I was on my way to do errands this morning when I passed a row of trees along Park Marina Drive. They put on a show every fall.
I had on my big brown-glass shades and the color of the leaves was changed from its natural state. I took some pictures through the sunglasses.
Here is what the tree looks like without the brown glass filter.
I love this color. What would you call it?
The contrast with the blue sky is sweet.
If only the terrain inside my brain could be so clear.
I’ve put in a lot of crud voluntarily. It’s an election year. Our votes will really make a big difference this time. I’m trying to check it all out but undoubtably suffer a few side effects from the MSNBC o.d.
I have some other crud that seeps in against my will. I’m trying to install a filter for that. Some sort of cleansing device that purifies the flow so that I consume only the good wholesome, healthy contents.
Looking at all these gorgeous colors helps.
These are the new curtains I hung in the kitchen. They were on the “free” table at the news factory.
I snatched them for the color alone before I figured out they were curtains from Pier 1.
Thanks to whomever cast them off.
Color and light are radiant. The shimmer of the material world, I’m sure, pales in comparison with the subtle essences of the other world, still, we have to dig this dense place while we’re spinning through.
Mozart it heavenly. He’s one of the ones who retain a larger portion of the memory of how things operate over there. BUT sometimes you just want to hear the Rolling Stones turned up real loud.
Three songs, a little rush from on Exile on Main Street, perfectly illustrate the carnal dilemma, the pleasure of the grunge. Listen to “Turd On the Run,” “Ventilator Blues” and “I Just Want to See His Face.”
Yes, I finished the Exile 33 1/3 book. It was pretty good just to ramble back through that place. All these albums live in our heads and are married to tattered pieces of our incarnate being.
It makes me think of Crazy Jane.
This is what it feels like. I’m dressed in all the left over elements fastened on to my consciousness by all the music I have ever loved. I absorbed it like sunlight.
Layers of meaning, remnants and talismans of my favorite seconds to ever spill out of the grooves. They’re all over me like body glitter. You can only see them sparkle in the right light.
Music gives a cerebral tattoo. These impressions will be affixed to me for the rest of my days.
That is one definition of magic and of music’s transformative power.
“I don’t want to talk about Jesus I just want to see his face,” sings Mick. Dig it, chil’.
I returned to a painting yesterday that I started ages ago.
Its pretty rough and folk artsy. I wanted to paint it to hang in a specific spot. I had visions of a Mexican jungle by full moon in the era of Aztec or Maya. I still have alot of work to do.
Here is a little preview close up on the face. It is still subject to change. I would call this a fictional creation. I don’t want it to ape reality too much.
I think the eyes are too human. I may or may not change them. He’ll get more spots in the days to come. Working on art makes all the difference.
I think I’m in a odd place in my head but one that is closer to balance.
I may be in the perfect set up to do my work and it did take me years to adjust to this space. Now that I am here I must try to get the most out of it.
I feel the waves of change constantly breaking on a shore very near here. They crash all around me. I must stay focused.