Sorry, Folks.

Comment moderation has been enabled. I'm tired of the spam comments that include links.

I can't stop going back to this one:

One regret, dear world, that I am determined not to have when I am lying on my deathbed is that I did not kiss you enough.
- Hafiz

I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.
- Hafiz

Something beautiful with which to greet the day.

The one encompasses the many, but it is not the sum. The numinous is an experience, and a common one above all. If there is no god but "the" god, then "the" god must encompass all gods; but most honestly "they" are names, scribbled in thirst for knowledge and driven by awe.
-C, maybe.

On Aversion to Mystery

Untitled

We want it to be cut and dried.
We want it to be easy,
we want it to be certain.
We want to follow the enumerated directions,
and to end up with biscuits.

What about hope?

Seriously: what about hope? What is it? What's it worth?

I've considered hope for weeks, turned the question over and over. It's the thing with feathers. I'm a little discontent: that's a little too quick, a little too easy. (Not that there's nothing to be said for hope as the thing with feathers. There's a hell of a lot to be said for it.)

Time used to be where I'd write thoroughly about such things, have an analysis party. But... I am not so moved. (If you've been checking my blog lately, I haven't been too moved lately.) Why not? Dunno. Feeling like thinking is in many ways a dead end. It's not, of course: thinking is good for lots of things.

I can link the notion of hope with having any sort of positive vision for a future. Any notion that things may be all right, after all. It's hard stuff to come by. Really hard.

After all, the future is nothing if not uncertain. Ergo, happiness is uncertain, too. (Of course, I could imagine the logistics being more difficult than they need to be, the hurdles greater than they are. Of course I could be.)

And, yeah, sure, it doesn't exist, none of it, but it persists in appearing to exist, so I seem to persist in behaving as though it does exist. And I don't consider its non-existence all that often. Really, I don't do much analysis, anymore. Not the long way; perhaps the short way.

But, what about hope? When dreams seem possible; when a sliver that could lead anywhere, but gleams nonetheless, seems to draw a little closer, when the odds seem a little more favorably balanced... one could call it hope.

At the same time; how is that any more than a distraction? The eternal is, and was, and ever shall be. Of what use is hope when that is the constant? Everything, nothing, longing, no longing. So back into it - illusory? - immanent! - pain, suffering, love, fear. The whole spectrum. Alone - and not. Breathing paradox.

Well, there's some musing for you. No answers, no need for answers. Just musings.

Maker and Mystic

This graces the pages of Adventures in Clay, but is as much of this as it is of that. As I work at my statement of intent, I find myself in the strange position of needing to express both maker and mystic, to express either of them adequately. So it goes.

I’ve been on hiatus from the studio itself for the better part of two months. Workshop, firings, Thanksgiving, photography, writing, and a 1500-mile grad-school-visit road trip consumed the interim. Given this pause, the obvious question is, “what next?” Being behind the camera, then at the computer, put me in a more objective position. A myriad of conversations with an assortment of intelligent and thoughtful professors and students gave me new insights, drew out the thoughts I’ve struggled to capture for my writing. The sheer volume of interaction and thought, coupled with many, many hours of solitude, finds me with a new perspective. The experience has clarified and edified my ideas on what am I doing, anyway? Now, in Chicago again and without another immanent departure, I experience a sense of separation from all that came before. What next?

The first next: yesterday I spent many hours editing. With a hammer. A strange thing. Significant, but not easily reduced to a few words.

In seeking an understanding of what to make next, I find there are threads that run through the lacuna, things that continue to move and attract me. So, there’s that, another next.

And there remain the mundane but very real timelines of graduate applications. My statement of intent and artist statement remain incomplete, though elucidated by conversation and solitude. Another next.

And so on.

Happy winter solstice.