glimpsing . . .

Monday, 31 December 2012

A Pot Of History.

On Mon, Dec 31, 2012 at 7:35 PM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


A Pot Of History.

Prologia:  'Axis of Dyslexia.'

  Long before 'The Silk Road' was opened,long journeys on foot were hard on the skin. And it wasn't until the 'Sacking of The Goths' was introduced, that traders from The Orient had much soft ground to stand on.
Being limited, for the most part, to trading in such commodities as assault and spaces.
In fact, we have to go much further back to really see what was going on. A truism which inevitably leads us to peer into the mists of 'The Cthonic,' in the light of which, it goes without saying, that the alluvial planes would have to arrive much later.
This, as we now know, was a period consisting predominantly of huthering and ganting peoples. Nomadic bands roamed the savannas, in constant search for whatever gig might be available to them.

Since we know that , as a species of hominids, they were long out of their tree,as evidenced by a few outstanding fossil remains, indicating clearly they were already at the stage of burying their dead, standing up.  Mound builders notwithstanding.

Below the Mound, martin law, June 2011

Other noteworthy characteristics are in evidence, such as their use of stones for throwing at animals, in hopes of eventually making a direct hit.  Along with their dual use in the building of heavily fortified circular structures.  Built specifically for rapid ease of access when they missed, as was undoubtedly often the case.
This accounts for the large areas of desertification around most archeological sites.

It wasn't long however, before this practice was all but completely abandoned, in favour of subsisting primarily, for a while at least, on a diet of roots of whatever they could pull up between them.
A salient factor and one which firmly establishes them  as being one of the prime root races.

It is also true to surmise, that these early risers were not the only bands on the scene competing for a hit. There are other indicators extrapolated from finds in such far-flung geographical locations,which were much later to become known as, for example,
Moronia, Dyslexia, Myopia, and to the east of the Urals, Urinia, and much later, present day Dystopia.

Almost half of the scholars in the field are unanimous in concluding that there was another strain of early hominids already proficient in the use of fire, the main use of which, was to burn the ends of sticks, or shall we say staffs, which were then hardened in water to make a point. But i for one wouldn't wish to put too fine a point on it.

These were the Stick People, and there is much evidence to support the notion that there was a high degree of cooperation or collaborative  effort which took place between the separate factions, i.e. the otherwise semi-reclusive fortress dwellers.
Even going so far as to involve actual partnership and bonding between the respective genders.

Indeed, this may have been the true genesis of the sling-shot and possibly the catapult, if only in rudimentary form.  As the Stick People undoubtedly had more successful access to an abundance of sinuous material , for the most part obtained from the bodies, and skin of rabbits and snakes, and possibly fish entrails.

It was only later, when the glaciers retreated for somewhere more cool that there was a corresponding abundance of games.
Notwithstanding that the Pre-Cambrian Shelf had already been pretty much depleted, most likely by 'marauding hordes from the north', for want of a more ethnologically precise terminology.

As other learned researchers (sic.ibid: et al.) have noted, it wasn't until 'The Upper-Psychotropic Era' ( an admittedly relatively high culture for such backward peoples)  that a few seminal forerunners were able to get themselves somewhat straightened out sufficiently as to chart the first heroic impetus for a course that would ultimately blossom into the genetic prototype ontogenetically speaking, of advanced modern man,' Homo-Dyslexis.'

But a mysterious enigma hangs over our story at this stage. One that was to have serious consequences in our dramatic ascent to the precarious pinnacle on which we were to find ourselves.

This, as most scholars will attest to, is something of a thorny subject, laden with more than a little paradox, and one i shall have to return to later by a somewhat different route.

Save to say, we are on our way. After having at the said juncture in question, apparently already begun to successfully extricate ourselves as a collective and undeniably promising species, from what can only be called 'the primordial slime.'

But the question remains, and looms somewhat obliquely, begging to be answered, and will have to be so dealt with sooner or later lest the whole edifice collapses.   
Baldly stated thus: 'Did we overshoot the mark !??'
~~~~*~~~~   ~~~~*~~~~
Martin S. Law. R.B.M. M.O.P.
Inis Fail.  Dec. 31. 2012.c.e.


art : Below the Mound, martin law, June 2011



by the dark pool - window view




art : by the dark pool, martin law, December 2012
artwork : digital pan play - virtual framing, DEC 12 - wfp for moo

By The Dark Pool.

On Sun, Dec 30, 2012 at 8:57 PM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

By The Dark Pool.




The swaying, gear-grinding, bumpy coach slows down, and curves into the kerb.  With a hiss of the mechanism's mundane release, sounding like a sigh.  Like my relief in stepping down, feet on the ground.
Or at least, free to walk, rubber-soled on concrete semi-deserted pavements of this familiar main street. 
A small coastal tourist town in winter quiet.
The coach goes on ahead, beyond the field of vision, and out along the peninsula.

Pausing over contemplative coffee, outside on a pub bench on the edge of town.
A few cars brake, to break the crossroad quiet and turn, below the rugged pine-clad hill.  Gleann Garbh, and the 'rough glen' beyond.


Free to walk away from cars, and, turning off by the gate-lodge, the inner dialogue, minimal as it is, easefully dissipating in open freshness of the walk.  Along a lane of tall timeless oak.  Bark, branches, and twig tracery, but for being moss clad, bare to the air.

By the small stone-arched bridge, where the road bends.  Rushing of racy white water over rounded-rock shallows, under twin arches, gurgles in swirled troughs and pools.
Stepping off the stony compressed crust of road, fresh into matted grass and beech leaves where, the bare and puddled path starts.

A way into the wild wood, where, water washes out where you wandered in.  So, entering in, to shed the skin, the matrix weaves for the unwary.  The leaf-crunch sodden, though barely trodden, oozes microcosms underfoot.

Further along beech burnished banks, the rock-strewn, stream-roiled gully flowing below, there is a listening in the limbs of dark branches wrapped with moss, that thrives in moist magnetism of ionic air.
There, where the earth breathes deep, seeming asleep.  There dwells some silent spell of web-work there.

Microcosm and macrocosm blend in seamless unity, leaving no in-between for transient tourists to traverse.  Being where the thread unravels, losing the weft and woof of the weave, we've all been there.
To walk as creatures one with Earth, and dream we walk on tourist trails.



This water rushing down, washes straight off the mountain.  Its' bare crusted mineral face exposed above, to waves of precipitating vapours.  Ripples across lichen, seeps into craggy fern-filled crevices of tufted grass.
Where once, thunderous erratic boulders rolled, to crush sap and settle forever in dense thickets of silted sediment.


Generations stumble up, leaving thin winding trails of trodden earth.  Meandering around in a creaturely course of least resistance.  Drawn by voices of water and healing ions of the air.  Footfalls navigating, mindful of rocks and roots outcropping near to sheer drops.


To the dark pool.  A deepening bowl or hollow, rock-scoured and brim-filled by successive centuries of cycles and seasons.
Banks bearing brown bracken down to the brink of sinewed soil and crag rock wall.  Submerging into a volume of dark-shaded water.  Cradled over by bold black-fingered branches of elemental trees, sturdy as stone.


An innocent 'tourist trail' leads into this self-contained situation, where it would be wise to simply sit, on the solid plank of the bench or boulder.  To simply sit, allowing the effortless shedding of skins with no presumption to plunge.
From the north wall a vertical fall of white water.  Reflected in the barely wrinkling  leaf-stained surface of a slow dark mirror pool.  This universal constant mystic sound of a feed of falling water fulfilling, music of many ancient voices.


Elemental, compounded of a dense bank, fortified by the iron grasp of primal roots.  Graced with the confetti of rust-brown beech leaves scattered where they remain.
Surrealistic, archaic as blackened boulders plucked smooth and glistening, from the submerged cold of brackish water.
Being an oasis where stagnation is unlikely to occur, forever fed from far above and perpetually renewed afresh.
Often a raging torrent of foam falls down, unloading white noise into the crucible, continuous with the rain.
Yet this constant single perpetual signature sound, the reassuring multiple stream of lilting language, whether obscure when barely a trickle, of water falling into itself.


It's been a while since i was there.  I think it's safe to say there will soon be signs of spring. 

Never mind the dying throes of the drama of the finite-focussed world.  Something, somewhere is waking.  Spring, springs eternal.  Perhaps it is a global or galactic spring.  A Universal Spring.

There is good reason to affirm that being so.  Innocence is not without its' own wisdom. 
The 'ordinary' is more extraordinary than we ordinarily assume.

I'm certain to make further pilgrimage, and simply sit, silent and listening, long and deep, by the dark pool.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
martin rainbowmaker.
Dec. 2012



art : by the dark pool, martin law, December 2012




Sunday, 30 December 2012

"it's just. . . a face"





"It's just . . . . . . a face"

pencil
and
paint
following vision paths

by

martin law
rainbowmaker

picturing  . . .
pictures

01- matured wisdom,
december 2009
02- aisling, wfp
03- caoilfhionn, wfp
04- a love of leaves - tracing, july 2012
05- tales of the sea - tracing, october 2012
06- tales of the sea - raw umber, october 2012
07- planet visitor
08- stellar sister, april 2009
09- no. 3, 2007
010- Gypsy dreaming, 1968
011- butterfly girl, august 2009
012- divine perfume, march 2009
013- weenyon wahkon (holy woman), december 2008
014- apache mystery (1), november 2008
015- apache mystery (2), november 2008
016- kisses the wolf, january 2009
017- Medicine Songs, april 2010
018- a love of leaves, july 2012
019- tales of the sea, october 2012


from - eden fields
track 6 : on vision paths
bantry, eire
2005

a picture
by

WOoden family publishing
for

moo
ministry of output
artiste management
and marketing maniFestivity motivation
by
naw'o'emf

presenting
the
beings, not doings
of

martin rainbowmaker


Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Alive in Myopia.

On Wed, Dec 19, 2012 at 3:26 AM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


Alive in Myopia.

" To see the world in a grain of sand,
and heaven in a wild flower.
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
 and eternity in an hour."
                                       
                                William Blake.

"If the doors of perception were cleansed,
everything would appear to man as it is, infinite."

                                William Blake.

"The eye, altering, alters all."

                                William Blake.


Utopia-
"Any real or imaginary society, place, or state, considered to be perfect or ideal."

Myopia-
Whereas, 'myopia', means short-sighted, or the failure, or inability to see where one is.

Myopia, would also serve as an appropriate name for the actual society, place, or state in which we live.
Myopia, the State we live in.





                                       Alive in Myopia.

For want of the kind of far sightedness Blake is referring to, we habitually equate 'utopia' with the ideal, rather than the real, that which already is.
This is so, because we live in the 'concept' of where we are, rather than in clear perception of where we are.
Our direct perception is rarely, if ever, wholly free of preconceptions.  Unless you happen to be a relatively innocent infant.

Wherever you may find yourself to be, in the man-made world, is likely to be as far away from being utopia as you can imagine.
This is due, both to the nature of perception, overlaid with 'thoughts about it', combined with the fact that, a man-made environment is a concrete expression ( pun lethally intended ), of your predecessors' concepts.

Your predecessors' concepts, as well as those of your contemporaries, are part of an ongoing system, which, most likely, will not serve your highest aspirations, or sense of beauty and freedom.

Sounds like a mess doesn't it?
It takes a bold, honest innocence to simply LOOK, and see if that's what it is in fact, or not.

To a very great extent, so many of our ills, neuroses, anxieties, self doubts, and depression, are the natural response to not wholeheartedly admitting that our environment is not to our liking, along with not sufficiently exploring in imagination, what would be as we would wish.  Plus simultaneously feeling incapable of doing anything about it.

Repressing and resigning to it, doubting our honest perception, we often become depressed and get sick.
Like any natural creature in a cage would.  Because we seem to have no VOICE to comment on the contradiction.

                                             Myopia in Utopia.

This IS about beauty, wholeness, and hope however, and intent to help.  Having found myself in such a situation many times, in many places.
Which is why i opened with a few encouraging insights from William Blake.  You can be sure he'd been there too.  His 'Songs of Innocence and Experience' document poetically the varieties and archetypes of such universal circumstances.
We all have such experience in common, to whatever degree, as sensitive soulful creatures, longing to feel a sense of being bonded with our environment.

It's not that we 'have' to suffer, or even that suffering is particularly good for anything in itself.  Rather, that it universally tends to precede, and be a significant factor  of a transformation  we haven't as yet, fully imagined into manifestation.
As Blake the seer would have, and did say, IMAGINATION is all important.
POSITIVE IMAGINATION that is.

Not imagination as escape, or as fearfully focusing on what 'might' be.  Not a good idea.  Imagination is too effective a power to misuse.
What i mean, is, imagination used regularly in whatever way serves to remind and attune you, to whatever you most LOVE in the world.
It could be anything.  Or next to nothing.  Small is good.  Big is not necessarily better.  What you feel, is what counts.
What you feel, is big enough to colour the world, and it does anyway. 

Do what you like, but do, like what you do.  Even, and especially if it's next to nothing. 
Next to nothing is the best place to start from.  It leaves plenty of room for the surprise you never thought of yet. 
It wouldn't be a surprise if you had.   So never give up.

NEVER, give up.  There is no ending to loving to express what you love, unless you 'decide' to give up. 
But even that is part of it.  It comes round again just where you thought there was nothing.

It's wise to have a respect for the apparent nothing that 'a something' comes out of. 
Where else would it come from?
Next to nothing got me through some really tough times early on.   A picture postcard, a doodle, a leaf!
Especially when i 'turned over a new one.'

We'd be lost without leaves.  Millions of people are.  Especially in the winter.  The same way, we'd starve without bees to do the pollination, and look how small, they are.  Big things come from lots of little things.

When you love something about your environment,  all your cells, (that's you), wake up.
It's been biologically demonstrated many times, to the point of proof, (in case you need proof.)
Love is, waking up to what interests you, and being clear and conscious of what you feel about it.
Never mind what 'society' says  should be the main focus of what you should be doing. 
You know, struggling, suffering, only doing what you don't like.

                                   Nature's Mirror.

Another quote from Blake.-

"The tree which moves some to tears of joy, is, in the eyes of others, only a green thing that stands in the way.
Some see nature all ridicule and deformity....  and some scarce see nature at all.
But to the eyes of the person of imagination, nature is imagination itself."

I can say from experience, that is true.  It makes a world of difference to how we relate to the world. 
Especially here, in Myopia.

I'm aware perpetually, that, what i see, is a direct reflection of what i feel for what i see.   I feel what i see, and i see what i feel.
There's an innocence to the experience, in that, thinking about it only, steams up the mirror, and you don't get a clear reflection.

There's a place for thinking, and that is, when it's called for.  Not all the time.
And even then, it comes out of nowhere, now-here.


                                  Field Of Vision.

Whether nearsighted in Myopia, or far-seeing,  insight without words hits the mark.  Seeing, is having a feel for what is seen.
Not just glancing and reading the label. 
In Myopia, the people live in a world of labels and think thoughts.  But ask them to draw a particular type of tree, and they might have difficulty recalling from memory exactly what it was they saw.
But there's much more to appearance, always, than mere appearance.

The 'qualities' of the nature of what appears to be,  are those of soul or spirit.
Literally and actually, reflecting what you bring, and don't bring, to the experience.  A silent mind, and an open heart.
The heart being the prime intuitive perceptor.

Walking on a street, does your attention note the slightest stray fallen leaf, or scrap of paper just as it is, in the field of vision?
Or are you pulled out of your inner quiet by the rush of cars and activity?  Mirroring mind's preoccupation with what it was you must remember to buy.  Thereby not registering anything in its' just-so-ness.

Even a drab familiar street, openly regarded as it just is, without judgement of like or dislike, has its own unmistakeable character.  Everything rests in its' own unique beingness, along with the boundless whole of which it's not apart.
We're talking 'IS', not some fantasy or concept, and it's reflecting your 'deep within' back to you, a moving mirror of your moment in the timeless continuum.

See it as spontaneous poetry.  Especially in the over all changes in the mood of weather.  Weather is poetic if ideas about good and bad are not projected onto it.  It's just, what we call weather, and we seem to focus more on what we regard as the spectrum of good and bad of it.  Weather is weather whether we like it or not.

Poetry is a quality of feeling.  Not some idealistic fabrication of form.
It's the living depth and diversity of the ever changing aesthetic actuality  of everything in flux and flow.
Evoking something through and beyond the words and therefore poetic.

Being, seen to be being just itself in its' own way flowing naturally like water.
Call it familiar, call it mundane, call it boring, call it soul, ordinary or beautiful.  Beauty is where you find it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Martin.


art : water painting, martin law, 1988

artwork : digital pan play - photographic image repair & definition, DEC 12 - wfp for moo



Tuesday, 25 December 2012

Before the Dawn.

On Thu, Dec 13, 2012 at 12:59 AM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


Before the Dawn.

Arising in the early dark,
no reason that i know.
Contemplate the rise and fall,
of winter winds that blow.

Mindful in the mystery,
in shelter from the storm.
Enfolded in a sleeping world,
awaiting to be born.

Weighing all the ways of worlds,
in lulls upon the deep.
That fall in squalls on turning tides,
as i return to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



          


 Before the Dawn.
 Or so it seems, a whole year's turning of moons, winter to winter, until, retrieving the elusive page with those words i wrote back then.

A momentary hint or gust of the same wind-spirit-sound down the chimney, stalking the elusive muse, while gazing into fluttering yellow flames in the coal black grate.

Till late, by the quiet of a clock's soft tick, feeling for the simple chords that fit.  In modal muse of haunting ancient wind-voice song. 

Slow dark tones that abide in timeless tapestries invisible as winged air, peripheral to a small circle of flickering light.
Where the ear's hearing is spiraled deep in a nautilus shell of the sea.

Or so it seems, in the season of bare branch-work traceries, with the soft leaves fallen crisp and rimed underfoot.

While the world waits with frosted breath, sleepers sleep the velvet deep of dreams, of gauzy underbrush, dark spiked holly and mountain ash, to the murmur and trickle of streams.

There is a mode of melody that runs deep, almost forgotten, in the age that is ending and old.  Subterranean seams of primeval antique harmonies.
A small candle, lit, in a stone slab sill, holding the space of a haloed golden glimpse of vision.

Forever ancient in hushed gusts, the orchestrations of vocal themes.  A certain archetypal, archaic, winter night-wind-wave of rise and fall.
Heaves and sheaves, obliterating scattered leaves, cold, round gable cornerstones, shivers, salt wind through pine.

The still dark, long before dawn, germinating the embryonic whispers of memory, traces of the pale as yet unarrived unveiling.

Heavy drape of curtains' vertical sentinel silence, sings obscure the dark of arched walls, in far remove from chronological mundane.  Interstices of silence within the living void, spaces within, where forgotten earthly anthems are stored.
Ever the intrinsic soulful song unending, residing in harmonies of stone.

Flows out as the still mute grey light lifts, rippling around rocks.  Carrying on the gossip of infinite variations on the indestructible anthem's regal theme.

Fluid fractal liquid crystalline pure molecular permutations, swirls and eddies from a sacred source.  Flows down in the never ending, the quickening, seeps, seeking to curve through the long lush green.  Sublime and slow, unbound between reed woven banks, intermittent rippled surface rings out-flowing, new shoots showing, catching first light.

Small tender leaf curls,
cobwebbed water meadows,
lingering mist veils.

The mottled song-thrush,
short sharp calls
from blackbird's beak.
Dry leaf rustles,
sweet herbs.

Around and through,
a slow, full, greenish
river curve.
A pleasing scene,
Earth redeemed.
The light, rising.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

RBM/ ~ martin






art : soft grey skies, martin law, march 2012


Wednesday, 12 December 2012

The War On Peace.

On Mon, Dec 10, 2012 at 2:59 AM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


irish hawthorn, martin law, nov 2011


>  The War On Peace. <
Sometimes i am lost for words.  Not for lack of something to say.  More for want of adequate language.
But then, "To speak but rarely is to be natural."  (A Chinese Proverb.)

So i'm not going to list the 'goings on' in the human world that defy credulity, or even go there.  The internet can take care of that.  Suffice to say, there's a whole world and more, going on that most are unaware of, and would be reluctant to consider seriously if they were informed.  Besides, that's not my main focus here.

Whatever your main focus may be, then becomes your perception and experience.  I'm always looking for a more concise, and self explanatory way of saying that.  That will do for now.



My preferred creative orientation has always been to the miracle of the natural world, as experience.  Preferably without the stain of the unwisdom of human activity impinging on perception.

It's easy to say, that there is no peace in the world.   But consider, where can peace be, but in perception and experience?  Present perception and experience.


You could be in paradise and be 'bored stiff'.  The existence of war  (150 of them currently) is infinitely more 'boring', and the word is infinitely inadequate.
        Everything IS Everything Else.
Interdependence.  Or, as Thich Nhat Hanh,  (Vietnamese Buddhist Monk) coined the word,  "interbeing".
Everything is part of everything else, to such a degree, that: Everything IS everything else.  It's the same 'process', and there 'are no separate parts.'



It follows, that, when we hide from the world, we are the world, hiding from itself.
Words fail, on seeing what goes on in the human world.  But they don't have to.
Perhaps i can say something of direct relevance that doesn't fail.

For example:  Where on Earth, is, or was there ever, a dividing wall between 'the human world', and, 'the natural world'?


The skin?!  Hardly.  Skin is as far from being a dividing wall as is possible to go.  Like talking about the skin of a sponge. 
Skin, possibly the largest organ of the body, though i'd have to query that.  But an aspect of the body we tend to think of as a boundary, but which is in constant two way interpenetration with every quality of 'the natural world' at all points, and with no points that aren't.  'The natural world,' does that mean we think we are not natural?
To have even the slightest notion of any dividing boundary is, strictly speaking, insanity.
This alone, accounts for much of the insanity of human behaviour.


We move through the world, as the whole world moves through us.  'The whole world', being: food, air, water, minerals, chemicals, radiations, and every kind of vibration and frequency that exists.
So where is there such a thing as a boundary, except in imagination and belief?  Relative boundaries unite just as much as they seem to divide.  I and my neighbour have the same fence in common.
We all have our unique differences and diversity in common.  Our difference is mutual and interdependent.

Division is a mind construct.  But we are free to change our mind.  In fact, we are going to have to. 
It's one thing to lose the plot, but especially if that plot is the one you live on.



         You Are Just As You Think.
That doesn't mean there's no choice.  It also does not mean, you are as other people have led you to think.  Nothing is fixed, and, being nothing, you can try and fix it.

To express it another way, in a simple word-picture progression:  Regardless of 'who' we may think we are, we are each a colony of interdependent cells.
It has been repeatedly demonstrated, that, what a cell may be and become, depends on the nature of the fluid medium it inhabits.  Whether in a petri dish, or in a body, the same.  Regardless of its' genetic inheritance.  This is now referred to as 'epigenetics.'
So, what determines the precise nature of the medium? 
The blood, does that.

What determines the constituents of the blood?
The brain, does that.

How? 
By naturally secreting the chemical most appropriate to the immediate situation.
How does it know which one to release?
It is determined by what you think and believe the situation to be.
What you think, may be from the conscious fore-brain, and aligned with your true, higher aspirations and desires.

Or, it may be from the subconscious back-brain, where the automatic programming is operative.  That, which we have been, as we say, 'led' to believe.  Old recordings if you like.
This option  is where we have choice.  Either, react from the old (which is not who we are , but is acquired). 
Or, respond, consciously in the present, without too much reference to who we assumed our self to be, previously.


That is, as simply as i can describe, the proven fact, that, thought and belief, instantly manifest transformation, evolution, health, peace, or otherwise, in every cell of the body, and i forget how many millions there are.

So if you think 'old', you are.  If you think 'new', you are.
If,'defeated', you are. If, 'triumphant', you are.

If you want to be beautiful, think beautifully.  It doesn't have to do with looks.  But with your spirit.

                The Opposite Of Old Is New.
Among some leading biologists it's reportedly known, that what we call 'aging', has more to do with stress on otherwise self-renewing cells, due to unresolved trauma, than on anything taken for granted as being the natural order.
Like, age.  Where is age, in the self-renewing present?  It's just the new, created now.

Likewise, the worldview appears as it is believed to be.  Depending on how you focus, orient, and relate to the surrounding medium.
Along with the undeniable 'war on peace for profit',  there IS, also, an agenda to maintain a constant stream of bad news, as a social context for it to operate in. 
Otherwise, there would be a strict policy to not, falsely manufacture bad news.
Now there's a logical statement!

Given, the ubiquitous causes for disillusionment, it's important to not let disillusionment descend into entropy, as a result of holding on to it. 
Better to use it for knowing you can see through illusions. 

You don't need to be an ostrich, either, only to prove that ignorance is not blissful.
Ignorance is ignorance, that is, 'not knowing.'  Bliss?  Well, that's something else, and you might need a certain kind of self-knowledge for that.

For a more convincing, and certainly enthusiastic and optimistically liberating presentation of this theme, i wholeheartedly recommend simply typing into a computer (any computer), the name,  BRUCE LIPTON.  (The inspiring biologist and spiritual scientist whose radical insight this is.)
I particularly like his interview on the website of  Lisa M. Harrison.com
He has many videos on youtube, and they're ALL the best.  Definitely an insight well worth passing on.
Talking of 'viral' and viruses,  it may become more important to note, for future reference when the next imminent fake virus alert is perpetrated, to frighten you into applying for the job as a pincushion.
BRUCE LIPTON explains, that contrary to public belief, you don't necessarily contract a virus via 'contagion' just because it's said to be out there.  That in fact, the researched percentage of immunity in a given 'epidemic', tends to be around 66% , and that, in the context of how compromised the average immune system is, (witness the 'common' cold.)

So, you might be a sponge but you don't have to be a pin cushion.  Just expect to be healthy, and that works on the placebo principle.  What you wholeheartedly believe, transforms your cells.
So, to misquote a popular phrase,  'If music be the food of love, it's probably the best fluid medium to fill your surrounding cell walls with.'
You can misquote me on that.
~~~~~~~~~~

Martin./


art : irish hawthorn, martin law, nov 2011


Friday, 7 December 2012

Anapologetic catchup!

On 5 December 2012 05:02, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>"""" Oh!
I do sincerely apologize.... i was dawdling along the path, gazing off into whatever realms of imagination or distant features of the terrain, and it's been fourteen days to respond. Not like me but who am i to say so?  No excuse at all.  Amends amends a mean to mend.
Your honest heartfelt word picture didn't go amiss, is much appreciated, and what was i doing back there anyway?  I picture it as a walk along a tufted seablown path just above a tideline and a momentary gust lost in the gazing.
Reading your message again it's good to know that all is good on the path. I do recall looking into some youtube videos of where you are. My version of armchair travel, and the fuel delivery man was asking after you too and i told him where you are, and joking would that be on his route.  He called by tonight and that was another nudge for me to catch up. I'll walk a little more briskly.
Perhaps i've been a little hibernatish (is that a mix of Hibernia and long lapsed british?)  Hum, i did write about eight 'articles' in November and immerse myself in painting 'Tales of the sea', on the blog.
Thank you for your saying of downloading some of my images, and that they are of useful inspiration. Which after all, is the intent, to share where i went.  Particularly as i sometimes lament the wider lack of response to what i meant, but it's all in cycles.  Perhaps this is a cycle path...!

Like today, seemingly sunny but then squally and drifting grey (though i'm into grey, it's the backdrop for rainbows).  Phil called, as he does, to use the phone, that's fine, to ring his mother and keep in touch with what seems a big family to keep in touch with, and me by contrast spared such up keeping, so i easily empathize with the diversity and me not a model parent a-pparently.  What with dwelling (as i said to Phil), in a longstanding perpetual mode of art, music, and other gestations of inspirations, and listening and looking for what's 'next'.
So when Phil called by, i was in the midst of roast chestnuts in the hearth and surfing a musical breath of fresh sea air by the name of 'Julie Fowlis' , videos of music of herself the Scottish singer from Uist in the Hebredies (is that how it's spelt?) There's a lot of red wiggly lines i'm getting.  I do enjoy witnessing certain people such as her so fluently immersed in the mode of music.
Such people seem to radiate the kind of joy you'd expect to be more common if and when the world wasn't so preoccupied with whether the world will end , indeed, while trying to make one or two ends meet.
So that it dawned on me again and noticeably a wee bit brighter, having done more than my share of using this gadget for delving into conspiracies and reptiles and whatnots to check if the world's getting brighter, when what it does is paint a preoccupation with a world we don't want.  When its' wiser use is as an ambient radiator of the goodness and beauty there is in the resilient resourceful creative human spirit. Especially our local indigenous art and music.

To realize, i can just switch that on, fine tune to taste, and my bubble is filled with the magic of the shared world we wish to see.
This is beginning to sound like something i would wish to share on my blog, (perhaps with your permission?)  (?)  As no name mentioned, our personal conversation here being somewhat invisible to bystanders.
But this does relate to what i was pondering how to express in the public domain.
That it's only now about seventeen days to the date that is on the collective mind, let alone the seasonal bit where i tend to take refuge in my burrow with a stash of nuts till it's over.

One thing that was never stated in Mayan Calendars and codices, (despite public opinion or rather 'rumour'.)  Is the notion that what we call 'the world', might be thinking about 'ending'.  "I don't think so."
Besides, what 'we' think, has more than we think, to do with what the world herself thinks than we think.
I'm pretty sure the Great Cosmic Mother is nudging us up through our feet to lighten up and 'all hands on deck' with the power of our imaginative visualization, expectation, and 'optimystic' belief.

I spell it that way because, that's what it is.  The alignment that really counts.
For reference, the other night i waded through long scrolls of a dense text called,  'Our Ultimate Reality.com'  (with regard to 2012.)
Also, previously,  'Ac Tah 2012.com' , and youtube video, 'What the Mayan Elders say will happen in 2012.'
Along with 'Exopolitics.com' , Alfred Webre presenting his discernments around being on a 'positive timeline.'
So that, what i expect to be doing in the near future (and already am anyway), is, and despite The Ministry of Rumours, remain in a meditative mode and not be at all bothered by which 'end' they're talking about.  Ends are predicated on beginnings anyway, and who was there to say there was one? 
Surely, a world can't be 'half eternal'!  Especially if it came out of the infinite, i wouldn't expect it's in a hurry to go finite.

Some BIG intricately complex cosmic dance of the union of the mutually inseparable apparent polar opposites echoing through our soulful psyche.   No doubt being resolved as we speak, on a level of resolution way above and beyond our simplistic, dualistic notions of 'a last battle.'
Or any notions at all.  Since it sounds like, even our Elder Star Relatives are keeping an open mind on the  (sic.) 'matter'.  As, what's happening hasn't happened quite the same way before.
What happens, has a lot more than a little to do with how we feel about it.  Whatever we believe is so, IS so.  At least, 'apparently.'
But, "heavens above and below", and 'apparently', perhaps three hours have passed in writing this ammendment to my dawdling on the path where we walk.  Watching the froth and the surf and so forth breaking just below the windblown tussocks and tufts of well weathered grass, where we gaze on distant blues and greys of mountainous western headlands and wonder about it all.

But hah!  You see some of the places i go, without getting out of my chair.
So for tonight, i bid you well as always, and say, good morning.
Have a lovely and inspiring day!
Sincerely, RBM, aka Martin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (waves) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Monday, 26 November 2012

Earth Below Sky. (an art walk).


Oops...

On 21 November 2012 17:07, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


Ooops, i wrote six pages with a new pen in the art mode up till six prompted by Angela's compliment on such a facility.
Suppose i'll have a fair bit of typing and editing to do of a plethora of perpetual poetic prose.  And now the darkening sky is scowling as i get up and before i get to the granola complete another page in continuum and will have to go out in the rain for water.
Sounds like Celine took a photo of a painting of some sort and last night Phil visited back from England and Roisin rang at the same time must be a conjunction of mercury or something ho hum to pooh pooh’s...
From me, MOP, to Moo re. Ooops,
MRBM ( "ah the waters and the wild,)"



Intending to type.

On 22 November 2012 17:18, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


..The thing i just wrote on paper went to 7 pages (including additions).
Titled, 'Earth Below Sky'.  (an art walk).
Intending to type and send, i may even send in separate sections in case any glitch occurs.  But numbered and title headed as the original, six consecutive pages.
Wouldn't want a monolithic draft to get blown away.  Draughty enough as it is.  Unity in diversity is preferable to dying in university.
So we must have passed with honours.
With uncrossed fingers for ease of typing.........  herewith, 'Earth Below Sky'.  (an art walk). RBM


Earth Below Sky. (an art walk).


On 22 November 2012 22:27, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


1.

The innocent eye from where it is planted
on earth below sky so taken for granted
this elusive art which still persists
simply because it's where we exist

Round like a ball where we fly or crawl
in the view from above we're not here at all
to the innocent eye if all war would cease
how would it appear a new world at peace?


I pen those lines, pondering and perusing the perennial question.
Pencil actually.  The pencil being mightier than the particle accelerator, in the right hands, (unless you're left handed).
Since, 'the bozos' didn't find their 'god particle', after squandering our trillions.
What's a god or a particle got to do with it, when it's all waves anyway until you try to pinpoint it?

They could have shared out a few trillion tons of rice with that ungodly amount of money!
Earth below sky, where we live and die, they squander resources, do you think to ask why?

But, so much for contextual consistency. 
Back to the perusing part, cruising for art, and when did 'landscape' actually start?

2.     'A Scape of Land.'

Imagine that the land was imagined as a backdrop, for imaginary religious portraits and icons of imagined nobility.
As if, the backdrop was the Pagan Wild Creation, outside sanctuary courtyard walls and verandas, where beyond is just wild boar and dusky creation myths and slumbering twilight sunsets.

Till a few people slowly started copping on, that, that was and actually is, 'the creation', and they were in above their heads.  After all, isn't it about equality in diversity and flowing one with the way of it?

And but, The Noble Icon People, were good at exacting donations, [sic] and added more noble courtyards.
So they could call the shots of what got painted or not.
So the wild esoteric  archaic Gaian gathering in pristine Pagan Eden , unstained and white in tooth and claw, went into the mystic backgrounds and winding trails into Mona Lisa mountains, and so, must have seeped into the backdrop from outside, like damp.
Along with the rising dewy damp of eden, many painted backdrops throughout ecclesiastical monopoly, have been found to have, subtle-ly painted into their medieval skies, a wide variety of easily identifiable, Unidentified Flying Objects.
This is documented in an illustrated book, titled: ' The Alien Chronicles.'

Anyway, slowly, as history seems to go, some artists, bored with being eye-conned by icons, focused their lens on expanding and exploring the potentials of the background, since that's where they lived anyway.
And took fugitive pagan flight through evolving fractals of alternating idealism of the seeming limitations of 'Earth Below Sky.'
But lingering long on the greensward as if it were 'a setting' for token bacchanalians to disport in a private mystic grove in the corner of a vast sublime vista.

3.  'Meanwhile in China.'

Meanwhile in China, they were mountain ranges ahead in depicting the archaic habitat.  With customary calligraphic brush and water with dilutions of black ink sticks and fluid literati curvilinear gestures one with the 'Tao.'
Landscape painting was regarded as the highest form of Chinese painting.
From the 'Five Dynasties' period to the 'Northern Song' period, (907- 1127) is known as the Great Age of Chinese Landscape.

Of course, there were aristocratic icon people there too.  Strolling in rustic mountain courtyards made of wood among bamboo and thatch, and the mist through pine obscures the autumn moon.
Some artists were semi solitary hermit monks, self-depicted correctly as small in what's called ' the scheme of things.'
Mindfully meditative, in empty attentiveness to the gnarled swirl of a soft 'water and ink loaded' dewdrop of a bamboo brush. 
Delineating calligraphically, intrinsic organic character of leafy outcrop of rock and root, in minimal monochrome tonality like dewdrops on a web.
Being in the mist in the midst of unprecedented mountain peaks and sentinels, they developed a vertical perspective as well as a horizontal one.  Cracking the Earth / Sky coded koan of above and below, in a synthesis of non-duality.

Which reminds me of Van Gogh, just as he was reminded by them.  Our man Vincent, or as they say in america, 'Van, go!'
Van the Man.  As famous for his ear as yer man Morrison is for his music.
But this is no history lecture or language course of course.

It's more a matter of, 'what does the word 'brushstroke' evoke?  And if, nothing, then what do they look like exactly?
Speaking in patchwork intuitive hemisphere syntax,  whether, the backdrop of noble courtyards, bamboo under autumn moon, or pointillists, impressionists, and post-impressionist abstract expressionists, Vincent's dots and dashes ingraining the terrain with a maddening mistral of multiplied marks.

4.   Making Magic Marks.

Similarly, Jackson Pollock, immersed in his paint pot drip and slash trance dance, said: "the hand having made a mark moves on."  Well that's a revelation, perhaps he was pushed for time. 
And what with the left hand not knowing what the right is doing, but falling where it will, and coalescing into an organically choreographed web of single gestures like a Chinese landscape scroll but different. 
Scattered like a windfall of cherry blossom, or the seeds of Vincent's 'sower', or like leaving the freshly fallen yellow leaves where they fall.

If that's a sort of jazz improvisational mode or rhythm, passed from painter to painter, then, Alan Davie, artist from Scotland took up the theme.  His long white hair and beard like a druidic Gandalf,  making magic marks in the mystic paganic mode of Pan and Zen.  Obliterating and overpainting with the richness seeping through.
After nearly a century of creative exploration and ever the innocent eye, he's well worth searching out on the internet.
I found myself at a formative stage, impressed by a huge exhibition of his at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London.

Simultaneously seeing the work of Samuel Palmer, a young friend of William Blake.  Under a harvest moon in his 'valley of vision' among  'The Shoreham Ancients',
Similar surfaces of dotted and clotted  archaic foliage, and touches of bark and dark  ripe cornfields curve in the mode of earthy organic, below 'The Bright Cloud' cumulous cluster towering above a hayfield corner down into leafy thicket of alders
in dense neolithic shade, with a hint of classic poetics, and sepia silhouettes in the ancient wildwood and so forth, and like the windblown harvest poetry of Gerard Manly Hopkins.

And ultimately, again, surfing the webwork, type search for variations of  'a world at peace'.   Scanning hundreds of glimpses of how 'earth below sky', is, in the collective psyche, and learn to discern the high and the low of the health of aspiration which evokes re-enchantment of the organic, over the creeping bionic technosphere.
So expressing 'earth below sky' in the optimum mode of our interrelationship.

5.     The Elusive Art.

So how does the Earth, bathed in peace, look?
I switched on the cybercom to get another glimpse into multiple slices of collective imagination.
While fully aware that whatever the level of HARMONY that flows through you, is what anything ever looks like.

Despite the mainstream flow through and tributaries of, images focusing on the absence of peace, Bound to affect openness of spirit and perception accordingly.  A contraction of the aura of finer faculties in fact.
In the face of deception, a creative use of IMAGINATION, carries conception into perception.  The world appears as you relate with it.
What you love, looks 'lovely', healing the rift between self and other.

If you search variations on 'a world at peace' expecting images of sublime beauty, you may well be disenchanted with the collective health of the world's imagination.
It seems we think in clichés when it comes to imagining positive vision.
Hands, hearts, doves, and globes, and every CND Peace Symbol upside down (that might explain a lot).
The peace symbol with the branches pointing up, is exactly the 'protective rune',  for 'Z',  called Algiz.  "Protective Power that grounds destructive energy."
Symbols apart, it's hard to find images from fertile imagination of what peace across the land would look like.
Tentative diagnosis:  There's a blind spot in the collective imagination.
Our notion of extraordinary, tends toward the grotesque, or conversely to stylized idealistic sentiment.
We're good at imagining bad things, and bad at imagining good things.  Like 'a world at peace', how would you know what that might look like?
Or, would it look much the same as it does, yet your perception is vastly enhanced.
As Bruce Lipton demonstrates via contagious knowing enthusiasm, when a life form, or a cell for that matter, (and we are a colony of them) has a harmonious loving relationship with its' presumed habitat, it freely expands to be anything it can imagine itself to be.

6.   The Innocent Eye.

Try to imagine how the natural realm would look, in a world that had known a long established peace for, at least, a thousand years.  How would it look?  In what way different from how it looks already? 
That would be a socially and individually beneficial art play project in schools i think.
A polar antidote to 'violent play' station war games training.   A world in need, indeed.
Exploring many modes of it and into the abstract.  Everything has the abstract within it somewhere when go go deep into it.
'An ' 'abstract' is still colour, texture, and forms in space, whether suspended in the cosmos, between the radio telescope and the microscope and all levels between.

So i browse through multiple monochromatic images of Dutch Landscape art.  An extreme challenge of 'earth below sky', given the topography at hand.  One which often worked well in expressing the sublime as expressed by the biosphere.
Infinite scape of density encompassed within the etherial plane, and all the nuances of the terrain.
Or, have a look at George Inness,  america's complement to John Constable, of whose work Blake exclaimed, "That's not painting that's Vision."

I do like a realm you can enter into, whether by path or depth of feel or field. Uncharted territory open to individual exploration, or a challenging minefield of imagination.  In that, a mode has to be rediscovered, in order to be authentic with no pretence.
Sweeping generalisations, but what you bring to bear, in 'bare attention', and how the medium is applied is what will manifest as feeling.  To the innocent eye, there's masses of mediocrity to see through.

And what of 'The Celtic Realm'?  Now there's something in need of deeper depth probes.  Serious delving, away from tourist mind traps and fixed caricatural notions.  So don't fear the friendly dark of the wildwood, the path is still there.
Lest you slip into forgetfulness and go only for gold, forgetting the green, only to return, white and disenchanted.
A wanderer among dark streams and velvet twilight, modal tones and firelight on flickering hush of tapestry walls.
That's a good a note to end on as any.
Doubtless to be continued.   RBM  aka martin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



The Blue Planet





see : A Live Give Away.


art : The Blue Planet, martin law, 2000
       in the private collection of Charlie's friend, 'Celine'

artwork : digital pan play - photographic image repair & definition, NOV 12 - wfp for moo

Friday, 23 November 2012

Ten to eight !!!

On Sat, Nov 17, 2012 at 7:57 PM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


>> (testing, 1 2,1 2,
It's ten to eight (and that's 13 letters) exactly, on both counts, and Rainbowmaker senses he's about  to embark on an unpremeditated ramble into uncharted territory.
The fire is radiating, i've eaten, and have plenty of good chestnuts to roast.  The rams are fine, and the sheeple have quit bleating for a while about 'please could we have our wool back. Inalienable rights you know.'
So, if the kids in the street will stay out of mischief, "baah" with me for two or three hours and we'll see what may happen.
Alphabet soup, flavour of the day, changing sentence by sentence, i've served some tough sentences in my time.
Warming up.~~~~  Rainbowmaker.



A Live Give Away.

On Sun, Nov 18, 2012 at 1:04 AM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:


  'A Live Give Away.' There's a title.  I had the feeling it was 13 letters when it popped out of my pencil.  The reason for it, may become apparent later, to anyone who has patience or curiosity to read on.  Or nothing better to do, but you could do a lot worse.
In any case, it's anybody's guess where this might go.  If it's anything like my piano improvisation tracks, which it is, i have an empty mind from the word 'go'.  Listening back to them i have been amazed to hear that, with zero repertoire or intentional premeditation, while being careful to avoid cliche phrasing, there is yet again, a similar sequence of interlinking passages flowing one into another and returning full circle around to the opening theme.

This medium is no different since it's not from my head, or anybody else's.  'Playing by ear', means just listening.  Any over all form seems to have a life of it's own.  That's the beauty of improvisation, whether, writing, music, or painting.
That prompts me to feel free to be as random as i care to be, if it has a life of it's own then why not be even more so, partly out of a mischievous curiosity as to whether i can out-fox the process.  At the risk of being boring or saying something frivolous and better left unsaid.
So i'll put my money where my mouth is: 'an open account.'
As they say, 'start from where you are', here.
Since it's always 'now', that takes care of having to go anywhere at all.  So much for the future.  Nothing there to worry about.
Alphabet soup.  Flavour of the day.  Changing sentence by sentence.
Today.  Every time i walk by my round table, seemingly (but only in close up) going somewhere, i tend to note down a passing thought with pencil and paper.  I like plain paper, i have loads of it.

Passing by to the kitchen i wrote briefly, "Don't believe.  Either 'be', or 'leave.'
Later (though still now) passing by the other way, fully conscious that mind was thinking about 'brown', (being what interested me most in that moment), i wrote in my inimitable scrawl:
"Brown Conte Crayon drawing.  With Raw Umber, undiluted and diluted.  Plus white."
"Working with brown only.  And 'Tonality.'  Brown is the only organic colour you can do that with.
And it's not on the spectrum, which makes it rather unique, and interesting."
In true random fashion later in the now (which was neither early or late) and in passing, mindful of the mind without being unmindful of what i was doing, i wrote:
"Some bright person had the idea of bribery as a way to keep 'the system' going.  Well isn't that what 'the system' is?
"I'll pay you if you do what you're told.  (With money we already extorted from you anyway. /Ed.)  Otherwise, you're not in the system, and not entitled to eat.
"Not quite the same thing as a mutually satisfactory exchange.  More like a 'factory exchange! '  The only game in town.
"If you want to invent your own game, then you have to give a donation to ours.  (As a penalty).  Or as it's miscalled, 'fine'.  Fine, thanks."
So... the day being sunny, having completed, assembled, and installed my latest painted article, an elvish green on white, lettered wooden sign, saying simply (with a decorative hint of clover leaves or 'shamrock' if you like.  There being no such botanical specimen as 'shamrock'.  Read; 'seamair' or 'seimre og' = young clover.)
...Saying simply; "NO JUNK MAIL. Thanks."

And walked into town to buy water having never driven anything anyway.   ...(Tea break.)
(Still no dead give away.)  Are we still live?
 Returning.  Crossing the road by 'Organico Wholefoods.'
Waiting for an endless stream of cars on a blind corner to end.
Once across, voices call my name (well one of them) and i cross back and say to Charlie and female friend, "i don't mean to double cross you!" "Why don't we go up to my place.  Choose a car, what colour do you fancy? You drive, i can't drive anyway, i'll tag along in the back."
(This is still about art by the way.)
They'd called earlier while i was out.  Charlie as ever on his intuitive paper chase of synchronicity felt drawn to peer in the window, something he "never does."
Prints of 'Tales of the Sea', (my famous painting which few have seen yet) on the table.  If i seem to blow my own trumpet i was just born musical.
Cups of tea and an instant updraft of mutually spontaneous conversational quantum leap "as ye do" this being what's known across the water as 'Ireland'.  Many names take your pick but dig deep.

Whether (weather?), Eire, Eireann, Eriu, Hibernia, Inis Fodhla, Inis Banbha, Inis Fail ('Island of Destiny'), don't say 'the emerald isle' there's a lot of sap green not to mention moss and sorry the tourist office is closed try 'the peaceful isles' they might be open but it's saturday.
So we drink tea walking around by the fire looking at paintings and,Celine, Charlie's interesting friend has long dark curly hair like the woman in Tales of the sea and i say "are you from up north as well" but no Leitrim but been in Belfast and "i thought i detected a bit of....."
But no amount of inverted commas or whatever they're called would do justice if there is such a thing to the word 'conversation' the holy rounded grounded and pleasantly familiar indigenous worth and mirth and vibes of which (without sounding silly) quite naturally, commonsensically by far transcend in simple plain truth anything you might in all unforgivable ignorance innocently expect to hear uttered out of any amount of mouths on a 'frank' television 'talk show' but what else would you expect?  When the only thing you get on a television is dust.
As with anything else, there are no words save those that are mutually momentarily imbibed.
As Charlie shows Celine through the big hardboard and battened paintings in my back room. "And i've got a whole box full of sacred geometry over there."
"Exhibitions?  Oh i've had exhibitions such a lot of bother all those crackers and wine and inhibited waffle i mean, how do you...?  I don't know what it is in Gaelic but 'in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king and i've got two but i'm not into royalty."
" In any case, enlightenment so called, is only seemingly significant to somebody who's identified with the false self-image and to seek such a thing only affirms a presumed lack," and we agree.
Like dangling a carrot on the peak of your cap everywhere you go thinking that fasting will nourish you.
Well, i needed a peak experience and that's what all this is about.
But i'd never wear a baseball cap, out of respect for indians, any more than i'd drink whiskey but it gave me something to write about.

My big painting, 'The Blue Planet' (another 13 title), oops, it's heavy, painted around the year 2000, four feet high by nearly three feet, it's got infinite distance, all kinds of temples and a lake in there, yes it's that way up.  All done with paint on the back of acetate pressed and peeled off vertically... and you always get rocks and trees!"
As Charlie and i complete the sentence in unison "It's Organic!" "Yes."
So i say to Celine, "I don't do big things any more they take up space.
If you happened to have a palace with a big bare wall with a crack that wants covering you can have that one."
" I think i have just the place for it," she says, "are you serious?"
"Yes it's your lucky day, thankyou it's yours."  "Palace or no palace with a crack in the wall."

That's the quickest bit of space clearing i ever did, and "so much for capitalism."  All swift and fluent with no uncomfortable reservations, unlike most indians.
Anyway, repeated hugs made 'my' day.  If i was an envious person i'd wonder how Charlie gets to attract such attractive and obviously interesting people, i'm sure he'd have a good answer.  Some people have all the... but no, i won't do negative affirmations on myself.  What you affirm is what you manifest.
"i hope it'll go in the car alright", i said as they left.  And were gone.
"Wow", i said to myself.  What an interesting experience.  I forgot to give them a copy of Tales of the Sea.
Amazing, the good energy it's so easy to generate. Of course, giving and receiving are one and the same thing.  Mutually enjoyable.
People often talk of things as being 'a dead giveaway.'
This was definitely A LIVE ONE.  I saw it move.
(Better post this before it evaporates).
~~~~~~  Rainbowmaker.





art : The Blue Planet, martin law, 2000