on art II

it is easy to get swept away by the pure expression of the thing .. an innocent emergent that need for not 

most often what first comes out is beautiful in that, it’s naissance and novelty, but it is a rare exception that what is young need not grow ..  

there are many mouths to feed and many things that feed it .. experience, practice, critique, emotion

an empty canvas is never an unwelcome thing, a fresh start or take, or the evolution of a once adaptation  

to then be shared and shown, though as one thread to another, we may feel deep in its vulnerabilities at times drowning, while most of these intimacies are the very things we can best relate to in others, 

& so to hide behind, in fear of touching another from that place or acknowledging that it may even exist to begin with, is not always the art itself but rather merely its adolescence discovering what to share and what to keep, feeling edges and drawing borders 

and to make what is, to conceal it as another for the sake of some misuse of ego, on either side, is perhaps not what it is here to do, the gift of art in such a way to express and call to what we all share ~ human, is perhaps to beckon that .. as one might call upon restful eyes and sleep in exhaustion at night 

.. not all is meant for the world, and in keeping pieces, we in turn, end up having more to give  

on art

we each have our own ways of organizing the world .. a map in our minds, in our sleep, the treads of movement and the words we leave in parting.

some will forever see solids and shapes and put them on top of another and make something. others will see the space that surrounds it or what is in between and fill it with what was not there at the start.

as our communities grow larger in their global outreach, we find more ways to meet others alike us, see those who are not, and share what might speak to us so that others we do not know might know us in some way.

there are perhaps “safer” means of expression, some that do not walk a fine line, some that may be more discreetly understood, and some that may be more widely and well received. still, the eccentrics and those silent yet speaking will continue to make something for, i imagine, various reasons, but for a common tug that grabs the corner of all our shirts after all .. it’s simply that we must and so we do, and in doing so, we feel better, more alive, more ourselves. perhaps it is a way of dealing with the past, with the future, a way we continue ticking and getting by in the insanity of a planet that bears both great beauty and great violence. it is to feel it and to feel out the borders of bodies and the defined term of the changing word, human.

and in that experience of expressing, in both connecting, and feeling, and understanding, and letting go, and wondering why, and marveling, and weaving the light into the cracks, it is vulnerable and both longs to be shared and also never seen. it is the dialogue of something else, not the mind or the mind’s reason, not defined text or even a common shape, a sign. it is something else entirely. and when it breathes out of a page, it is often met with a rigidity that does not know where to place it.

we make art because we do. we must. we feel better because of it. we explore what we are and what we are not. we learn. and in ways that we can dictate and determine, so that we more fully trust what we find there because so few have gone, and sometimes, we are the first, a pioneer and so discover something yet unnamed and unmarred by the world, so that we can see for a moment what we might imagine to be a glimmer of truth that we can trust merely because we have happened upon it ourselves and it was not handed to us by others, unquestioned and unchanged.

it is not for everyone to understand. it is only one way of the many .. ways that we humans try to understand and try to chew on our experience. and hopefully, turn it into something better. and to know, that a piece of art, in any form, is but one very small glimpse into the artist.


taken by e

tides to go

It’s weird how at times, we are so stupid in our humanness and at others, we begin to learn, to see, to use time as a measure of change and to use it to change ourselves. And still, we fall victim to the inescapable pattern that births ignorance into experience and from experience into wisdom and then back to the bone breaking and the falls so that in getting up, we see yet again. That we both know and do not.

Perhaps this is it. To be human. It is life’s purpose, why we live. To live in such a way. To live in this way, and to experience the singularity of a connected experience that wields the same sword to its maker, human. That as one piece of it, we are granted a gift upon our first breath, or perhaps it began in the swimming of the seed as it joined together with the first breath of a cell that grew in gestation for a period of time that most often amounts to 9 months. Somewhere in the before or the after or the during, we find ourselves to be written and inked, the patterned theme of that one, to experience as we all do and yet in our own circle of what may ripple out and disappear, what we are drawn to and away from, and as that revolves to one side or the other, we find that still, we are themed in our approach. Perhaps I am not yet old enough to see beyond my own small sphere of circle, but I imagine it will always take on its new evolution. Through its natural course of action, to experience it all, but given eyes to see that see in such a way so as not to miss it at all.

At once dwelling within, I yearned for what was without. Seeking beyond myself as perhaps an escape or a remedy to what was once called introversion but now we may call a controlled attempt at trying to save the assumed pain, the let down expectation. Now as the turmoil of what was within has learned to walk an empty beach of rocky sand and gray waters, the mind finds rest in the waves, and the boat of the body seems to bounce on just fine, redirecting with the winds when it is proper to do so, and otherwise, trusting in the calculations of the path that never veer too far from course. The outside voice, the sun, or the rain, or the covering clouds it comes from, can speak because when the boat is built well, those things will age it in such a way that we shall call it “with character” and we know when to avoid the eye of the storm or that if speaking out as if to a god, that it is best revealed in the question that the answer is already right there. We must be honest. Life beckons it, and those who cover in its cast, find ever more that their inner child runs rampant, and some toddlers merely need a nap, a good “no,” and perhaps a carrot to consume their mouths for a time. 

We get second chances when we give them to ourselves. We are animals ever the more, and we have a capacity for creation that is often unacknowledged when we either buy too much into the man or try too hard to stick it to him. (It is duly noted that both are different versions of buying into the man.) Well, worry not because the man need not be bought. He just likes to be looked at lovingly as if through a store window as you pass by on the street, looking in and most likely listening to a song you like that might add a little something to your step. We can make of life what we will, and the will we have is sometimes overridden by the incessant thought pattern energized and recharged with a battery that by now should no longer be rechargeable or in a simpler way, the cookie and the extra one, and the couch that curves to your booty and makes your booty more curvy, but still, a human is an animal after all and will revel in comfort so long as we fail to use our mind to will ourselves away. The mind is our friend, 20% of the time.

Tell your younger self to let it be. Do your thing as you do it, and let time be an ally. It’s one of the few that we have so long as we are open and willing. Maybe tell it learn to be more of that, though when younger, there is a certain amount of stubbornness that is implied and is done finely so that later on we can again meet time to tell us that in contrast, there are better ways.

It is all an experiment, the never ending game of dress up and trying on, and somewhere in that envelope money slides into it so that even in financial catastrophe, see it again and say, it is something I am trying out and if I do not like it I shall change it and do it differently the next time, and for now, I shall pick up these pieces as best I can. Even when it becomes like the yard of raked leaves in the fall that will soon again be swept back in with the wind. 

Bonds are broken and some never are. Even with permanent goodbyes, what has tugged your heart, may never end and it may ever still. It doesn’t keep you from loving again and now, and don’t be a child that walks around and into the same relationship only to hand over baggage to another person without first opening the suitcase and seeing what’s inside for yourself. The x marks the spot after all, and treasure is a loose term for even things that now tarnished can be polished yet again.

Merge your worlds and your patterns. Be silent and loud, crazy and out of place. Though my mother will always remind me that manners are never out of style, for the world is never not want for kindness. So be kind and be more of it because even when the cat drags it in, it might still need some water and a place to relieve itself before getting back out there and back on it and backing down to the circle again. 

zag's digs

some places we never escape from, 

as some detriment of memory

or the shading of dark blues through the cloud’s sun

built up hair in the shower drain

the faces in dreams  


we live on in others as they do in us .. 

as my father rubs off on the small interactions turned toward a gesture now shared among those far away from him  

the slips of words that come out as a word to someone of our past now gone 

the aged marker that tells us what we could have never known then

we still go on loving and finding it


loving from here and asleep

there are things felt, alone that are meant only for the view of what’s just outside to see 

walking it more in distant, a turbulent dance of balance back and between

a generation of yearning for sunsets in far and near places where once set, only a rest will rise again


time is not yet old

though it may walk bent over


numbering the eye shutters of light traps and blinds black

a human is time’s way of moving

the cross on a back and the bend of steps inward

the knots pulled tighter and the seams torn in breaking hurt a little harder  

to be breathing, awake or alive


the mystified still stand at the edge, when the jump comes, even those who come back are not sure what catches the fall


the dreams for renown come to a halt, something whispers stronger as the seeds from a past sprout even in the days without light

a family’s crest

or the return of worn down luggage


as the form softens, it grows stronger and the mind may ease in its circle

as the animals once were

given to it and with the mind, overcame

as beast in nature, of magnitude and ability

with redirection for the salt of life’s wounds


cracks in the china

lines in our creases


a logic unforeseen that silences  

or stops what may walk too far

meeting the maker’s middle  

in its furrow of brow

in the rock paste of clay


it is not just the child that dreams alone, tall on a stool standing over an empty room

the jest displayed to a room of empty seats

what is empty does not mean it is not filled

rather a self’s projection

in canvas painted only outward where what was out would stay so and would not find the in


a human’s brilliance, to be bold and great

to veneer upon the greatness of acclaim for its own desire latent,  

that to walk a path of  

or drawn, the panorama of perceiving

stepped down abysmal bound



where worn down tech finds the future and frees it. 


happy new year, find the stretches in the cracks & let not our extremities grow into the device that sits upon them  

the days it’s true

the noise of motion in a city

the fire still

still breath

or ousted in haste


the wind of a car by ongoing

a subtle light

the skulled cap

a miner’s ward

of sand and stone


who is the one that stays, tending to its fire

breathing its burn

Copyright 2019 ⓒ / Forrest Gallagher