Monday, 31 July 2017

it takes time

I had ten full years of becoming
God and Jesus and Mary and all the saints
Solid years, my best years of learning
the early years that the Jesuits grasp

I had thirty years in the wilderness
seeking the Promised Land
saw a lot of places
none overflowed with milk or honey

But in these past fifteen years
of anguish, loss of innocence
and loss of those we loved
slowly, creepingly slowly
the past is being undone

unlearning is proceeding apace
the Buddha's out of date
but still true North holds good
and his methods prove strong
and practical

and the writer of the Tao te Ching
guides me to greater safety and safe harbour
perhaps before I die
I may have learned how to live

Not interested

I am not interested in human cruelty or barbarity

I get mouthfuls of it every day
on the news

I see it expressed
without wanting to
on social media

I know the subject well enough
not to receive any more
indications of its existence

I am interested in human kindness

I want to hear examples of it
I want to share stories about it

I want to nurture it
in people
of all ages
all creeds and none
and of all races

I want people to become so kind
that kindness bursts out of them
every time
they open their mouth
and every time they see another living thing

My Art - a tentative and probably temporary attempt at an explanation and justification

I like to do certain things that some folk would consider art, others pretentious, others crap.

They tend to be associated with three recurring elements: unfinished or seemingly rough work; the idea of fading away, decay, including shadows and reflections; and the idea of automatic creation, fast, aimless.

I have no idea where the attraction in these things came from. But right now, typing this on my laptop in my wee office at home the sun is coming through the window and casting shadows of the vine leaves and branches that have grown up and over the window there. As the sun's light diminishes with a cloud in its way, the sharp, quite focussed shapes of the leaves and branches turn into a foggy blur, and when the clouds are thick, they disappear.

I like the quite focussed shadows, not totally sharp and distinctive, enough vagueness about them to be interesting to me. And I like the much blobbier ones when the lighter cloud intervenes. In addition I like to observe the process of change from one aspect to the others and the return to the original. I don't know why.

That's where the opinions come in from others.

Artistic. Interesting. Really like that.

Very arty-farty. God-awful pretentious. I'll never understand why you can call that art.

Crap. Fucking waste of space. A con.

I'm now comfortable enough within my skin about all the things I do, and why I do them, that opinion - praise or criticism, rejection or complete unawareness, is all OK ie, indifferent, to me.

I could theorise or play amateur psychologist to try to explain my work. There are obvious things. Unfinished work could symbolise the infinite cycle of change that is life or the universe. Fadings surely represent death, old age, dying, maybe sickness, which in turn could be a political metaphor for social sickness. Reflections could be another metaphor, symbolic of a mirror-image way of seeing things, parallel lives, parallel universes, multiverses. And the automatic art could be indicative of a view that sees all life as art, therefore anything, a brush stroke, a piece of wood cut in half, or as classically done, just stating that an object is art, as Duchamp did, anything therefore everything is art.

But in reality as far as I can see I just like these things and I like the process of "making" them.

Friday, 28 July 2017

Randy Zen Abbott

Ikkyu wrote
"The wise heathens have no knowledge"

What did he know about them?
He was too busy enjoying women

Wednesday, 26 July 2017

and so the art

and so the art
is supposed to come through
and sometimes doesn't

the sky is supposed to be clear
and is often clouds

the world is supposed to spin
but instead turns upside down

the clouds become the sky
upside becomes down
art becomes unart

the light still shines
even on the non-existent

Tuesday, 11 July 2017


the tick of time
keeps getting disrupted

interrupted by constant noise
from the neighbours
the family
even the cats

I'm trying to control the universe
and I can't even see where my control pads are.
Why is everyone so damned busy around me?

All in a dream,
wish I was in a dream,
of a dream.
I'd fly off into a dream
if I could dream one up

but all that's happening
is time keeps being disrupted
tick after tick
by political pronouncements
and soft temptations

Monday, 10 July 2017

Blackbird on the rowan tree

blackbird on the rowan tree
keeping an eye out for ancient aliens

He knows they exist
he's been abducted before
took him days to be released and get back to his nest work

Now he's gone again
Hope he's at his nest
doing his craft, his joinery, his tailoring

Hope those damned ancient aliens
haven't taken him away again.
They really should be more considerate.