Subjective or suggestive, visually, physically, experimentally accounting for a specific period of time. Inevitably art confronts the realities faced to the point where we are allowed a view beyond what is presented to why it is so.
More complicated than mathematics, as simple as politics, lines converging into our present from past misunderstandings. Can you not see or hear the tonal range, words dripping from a page? Open your mind.
A camera recording what is not always there but should be. Possibility or probability, classic or contemporary. This is art. Representational mystery, soothing reckless souls, enraptured and necessary to deal with the pain of life itself.
Even in this new day, as we only try to wake from the darkness that enveloped us, comforted or confused us, through the night; even as we give pause to immediate thoughts in the disquiet of the world, this city, this coffee shop (or wherever you find yourself). Even then (or now) as we struggle less and less with the inspiration and more and more with our intentions, we are never quite sure if we will find or have found the clarity we seek. It is naturally, even organically, a process we value, a practice we attempt, that is far less than pedantic and far more than studied. It occurs on its own, full of questions and comments, each random line on the page is purposeful if only because the pencil leaves a trail of thought and indications you are alive and wondering, at all times, as we should be… shouldn’t we? Let not the questions cast doubt on what you know, but instead observe where the answers take you. Surely you are alive enough to count yourself in? This is the pattern of life: to question, to observe, to make use of your time — in whatever manner — to express yourself beyond the boundaries of what you have been told. Is there a better reason to write every damn day?
What happens to the sleep we didn’t get, words we did not heed, or tears never allowed to travel down our cheek? Those weeks, or months, you refuse to speak of; what happened? Then. What became of the people we didn’t need, or like, or replaced? Have you given any thought to what you meant to them? Once upon a time fairy tale or delusion. Shared. Then, remember the personalities or prospects, the ones where you didn’t have the self-respect to introduce yourself to. Where was your confidence, or willingness to bare your soul? Easier, is it not, to confide in a stranger? Those familiar with your ways, those who have read a few chapters of your story may not understand your reservation. Someone back when knew you well, wanted to know more, then gave up. Or was that you? Emotions enrich our lives, as easily as they can destroy all we stay alive for. Is that a reason to hold back? There was once value in vulnerability. Now; well, you know. If you rephrase the question, are the answers still the same? Long past a series of coincidences, the obscenity of silence remains.
In any language, a scream is a scream, a cry is a cry, and a tear a tear. At a sidewalk café or concert hall, laughter should be laughter, and music should be heard. In a civilized nation, life should be lived without fear, and with the freedom to enjoy simple pleasures, to give, and to love, as we do.
Think not of them, idealistically, but of you and of me. Life, and our civil lives, now compressed to fight or flight. In any language, on any night, thoughts remain bursting with pain, the shadow of terrorism rising again. In every country, our hearts have been crushed.
Restless night, clouded by sorrow and the news. The images, and views, the questions, the why, and why there. Again, why? Knowing, without question, it could be anywhere. The streets are not safe, not tonight, in any country. Where is here. You cannot see, or comprehend inhumanity. Not on that scale, or of that type.
In every language, evil lurks, unexpectedly displaying its brutal cowardice. We cannot be shocked, for it happens, on so many levels, in so many countries, to many people on too many streets. Blood is blood. Knives at home, elsewhere guns or worse. We see it. We know it. Yet, on a global scale, our minds are numb.
Hatred begets violence, justice benign against those who chose to use themselves as weapons of destruction. We are not safe, not there, not here. These damaged souls believe in what they believe; wholly and without question. If there is no understanding, there is only resistance.
Prayers, or a hymn, cannot be offered to unbelievers, for they will not, or chose not, to listen. Guided by spirits, their Gods, and dictators who know nothing but this atrocious devotion to another type of mankind. Historically and now, they cannot know love or recognize the value of a human life. For they cannot be human.
Grieving, raging, and still, beneath our confusion, above our cries for revenge or retribution, lies a love, unpronounced but unfolding. A heartbeat, sympathies and empathy to the powerless struggles, in every language. We, as a civilization, in any nation, must stand united in our sense of humanity, and do so with a fortified will.
We must continue believing in love, and hope, charity, and trust, and peace. Right now, however, there is so little to those words. We must have faith, in what we believe, in every heart, in every body. Difficult to imagine, but we must. To deny this resurgence of compassion is to give in to all this terror stands for.
