BLACK FEATHERS

On Tuesday, April 14, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Emerging from round earth’s brown cyclic season in increment. Bold black rooks poke and peck a pittance of peanuts on grass seeded peaty paths. Regal omen raiders, stark sleek settlers in casual swoop and grip, glinting unruffled rags of iridescent violet blue black feathers.

Phasing into growing green at a grass pace, and bud shoots reaching where a patch of sunlight touches. Willow pollen drifts down soft in a daisy haze and powder blue spaces.

Rows of rooks on rooftops, riders rising on the ridge, range around. They hop, warmed from brick stacks and pots and scatter, forewarned by the slightest human movement.

In an earthbound brown frame fading, morphing from wintry webs of memory and mist. Charting colour-coded solar cycles, synchronizing solstices and seasons on catalytic cusps of creation, waiting on the tilled, planted, and still warming earth.

Kaleidoscopic tilts and turns through tinted glazed glass fractal forms a complex mirrored mix enriched. Redeeming green streaming through the gleaming gold.

Turning to trace a pencil point and patterned web of lines to mark and make an exact map mindful of a manifested moment. Being some ancient and long surviving uniquely human ritualistic process of re-cognition.

Just as the body assimilates food and rooks peck nuts, the soul digests experience, producing art in the process. A shared form of spirit energy, language beyond limitation of language.

Unique beyond duplication, other than visual imitation in conception, no mere mimicry. Co-dependence countered and transformed by co-creation. Celebration of unity consciousness, indivisible, one with the process of creation.

This brown icon presently in progress no mere eye-con, a starkly monochromatic marker for the departing of winter, shadows cast show the light rising.

There is traditionally a rich and diverse symbolism attached to the archetype of these familiar yet highly intelligent birds. Beyond popular superstition and prejudice and into indigenous understandings, the stark predominant fact of their blackness is not to be taken as negative.

I was previously already seeking a subject that would resonate with the living Celtic tradition, along with an ‘inkling’ (a small black bird?) to play around with textures, the silky smooth plumage, and the rough and grainy ground. Texture is an important element, along with contour, light and shade, and colour.

I also wanted something simple. Is anything ever simple? Simple is up to us to be. There’s always more to everything than meets most eyes, and paradoxically, that’s also part of my motivation.

So then, these, and more, plumed creatures swooped down in a samurai-like instinctive flurry of black feathers. I like the sound of ‘black feathers’, at least the title is simple, visually evocative, and has thirteen letters. ~ 
 

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

A RITE OF SPRING

On Friday, March 27, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Inspiration is a bit like fishing. Though i’ve never caught a fish, haven’t tried, preferring to leave them in the water where they’re in their element.

 

Although, as with fishing, you can’t grasp inspiration head on, you have to wait. It’s a receptive non-pursuit like meditation, waiting without waiting, just be fully present, what else can you do?

Any other way is artificial and only results in artifice (arty fish), and the art of art is the avoidance of mere artifice. You can of course be present but not fully aware, but even so, your unawareness is fully in the present, where else could it possibly be?

Tangentially, though indirectly integral to the present narrative, when i put peanuts out for the small birds, the ever watchful rooks usually swoop in and dominate the situation and i’ve tended to deter them to give the small birds a fair chance.

So for a change, thinking to get a few close up photos of their impressive blue-black bold-beaked presence i put the bait out on the path especially for them.

They did arrive, but very tactically, and knew exactly what i was at, despite me being indoors. Timing their swoop, retreat, and apparent absence perfectly. Instinctively millennially wise to the ways of humans and our predictable tricks.

Though they may well have provided me with a preferred alternative game to fishing, as well as a potential new source of artistic inspiration. These birds are so aware and one-with their surroundings that they must have eyes and ears in every part of their being.

The preceding few paragraphs plus the photos are a unified experience, succinct and complete as a momentary happening. While, in the hours since, engaged in social activities, namely market day, i’m still left wondering and wordless as if still fishing for its artistic significance.

It’s not as if the process goes ahead all at once like some caricature of what we may imagine the process of making art to be like. Actually it’s quite the opposite. Typically, before i can do something new, the path i thought i was on runs out, as if into a thicket. Going nowhere, now-here, and happens without fail, except fail is what it feels like.

This could be quite daunting and usually is, for a while, but for the fact of it always having been so. There’s quite obviously a principle at work here.

Though with hindsight, undiminished trust in unknowing and a guiding aspiration, contemplation, preparation and application, well, who knows? It’s all an experiment anyway, and only as serious as we choose to think it is. To anybody else it doesn’t matter at all.

So i’m always somewhat relieved when i come round to embracing the fact that i haven’t a clue, all i can draw is a blank. Just another blank in a long series of blanks, all the way back to before the dawn of relative maturity, and until this eternal now, couldn’t even envisage sitting down to put words to it. How do you describe a blank?

Yet, there’s the way through the wood! How can you find a new way if you don’t lose the old one? The snake sheds its skin, the phoenix rises from the ashes, spring springs eternal, and the crusty crystalized caterpillar emerges as a beautiful butterfly.

So, i do have a clue, i was moved by something. “So now”, says the higher self (not as if that’s somebody else), “what exactly is it that’s so moving about it?” That’s where you start to focus in on actual perceptual impressions which otherwise may have been gone in a flash, a blank without trace.

Though the way those big blue-black bold-beaked birds so majestically took off on an instinctive instant, they clearly own the unalienable right of spring. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

EXTRA ORDINARY.

On Monday, March 16, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

I’ve been looking for what’s called ‘ordinary things’, but so far haven’t found anything that qualifies. ~

Meanwhile, while waiting, wondering, wistfully watchful and wishful, to witness from the window, winter weather on the wane. Well aware white witches and wizards of the world are wide awake to the wild wicked wily ways of the wilful worldly warmongers. Having winnowed a wealth of wheat from weeds on the world-wide-web.

Thus said, and delivered with more than enough www’s to trouble you if not double-you up. Waiting patiently, impatient for lower back pain to ease and warm spring sun to soften the density of composted soil and the cyclic return of light and lightness on all levels.

Feeding the fire in the grate indoors, in contemplation of heat, heart, hearth, earth, and the perennial intricate conundrums of the process of art.

Mad macrocosms, oppositions, conjunctions, Plutonic, Uranian, and rabid red dogs of war. Bursting forth from the retreating age of Kali, bathed in photonic light, as above so below. Literal last battles in all dimensions falsified, covered over, not covered by the cowardly cowering television matrix of distraction, and all the world’s at that stage and all the people pawns.

Pause to poke the bright glow in the grate, shift the vision, coal crackles, brittle logs issue sporadic sparks and gunshot cracks as yellow flames flare. My focus is on inspiration here.

The world is on fire, everything presented in a blaze of drama, flares up as if larger than life itself. Even artists aspire to do something big, something extraordinary.

Notice the predictable human urge to overreach, as if the ground that supports you was unworthy of gratitude. It’s natural to aspire, but only half the story. The outward requires the inward in order to be whole.

In being forever outrageously outward we can lose touch with ‘the ordinary’, (so called), that which all life consists of. Without affection and appreciation of what we call ‘the ordinary’, how can we hope to encounter any extra-ordinary? No wonder the urge for power and control. No natural affection for all that simply is, we become ungrounded in being.

Otherwise it’s like wanting to build a big house, but not liking bricks. Wanting to become enlightened in contrast to what you think you are. When ‘enlightenment’, (so called), is as you are now, having failed to become something you’re not, in a future that doesn’t exist.

I even put a search into the internet, looking into hundreds of examples of ‘paintings of ordinary things.’ Mostly pretty boring, as we’ve programmed our machines to equate ordinary with boring, commonplace with uninteresting. Because that’s the way we are programmed to think.

You know, “familiarity breeds contempt”, is the presumptive mantra. Whereas, in nature, any ordinary thing is extraordinary, largely because it wasn’t made but grew that way by itself, naturally.

The practice of art (any art) is to see through and beyond the word ’ordinary’ into the mysterious beauty of the natural. When what we make reflects that, it can be quite extraordinary. Then we are no longer at war with the natural world, presuming it to be other than our true being.

It’s natural and inevitable that we wish to be of a world that mirrors our finest essence. We grow to embody our relationship to our perceived surroundings, for better or worse.

All the more reason to be affectionately and ever more creatively intimate and curious with the simplest of so called things. All life thrives on appreciation. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

RAIN ON THE PATH.

On Sunday, February 15, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Slicing the mound and the moat into two semi-circles with a spade. Bamboo canes on the ground, weighted with rocks, determine where to cut, the previously celebrated circle, of water, clay, grass, and central standing stone.

Enough energy gone into concentric circles to open a worm hole or a portal or two. The crops in radial rows, while they tend not to move around much, do need more space to rotate. So it wasn’t long before i was digging more than just an idea.

A few days without rain, so, rough-dug the clods and sods of turf, turning into two half-moons with a central straight path, and padding down the corner curves of clay with grasp and pound of rounded rock.

So now, since rain fell overnight, i survey a choppy sea of sodden clay clods, with slippery path treacherous to tiptoe. So let it settle itself, till wind and sun come to dry clods to crusted turf tufts, to turn and desiccate with blade of spade.

Being but a momentary marker, a mundane interlude of transformational transition, extending the path through circles and seasons with no loss of symbolism or soil. No mere trivial thing, setting the stage for spring, and the awakening song, a stone’s clack against a stainless spade.

Warmed by fire in Hibernian hibernation, contemplating cultivation, and the instinctual alchemical forge to ground fertility. Returning to turn topsoil and chop, changing the composition with loving loads of porous peat, enlivening and lightening to loam. While bright flames flutter in the grate indoors, and evening rain intermittently spills and splatters, dripping from clogged guttering.

As above, so below, rain, a macro-micro microbial reshuffle, symptomatic blessing of larger transition. Nothing mundane about sacred soil so taken for granted, the tilth to till and tend from which nutrition springs anew.

Just a grounding interlude ingredient for the blog’s pot, devoid of drama, explosive revelations, the throes of empires crumbling to dust, structures buckled and blasted go belly up, opening all the buried cans of worms, while ‘apocalypse’ simply means revealing.

Turning the cyclic seasonal page, as Pisces morphs to Aquarian age. As quakes unblock some ancient springs, so to return to simpler things. All this, just a playful afterthought, for want of anything more ground-breaking and close to home to report. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

...to continue

On Saturday, March 28, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

...Hello continued

where were we... oh yes, stepping into spring with a spring in our step.

I do hope you are warm, and cozily nested possibly with the four legged furry people, oh and here's some more of these things (~) there's an endless supply ~~~~~~~~~~~~.

I did wonder to myself how your gig went, though i was in an extended time warp waiting wordless for inspiration from my higher self as if in a spotlight and gazing into the black of an imagined invisible audience of over 26000 wondering if i'd lost my script or my tongue or stagefright, or something.  But no, it's the usual rhythm which happens every time between paintings and poems going way back beyond the dawn of relative maturity and you'd think i'd be used to it but it's always new since the past has never been present either before or since.

But like any good cornered creature i did remedy that, if not promptly for want of prompting but by virtue of impromptu artistic instinct and turning unknowing unknowingly into a source of inspiration.  Not as if the higher self is somebody else and when all the denser part can draw is a blank then thankfully the higher part has a clean sheet or canvas to itself free of distraction.

So, still not having a clue and arising from slumber pottering and pondering poking the grate indoors i went and put peanuts on the path which attracted some big blue-black rooks and got a string of close-up zoom shots from the kitchen window though they were telpathically wise to my tricks.  So then i sat down and wrote a page about it, got stuck there for a few days till i was able to put relevant words to the fact of how inspiration is like fishing though i've never fished, but it became a completed article of possible help for 26000 people, some of whom possibly never having figured out how to feel inspired and so had to resort to buying tinned fish.

Then today i got a couple of canvas sized photocopies of the best crow shot (rooks that is) to make into a painting, so i have two new articles with photos and a painting on the way.  Refined the soil for a potato patch twice over again, which i enjoy looking at, bought two bags of blight resistant potatoes, and the delivery men carried six big bags of peat compost through to the back for me so the back is much improved in both senses of the word, and in saying so i do wish likewise for you.  Here's some more of these~~~~~~~~~~~~~>*

Or to put it more soothingly, some of these ~~~~~~~~~~~~~*************

To wish your inspirit upliftment and freedom from clutter of conundrums.

If i sound dyslexic sometimes it's not me but my grammar, bless her, and, well, these alphabetic permutations random as they may sound are like fingers across a keyboard of a piano which is more grounded and resonates in empathy for whatever it is you may be currently dealing with but i know you know.  This ramble being  a hello, a checking in, a touching bass, or whatever, a reassurance of presence and support, so you know you're not alone, i haven't quite mastered bilocation yet.

Anyway, good vibes as ever and love from me.

PRESENCE OF OAK.

On Sunday, February 8, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

In the beginning, if there ever is one, was the oak, and the word was ‘ac’ to the Anglo-Saxon, hence ‘acorn.’ ‘Dair’, ‘doire,’ and ‘darach’ to the Goidelic-speaking tribes, and lots of other names to lots of other people.

The oak embodies many noble and sturdy attributes, being both Goddess and God, wisdom and knowledge, and it was universally ‘ac-knowledged’ to be so, and pristine forest covered the face of the land. Hence there was more bark than dark or how would the forest thrive.

The ‘creator’, if one were even necessary, was, and is, eternally immanent, omnipresent, one-with the creation, there being no such thing as separation except in thought. Diversity being the quintessential component of unity, and all is wrong if only one can be right.

So whatever the long list of noble attributes we say the oak stands for, it, self–evidently is well able to stand for itself. Exponentially more decisively and solidly so, despite humans with many axes to grind, who think trees are made of wood. So oak is worthy of reverence for setting us such a good example of strength, longevity, and selfless service to all.

The most undeniably indispensable attribute to celebrate and be humbly grateful for, being its presence. Though it’s a pity to have to state the obvious.

Words can do untold damage if used without undue consideration. Since the structure of language is designed so as to infinitely divide the indivisible, right down to the finest fractal of differentiation. The explicit purpose, of course being to have an adequate supply of separate bits of reality, so as to be able to rearrange them in a variety of different orders.

That’s understandable, so long as we realize it’s only the bits or concepts which are separate, and not that which they refer to. Otherwise reality would fall apart. That being so, i turn to paint. How’s that for a neat bit of shape shifting?

There are already enough, probably millions, of paintings of oak trees in the world, and more no doubt, presently being created. Just an aspect of what we do, one with it all. So here’s another one.

My motivation is not to later swap it for bits of paper with numbers on, and ‘difficult to duplicate designs’, which we strangely regard as having intrinsic worth. Thereby playing into the supposedly ‘only game in town’, namely: enslavement to numbers.

Paper comes by common courtesy of trees but the real currency is shared appreciation. So, drawn into the presence of oak, the natural ritualistic play of creative expression is also a gesture of shared appreciation.

Art has more to do with gratitude, generosity, and community, than with commerce. The latter has reached such heights, or depths of absurdity, that people with more paper than poetic passion pay tens of millions in ‘money’ for one painting. Thereby keeping the illusion of monetary worth, as opposed to intrinsic worth, firmly established as ‘the only game in town.’

This playful wordplay preamble simply to say, i present a succinct string of chronological photos of the distinct (but not separate) significant stages in the progress of the process. Hopefully of more help to whoever may feel they need such a thing, and worth more to me to be able to do so.

“Do trees have standing?” The intentionally odd sounding question put forward by many who are coming forward in droves in defence and support, and healing of the much abused Earth we are inescapably one with.

That said, as a present and enduring firm and stable affirmation in representation, speaking for ‘the standing people’, the trees, of the ‘Presence of Oak,’ *

**** **** ****

Martin Rainbowmaker.

RIVER RE-VISION.

On Monday, January 26, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Reflecting on the slow flow and undertow of a river in autumn in full flood. First phase impressions coalesced, calling for further sessions in density and depth. Pulled into play by the possibility of re-visioning.

Deciding, the ‘River in Autumn’ was ripe for an infusion of transformative enhancement. So that the painted substance speaks of the living liquid essence of wild water. That the community of trees blend and bond among themselves. The air itself all pervasive as in a lucid dream, of moss drenched in riverine fertility, archaic arboreal rusticity, the slow surge and ionic breath of mountain water.

Subsequently, over the next few days, drawn into long sessions from evening till dawn, meditatively mixing and modifying tones of pigment on a cardboard palette. Sleeping, only to pick up the thread where i left off. Working to densify and saturate, reintegrate, illuminate, consolidate, sleep late and wake late

Diverging from a daunting complexity of intricate branches, to follow the flow of feeling, immersed in the poetic particulars of paint. Returning again to soften subtle anomalies as they reveal themselves, till all is homogenized within itself.

A rhythm of random nuance ensues, entrained in silent light trance. Mindful manifestations of a spontaneous fluid brush, at one with the fluency of fingers.

Distinctly familiar layers of instinctual procedure, tentative touches enriching the invisible organically discerned underlying blueprint. Each stroke has meaning, relative to context. Anything but the limitations of any preconceived style. The only ‘style’ being the consistency of uncontrived naturalness.

There are no words for the subtleties of substance, and the mark says more than language in the muse of meditative mind. An infusion of feeling flows from fluency in the fingers, having a mind of their own. Receptivity and incremental improvisation along familiar secret paths with no name.

There are no instructions for the free flow of imagination, visualization being already free outside the box. Yet the balance is precise as a tightrope or surfing a wave. To coalesce and enhance, weave and reintegrate the dance, of that which wishes to emerge as if by chance.

Popular opinion only imagines a mere parody of the painting process, its true nature naturally elusive beyond logic. With constant awareness there is no need to think. Long sustained pre-verbal absorption often self-reflects, realizing momentarily, the peripheral context of being in a room, a specific place, has vanished, the still focus all that remains. So much for time and space.

Attentively, intuitively scanning, in accord with an unnameable angle of vision until all is in place. With inevitable idiosyncratic quirks interwoven and tucked into a tapestry of wholeness with loose ends blended. Some may remain but let them be.

This is a serious form of play. Until it’s time to pack the paints away, and see how it looks in the light of day. Just as it is will have to do. ‘River in Autumn, number 2.’ ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

IN WINTER WOODS.

On Saturday, January 10, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

A collage of fallen leaves.

 

Seize the day, as they say. My simple aim was toward ancient oaks. A rough strategy for which part of forest park to walk, as winter light would allow, but off the beaten path.

While the path long lost like a lame lament loops back around in time, compounding ancient ground. A ritual, void of intent, a stray arrow loosed and lost in deep thicket.

Sealed through time with tar and cement, yet a single tree is wild and free as one which is one with wilderness. Knowing nothing of ‘nature reserve’, draws endless reserves through earthbound roots.

Returning to the woods on foot, a winter walking meditation, is no mere brisk jaunt to aid the circulation. A turning away within, in the spirit of mindfulness, in respect of our shared destiny, our dignity.

Transforming with intent, the worldly drama and grim pillage, to one of silent pilgrimage. At the turning of an age, in the company of sleeping trees.

A sceptical age prevails all around, proud of the progress we think we’ve found. As if we’d left the past behind, when the myth of progress is in the mind.

The loss of the now is the notion of time, that we’re moving between what’s ahead and behind. “It’s one giant step for humankind”, revoking all stories by which we’re defined.

As now, or so it seems, at some pre-pagan point within the dream, unmindful of the ground beneath our feet, the plot got lost in self-deceit. The wild stag vanished without trace, no wolves’ lament when the last was killed.

Through the woods, shocked silence sings, falls through branches bare of leaves. But for the call of a plaintive wren, in deep gullies of hidden streams.

All language fails while this water sound, is lilting something more profound. Ensnared by delusion that runs so deep, by language locked in perpetual sleep.

These remnant woods hold a presence sublime, our thoughts, an anomalous paradigm. While lyrically and literally, we’re hostages to history.

So, to ramble on, relatively microcosmic as a dust mite, in a living carpet that sees and hears. Not get snagged by low bramble snares that rip. Crunch softly not to startle or alarm, feathered folk in the underbrush, aware, though hidden and unheard.

To pause and stand amazed, listen to the silence deep within, and breathing slow. Stand as one with a dense, intensely vertical maze. Tall, sleek, slender, ground-grasping talons of evergreen. Gaze skyward where top tips touch in cathedral quiet.

To circumnavigate around what a friend later referred to as “the faerie fort”. A group of rocks on an oak-topped mound. Wrapped around with roots and crowned with deep cushioned moss, the way, one could say it was meant to be.

If all of this is holographic then so are we.

Some unseen force did a thorough job, but then, perhaps, it did itself. As is now known and shown, that leaves of plants and trees, feel, hear, speak, and see.

How sensitive are we? Notice how our plunder returns in kind with thunder. All life is one and space is no division, how then treat the sacred with derision?

No space without form. No form without space, and space, so called, is our breath of life. As Dante said of wonder: “Attaining to wonder, seek not further what may be behind it.”

Beyond that, is what we are, we are that, and that is sufficient. At least for now. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

IMAGICATIVITY.

On Thursday, December 25, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Why should difference divide people when it’s what everything has in common? Having uniqueness in common we are all unified, like snowflakes. True unity is when the components are not merely interchangeable. ~

~~~~ ~~~~

It’s Christmas, though it could just be my imagination. Don’t misunderstand,

seasonal celebrations are of great importance. I think we can agree though, ‘it’s Christmas’ only to the extent that a majority agree to acquiesce to it’s being a literal reality.

Otherwise it isn’t.

So i’m not about to pick holes in anybody’s Swiss cheese, quite the opposite. Just to say that it shouldn’t be difficult to discern the difference between a consensus agreement, and an otherwise undisputable actuality. Taboo apart, it’s only Christmas to one who believes it is without question. You have until ‘next Christmas’ for the penny to drop.

Put simply, the word (any word), is not that which it refers to, but a coded significator to spark the imagination. Otherwise we could subsist on scraps of paper inscribed with the word ‘food.’

We recognize the difference between the signpost and the road, the label and the contents, the word and the actuality. Otherwise we remain ‘spell-bound’, and starve, going nowhere.

 

The whole point being, that what we call (only) imagination, is actually our greatest asset and attribute. Yet, when not recognized, realized and respected as such, is our delusion and downfall. Leaving us vulnerable to any and all verbal manipulation.

It’s one thing to call a spade a spade, but that’s merely an agreement so you don’t bring me a fork instead. A spade is not really a spade, but only referred to as such for convenience and the same goes for Christmas. Try asking for a spade in another country.

Such is the magical power of imagination and belief, that unless you have a handle on it, it will be handled for you by the handlers of society, and it is and they do. If they were to decree, ‘Christmas is now on midsummer’s day, (for your comfort)’, would you still firmly believe it to be Christmas, and enjoying it, eventually agree? They only have to check on you once a year.

The next question, why is (or was) it called the season of peace and goodwill for only a few days, when it coincides with ‘saturnalia’ and more, the rest of the year devoted to war, business as usual? Why not 364 days of peace and goodwill and a day off to freak out, or speak out? It’s a backward world that does everything in reverse. Which leads to a case in point, or a point just in case.

Multifarious multitudes of millions, bearing banners banning bullies with bombs. Brandishing upside down and in reverse CND peace symbols like sheep demanding their wool back.

Forgetting the tree of life grows up from the ground not upside down. When simply Googling the right ‘rune’ puts it straight.

Such is the force of unquestioned belief. Holding up targets thinking they are shields doesn’t sound like a wise strategy, magically counter-productive.

Wikipedia suggests even the designer himself was unsurprisingly unhappy, regretting what he’d done.

The rune ‘Algiz’ (right way up) protects from negativity, grounding it in the earth, where uranium belongs. Otherwise you could get struck by lightning or at least be self -disempowered. With so much emotive energy and belief invested, it only takes one psycho with a master copy to topple the dominoes, but such ideas always backfire when the intent is anti –life. Be a well-read rune, rotate sunwise and activate the tree of life.

A better bet would be, the symbiotic symbol of Yin/Yang unity, known as ‘the supreme ultimate.’ The ancient and elegantly simple circle-based epitome of the harmonious union and mutually arising complementarity of opposites. Where the existence of each, gives rise to the other. Each holding the seed of the other within its centre as a secondary link, or kingpin/queenpin. There is no better beautiful symbol of peace and unity, and turning it upside down makes no difference.

 

Recently, a friend produced a palm-full of crimson (spell it right) ‘fuchsia’ - flowers and some rose petals, and the deep crimson lent itself to being arranged on paper, a background white as snow. With a photo image to show how delicately it transformed into an intricate line of dancers. When i mentioned to my friend what i’d been party to the creation of, she said “good, i knew you would.”

As for the flaming flowers in the garden, actually being the fire in the grate reflected on window glass and captured accurately, this time, solely by reflection.

Similarly in the flow of the moment (how can a moment flow?), trawling through my photo folders for anomalous and unused shots.

An image that leaped out while walking leisurely in the woods. Scramble at the wayside foot of a pine stand slope, to where a random rounded rock reveals its profile. With a moss-encrusted rustic head-dress and even an eye if you look up close, pause the crack and crunch of dry detritus sticks to do a digital fix of a so called moment in the flow.

Also, closer to home, cabbage leaves envisioned as canvas-worthy, being literally lilac, turquoise, and soft yellow besides brassican green.

In one and the same plot where hydrangeas had bloomed, like soft firework displays muted in modest shade. The interesting intricacy of the ordinary is extraordinary. The flowers making the most graceful in close-up displays of petal-face greeting. Turning to sparse simplicity like Zen butterflies at the season’s turn, breeze-blown soft pastel blue-pink wings in the shade.

Not unrelated, since being a spontaneous sunward shot from the self-same spot, with either a lens flare or digitally purple orb above the sun.

Slumbering in smoky molten gold beyond the peninsula, between dark house shapes and backyard walls. All in a quick shutter’s click of a moment which had already changed imperceptibly, without having for a micro-second ceased to be now.

So how about the Tao, the Dao (the Dow), the largely ‘forgotten but not gone’ original face of the familiar?

Being a compilation, a combination of imagination, image magic, and creativity. I call it imagicativity. ~

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

Rainbowmaker.