I can
Only taste
The first
Few sips
Of wine
In sips
Other than
The first
There is
Only a
Vague sense
That the
Liquid is
Alcoholic
Whether it
Is because
I am
Drunk, or
My taste
Buds have
Become bored
In either
Case, I
See little
Point in
Finishing
My glass
August 13, 2021 at 09:13PM
I close my eyes and lose track of the reality that returns when I open them again. Standing in the shower, light-headed; I almost fall over. I close my eyes again. The longer I look at the black in the backs of my eyelids, the more animated it becomes, with figures I might learn to name if I were to look long enough. The black doesn’t always strike me. Sometimes I close my eyes and open them without noticing. The world returns and it makes sense to me, seeing again the same thing that I saw just before blinking. Other times, the black catches me, at first in its simplicity, in a reprieve from the physical world, full of complex optic details. Then these animated figures start to appear, moving with a life of their own. I wonder if we could adapt to that blackness, given enough time to evolve and get used to it. What would that black, close-eyed life be like?
Changes in my sensory experience are a main source of my inspiration.
Sitting at my desk in my apartment, I am experiencing the same senses. I can hear the sound of traffic on the street outside. I can see my computer screen and the white wall behind it. I can feel the cushion under my bum and the wood against my back. I can taste my saliva. I can smell the bland air. I am experiencing the same senses. I am bored. I am not inspired.
So I get up and put on my sneakers and go for a run. Now my sensory experience is changing. I see new storefronts every block. I see new people and new cars. I hear conversations and children laughing. I smell the pollen from the summer trees. I feel the wind and the sun and the cement beneath my feet. My taste is about the same—just saliva.
Now, this is not to say I could not have changed my sensory experience in my apartment. I could have turned on some music. I could have taken a heroic dose of acid. I could have punched myself bloody. I could have sat down and tried my best to enter a deep meditation.
What comes in through your senses is already art. Life itself is art. What you see is a painting. What you hear is music. What you feel is dance.
As an artist, I am more of a translator than a creator. My life, my sensory experience—this is already the art. It is like clay given to a sculptor. I take the sound or music and the sight of the sky and turn those experiences into words. But in some sense, they are already words.
I am like a kaleidoscope or a prism. The experience of life is light. I am not the creator of light. Nor am I the creator of myself. I am merely a vessel.
It is still work. It is not as passive as standing there and letting light pass through. But it is work already set into motion by forces greater than me, and I must merely play along.
One song
Without sound
And a painting
Without color
Dares you to look deep
Into the void
And press your ear
To the glass ceiling
Where you might hear
A white noise
Which seems at first
To be nothing
Listen long enough
And see
How nothing
Becomes something
Red Presidio roofs
Against the blue white
Ocean sky
And the red bridge
Green lawn and trees
I like to lie
And look a while
At the ordinary
And its layers
Of interesting
Offered only
To eyes
Like rivers
Wearing away
With time
To watch patiently
The stony surface
Which eyes
With less time
Only ever see
On the outside
Unaware
Of the river bed
To be found
Cut beneath
Staring
Long enough
I start to see
The space
In between
Focusing
On each speck
Of dust
In the air
A gradient
Obscures
My vision
Of the original
Object
Of intent
Farther off
Rubbing my eyes
I enter into
This outer space
An oxymoron
To go into
What leads out
Like the small door
In the Wonka factory
Or the key
To Wonderland
I chase after
With eyes for legs
Abstract patterns
Like fireflies
In the night
Of my closed eyes
Forgetting everything
Like being a body
In a shower
Noticing only
The bright yellow halo
With a black hole
In the center
Pulsing and blurring
Off into the distance
Of my vision black
I run harder
To intensify this vision
Of my own internal
Solar system
Of dynamic stars
That dance
As I rub my eyes
Accustomed to seeing
The real world
Mixed up
Offering apparitions
In a dark world
Of my own UFOs
Where I can play
Like a child
Chasing after
What I do not yet
Understand
Outside the wind howls
Cars go by
Some shouts from who knows
Inside the radiator whistles
The fridge whirs
The walls creak from the wind
Sheets rustle—
These are the sounds
That keep me up
The drapes that cover the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, are separated just barely, like the split in a log that appears as the axe is first wedged in, but before the two halves completely separate. The split in the drapes is slightly wider at the bottom, so more yellow light gets through there, and onto the white rug. Light from passing cars gets through the narrower part of the split at the top. This light is dynamic and animates the room as the car passes. It’s shape depends on the part of the split it is passing through. And it’s position on the wall depends on the cars motion. As the car is coming from the west on California, the slim light starts above the dorm or way to the kitchen, and then travels over the bookshelf and desk until it is above our bed and then disappears because of the angle once the car is too far east. This is the closest thing I’ve got to a motion picture, since we moved the television into the closet last week.
i feel a little off center
like my left ear lags
my right hearing louder
leaking out sound somehow
past the bud before the drum
i take out my AirPods
and case them to check
but upon re-inserting
realize it is just me
seeing clearly
i have to stare
for some time
to make sure
what i’m seeing
is really there
there is a balance between pain and pleasure. i have been taking cold showers for about four years now. it’s not cold for the whole time. i wash for about 10 minutes in hot water, and then turn the water to cold for just a minute or two at the end. one time i decided to skip the cold shower at the end. i was enjoying the hot shower and thought it would be nice to avoid the pain of the cold shower at the end, just this once. but then i realized, as soon as i got out of the shower, the air felt cold to me. i had to put on clothes quickly to get warm. once you’ve enjoyed the warmth, you can’t escape the cold. whether i chose to turn the water cold by my own hand, or feel the contrast of the cold air after opening the shower door—either way, there would be an inevitable cold after the warmth. pain is inevitable after pleasure.
it is like my muay thai trainer once told me, “fighting is fair. if you choose to attack, then you put yourself at risk of counter-attack. if you choose not to attack, then you are not fighting.”
the universe is fair. balance is the rule of fairness. pain is the counter-attack after pleasure.
sometimes i look at something
not really paying attention
and accidentally start to see
the space in between
sparkling in broken fractals
going off into gradient corner
abstract offering to me
all sights other than
what makes sense
giving my mind a break
to see without thinking
it all appears
to me now
getting in
through my senses
inside of me
somehow
making me feel
as part of it
pouring in
and back out
there is a moment
where this said
would ring true
in your ears
with eyes
seeing the same
as the eyes
of these lips
that said so
standing
with my back
to the wind
pant legs
flapping
leaning back
just a little
hands
in my pockets
sound
wooshing by
my ears
waiting
to warm up
between gusts
like this laying on my back and having it all pour out especially after days dark interspersed with tread wondering if this is it in the yard has gone like I always do fearing I have nothing to offer and will be me anymore or maybe just afraid of being worthless and unproductive and untalented really not mattering what identity Woodcalm for all identities being the same and melting into one another but really just the primal need coming through and this being what is requiring of the ego a certain consistent and persistent success whereas otherwise just to wake up and be even completely different wouldn’t matter just as the rest of the world does anyway and especially less apprehensive to become another and melt apathetically completely into the interest of anything else even unmotivated even for Survival even dying maybe and being all right with it because not coming from an ego needing so badly to live
goodness like a drug it comes to be so unexpectedly today just from having left work a little early and paying so much attention on the bus into the buildings on the walk to the bus especially and now back in the apartment laying on my back on the rug and looking at everything the off-white ceiling and the leaves outside the window blowing lightly all of it just as it is any day that I get home but on this day just a little earlier it all opens up and gives back to me the art and ability I so selfishly miss and fear to never have again when it’s gone so reflecting now while I have it on why it is that I miss it so much when I don’t interesting especially is the thought that it will never come back and believing so strongly that this is true even though for the last little while now so many times back-and-forth I thought this and it certainly does come back but I suppose the fear is Stuart still real that one time it won’t and then what will I be nothing maybe different maybe something else maybe I will be all right with that too I have been mostly all right with what I have become and suppose that I have become different things but really now thinking that this one is it and that I only have so much time and so many chances before I lose my mind or disintegrate or grow old or get killed suddenly so I want to rush all I had at once and really wish I could if I knew what it would take I think I might have the will to do it but just being in a body and mind that can’t I’m kept private and so have been taught patients as a result but still Hoping greedily for more time so that the limited mind and body I do have wind spread out can achieve what I otherwise would all at once
clearly everything is seen right now without much to distract just being allowed to be and having my eyes work and not so much noise that the few noises are heard clearly and loud and heavy eaten just enough and enough time passed since a small salad lunch that I’m not running to my next meal but also not passing out from hunger and so greatly satisfied all over and curious about what I am sensing is the perfect formula to just be talking into my phone and having it makes sense and also taking time to pause and let it play out what I am sensing and in this case mostly thinking just staring really at the art gallery wall the baby and I put up in the apartment but not really seeing the art mostly just eyes glazed over seeing the words in my mind and seeing isn’t the right sense but thinking is really the right verb which to me has been interesting lately as I have thought in most cases art is a matter of sensing but from my writing it is largely a matter of thinking which at times like these with isaac lost over has nothing to do with sensingYet thought is mostly nonsensical without senses that at one point informed the very structure and language of thought
let’s see if I can give you an example here of what it is two cents in the sea thought looking now up at the off-white drapes crumpled and connected buy black been screwed into the window cell and glass window surrounded by gray metal frame where just be on the glass is a branch of leaves that are about 6 inches wide and five or 6 inches tall blowing on their branch and occasionally pressing up against the glass window see that was site that I was sensing now if I switch to hearing I hear my own voice and close my eyes to make this easier hearing car is outside and a rustling that is rather pleasant that I cannot tell whether it is the cars or the leaves Rushleigh against each other blowing in the wind now a release of wind that sounds like brakes on the bus and the room of the electric engine in the door of the apartment building shutting heavy downstairs and now the bus taking off from the stop and hearing the chime on the phone that tells me my voice is stopped being recorded so opening my eyes and seeing again and switching to that sense thinking now of smell and taste which I have said before really aren’t strong senses artistically certainly taste is with the Colaneri arts and eating but just laying here with nothing to taste or eat my taste buds are mostly useless and tasting dry saliva nothingness in my mouth and my smell especially sensing less if I could just drive it it would be nothing this as well maybe clean I would describe it or like fabric or like air and feeling are yes I should’ve said feeling before taste and smell because it can be quite strong abstract I describe it like it often makes abstract painting make more sense to me whereas undefined things are seen with the round and rough sketches but nothing clear as you would see with site feeling now my hand my left pinky and ring finger against my abdomen and the palm and some against my lower ribs and my left foot on top of my right shin and my behind pressed against the rug slightly sore from laying in the same position for a little while and my elbow against the leg of our living room table and the fingers of my right hand holding my phone in front of my face in the back of my head also Preston gets the rug is similar to my behind and really quite a lot if I were to focus over a grade about a time I want my body is feeling just my body itself I imagineThis being sent as art
ver if you were to say my art leads to nonsense usually when I get a rush and have a lot to put down but then still the motivation stays well there’s nothing left and so results in me saying whatever comes to mind even though it doesn’t make sense and really just wanting the black great against the sky to keep going so the art doesn’t run out without much content referring back to what I said earlier about a body and mind only be able to do so much in a limited time but Pricing I’m not the last talking faster running almost out of breath and wanting the light to show like it does on the ceiling shadows really just waiting for baby to get home laying on the floor alone and all my poems out of me feeling better actually having gotten something down and leaving a legacy if in this moment I were to die which is a large part of what drives me I think to leave something if I die to make something while I’m here and preferring to leave this motivation is not so clear as to let them drive me and be human and normal without having to discover and explain everything because then as I have beforeJust getting a headache and then losing the motivation and that not being good for anyone
like a little space behind the mirror leaned up against the wall in the corner behind the radiator or dust bunnies collect and protected not so open these small spaces make me wonder of cloistered worlds where cat paws with scratch and food falling off the dinner table will get lost and marks on the wall unseen won’t get patched or painted over and light won’t shine as often if long enough turning to paint a different color
staying with an idea long enough or moving on to match our attention spans wondering what length is right between gravity and well explained so if it in the beholder that will read brilliance into one wordAnd otherwise is in patient won’t sit long enough to get anything out of it anyway and all around all story short and long playing out just depending on who is there to read them
The need to create constantly pressing on me but needing to relax and remember that what will happen well and creation happens always just by living a story is told in just by seeing a painting is painted and just by hearing music is made so all the time the heart is there and the only variable is not whether I create it but whether I am open to seeing and hearing it
wanting baby to come home so badly just sitting here talking to myself not realizing how much I miss her until now being able to hug her and talk to her and just hear her breathing or working or rolling over in bed and looking up to see her watching her live her not life as she normally does and being so interested in it and her being interested in mine and making comments and asking me things
So much art really all around just a matter of capturing it and sometimes having to decide between capturing it and just enjoying it
it’s a noisy night
with the news
from the open window
in the bathroom
and the traffic
always the traffic
and the neighbors’
conversation
through the wall
behind us
i put on
the glasses that
i’m supposed to wear
all the time
but usually don’t
and feel overwhelmed
in the grocery store
from all the
extra information
on the labels
that i can’t
usually read
like the fan blades going
and the wire
inside of the light bulb
hanging by a cord
from the ceiling
and the sound from
the speaker in the corner
just slightly louder
than the headphones
in my ears
at night
keeping lights
turned off
to avoid
a return
prematurely
to
the waking
world
lights
turned on
returning
to a seen world
that eyes
were grown
to survive in
a moderate
amount of pain
just
to make time
last
a little
longer
don’t always
close your eyes
and go so
cerebral
open them
and find what
our primal senses
are more familiar
with understanding
went
all the way
out here
just
to come back
and see
what i was
seeing before
now
just a little
bit different
seeing
an old world
with new eyes
the scruff of beard
rough on my fingers
chin scratching
hearing
my heartbeat
clearly
in each ear
my left pinky toe
scratching behind my right heel
my right instep
flat against the fitted sheet
covering the mattress
my left ribs and shoulder and tricep flat too
lying on my side
my ear and jaw and part of my cheek
against the pillow
a slight strain in my neck
inclining to reach the pillow
baby’s forearms
pressed into my back
the second sheet against my right knee like a teepee
and against my right pinky toe too
like a second post
the back of my left hand outside and on top of the covers
folded with my other hand like prayer
holding my phone
typing this
my right index finger on the power button
on the right side of the phone
and my left index finger
on the volume buttons
and my two thumbs on the lighted keys
that i see with only my right eye open
and my left closed
submerged in pillow case
and the inside of my right bicep
slightly sticky against
my right pectoral
and thighs laid flat
like books stacked
not top of one another
dry tongue in mouth
feeling breath roll over
like ocean breeze over
a sandy beach
and slightly chapped lips
a half inch apart
eyeballs behind eyelids
closed while i think
and nose just being there
not particularly felt
other than a slight blockage
in the right nostril
and other parts felt
just being there
like eyebrows and forehead
center of my chest
and insides
and second and third layers of skin and muscles and bones
all being there
mostly unnoticed
expect for the occasional practice
of laying physical attention
fingertips enhanced
with eyes closed
like ears hawkish
with lips pursed
and mind sharpened
with none of the senses
any sense strengthened
without others
to crutch for
its shortcomings
like a bright light
that you look at suddenly
from darkness
and close your eyes
and look away
waiting for your eyes
to adjust
but still seeing
that scar of light
on the back of your eyelids
that is a symbol
of the actual light
you saw
but it is not
the actual light
it is just
the scarred memory
of your eyes
telling you what
you supposedly saw
and more
and more abstract
if you watch it
off in the one corner
of your vision
the edges softening
more and more
until what resembled
a lightbulb
in the ceiling
and then a circle
of light melts
into the general bright
of your vision
at large
as your eyes adjust
sometimes one art is more descriptive than another depending on which sense you’re trying to appeal to – i point to three roads that are relatively close. i am trying to point to the one in the center. i would be better off using my words and saying, “the one in the middle.”