Tag Archives: the unseen

THE SIMPLE WAYS OF ART

source: pinterest

It’s 1 am

How do I do something no one has ever written

Write something no one has ever done

Outstandingly creative or ingenious

That gets the reader stuck on its pages and lessons

A real page- and life-turner

That remains evergreen even when my hair turns grey

Something that will cost some sweet sweat

The kind that precedes a particularly delightful rest

The kind that only comes after rock-hard labour

 

This is the question I keep asking

At 4:30 am

 

This is the eternal curse of the artist

That high bar we have set for ourselves

That forever keeps us below the scientist

That high bar we never attain to

That makes a mockery of us before the scientist

Whose life is so simple

A very theoretically pragmatic mix of principles

No matter how actually chaotically inadequate this mix is

 

We forever fawn over our inferiority before them

The scientist who needn’t rise beyond his senses

The scientist who needn’t read between the lines of this piece

The scientist whose neurons fire away in peace

We artists be forever murdering ourselves

Suiciding and homiciding all through life

The artist wakes up every morning with a hammer to the head

He then picks at the pieces with long nails

Same nails he used to scratch his itchy under a night before

He scatters the bits with his scrawny feet

So bony from years of starvation

Because inspiration did not give 50 kobo if he survived

In a world of indie publishing, miscellaneous blogging and facebooking

He peers with eyeballs painfully straining hard

For something beyond the senses

Something truly beautiful

That could not have come from among those neurons and equations

Something more than a mockery of his senses

Writing simply as his eyes have seen or ears heard

He has to spin the magical into it

He cannot paint that drab leaf the way it is

The leaf has to look like a flower

A glorious flower nobody has seen before

art, draw, drawing, eye, eyes, freak

source: favim.com

The artist has to produce a work of wonder

A work that the senses have to adore

A work the scientist has to bow before in awe

 

Make no mistake the scientist works hard

Starting from the imagination

Creating a complex question

But he then turns the simplistic way

Reduces the wonder to a series of observations and equations

 

The scientist has his own merits

 

But,

 

The artist has to dig into the supernatural

He has to bridge the realms of the seen and unseeable

He has to produce a wonder

The scientist did not know existed

In a way that could not be explained by equations and mere observations

Using tools the scientist did not know existed

He looks at the simple elements

Eats them all up

Regurgitates lying down

Whilst the scientist scorns

Calling him a lazy goat

Who cannot handle the rigours of elaborate farm work

 

Only to produce a wonder the same scientist can apprehend

And adore with his own senses

 

A world beyond mere observations and simple equations of life.

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RIVER GOD

 

 

They say

If you leave a rough little child

Long enough by the river bank

He will become better

 

He will be washed clean

And gently be eroded

By the clear running water

Till he ceases to exist

 

Intermission…

 

Been years waiting by the river bank

I am still the same

Maybe he will come

Maybe he will do as he wants

And I will have no say

 

I remain the same

Even if I feel dry during the drought

And I can’t pretty much find passion for anything

I can’t even notice I am dry

 

Or choked during the rains

And can’t handle all the normal things

Other human beings enjoy handling

All the pleasant emotions and moments

And miracles and experiences

 

The heat refused to melt me

During the harshest of times

And cold means little to me

I don’t take pleasure in being aloof

 

I am still waiting

Maybe he will come

To touch me

That is all I want

 

Maybe he will touch me

At my curves and spots

And straighten me out

Softly

Firmly

Slowly

Making me wet

He won’t be rough or harsh

He will just touch my edges lightly

And gradually smoothen me out

 

Please come

River spirit

This little stone is rough

Make it smooth

 

Been waiting here by the river bank

All these years

Watching all those seasons and tides

Remaining unchanged

 

But when he comes

The river god will use his water

To smoothen me out

As he makes me wet all over

 

 

Or maybe just for luck

He will wear me out

As water erodes the rock

And that will be the end of my story!

 

BACKGROUND: “River God” by Nicole Nordeman playing in the background.

I am taking a step back tonight from shamelessly bemoaning and eulogizing the sad state of life today.

I am taking a step forward today into the hope that things will be better and light will shine.

But, somehow, I am still carrying the cynicism along with me through the door into that hope.

 

Thoughts Of The Constipated Writer

image

(Source: online)

Aha! Come now one and all
You simple-minded children of mine
Its evening time and your father is high
Come hear his constipated thoughts

 
/Intermission…
No! I am not playing on words
Yes! I am an unceremonious teetotaller
And these ain’t inane rants
Of a drunk old hungrily grunting fool/

 
Of the unwise poet who prepared a meal
In the pot of ikain* soup
Does he think artistic wisdom is to be found
In the potpourri of fascinating words and ideas

He pulls his shit together
As he enters creativity’s toilet
His eyes look ahead
Staring
Hard
Unblinking
Like an obstipated mad cow
And proceeds to desecrate the arena

He now holds his head empty of words
Relieved of the mangled mass
Now flowing out on the screen for all to eat
He can’t do any wrong
His eyes now calm and dreamy
Like he is seeing a vision

(come away in your thoughts with me for a mo, please…)-
That brief moment that happens on the best and worst of us
When we peek into the supernatural
Into something too awesome to be earthly
That brief moment of clarity
So brief we soon forget it amidst the many years we live
So clear our warped mind soon denies it
Because we are used to drinking muddy tadpole-infested waters
And have grown oddly morbidly fat feeding on poo
Grown too tough for simple truths and pleasures of life
Grown too twisted to swallow anything straight
And create something truly beautiful in return
-(and back to the silly story…)

Ah! But he is the lucky one tonight
He holds his head empty of words
He is ready to believe now
He will accept any answers now
This poet will even write mathematical formulae
And pass them for artistic inspiration
Anything would do

Just pray he doesn’t fall asleep
Before making sense of all the mess he has created
In the name of art
In the name of finding an answer to life
In the name of art.

image

(Source: online)
 
*ikain soup /i: Ikain/- a local delicacy prepared amongst the tribe of Earthdwellers consisting of Immense-Knowledge-About-Immense-Nothingness.

 
__________________________________

BACKGROUND: Someone has said that it is very logical for an artist to admit to the unseen as he considers the artistic process –of birthing a genuine work of art. Sometimes I find me looking for some inspiration from the outside world around me (only to see the world has not learnt any new lessons since the last time I wrote about it). Then, I leisurely finger through the pages of my current life experiences for something that might jump at me (only to realize they are too confusing for even me to make any sense of them to readers), before I try piecing together highlights of my past for a way to coin a story (just to conclude on how stale the little interesting parts are). Then I scour my beliefs and views regarding life in general for a quick lesson (and end up reasonably agreeing with others they are too controversial –for me to spit out for anyone looking for an easy read). Soon, I am desperately clubbing through everywhere for just anything to write, because my fingers are becoming very itchy. But sometimes, without warning, I suddenly start feeling almost feverish and words I cannot quite hear start pouring through my head. That moment, I know I have to write something, anything. And I write. And the words form. This piece is a mild acknowledgement of the process of attempting to create something sensible from a mess of ideas in one’s human mind.

P.S. If you are still confused –understandably –might I suggest you regard the father, the unwise poet and the author as one and same person.

Rainy Life’s Seasons

crazy man in the rain...

crazy man in the rain…

Sneaky winds jump around the sky
With joyous malicious whistles
Dark clouds gather together
In sadistic congregation.

/Intermission/
No! This is not just another rainy day
Another bland nature poem
Nor a hifalutin attempt at shameless self-aggrandizement
By a writer with inferiority complex

Carry me out dear nutty wife
Lovingly throw me into the open
I love liberating feels of breezes
But just a shell-y man scared to get out

The feverish anticipation
Of what weather holds today
Makes my body shake ecstatically
Like it happened last night

One by one
I lose my selves
My anxious personality
My prim obsessive-compulsive

The showers start
I look behind the clouds high up
Asking, daring the Creator-God
To do better than just showers

Ha! But I know
He can do more
I tell him I can handle his worst blessings
Tell him to come out from behind clouds

Then

From around the corner
The flood pours out
Across my village cottage
On a hillside

I throw away my cane
Bloody old man that I am
Take a gladiator stance
Look the blessed flood in the face

Flood hits me in the beard
Creator stifles a snigger
Flood sweeps me off my foot
I start to drown, laughing

Shame on me!
For all my boasting
Steee-rike one n’ I’m out!
Sliding down the hillside

A shameless old man
One-legged, dancing
Drenched in happiness
In a flood of rain

Screaming out a holy swearword
“God will be the death of me!
Hee-hee-haw-haw-haw!!!
Hahaa-hahahaha!!!”

BACKGROUND: I am probably one of the few species of men *eyes rolling* who show genuine appreciation for many different seasons (though I favour a burning sun least of all). The rains are officially starting in my part of the world and I never tire of how refreshed and invigorating it makes me feel.

the rain's awe...
the rain’s awe…

This evening, it brings to mind the many ways I play with the Unseen. As true as it is that science has explanations for many things, it does not make a case in court AGAINST the unseen and non-material wonders that exist here. The two sides can coexist. Forget for a moment the [visible] people that misrepresent the invisible.
I remember past happy seasons of my life… from the shocking big blessings… to simple pleasures like raining showers on my skin. And I am making new happy memories. In the midst of many difficulties faithfully stalking my daily life like psychopaths.
The Creator has got His ways!

In Humble Tribute To Myself

image

(I could only manage a shot at the house with my crappy phone camera lens.)

A long and dark road to the house at the end of the road…
Let’s pretend the house is called ‘soliteon’.

Without the use of grand words from my end to help you, just try to imagine the most extreme degree of solitude possible for a house. It is totally removed from the township. We stumbled across this piece that appears like a happy firefly in the distant night when our car broke down in “the middle of nowhere”. We trudged towards the dimly lit soliteon naturally hoping to find relief from the dead night. Tropical night, winds were blowing and rain was threatening as the clouds gathered. Some of us were so desperate we were prepared to evict the home owner if push came to shove.

(Who would blame them when humans naturally would more likely cut off a friend if (s)he was an extra weight than allow themselves be dragged down?)

I wonder though what they were thinking. Evict the owner, occupy soliteon till dawn, restore the owner with an apology, and just be off on their way… ? Do they think this is just another fiction?
Truth be told we were just seven strangers to any hermit who might be occupying that house and we weren’t sure (s)he’d take kindly to humans (s)he was living away from. But, a heavy tropical rain in the night of nowhere!?!

Peeking through a window, I, the only writer and most curious in the group, observed the lord of the soliteon who seemed like a

A very normal person as relaxed and comfortable in a house not structurally different from other houses internally.

There was no oddity or paucity of dressing, blank expression or deeply furrowed brows. His hair not a messy mass of twines. There was no beard like that of a wise old goat or long curved fingernails on this vicenarian. He apparently paid attention to pedicure too. And he was not dressed in leopardskin or humanskin.
Shame!

His chair was tilted backwards at a precarious angle as a heavy-duty headset probably boomed steadily into his ears. I wondered what sort of song could be playing there. He seemed totally at ease.
After a while, he’d set the chair down and put his fingers to writing; then he’d talk as if to someone else besides himself. For all I know the house could be a haunted one -not just the typical one with eerily whistling winds and mists crawling from one shadowed corner to the other.
He seemed totally queer and ordinary at the same time.

Oh my word! I could swear I heard another voice. No kidding. The closest person to me also heard it. The voice appeared to come from the sitting room where the soliteon lord was sitting. He’d communicate with the voice, the voice would respond, then he’d write.

The rain screamed closer on us.

I conferred with my colleagues and, in view of the talking voice alone, we decided to knock on the door….
___________________________

BACKGROUND: Sometimes, in the dead of the night at my hospital quarters, I’d get up to stroll out, enjoy the midnight plants, animals and weather; and meditate on life and all things sweet and true.
When returning, I’d see my room dimly lit in the dark distant environ and would snicker slightly mockingly at myself, feeling somewhat like the odd soliteon lord in the piece above.
So, I am both the writer and the homeowner characters in the piece.