A RING OF STONES

Stone, dense to hold in a hand’s grasp,

forming in present mindfulness.

To plant night-scented flowers,

in a circle of stones.

Some sort of portal

fills the field of vision,

to modify with no mind,

like a time window.

Washed clean by rain,

translated into pixels.

Archaic icon for meditation,

empty of all but earth.

In the fullness of nothing,

womb-like and contained.

Obscurely gestating,

inwardly the seed.

Till time takes flight

through the round window.

Over ancient future lands,

and eternities expand.

Imagination forms in folds,

fields, fallows left unfarmed,

and all is one infinity,

without a stain of industry.

Scrying in the magic mirror,

glimpse of when the dark cloud clears.

All that is defiled will wither,

when abundance reappears. ~

 ~~~~   ~~~~   ~~~~

 The Time Window.  (Painting.)  July 24. 
Starting with stones and soil, delineating contours with deep raw umber.  Encircling every molecular particle by hand and the feel of a fine brush tip.  Densifying the diversity of illuminatory texture in both the macro and micro.

With the faintest dilution of neutral greenish wash and wiping brush tip on tissue, proceeding with precision through fields and folds.

Pausing mesmerized between sleeping and eating, to photoshoot stage one of paint process.  Framing the focus for concentrated vision energy through the time window.

Three months passed since the previous painting.  Till a distant detail in The Stone Woman picture blended with the ring of stones in the garden.

Evoking in the empty mirror of imaginal mind, within a medicine womb circle ring, each white stone shape filled, washed with its own sculpted tonal ideograph.

Entering the ring and proceeding to scroll down the sky in measured bands of soft-tone grey, fine tone tuned.  Far cloud banks fade to streamlined mythical mystic horizons, where the pure whiteness recedes along a ribbon line.

 Fumbling to focus the exact tell-tale hint, that familiar blue-grey hue of distance, and a single line becomes a squeezed down horizon of far-away hills.

Where the blue-grey meets the furthest fields, entering the fringe edge of the tapestry, that first thin band contains a concentrate of the graphic glyph for skyline.

Distances are like ancient archetypes and glimpses of the Promised Land.  The further away the more mysterious and inviting.  Punctuated by rows of vague forms like notes along a stave, registering as tree-shape silhouettes to infinity.

Out under high muted skies and embedded and bonded in the biosphere, one with the vast patchwork network.  Wide central plains and puzzle pieces of panoramic pasture.

In silver singing silence, recalibrating colour combinations of enclosures like stained glass, modifying in the mode of rustic integration, fine-tuning tonalities contemplated in a quilted continuum.

Being a crazy abstract collusion of slumbering Neolithic gold and regalias of Gaelic green.  Resting to reconsider interrelated juxtapositions within the equation of wholeness.  Meticulous and mindfully modifying in silence of full attention transcending sub-vocal monologue.

Night-owling for nine nights and days, going slow, enhancing and enriching methodically without haste outside time, and augmenting what happens to emerge.

Winding up to finer and finer accounting-fors with endless gazings and dotting the details.  Stuttering down to stillness and a sigh of matt varnish.

Despite the odd hiccup quite a smooth flight.  Forging a shield in a Gaelic night.  Sublime earth-face icon simultaneously a sacred symbol of celebration, honouring Earth in the early light.

An abundance of energy focussed and sustained, contained, in a ring of stones.  May making the stones ring, resonate and resound, take flight. “ Go viral, Icon of Organic Light ! “~

               ~~~~   ~~~~   ~~~~
                 Martin Rainbowmaker.

THE WATER SOUND

On Friday, September 4, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Prime time to coat a small canvas taut like a drum to the touch. Lavishing layer upon layer, white on white with a fine flat brush. Patterning ghost-white dabs in the substance, organically organized in light relief. Hand-held by fire heat to steam, stretch and dry to a texture firm as crunched white snow.

Having scrutinized and scanned the surface as to its tactile touch, and on an impulse with a perfectly pared pencil proceed to apportion positions perceived in perspective. Lightly the lines implicit in the process elucidating in shorthand language, shading in where shadows go.

By contrast with the oriental adept an occidental western way of avoiding accident, by only then making meaningful marks with a brush. Not necessary but for the interesting interplay of pencil and paint. Improvising a duet of differing instruments augmenting an implied melodic line.

Sometimes with sepia but this time with black, which flashes me back to a past part of the path. Something to revive and revitalize, being in early experience a formative link between Blake, Palmer’s sepia earthly visions, Chinese landscapes, and the darkly delineated richness of stained glass, and resurfacing in bold contours through Van Gogh, all of which and more i assimilated simultaneously.

There’s a hybrid mix of marks in there, between the formalizing east and formless west but they blend their diverse languages in the same psychic soup , and to say so is itself just a form of shorthand.

Spontaneously discovering in my teens the interplay between black line and colour, where each alternately encroaches on the other until integrated, and i called it ‘overpainting.’

This painted piece, ‘The Water Sound’ was completed in two distinct sessions. The first being, the random black shorthand, the second, the overlay of individuated colour.

By progressively alternating between the two they become integrated and densities of random richness of texture can accumulate, refined down to microcosmic precision.

So it’s not just a ‘picture portraying something’, it’s a visual equation resolved and equalized. Integration exists on the level of exactness of subtle feeling, when random marks align organically, becoming evocative.

If it needed a name, which it doesn’t, how about, ‘earth-based organically hallucinatory impressionism’? That’s a truthful description, simply for whoever may argue that any ‘picture’ is just a picture, having never created one. What comes naturally doesn’t need a name.

The morning after completion i returned to add just three tiny dabs of colour, subtly eliminating a remaining ambiguity. Only then was the experiment complete, like a soft tapestry.

This brief exercise in descriptive language may at first sound abstract or obscure. Only because words barely approximate the subtle actuality of perception. Being just a pattern of pointers or a road map for imagination.

Art is a kind of alchemical experiment involving feeling, intuition, imagination. Best not approached with a rational conclusion. A ration is a limitation and a conclusion is the end of further enquiry. Imagination is the road to endless creation, and this is a signpost. Imagine that. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

IN THE HUMAN ZOO

On Tuesday, August 25, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Waking from an early morning dream with the recall that, we were quickly opening up the bolted tall iron double doors and going through, to the outside.

Flying out beyond infrastructure, in soft sunlight over breeze blown bushy neighbourhoods with a feel of California.

A dream version, unlike the place shown on newscasts, currently being deprived of water as if to herd human animals off that land and on to some sort of reservation.

But in this scenario we sail out over a rise, unencumbered by any sense of social self, and towards a scattering of people standing on the ground below, as we gravitate naturally to our affinity groups. When i seamlessly wake, to blue sky and nodding leaf silhouettes, visible through bedroom window curtain gap.

Sit calm and contemplative over morning coffee in uncanny quiet. It’s a welcome fine day just right for a walk in the woods. The only clue for a lead out of a lull between inspirations, something about water running over stones.

While jotting down salient dream notes before they fade, and with the inner soulful ‘not knowing’ that typically comes before creativity, the phrase ‘in the human zoo’ arises in my train of thought.

A potent phrase, and perhaps a catalyst. Along with the distinct feeling that we do in fact all live in a human zoo. Perhaps rarely seriously questioning how accurate or otherwise that metaphor may be.

The question arises and is worthy of serious consideration: In what ways exactly, if at all, does what we call society, differ from a kind of zoo? A free range zoo of course. To make any suspect notion of captivity less apparent.

We can choose to cruise between zoos, in metal vehicles designed to collectively finance and support perpetual wars between zoo keepers, waged for oil, by fracking, drilling, and mining.

The world-wide thunder of billions of infernal congestion engines made of nothing but planetary plunder. Made of mined metal, plastic, and rubber. Propelled by outmoded, explosive, prehistoric pollution. Which we pay for in more ways than money.

While being collectively proud of the illusion of personal freedom (of movement only), zooming from zoo to zoo. The convenience of service to self, snared in a vicious circle, serving the self-same system. If that’s not a captive market, then i’m a donkey.

In the big picture of overall planetary health and freedom, convenience could be the number one addiction. Not noticed when your eyes are on the road and everything else is called ‘scenery.’

The push on the pedals a vote with the feet for the zoo keepers. So familiar we call it normal. File under ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ and follow the dotted line.

Addictive convenience apart, and collectively, cars cause wars. Nothing personal. Just that zoo keepers are greedy and stuck in their ways, wanting to own the whole zoo. An intrusive inorganic affliction henceforth to be called, anti-mammalian megalomania.

It’s not the only way to go and doesn’t have to be. Since freedom of movement doesn’t require oil, unless you’re a rusty robot and not human.

So i greet the day, and hop on a bus. Gladly get off where infrastructure blends into an area of remnant ancient forest. Where water rushes down over rocks and boulders. Breathe the spray-filled air, fresh under beech trees along the banks.

 

Being the point and destination of this roundabout ramble outside the box. A much needed and purposeful pilgrimage to an inner source of inspiration. An afternoon of in depth artistic immersion in the nature of a specific place. In the spirit of quiet meditation.

Within the process of seeing, listening, taking thirty photos as an aid to creation. A further article may be needed to present another select few.

Wishing to share, hopefully, at least an essence which eludes language. With regard to our original consciousness, as one with the heart of the living planet, with appreciation of the subtle beauty of nature.

Often, when in a certain proximity to the sound of running water, i distinctly hear otherworldly music within it and internally. Many voices singing, chanting in unison continuously.

You may freely choose to dismiss as fanciful, imagined, or an aspect of white noise, but it remains, an undeniable faculty of consciousness, clearly astonishing and discernible. Ethereal, yet, as real as the leaves of the trees.

 

To my initial surprise, puzzlement, becoming enchantment, i’ve even been witness to it while on a plane at high altitude. Perhaps you have heard it too. It would be a form of self-denial to try to explain it away.

Yet it’s there to be found in the water sound, listening attentively within in right relationship, suspending sub-vocal thoughts. More profound than much of what we refer to as music, endlessly ongoing and as ambient as it gets, and always joyful.

We are reminded to revere water as a living liquid crystal which embodies memory, and being in earthly body we are largely water too, and that is our bond which is not a bondage.

There is a Celtic saying which i recall approximately. Along the lines of, ‘where the land and waters meet, is where magic happens.’ ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

THE FLEDGELING

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

Talk of small things is not the same as small talk. Large and small are absolutely relative. There are no separate things behind the names. Size is comparison, a conceptual sliver of infinity, as time is to eternity. ~

For more than a while now, out the back door of my place, where summer leaves abound, the same small bird appears, right before my face. A creature with no name, wild but seeming tame, and follows me around.

Day after day, as we tend to say, but really only now. Here where memory and anticipation meet as if to kiss, and time, like size, merely a means to measure what we miss.

 

Never a robin so bold did i ever meet, to hop within inches of my feet. Head cocked sideways with one eye alert, on an instant ready to advance or to retreat.

Repetition, variation, itself communication, decisive and distinct, all movement interlinked. Language of a bird, shared without a word, faster than you think.

What is shared is presence, allowing for its essence. Give and then retreat, means, trust you may repeat. In arm’s reach on the ground, no rust but greyish brown, flits without a sound, and what i haven’t said, accepting crumbs of bread.

Playful communication, decisive and distinct, each move is interlinked, perching on each spot, just right for camera shot. Having taken aim, in focus in the frame, when instantly it’s not, and everything’s a game.

Every aspect of perception, we’re trained to treat the same. Wherever something seems distinct, we assign a name. Having lost awareness of the magic of the word, and so assume a gap between environment and bird, which is obviously absurd.

Having made that primal split, we elaborate further and fractalize it. Starting by stating ‘the bird is small,’ when size is just relative one with it all. I don’t say this process is not right, but words make infinity finite.

What matters more is imagination, sparked by inter-species relation. There isn’t a word for this participation, even to call it a shared meditation. As no such concept arose in the mind, it’s best to leave it all undefined. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

HEARTS OF EARTH

On Saturday, September 19, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Hearts of Earth, don’t be fooled by parasitic archontic tricks. How many rogue asteroids on imminent collision course in the cosmic pool table must a man track down, before you can call him a divinely aligned authentically anthropic organic anthropoid?

With so many conflicting answers “blowin’ in the wind”, all flags are henceforth forever flagged as false and serving only to get the mind in a flap.

When was the last time a stray ball even knocked the moon off course, never mind impacting exactly where you predict? Somebody must be a bad shot, despite having had infinite time to practice. File under maliciously marketed mass masochism, clearly crafted to create schizoid schism. Deconstruct and ignore.

Funny how, contrary to the findings of particle physics, the malevolent projectile, always called ‘X’, implying an unknown negative, promptly becomes a wave, so it can’t be pinned down to any point in space.

I would have thought it was the other way around. That a wave observed becomes a particle (or a planet), but it’s X-rated anyway and i never watch horror movies.

As for predicting exact momentous dates of arrival, how, exactly, do you measure the velocity of an invisible full frontal oncoming wave of totally unknown energy? Perhaps get an equally unknown channeller to say it was told to him by off-planet beings, who strangely always use English and the Roman alphabet to designate who they are. Lying harms lives.

Better to stay focussed and eternally grounded with the Mother Earth. That which gives birth and nurture to everything everywhere forever. Don’t go drifting off, spacing out, willingly boarding astral craft, or surrendering to anything that comes from without. As whatever is in our best interest will come from within, not through the head but through the heart, without ascending anywhere.

Social engineering has done a thorough job of selling ‘rapture’ to the fundamentalists, ‘ascension’ to the new age, and ‘everything X’ to the wishful inattentive. Cynically exploiting everyone’s valid desire for a more harmonious world. While ‘heretic’ comes from a Greek word, literally meaning to figure it out for yourself.

I do however, recommend a heartfelt video clip by Melissa Camper, titled ‘Ignore wave X’. Take a tip from Lily Earthling while you’re at it. Her channel is called ‘lvireb.’ (that’s an L not an i.)

Do it in the only now there ever is, as you’ll be past the point of pertinence to the purported prediction, pending publication of this piece.

Think twice about abandoning ship just because T.V. programming has hypnotised you into thinking you’re on the Titanic and got on the wrong boat. The ‘News’ is owned by archons anyway and they’re freely advised to use the lifeboats if in doubt about Earth’s course or destination.

Which leads me to the contemplation of trees. Not only that i just completed another tree painting, but also as a more expressive example than words, since you can see and feel, of what it means to be earthed. Trees being the best exponents of all time.

Electrical devices have aerials, moths and other insects have antennas, and trees are the largest similar fractal formations. Linking information simultaneously from the galactic centre via our sun, with our planet’s core, growing and adapting accordingly one-with the process.

I can only sense intuitively that must be so, and can’t imagine any good reason why not. Better off talking, and listening, to a tree than to a television. Must be why ‘indians’ used trees for long distance messages.

So, while writing this, i completed a painting of a pine tree, based on observation of a specific spot in the woods, and titled it ‘Rooted in Earth’, Sept. 2015. The painting was created in three long day and night sessions, and i share its progress in photographs.

One way i know if i’m earthed or otherwise infiltrated by any inorganic alien intrusion or psychic parasite, commonly called archons, is by how the brushwork flows and especially feels, in a way i am long familiar with which entails a certain quiet mode of mind.

As you see in magnification, it appears totally random, almost casual. That’s because it is not contrived by intellect, but follows intuition through feeling in the fingers. Uncontrived naturalness being something we are blessed with in infancy, and may lose as we become mechanical, acting from ego which is only self-image.

Not to overstate it though, because natural can’t be faked, which is why it’s of intrinsic value in art. Also a visual hint of what is implied in the word ‘organic’. As expressed in ‘the Tao’, ‘the greatest perfection appears awkward’. Natural as with nature, unadulterated, and not merely referring to a form of nourishment ‘they’ would have you believe you can’t afford.

So if there’s a wave that’s coming, or has already arrived, it’s crucial (as in crisis) to dis-Cern if it’s natural or manmade, thereby avoiding con-Cern that you might be crucified by it and be remotely entrained by parasitic nanobotic particles already at large in the air we breathe.

For further study, clarification, and positive resolution, type in, and listen to ‘Harald Kautz Vella’, a young softly spoken scientist with important insights to share.

In the meantime, stay in your hearts, hearts of Earth, which is ‘her’ heart, and mind the mind but don’t mind it. Stay with Earth and listen with the trees. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.

INDIAN SUNRISE

On Saturday, July 4, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Sharing some painterly details of an

‘Indian Sunrise.’ Painted in August 2003, completely from imagination and wholly without reservation.

 

The scene took on form by the same process as when feeling clothes itself in words that fit, and emerges incrementally as a poem.

Actually it emerged out of total destruction of an underlying painting that failed. So while you may take it to be representation, it’s really revelation, because it revealed itself.

I was living in a dark dungeon of a place, with no direct daylight and no window view but for high concrete walls. Heavy oil tankers, diggers, and noisy dump trucks would grind slowly up a narrow steep lane, passing within three feet of the window, more than filling the view, dominating the whole room.

Not knowing that when i took the place on, i’d set myself up for a ‘long dark night of the soul,’ and got stuck there for ten years of gloom, claustrophobia, and isolation without privacy.

We do unknowingly set ourselves tests sometimes, and in retrospect they could be seen as initiations. Despite the circumstance and conditions, i continued to paint, and meditate the whole way through.

Even did those pure brightly coloured sacred geometry paintings, some of which you can find here. Had exhibitions, even sold some, one large one for the highest price ever, and painstakingly illustrated a book of castles which was published.

Played ten years of improvised grand-piano music in a stately home, in public for free, with no repertoire or musical training. ( See you-tube videos, Martin Law in Bantry House.)

Yet, no words can convey experience itself, it was a labyrinthine experience. Fortunately, labyrinths have an exit, when the timing is appropriate. A redeeming feature of ‘the past’ is, that it’s not present anywhere.

So in 2003, an abstract painting i was trying to resolve, on the floor by a bare light bulb wasn’t going anywhere either.

It was to be called ‘A Source of Love’, having just successfully completed one called ‘Source of Light,’ always 13 letter titles.

You could say, the ‘i’ was feeling ‘blue’ and ‘browned off’, (colloquial terms). So the ‘i’ mixed those two colours together, knowing they’d express a deep darkness only short of black.

Proceeding to wreak a hopeless, wilful destruction on the image. As the ‘i’ didn’t want to just cease painting, and so, was painting without specific intent.

Sharp, dark pyramid shapes were what was occurring, so there was no sense that they might not be pyramids, and one eye was constantly on them.

So that as it slowly dawned they were tipis, the brown ground around them warmed, redolent of that rust colour so prominent in early paintings by European artists who lived and worked among the ‘Indians.’ As with when the sun is rising, there is no choice but to surrender to the process.

With that as the new found focus, and just as ‘the angel is in the detail’, and reveals itself as each portion is blended and attended to for its appropriate atmospheric authenticity and spatial cohesion.

The blue-grey naturally suggested itself as being the elemental counterbalance to the earthiness of brown, and infused its characteristic mutual relationship, evoking both air and water, with the sun’s warmth still to rise.

And still, the bold brush strokes piled layer upon layer, defining a grounded foundation. A marshy hillside slope of bracken, grass, and rushes.

A few figures commune to rekindle the embers of an early morning fire, as mist drifts and clears across the grey lake.

Brown is a colour suggestive of elemental age, being fundamental and low on the spectral level, as the timeless earth is to sky. The rust colour illuminates as the warmth touches rough tufted hummocks and bushy contours of trees in antiquity.

Broad swathes of morning mist still shroud the far forested horizon of distant mountain ranges on the furthest brink of rising light.

Hallucinatory details serendipitously suggested by the brush lightly crossing textures of the already dried painting layers underneath.

Distant magical places in there, changing as the focus is gently coaxed into clarity.

Pre-Whitmanesque vistas unfolding, the land long before Sitting Bull, before Teshunka Weet’ko,(Crazy Horse), before Hiawatha and Deganawidah.

As yet untouched by the prophesied approach of the people from the east, and ‘manifest destiny.’ With the land still populous with vast roving wild Buffalo herds.

You never know what might happen if you try to obliterate a source of love.

So take heed, with your eyes on those pyramids. You might find, as i did, that it transforms itself into an Indian Sunrise. 
 

<

>>> + <<< + >>> + <<<

MARTIN RAINBOWMAKER

(Written, July 4^th. 2015.)

MY HAND WRITING.

On Saturday, July 4, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Whereby we lose touch with latent

artistic skills and seem not to care.

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

The pen is mightier than you might imagine, in a press button world full of clackety-clack. While “in the beginning was the word”, but it was without a word processer. Whereby we lose touch with fundamental skills and seem not to care.

Handwriting is an art whichever way you look at it, and if you rotate it clockwise it gets even more interesting. Yet you don’t have to be Chinese to comprehend what i mean to say.

Just as one showing is worth a thousand chattering monkey-minded blabbermouths, therefore one simple image will suffice to illustrate my point.

Distinctly and elegantly calligraphic, ideographic hieroglyphics morphing in free fall down the paper tea house screen door, like cascading cherry blossom shadows in Spring, that sort of thing.

On the other hand, keyboard typing is to handwriting, what classical piano playing is to free form line drawing, ask any Zen hermit. Taoist Monks texting, high in misty mountain retreats with the tip of a bamboo brush.

Far removed from clattering archaic industrial print press workshops being exponentially mutated down to a sub-digital fractal flicker of hand-held holographic megabytes.

Just like every public convenience is a double-edged sword and any instant expedience can compromise or monopolize a naturally maturing spontaneous unity of eye and refined fluid dexterity of the hand. Which would otherwise give total immunity to neuro-linguistic anomalies and sub-lingual parasitic alphabetics.

Or simply: An eye for the informal nuances of graphology will protect you from turning into a robot.

Rotated clockwise, my natural scrawl and script appears more evenly aligned when vertical. Perhaps because we’ve spent eternity being good at not falling over when standing, without having to even think about it.

Furthermore, the more you zoom in on these now unfamiliar ideograms the more distinctly Chinese they get. As of old, with the much favoured informal seeming, uncontrived and flawless childlike excellence of unpremeditated naturalness.

It’s in the marks themselves, decisively fluid and unhesitant, dancing with cellular memory of a thousand generations and more. Out of hoary eternities and flowering afresh in the ever present continuum. Just for the joy in forming information, but the hand knows more than the eye sees.

So the assumption that all this is being written in the English language, is only true when read horizontally. When viewed from another angle, this left-brain logic no longer applies.

It is now a right-brain body language of coded gesture and flow, which, just as in music and dance, refers to no meaning other than itself. Therefore, uncontrived artistry is what is apparent.

This is what’s happening regardless of what language it may be called, or whether it’s read conventionally or not. It could be called body language without a head. That’s a significant shift, to read without a head that continually refers to itself.

The hand, writing, is forming and following a fluid flow of familiar shapes, as if by unthinking instinct which is its own magic. Because it’s just happening, by itself, which is actually true of everything.

In a way, there is more direct participation in that, than just pressing a button and expecting a standard result. Which is what a button system is designed for.

Like on ‘in your Face-book’, where it may be assumed you can ‘friend’ somebody, by simply pressing the appropriate button. That’s quite an assumption, depending on how real, friendship has to be, before it can be said to exist.

If intimate contact is the point, perhaps it would be better, just to write a letter. The one who receives, to turn it on its side, and enjoy all the intimacies of body language, where the true unspoken character and intent of the hand that writes, is fully revealed, and both can say they are equally in touch. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker