This moment’s a firefly: this free write, a jar.
The rhythms orchestrating my biological clock salute the moon, and I am reminded daily. The ebbing flow of tides tuck me in and sweep me up sweetly, swishing a lullaby, a purling undulation and with the blessing of sky’s star freckled night, I am washed under by a deep, blue unconscious sleep. Nature’s sense of ironic relief, resides in the shadow of a swinging door: the rising of tides and sunshine which waken conscious awareness simultaneously signal the disappearance secret signs and symbols I know but have yet to realize. Conch shells are revealed in dreams, beached and open during low tide. Wake up and they’re washed up, swallowed in the undercurrent until the soul sees its self reflected in meaning and streaming dreams again.
I wrote exactly what I meant to write, practically a carbon copy print of my imagination.
To most people, I am aware that I just wrote non-sense: abstract, verbose, verbiage best described as non sense. I know, all too well, I know: overly acute consciousness is a disease. They say it affects the liver.
And still, I will not stand to be corrected. My imagination is not an algorithm as positive as twice two makes four. Non-sense would be translating my imagination into a rational and logical formulae of sentences and grammatical frameworks so as to strip its quintessential essence, lose its heart completely, and make do with the easily translated phenomenon of imagination rather than the real thing. Non sense is only non sense when trying to make sense of it. If one wants a glass of lemonade and so squeezes an orange to make it, what non-sense to point at the glass of orange juice and accuse it of being bad lemonade. It’s not lemonade at all. Of course it’s bad; oranges make orange juice and not lemonade, and the imagination makes mythic and artistic tapestries, not rational, logical sense. See what I mean?
To be an artist is more than the title of a trade. An artist is neither craft nor crafted: the artistic instinct is at the heart of the artists’ world. The artistic instinct is the impulse from within to express the praises of connectedness: the mystery and the elusive; the wonder and the intensity; the aum, the ahh, and the ah-ha! All that is not formed in matter and defined, divided, deducted into a perfect box of its place in the world–synthesis and symbiosis, signs, symbols, sparks of magic, paradoxical, mythical and invincible, indivisible and invisible, the weight of smoke and paranoia of mirrors, whimsy and wizardry and natures all mighty ability–to sing her praises, in fear and awe, honor and respect, to love the wonder, to love the whole one like oneself, to love one and to love oneself. The artistic instinct seeks expression, tikum olam, nurturing the health the whole through love and healing each whole, every hole as one whole, to heal everyone into wholeness and strengthen the resolve and interconnected integrity of the whole at large.
The imagination is halfway between unconscious and conscious time/space. Similar to a dream, anything is possible and the body becomes unbound from grounded Newtonian limits. Dissimilar to a dream, the imagination occurs during waking awareness, and as humans are social animals, one must interact accordingly–that is, to be understood–to get by in one’s environment. A choice: lie to oneself and express the magic of the imaginative mind using the robotic logic and rational tools that drain the art of the expression to achieve understanding; or, express oneself authentically as abstract or poetic as it may come across, and face frequent failures like a broken circut, reiteration after iteration tirelessly facing disconnects and misunderstandings.