Intersect: Now. Art and Faith

It is interesting to me where the water flows in a life. Or decisions, the manner of viewing and deciding. What form of person individuals become, choosing this or that, or having been chosen by nature/nurture, by a force higher/lower than nature.

I am interested in this pattern where one lives, produces this or that, then dies. Such behavior is not exclusive to anyone. We are judged saviors or fools by those we likewise assess according to aspects of their effect.

My method concerning form is, by this time, something other than a means or end. It is the thing I breathe into. Like my belief in God, I was born for this and in this I will die. It has been paintings and poems. It is now more often prayers and service. I am not one to distinguish without discernment.

It never gets old, does it. Watching people and wondering. Hemingway did this, and Proust. The Lord did this, though with the disarming habit of knowing the person before or in the moment of speaking with them. I recall in particular Matthew (the tax collector) and the Samaritan woman at the well. So, we say God knows us like this. As we are. And loves us as we are. I say this with respect to my life and my work. I often know it as I encounter it, or before. And I am not surprised in light of the injunction to love others as myself. I read "love" as "know."

The task is the goal: pure empathy.

Is this factored by age? I guess. It is certainly factored by living. Hard. And by the belief that naught is for aught. Early on I perceived that end results might serve a purpose not one's own. Thank you, Richard Nixon.

God bless you, Dr. Martin Luther King. God bless you, Robert Kennedy.

I tip my hand. Born in 1959 I was witness to the best and brightest shot down by hate. And I wept, a ten-year old in Atlanta, Georgia. That I grew up in a family that eschewed religion will surprise no one of my generation. That I should eventually come to the Catholic Church should surprise even less.

This posting is about art and God, I guess. If asked, I would say I hope I have not abandoned my youthful belief in Great Things - for poetry, art, life. And religion. I think that my friends must wonder sometimes, for I have accomplished nothing "great" in the arts. My life appears to be very conventional, with family and career and church.

I do not routinely rage against the dying of the light. Not in public anyway. In fact, I rather pity the sentiment.

Rage? Me? Why?

As an artist, I look around and am simply delighted at the activity, and exploring, and inclusiveness, and sheer quality and diversity of work. I do not think poetry and art has ever been better served than it is right now. Add music to that portfolio while we are at it.

And, as a Catholic, I know that when I die I will fall into the arms of our Lord, Jesus Christ, to do with me what He will. And I'm okay with that.

So, what would you think about me if I complained? Fighting for the rights of self-hood is the prerogative of the young (and the under-privileged/under-represented), who need to fight to claim the truth of their time! No one profits by a middle-aged white man complaining, either about art, culture, or religion. May my peers take note!

But maybe I am weak. Perhaps I should rage, as Dylan Thomas suggested. I will take that charge to heaven too, along with all the others, both what I have done and what I failed to do. I make that choice though, ultimately, the water may flow one way rather than the other.

Pause. Look and See

Been a busy boy and not anywhere near enough of the right thing: poetry. Visual, auditory, written. Black and white. Colored/shaded. Cool on fire. Flame under hand. Over the hand, clouds. Beyond the clouds, my friends in foreign lands.

What is poetry? It is the first and last defense and last great attack. It is the first attack, the sounds we make in the womb. It is a blending rubbing, and a strike.

Nothing has changed.

Poetry/art is first and last interwoven with love at last and first of all love as love.

To speak of art is to pause, and meaningfully in that pause. I rest, I gather. I catch up with my friends.

I simple adore the ongoingness of electronic communications. When I wake in the morning I check Facebook and see what friends in Europe and Asia have posted while I slept. The gallery never closes. No landlord demands rent. No creditors require proof. We are each others master and tenant, friend and lover.

I draw no distinctions. My opinions are the weakest part of me. They are a thorn in my side and I move on from opinion. But if I must opine I will say - wow. So much talent, realized, in the asemic and visual poetry I see on the CFP page and the asemic groups. Wow. I think of artists of old seeing this and Kandinsky comes to mind, that mad technician.

I do not lose touch, thinking. I assure contact. But then I am spoiled in marriage to a great poet, Endi. When I wonder, I reach out and touch one who moves with facility where I can only speculate. It is good to fall in love with an artist. It is interesting, and it is good.

I feel on this occasion like my work is located at a particular place waiting for me as having exited through a familiar door, then while I take a somewhat circuitous route to enter back again through another door.

My work can wait. I have enjoyed the peace of watching and learning from friends.