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.