The hummingbirds inside the evergreens

Back in New York time which is three clocks stuffed inside one as my brain re-acclimates and puts all the thought monkeys back on the treadmills; I will say, coming back from a week in suburban Pittsburgh that I am glad to bobble in the sea of beautiful women that seem to flock in the dozens in my Brooklyn neighborhood and in Manhattan though they’re slightly different kinds of beauty; I appreciate both.  When in Pittsburgh I looked around in a store and was amazed at how extreme the ages were; either in Medicare’s crinkly grasp or fifteen years old.   It was good to see my family, good to drive a car, good to experience the Warhol museum; one thing I didn’t know was that he was a devout Catholic;  while walking the halls I realized that sometimes creating art is a form of outrunning large shadows from birth  that feel built by institutions like religion that borrow pieces of your soul as mortar and brick and wild plastics and soon you can’t tell what you believe or what has been believed for you;  for me, Catholicism is a large shadow that is always in danger of swallowing me at the last minute, waiting at the gates near the feet of my soul when it all opens up like a planetarium on a night full of busy skies;  that was my permeating thought; art sometimes can be outrunning a plastic shadow or taking back what was borrowed from your soul and creating a fashionable Frankenstein of yourself; sex and fashion are two pieces, latent and waiting, together perhaps, to feed my life a high impact diet;  I love colors and my favorite piece of Andy Warhol’s were some sketches he had done using serpents as the theme and shapes. I would rather feel the large hunkering shadow and fight than walk around with a blind spot sponsored by the Vatican.

A few thoughts and wishes:
-I look forward to making money making art  so my dad can stop asking me when I’m going to make money making art.  I can understand but I also realize compromise is not on the menu, dine-in or take out;

-I sometimes hit these oil slicks of self hatred and try to get it cleaned up before someone else stumbles on it because I don’t want to have someone else to have to wade the tarry waters; then I think maybe her hands are the hands meant to hold the water and punish the bruises out of it and maybe I can do the same for her;

-I realize I have a great capacity for suffering but that as the mouth of joy opens wider so does this kind of new suffering, what I call Romantic Noble Suffering, where the pain of separation becomes some sort of melted starlight that poses nude in my blood and demands for me to wait, to wait humbly in purity for as long as my heart holds guard;  the harsh combination of becoming emotionally ready and self accepting with this mystical tonic of sexual harmonics that together make me wonder what Love is, what being human means and when does cruelty between Man and Woman melt into mere poetic love and hate in a calmness swung on vines hanging from two bodies. Somewhere here on this nutty orb there is someone who enjoys surfing on a ball of Mars hidden seas;  if so, I’m your man.

Professionally, here comes Frenemies…..


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