quickie morning didi…

it’s hard to paint small.  i want to paint big!  craving a huge canvass, and to cut up old prints and make those collages i used to do in new york.  to get that immersed.  when i do small paintings, it’s just not the same.  the whole thing about collecting mammoth amounts of large works because you have no ambition to sell them is a reality too.  this reality can be such a pain in the ass sometime.  the desire to paint is emerging and feeling difficult to contend with.  my passions swim in turbulent storms, tossing the sweet fish around who are used to it, who trust their life and death cycle.  rebirth.  passion being transmuted left and right, top to bottom because the outlet is a pin-hole.  your love is gonna drown, yeah…sometimes it feels like that song.  sometimes it feels all wrong, but it’s not.  tension is the growth.  mud ball to pearl.  chaos the grist.  yet, what i would give for some relief in the physical.  no, not just relief.  satisfaction.  i can’t get none?  no, i get much.  but in some areas, there continues to exist a vast empty landscape.  this is ok.  i shall wear thick eyeliner and go to work and serve the people.  i shall paint small.  i shall transmute these passions into bhakti love and wait patiently or not patiently for romantic love, that is the right match.  a sun to handle this storm.  a moon to handle this sun.  a balance of transformation and fun.  bathe in mustard and sea salt.  burn jasmine and cinnamon.  take in a little poison.  indulge in friendship.  and begin to slink into the next book writing routine, accepting incremental structure to make sure it gets written.  loving the colors grey and red.  blue freezing sky this week, preparing us for the winter ahead.  part of me wonders when i will paint deep into the night, candle light the sun of midnight, and not care about morning.  nostalgic for a structureless creative existence that cannot fully exist in this hell realm.  woah, where did that sentence come from?  words present themselves without edit, or logic, without knowing what is being said by the conscious mind.  tulips sitting in a vase is not what i shall become.  don’t speak in knots.  speak in braids and walk quietly through empty lots.  our days are numbered and rare.  break bread and share this time, of divine embodied, like grapes blossoming on the vine…