the sweat drips larger. More than happening when it comes on fully, shifting seamlessly in-between all the layers of every waking second when there is no way to measure days or hours truly. Sitting on the bench staring at my clouds of emotion that slowly shift inside and also in the sky. Deciding to no longer lie about a strong desire to love life in every way. Knowing the redemption is your own. Colliding into grace when you need the way it talks to you through a union of symbols in the moments of people around you now.
Unclogged pathways resound infinitely in a short span. Large ringing circle of diagonal eights in the air float away collapsing, coaxing and stepping back around and into again, my eyes. Never forgot the sitting and spinning and then one quick message when I was sure they were overlapping into the frontal lobes adequately, a message; bring your people back to me, help them find their way to me. Then the skin folder over again. I knew the flesh of the spirit when it saw me and it was there.
Cesspools lay near crystal waters. Moonlight sings as the hawks slaughter. Red star sparkles so heavy on the horizon it begs the question why is the pain expanding. I cry out how can I be worthy to sing the praises of a shining deep blue that stirs echoes of the eyes I was before now, moving as your bass pounding heart sounds into and out of view again, like the waves. Crystallizing in toes creeping so delicately on the black pavement, where the branches used to break underfoot.
Wild animal remembers the pounding heart demanding. Energy of a delicate nature overwhelms the very muscles which uphold it. Standing dumbfounding and the ringing outstretched carefully, it knows a looming death hangs on no brow no more. No more down turned anger clasping gut wrench. Straight through the middle again, thinner then I can admit. Who can backtrack to the hole which I've committed.
Shines like a grace forgiven. Collapsed and broken shattered on the cement floor. Door to door grins for kick and shit spins. Crispy hotcakes don't look enticing to a happenstance leaf restorer, ladybug adorer, magnolia snorer. Give me more then that, don't you see me hear, don't you know I'm hear? Don't you know I love you? I've been here the whole time, sometimes knowing, sometimes screaming in a limitless black horizon knowing the spaces that are inside me are also outside me at the same time. I am in no time and no hurry into no unbending fury. Only my eyes and the new horizon calling. My field of play awaits. I choose to dance in rolling green light of every new spring and cling to the last leaf on the tree left from falls hallows.
Here I have two things to share, a painting and a poem of the same name. Speaking of poetry, I feel like I need to mention Van Morrison's 1968 album Astral Weeks, which I listened to prolifically during the work on the painting. I agree with the critical reviews of the album, it is not entirely unlike Van Morrison's other albums, but definitely had an unusual, unique, and otherworldly feel to it. I am guessing that he was very experimental in the days before the album. It is hard to put ephemeral, universal, real, and raw feelings into words and music, but Van Morrison does it in this album. My favorite part of the song (or any song ever for that matter) is:
The dynamo of your smile caressed the barefoot virgin child to wander
Past your window with a lantern lit
You held it in the doorway and you cast against the pointed island breeze
Said your time was open, go well on your merry way
Past the brazen footsteps of the silence easy
The concept of a mere collection of words arranged in a certain manner making me feel better about life, or mystified, or excited, or reflective is not an easy thing for me to digest to be honest. So when it happens on rare occasions I really try to let the moment sink in and let it expand. I really truly love this stanza of writing. It touches on so many moments of my own life, and any life I think. This is why I make art, to try to create things that reach out across time and through spaces to reach other souls. So here is my painting called Awakened Lifetimes:
Also I have some prose that accompanies the painting, (many of my poems are works in progress this is one of them). You can read that at the end of the post. I will say a little bit about it here: Life is much more then we see with our physical eyes. There are currents that run deeper and wider then any of us can imagine. The chance to experience these currents in our everyday lives is a great thing. I am always looking for opportunities of transformation. Ideas that challenge my thinking, amazing artists of all kinds, people, groups, projects, ways to learn and grow etc.
Accepting who you really are and all that you are and are not, and sharing and learning from others is one of the first steps on the road to knowing these kinds of experiences. The evolution of the soul is one of my primary goals in this life. Getting past personal ego and learning what you can in any situation is a tough concept sometimes but it is a great way to grow. There will be assholes and greedy people in your life. Rather then engage them, learn how to pacify their interest in you and take what you need to from them. You can learn how you do not want to act, by watching assholes, for example. Accept your limitations. Know them. Use them to your advantage by working around them appropriately, think about how they make you unique. Those were just some of the thoughts behind this painting, but I always want to hear what other people see in my art, that is more interesting for me to think about. So please leave your comments about what you see in the work on this post! Awakened Lifetimes
How can a tree like me pray for remembering what the rain tasted like dripping from my branches onto my cheek and into my lips.
Tip toe-ing across the earth so tensely recoiled it can't remember to always stop moving so fast.
I love you so much and I am finally telling you now.
The sky said as I finally felt the joy of my thunder speaking.
How long had I spent searching I can't remember.
It was raining moments of our souls, fragments of awakened lifetimes pouring outwards everywhere at the same moment, in all places at all moments.
But what if I forget how to run frantically in the night's thunder? How long will it be until I remember again?
Constantly rambling, barely murmuring, knowing every reflection's echo.
Cracks in the cement, cracks in a skull. Holes in the side of a ship gaining water.
The sky over the plains is as vast, and forever wide as the emptiness of the heart's chamber.
Do not ever be afraid to take what you want from yourself when you know better.
Red star sparkles in the dark blue sky, endless rolling hills ask why.
Wind howls across the ears pushing all in its way, what is it trying to say?
Prophecies seen when the dream which happens first, takes hold.
Ancients seize the bodies of brothers from this age I am told.
Time spent trying to please others leaves the face devoid of warmth.
Friends lie, fathers die, no one holds a breath for your face.
Building a dream alone a child never stopped stacking and wandered far.
Always lost, late, broken, and giving everything, still quaking in fear.
No one speaks the language of a soul no matter where he speaks it.
Crying such a deep tremor inside knowing it reaches the farthest depths.
Be careful if and who you wait for, intentions hold a myriad of reflections.
More powerful alone in a mind or in a crowd, what you see and selected.
Calibrated curiosity found three ways to skin the cat. Around here meticulous tin-men still look for feelings as on-lookers stand pat. Handing out rays of shifting colors, lifted gaze fixed upon overlapping textures in all ages of the mind's dwelling. Torn pages define the telling signs, reminded in each word falling between the lines. Rusted bird watches the ants crawl into the dirt, as I scrawled into the cement until it hurt. Knuckles bloody knees muddy, head rising, surprising how much is left, all out of breath as the carafe comes to the lips.
The hills closed in on the coyote as darkness fell over the pink and orange sky. Wandering the same paths, smelling feint glimpses of females dodging his scent until it suits them, avoiding all the regular foes, same mud on his ever tightening toes, same empty belly rumbling as he stumbles into his den. A new form of quickness will humble his prey, he must fight to stay alive in this world. Rings of light consume the imagination's concentration, forcing focus on everything outside of himself.
Captivated onlookers gasped at the dancing five fingered frogs, robs your soul as you walk away the coiled mind avoids your hind sight. Like on a kite soaring in the sky the focused attention creeps into your skull through vibrations mulling in your own thoughts. Are they your thoughts now? Or does the membrane of the fascinated amphibians deliberate corralling stare more then dare you to stand and feel more from them?
Two birds bounced in the bushes while singing.
Undo the reasons it will not stop stinging.
Pining at a moon after smoldering sky with lightning.
Lining Silver in the reflection of the cocoon tightening.
All this time building and refusing to splurge
Walls closing in, and it's impossible to emerge
Constantly rambling barely murmuring, the middle of the inside is not
all it is cracked up to be. Cracks in the cement, cracks in mounted
skulls. What it is to be true has changed. False bravado from
antiquated notions disconnected my mind from a source. The map I should
of had coming in, was clouded by guided misperceptions. Found that
glowing effervescence again and begged to never lose that ringing
inside, echos of universal love opening in my eye.
Corporeal memories wander empty mansions.
Seal the grinning fate of the future's phantoms.
Unbroken ground reserved for ambitious intentions.
Spoken truth is only a wish of oversold interventions.
Holes in the side of the ship are leaking water.
Rolls of stinging sweat in my eyes, it gets hotter.
Wandering as the black night consumes all light.
Squandering endless moments, which way looks right?
It goes and it stays away a while, sometimes. Thoughts grow dark despite the best intentions and most pure of routines. Take back the ocean inside the skull, don't lose a grip on believing in the work. Never lost faith in it, or, . . . never had a vision? A Cruel thing to say when you know it is not true, but equally cruel to wait with a begging open heart, arms shaking, exhausted from reaching. To see it and not bend completely to it's will leaves one still. Too pure carries you far outside the bounds of where you are now, too thin and I float away. Capture it in just the right way in quiet moments; and through mud and shit when you need to.
I have been writing in this space for about the last 7 years of my life, and this is the 300th post of Modern Art Quotes; my art journal. It started as me, sharing my casual observations about the creative process using art history and quotes from artists as inspiration. It then evolved into an examination of my own thoughts about my approaches to my creative process. It became a place where I could stop and think about what I was trying to say with my art, and why. It is now a place where I share my prose and recent artwork.
In the last 7 years it is clear to me, especially when seen through the lens of this blog, how far I have come in how I express myself in my art and in my writings. For example the artwork shared here of mine in the last 30 posts or so is by far some of if not the best artwork I have done in my life. The me who started this blog 7 years ago would not have known how to do some of the paintings that I am doing now, he would of been inspired at seeing the work.
There have been a few key triggers involved in the growth of my style and themes. Traveling abroad to 2 different continents, meeting and working with many artists from around the world, challenging myself to do things that seem daunting. And more recently a decision to go back to school, starting with studying mythology, which has already helped shape how I want to tell stories. Hopefully in another 7 years I can look back at the current me and think the same thing, that I have gotten so much better. The more important thing for me especially is how much work I am doing now. It is a lot, at least compared to the earlier me. My goal is to continue to increase my rate of production.
I like the fact that I have this written record to accompany my work. Part of the reason one of my favorite painters is famous today, Vincent Van Gogh, is because he had about 700 letters he had written (many to his brother Theo) that talked about his life, his work, and his thoughts. Paired with the paintings it is quite a magnificent body of work, especially given the fact that he did it all in about the span of 10 years.
So, . . . in the tradition of the earliest posts of this blog I will share part of one of my favorite letters of his. Words I have heard over and over again in my head since first reading it about 20 years ago when I was 16 years old.
"What a pity painting costs so much! This week I had fewer
worries than other weeks, so I let myself go. I shall have
spent the 100-fr. note in a single week, but at the end of this
week I'll have my four pictures, and even if I add the cost of
all the paint I have used, the week will not have been sheer
waste. But there, we live in days
when there is no demand for what we are making, not only does
it not sell, but as you see in Gauguin's case, when you want to
borrow on the pictures, you can't get anything, even if it is a
trifling sum and the work, important. And that is why we are
the prey of every happening. And I am afraid that it will
hardly change in our lifetime. But if we are preparing richer
lives for the painters who will follow in our footsteps, it
will be something.
But life is short, and shorter still, the number of years
you feel bold enough to face everything.
And in the end it is to be feared that as soon as the new
painting is appreciated, the painters will go soft."
-letter from Vincent Van Gogh to his brother Theo, August 1888
The 2nd to last stanza has always been my favorite, (But life is short, . . .) It sometimes runs often through my head, especially when I force myself to go into my workspace and paint when I do not want to. I have to remind myself how precious the time to paint is. I have to remember how short life is, and how much there is that I still want to say. I constantly feel like I have just begun to make art. I wrote earlier of how continual growth is part of the goal of my art, or well in my life in general. The more time every day I can spend making my art the better, and the more I can fill in the puzzle of this mosaic I am building. My entry into the grand scheme of life in this crazy universe.
Speaking of entries in my mosaic, here is my most recently completed acrylic painting: Octopus Man in a Sea of Sound. It is on canvas and is in the size of 26 x 38 inches (66 x 96cm). As stated in my last blog entry a lot of my paintings from the past couple years are slowly telling a larger story. This guy is one of the characters in that story. You can see a keyhole on his throat, which may indicate he needs a certain condition to be met before he can reveal the information he has been receiving. There are sound waves with symbols all around him. His lungs are like the branches of a tree and his legs are the roots or octopus legs. There is either a sound-wave running through his middle or he is in the ocean.
I will end this epic 300th post with one of my own recent works of prose. I have been writing prolifically recently, which has been very cathartic for me.
Between This Head and Yours
Imagined expectations only reveal facets of the conceiver. Work hard to put on others a direct observation. Grabbing pens unconsciously wherever you go because magic is possible to emerge from them. Becoming a guardian of magic's emergence, he didn't sign up anywhere, just showed up every day alone.
Between The black ink shining as it dries, and the pink morning light fading from your eyes, between the dried root finally cracked and broken, and the hoots from the owl awoken. Between the dried paint on my fingers, and the feint whispers echoing in my soul that linger.
Jumping through hoops, not getting caught in loops, walking and eying others watching you a bit too long. Hide your eyes and hum a song, want to get where you are going no one else can come along. Twist and dodge the blows that life that throws. Just keep going and push it through, who cares if you forget how to be true. How to trust who when the chips fall, cookies crumbling. Cannot feel the thirst when the cold overwhelms.
Low rumbling resonates unrelenting in the relinquished afternoon's last gateway to the way in. Mis-interpreted spray painted messages, on doorways in dreams have meant one thing then another. One way or a thousand depending how you turn it agains the moments of my life. So loud the sound of your own breathing walking into the sun deceiving yourself into endless corridors, sifting through encrypted puzzles woven through a city's walls.
Belonging to another's face even as the doves cooed constantly above. The echoes of the water streaming showed the way through the tempered core. Tying ropes to swing your hopes on caused cracked lips to carry a wavering tune. Soon to find the pounding comes much quicker each time you let the fear grow too long. Cavalier salutations considered carefully amidst rusty red cave walls. Weary travelers counted the last gathered stones stacked in the sand.
Distance between the ocean of his mind and others perceived notions is immeasurable. rolling out fragments, falling from the tongue in slurs and stutters. Who we are and who we imagine ourselves to be counted carefully in unknowable outcomes. All the interweaving ways of her majesty realized through observation, attempted in expression. Still waters running so deep he didn't know what he had building until he stepped outside his walls.
Even the most thorough peremptory acquisitions failed to inform the animal laying bloody on the highway of it's eventual fate. Fancy wingtips get muddy when he stomped as he chomped at the bit. Curiously overflowing causeways seemed to fit the decision to flee. Who can see how long until the mind is free of lights with zig-zagging rings of lavender zooming in and out. Out and about legs still feel stout, despite slipping up all the hills carefully.
Unchurned thoughts stew inside of a moonlit lutanist's furrowed brow. Projecting pathways across a myriad of anemic eyeballs even as the sockets squealed like sacrificed pigs. Grumbling murmurs ringing in the chamber. echoes of overused legs consume the hallways but a glimmer is raised. Convinced to stay, new strings attach to the soul like muscles sticking to a bone.
Lullaby liquefied the laborious child. Mild storm when the fever broke, always a joke, do not know when to stop. An expanding ripple tangles feet in the blackness consuming the minutes as if infinite inclinations of the body dissolve. Clinging thoughts cause snarls in every pause of breath, frantic notions are unknowable areas of nightmare beings. No one there to fill the void but the twisting coils un-collapsed always past all ways knowing it is just better to release fully into it. There are no walls to become.
Drinking the full moon in, alone in the frosted February air; she shines through waves of cascading clouds escalating outward. Nostrils ring of the now frozen summer's death, a caged-in spring hangs in the distance. Empty remnants of evoked emotions hang like ghosts. The full circle light shines with her beauty on my face, as I attempt to feel the beginning. Breath out a comfort in peaceful knowing of the natural world spinning in levels infinitely outward.
This is a painting of mine from 2013. I call it Man Falling Deliberately in a Dream. It is based on a lucid dream I had once where I jumped off a cliff in full confidence that I could stop halfway down if I wanted to, and did. A very powerful feeling is evoked in lucid dreams, I like it. Following it is a poem of mine.
Man Falling Deliberately in a Dream by Ed Tajchman. Acrylic on canvas 2013.
Soul is Another Word for Dreaming Lost in the never ending valleys and hills is where It found me when my heart was still.
The light singing inside those Eyes, shining amidst the shadows.
They silently and subtly released the binding that held my wings tied.
If I said I knew what it felt like to fly before now, I lied.
Left three of my own devices on the forgotten steps of a red-tiled and arched doorway. A few strands of her auburn hair hung over her eyebrow, she should remember to use all ideas from all moments. Seeking the shiners in every where. Whole world optional rolls from the breath of a clenched brow when the pharaoh hound returns the favor. The world and everything inside of it seen on the shelf yesterday. Every small moment glued to the walls carefully. Portals in a starship.
Bicycle racing the train with a crane in the sky. The sun sets orange and purple pouring out. Old man storing every detail of his face as he passes. Time drips like molasses and the wind cried as the dog sighed. Knees on the gravel as strangers travel into view as if on cue. Quickly slinking into the forest an imagined chorus hushed behind him.
Cartwheels rolling down the windowsill fill your eyes with every unknown insect on housebroken flowers. Hours spent climbing towers when the icy rays found their phase upon leather fingertips. Mind flips the switch when it is too much to take to stay awake, eyeballs stabbing. Spiderwebs stacked in the coroners office, emerald green lantern shining from a foreigner. -Ed Tajchman
When the completely crinkled brown leaves cling to the otherwise empty branches valiantly, through snow and even as spring emerges; blindness will assemble on cringing eyes. That is when the pair of bald eagles on the icy river start to forget all the white lies slipping into the water. Anticipation starts in the worn out arches of the feet and rolls up the tingling skin. Risking immeasurable possibility, spaces between pores raise.
From the nether figures darting on the wind the blackness of the chilling night air comes home as a full moon shines through the swiftly rolling silver clouds. Until the velvet red curtain is raising, we realize we still will not know the end. the always unknowable end. Who had no clues where the shining silver rays bounced through the bare branches? Before the weak-kneed fear, clutching the stomach heaving uncontrollably took hold. Shaking the words out of the mouth with a tightening grip on the throat. The dog can never gloat when his hands are bloody too. Looking at shoe tracks in the snow feels like sinking in the coming heavy mud.
No, it is dark scary and full of worms and bones.
forget
about what was read from her mouth it was all in everyone's head. All the
moments spent giving, forgot how some would rather be living. Cascacding
clouds in the endless descending sky who? Can never ask them why the wind
blows always so fiercely in the way. No more forlorn days crazed and
coiled in fear, the serpent cannot stop to hear more than she already is. Shoes slip
in the mud downward. Collapsing all the ways up as aching feet sink back down. Sounds like dogs doing a masters bidding are not too far off the heels. Still a clown grasping out of breath ignoring all the
things taking away from the tenacious focus.
Unknown parameters are the most exciting thing to ever inhabit my mind. Parts of conversations of strangers, someone deep in chant far away, music mixed with the passing cars, the smells captured on the breeze of a green valley afternoon and then gone. These are the bits of life that I take up, that I call my home. Small shadows changing subtly in the falling light, out of sight, built to withstand the blight of the lone mind, clinging to the idea of an expanding love found only within this ribcage, filling in all the gaps that have made there way deep into the failing body.
Harassing harrowed individuals in dissolving hallways won't help anyone feel better about the ascending pink moon. Hurried strangers risk losing lifetimes of interaction by not looking in the eyes of those they past. All moments are held in the blinks of all of our eyes, creating the new heart, those that dare to remain aware the whole way through. Every moment open to a new way of understanding if you just know the faith that only your deepest strings vibrate from. How to tell others to abandoned concocted images of fake devotion to convoluted harbingers of consumer destruction. How to tell myself to always walk the natural way no matter how thin and ephemerally the energy inhabits you.
The face becoming so small and animal like you want to cheer finally after years of solemn irrigations. Know the strength you have given everything to achieve. Know that the possible intended pathways are infinitely open. Decide well, and place the pieces appropriately. No longer ciphered encryptions necessary to conceal the burning sight of the moment maker ascending the hillside.
Edward Tajchman is a modern artist who uses oil and acrylic paint, sculpture, watercolor and whatever medium the world offers to create artworks that are gateways between this world and other places. He attempts to bridge the spaces between dreams, between worlds, between people, between time and space, between all natures of reality.
Contributions to Modern Art Quotes are Gratefully Accepted
Email Ed
You can e-mail me here (no spaces): e d t a j c h m a n @ g m a i l . c o m Feel free to contact me with questions of any kind or if you would like to submit an article related to modern art and/or the creative process.
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All artwork by Ed T. is clearly marked as copyright. All rights reserved, derivative works, posting, copying, everything. Violators will be prosecuted. All writing is copyright by Ed T., all rights reserved. Contact: edtajchman @ gmail .com
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