11 December 2024

Liar liar, skirt on fire.
I'm all squares and triangles today—bees in their hexagons.
Winged male ants stranded on the pool pipe, nervously waiting for rescue.
They need to go and mate, but they are stranded, pathetically, on someone else's bigger hose.
Their purpose slipping away by the second.

When I look out the window, a sharp security LED light blinds sections of my retina.
It's daytime. Why is it on?
The light enters from the left, reflects in complex and dynamic patterns, and falls on the figure in the middle.
The woman on the left tentatively sticks her hand into the light.

13 December 2024

The dog drinks from the bowl of blood—
or from the bowl of water coloured by red paint.

I'm looking for something I can sense with my human mind.
A pattern, a narrative. Something that makes sense to me.

I wait for the swirls of the unconscious to embody something I can perceive.
I should not expect anything though. It will happen if it happens.
And then I will have lightning in a jar.

Art is not useless. It embodies something—
the Word of God.
That has been its function from the beginning.

And that is why an arrangement of paint can have value.
The pattern, the narrative, the Word fills the arrangement—through me,
through my human mind—consciously or unconsciously.
And it deals with things it was made for best.

The absence of the light switch on the wall indicates that the light is not controlled by any of us.
The light issues from the darkness in this painting—out of the dark cones on the left.

Shall I name the three figures?
How about Megan, Dave, and Lucy (left to right)?
Do I possess them now that I have named them?
Made them into an abstract concept?

Is a name a bridge over a river that makes it easier—not having to describe them each time?
But will I lose the experience of going through the water?
Would I keep the river cleaner if I had to go through it rather than over it?

They seem to be wearing masks.

The table reflects the primal pattern on the wall.
We see the pattern from a different angle—does that show us anything?
A pool swirling with “things.”
Megan is drawing from the pool, placing “things” in cans—for commercialization. Desires.

It is a shame we create false desires for ourselves.
Why drink beer when we can get drunk in the spirit with each other?

14 December 2024

You are in this arrangement—somewhere.
Searching...

This gun has a hilt.
A Peacemaker?

Do you not know that I came to divide—
brother against brother,
mother against son?

Why divide—thou who was once one?

Difference.
Before harmony, there needs to be difference—
resulting in something more than the sum of its parts.

Megan, Dave, and Lucy.
Megan is cool as a cucumber in her fridge.
She smugly sticks her hand into the light.
“Drink from my cool cans at only $20 a pop!”

Get a taste.
Create a false need.
Become dependent on Megan (me gain?).

The unrighteous will come under the yoke of the righteous.

Megan is the West? Lucy the East?
What does that make Dave? Irrelevant?

Tension. Dichotomy.
Left and right brain hemispheres.

Could you just sit still for a second?
Yes, stop moving please.
Oh come on!

Divide. Pin down. Categorize. Possess. Control. Grasp. Manipulate.

Don’t question the underpinnings of science.
It works!
The problem is human error.
Human “error”?

I hear Hollywood is running out of fake blood.
Megan wipes the blood on her hands off on the table, leaving long red claws.

Is Dave Israel?
Is that why I called him Dave?
If so, he is bathed in light. A good omen for him.

Megan’s hands are above the table.
Lucy’s hands are under the table.
Dave’s hands are above the table.

Christian, Jew, Muslim?

The table is grooved.
Megan is fat.

Someone unseen seems to be taking Dave’s arm and grips a spray can aimed at Lucy.
I see two breasts—a bosom—in the can. Feminisms?

It forms a layer, a haze, through which Lucy has to peer.
She squints—her vision altered. Deceived?

Megan passes things to Dave: information, supplies, directions.
Megan is ordered, armed, stacked.
Lucy is in disarray—chaos.

USA, Israel, Iran?

Dave has many eyes hovering in front of his face.
Megan is lit up, stripy, concealing blood-stained hands.
Is she biting her tongue? Has she started eating herself now? Or is she being reticent?

The USA cannot pay its national debt, yet she refuses to go on a diet, to tighten the belt.
She is powerful—on other people’s money.

Lucy is burning, but she conceals it.
Dave has a red throat—he wants to say angry things. He is in good shape.
Megan is a little slutty.

Lucy. Loose tea. Loose key. Lusty. Losty. Listy.
She may be pregnant—soon to have another Iran-baby-proxy.

An angry owl. A lace curtain.
Something is rubbing a pig snout in Dave’s eye—this is making him very angry, but he hides it somewhat.

What is he hiding behind the lace curtain?
Why does Megan want to shine a light on it?

The patterns are encrypted—ciphered.
I cannot see what recedes into ancient history and genes.

Assad betrayed Iran?
The lace curtain encrypts the information.
Megan tries to decipher.

Behind a blue mask, Dave’s eyes blaze red.
Megan cannot penetrate the thick fog.