I'm not self-disciplined enough, but my rage, strength and power are indisputable. A not-yet-errupted sensation, I am dark and whimsical, difficult to categorize, and smelling faintly of old-worldism and the kind of nostalgia for lost childhood that tortures and haunts one's soul till the very end...
It's hard for me to write, honestly. Being bare, and detailed with the bareness, even harder. This heart has seen many blurred nights. Memory is mischievous in its hold on me, I wonder at my own happenings like at a detached fictional character's. I dream in bold colors that have no words in any language to describe them. Flat expanses and also, ravines and caves. Monstrous scrapers (buildings) and endless hallways, wooden doors, their knobs, silent slow-motion traffic, territorial characters claiming their stock in my tangle of brain and soul, sleeping deeply all alone.
If I could shed my love onto you - crisply, undeniably - I'd pour all of it.
Just the love of words alone, the love of books and games, secrets, thrones, demigods and whispers. Everything. All at once.
The deep-hidden frosted princess, the sullen girl, the muse. Moments matter not. She encompasses all time and space, all dimension and reality. She is a question, and her own answer never ceases, never tells, never consummates the pondering. On and on and on, she thinks. Beauty, things of beauty, encircle and inspire her. But on and on, she lives and breathes harmonic flutters, bird-wing and sunlit horizon, senselessness, whimsy, love's trajectory, engaging and endless.
Elena Lentini, amazing dancer.
a stoic love
shared and unshared
relinquished unto the heavens, gods, sepulchers of secret stories and fine spirits,
meant to absolve all of doubt and
even sin, endless happiness and mirth,
laughter and music,
a stoic love,
a distance conquered,
a sky so blue and bluer every day, like oceanic lashes, mists, cheekbones of mountain frost,
diligently securing every moment of life,
grateful and a bit askew,
a bit akimbo,
a bit restless...
but so pointed, so dedicated, to love. to love and honor.
obeying only what the higher self enshrouds.
enlisting the services of only the highest good.
the brain's soulful return to its own heart,
no separation in physical form. only beauty and resonance.
How does it happen so? A thought is a spark. A real manifestation then occurs, and I am blindsided. I cannot do. The mere waking hour is beyond sense. The dream doesn't disintegrate away like usual, but floats in and around my head's periphery like a staunch smell, or a fume of incense. I suddenly take on a new energetic balancing act that I never intended or desired, and yet somehow it is such a pattern for me and my young life, getting less young, more wise I would think, but somehow less. Sometimes I fear I had more logic in my teenage years than now.
But enough about fears. What of passion? And presently-known facts or ideas that suddenly implode right before you and make you wonder all anew.
Almost a cherished mischief, is how I would describe my tendencies. Sometimes.
Maybe this is how it happens between estranged, entangled lovers. Though they are completely doomed, completely from their start. There is no start for them. Always doubled and hovering over what seems real. Always beautiful in a painfully mortal way.
Oh underwater shepherd-queen, come bestow some grace on me.
Sweltering, I'm afloat yet bolted
to the sand, ever changing
and still I swim the same, and up around and all about you, I long remain.
A bemused fan, forever devoted to your tug and tide,
to your bluest deepest dream of dreams,
my underwater riding-hood, my underwater queen.
"Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night."
-Rainer Maria Rilke
December... 12.20 Almost solstice, and now to write the deep gratitude of having a mother like I do. A father like I do. I am unique because of them, they have given me infinite riches because they taught me how to be creative, and how to appreciate beauty.
12.23 Solstice came and went, days will get longer now. A cut on my right thumb makes it difficult to type. Sunshine pours in. I am on borrowed time in a borrowed space. Much reflection and turmoil swim around my thought bank, I long to go home, be with family, make art, keep it simple. My heart is not as big as I thought, or, it is, of course it is, but it is still bruised and recovering from the previous love(s) that I shattered... Now this new love offers itself so graciously, but again at such a price, I cannot stand the stress any longer. I am healthier living at home, at peace.
the child within, the distance set, a fractal light, a beaming life
from start to end, no frames, no shade.
hustling birth, to then be judgement-worth, spending, saving, making out of nothing,
simplicity's a forgotten virtue?
It's strange, I get this cold, dark shadow of a doubt upon my soul.
It only lasts a moment, or a little more, But always with the resolution nearing,
Just close enough to mine some meaning,and be gone.
So excited to be working on my brand new artist website! It's a birthday present to myself (today being my birthday!), and I am eager to complete it so I can share my creations and visions with the world! Here are some process shots:
I hope you'll come back soon! It's going to be a magical year!
"Our world is in crisis because of the absence of consciousness. And so to whatever degree any one of us, can bring back a small piece of the picture and contribute it to the building of the new paradigm, then we participate in the redemption of the human spirit, and that after all is what it's really all about."
Last.fm Music Profile
Alex Chemer Photography (my father)
Vera Rey Fine Art