"Your god loves trees?" “Uh ... not sure ... but He did mention lilies of the field." "Have you nothing better to do ... start a war somewhere ... abuse an endangered species?" "He died for your sins, you know.” “What is sin?” “You don’t know?” “Don't mean to be rude,” said the tree, "but if you think fixing carbon is easy ... try it sometime.” “Fool of a tree! You have no idea of powers greater than yourself!” “Fool of a man! The only power greater than me is your insolent imagination!”

The ARTIST and the LUNATIC

The artist and the lunatic descend, step by step, on a similar journey into the savage, unmapped wilderness of the unconscious. The difference is the artist comes back (most of the time).

The LIMITS of ART

A youth raced through crowded streets, flinging his paintings in furious indignation ... I accosted him thus: "Young man, why throw away your work in such wanton abandon?"                                                                                                     Catching his breath, he proclaimed, "The world is a place of sorrow and abominable injustice."                                                         "So it is," I agreed.                                                                                                                                                                                 "My works," he continued, "are utopian visions that will transform this world's baseness into beauty and love."                                 "You must know," I countered, "that art cannot possibly ..."                                                                                                                   "You lie!" he cried. And ran on, leaving a trail of discarded canvas.

EMPIRES of TIME

History throws up empires like a dog vomiting on the beach. And just as quickly time's waters wash the stench out to sea.  Only ideas remain. The visions of the poet, artist and scientist ... only they have permanence. Yet, inevitably, we exalt the empire builders more than the visionaries. One should never forget: Napoleon and Alexander were merely great ...

But Michelangelo was divine. 

LUNATIC FRINGE

One man sees God in a tree. They lock him away for insanity.  A hundred men see God in a tree. They call it "religion."

THREE PEOPLE in a BOAT

Three people sat in a boat, drifting steadily toward the thunder of the falls. The first gazed longingly into an empty bottle. The second raised her arms skyward in desperate supplication. The third sat unnoticed, tracing beautiful patterns in the water with his fingers ...

HOLDING UP the SKY

Women make babies. Men make history ... savage, bloody, interminably violent history. Enough! Time for men to share the reigns of power. Half the sky, you say? ... Better make it four fifths ...

FOUR PILGRIMS VISIT a SAGE

"The world,” said the sage, “is a dark place where men kill for worthless real estate, women are assaulted and children enslaved.  “I will pray to the all-loving Father for deliverance,” said the priest.                                                                                                “One must be careful,” said the philosopher, “of hyper-real constructs promoting Hegelian absolutes of antithetical progression.”   “I hear,” said the merchant, licking his lips, “there’s profit in the slave trade.”                                                                                      The poet said nothing, but covered his face and wept unconsolably … like an orphan in the night.

The GODHEAD

After recovering the poet spoke thus: “All my life I’ve wielded words as protest, a hammer to transform the world into a more benign form. But alas … the world can never change.” “Not so,” said the sage. “Long ago humans were gifted with the divine spark … what some call the godhead. All that’s best and bright in the world … compassion, reverence for beauty, reverence for life … were part of the human spirit. “But humans,” continued the sage, “abused this power and the gods growing angry decided to hide the divine spark until humans became mature enough to use it properly …

But where shall we hide the godhead that the humans may not find it? We’ll put it on the top of the highest mountain. I say drop it at the bottom of the sea. No … we’ll bury it on the dark side of the moon. No good. No good … those pesky humans will find it in all those places.

“In the end the gods put the divine spark in the one place humans would never think to look. They placed it inside us.” “Your task,” said the sage, “is to find that spark, nurture it … bring it into the light of the world.” “From this day’” said the poet, “I will write no more, but will only seek the godhead.” “No, no, no,” said the sage, shaking her finger. “You must continue to hammer the world with words of wisdom and beauty, with songs of protest. But you must also look within.” “World transformation, she said, “comes from within as well as from without.”

The MADMAN in the MARKET

A congested market … a heaving mob of merchants shouting … arms raised in desperate bidding. A man climbs a central podium. Raises his voice above the pandemonium … demands silence …

“Fools!” he shouted. “Your world is dying … your cities drowning … yet all you do is ponder finance?” “He is mad,” they said. “Pay him no heed.” “Species vanish forever in the night of time,” he said, “yet … you do nothing to preserve them?” “Mad as a dung beetle,” they said. “Forget him. We have business to attend.” “Tyranny is a cancer spreading across the realm. Resist … while there is still time!” But the merchants only laughed. And their laughter became one with the rising clamor of mercantile transactions. Alas, he thought, I am come too soon. My words are as clouds borne away on the winds of greed.

 The FOOL and the SAGE

 A fool and a sage discoursed eloquently about the nature of time and space.                                                                                      "History," said one, "Is a three-legged tortoise crawling crookedly in circles across the sands of time under a vacant sky."                "Wrong!" thundered the other. "History is a half-blind blacksnake slithering from a dark hole toward the glorious sunlight above."    A crowd had gathered and applauded loudly at such elegant erudition. But I left uncertain. Who was wise and who was the fool?

“Wise sirs,” I spoke up. “We are killing off species right and left. What then must we do to stave off the 6th Extinction?”                  “If you have two shirts,” said Jesus, “give one to he who has none.”                                                                                                  “In Paradise there are things no eyes have seen,” declared Mohammed.                                                                                    “Don’t stress,” said Buddha. "It’s all illusion anyway.”                                                                                                                    “More wine?” asked Dionysus.                                                                                                                                                      “Damn capitalism!” said Marx.                                                                                                                                                      “It’s him!” cried Nietzsche, pointing to his cell phone. “The Superman! He’s on his way. He’ll know what to do.”                              “It’s all in your head,” said Bishop Berkeley.                                                                                                                                    “Bibo ergo sum,” said a drunken Descartes.                                                                                                                            “Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent,” said Wittgenstein, belching loudly.                                                              “I am a dog,” said Diogenes, peeing into a barrel.                                                                                                                              “Think I’ll self-deconstruct,” said Derrida.        

Thus, the lofty conversation continued late into the night, until at long last I wearily drained my cup and departed for home … Wisdom, I mused, has its limits.

TWO THEORIES of ART

Art is a search for truth ... Art is an escape from truth.

THERAPY for the SOUL

Art (like philosophy) is valued to the extent that it offers therapeutic rest (for both artist and viewer) from the troubles of existence, either as escape or as utopian vision. Otherwise, it is merely decorative, self-indulgence or worse, propaganda for the rich and powerful.

QUESTIONS of CONSCIENCE for the ARTIST

Are you one who nails your work to the church door and cries, "Here I stand and will not move!" Or for the sake of social harmony and getting on in the world, do you bend to the winds of propriety and public taste? 

Are you genuine or merely the ape of fashion? Is your muse the goddess of inner necessity or the whore of the marketplace?

What is the intention of your work? Was that intention fulfilled to your satisfaction, and if so, WAS IT WORTH IT?

LADY INSPIRATION

Sometimes she stops by the studio like an old friend and fills my head with marvelous ideas. And sometimes she turns aside and pretends she doesn’t know me … as if we’d never met.

The DANCE of the PHILOSOPHERS

Around and around the philosophers go While Mystery waits at the center and knows.

COCKTAIL LOUNGE of the MIND

Philosophy is a buxom barmaid serving cocktails in equal measure to artist and scientist. In her company both parties are relaxed, conversation flows freely … ideas exchanged. The scientist orders a dry martini. The artist … a piña colada, with lots of fruit on top.

The ARTISTS SPEAK

Young Artist: I work for myself ... One day the world will stand in awe of my heroic talent ...

Middle-Aged Artist: I work for my family ... for my children, so they will not have to struggle as I have struggled ...

Old Artist: I work for the world ... to leave beauty and meaning for the generations to come ...

"We'll see about that," he said. "Step aside."                                                                                                                                        Lifting his hammer, he brought it down on the boulder with such force the earth shook and lightning flashed. For several heartbeats he swung his hammer, sinews protruding like roots ... a monsoon of sweat raining down massive shoulders. The boulder split and split again ... became a pile of broken pebbles. Together we tossed them over the hill.                                            "You have no idea," I said, "what burden you‘ve lifted from my shoulders.                                                                                          “Glad to be of help,” he said.                                                                                                                                                                “Listen," I said. "I know a tavern where the girls are free and the beer cold ... interested?”                                                                “Another time. Got some business with the Machine over yon mountain,” he said and walked quickly up the trail.                            "Hey!" I called. "What’s your name?” But the wind took my voice and he heard me not.                                                                      Strange, I thought, that one man’s fate can be so easily amended by the sweat of another.

STEEL DRIVING MAN

They say he had arms like oak trees and when he swung his hammer the earth shook and lightning flashed. When the Machine showed up at camp he knew he was in trouble, for any machine that could work faster than a man would put hundreds, perhaps thousands, out of work ... and so...

"Ain't no machine can hammer steel like me!" said John Henry.                                                                                                        "You're on," said the Machine.

They went at it, toe to toe, for a mile ... straight up the mountain. John Henry on one side, the Machine on the other, to see who was faster, man or machine. In the end, John Henry beat the Machine by one swing of his hammer. But alas ... he worked so hard his heart gave out and he laid down his hammer and died.

They say in death his smile was a string of pearls curled across a face of anthracite. And that his spirit flew skyward like a thousand silver birds. One of those silver birds came to rest in the heart of a young black boy from Atlanta (later he would become a king and lead his people out of bondage). More silver birds rested in the hearts of others and in my family as well. Like John Henry, I became a steel driving man ...  equally fated perhaps to fall one day, hammer in hand fighting the Machine to the end. A good death and purposeful life ... for what more could one ask?   

John Henry ... a true American hero. The first in American history to fight the Machine and actually win!

We face the same existential dilemma that John Henry faced … what to do about the Machine. Only now the stakes are much higher, nothing less than the soul of the world. Do something … anything. Even a small thing is better than nothing. Hammer the Machine before it hammers us!

A BIGGER HAMMER

Long seasons I pounded the Machine in vain, Trying to shape it into more amenable form. “Fool!” said the Machine. “Thy puny hammer cannot hurt me!” “In that case,” I said, “I’ll get a bigger hammer.” Looking around I found the biggest hammer of all, The hammer of words, the hammer of language. Now the Machine is fearful … on the run. It knows its days are numbered.

The ARTIST’S CREDO

Walk with beauty … carry a big hammer!

WORDS and the WORLD

The painter paints and charms the world With images compelling. The writer writes to ignite the world In flames of fierce rebellion.

“Got a job for you, son,” he said, grinning as only a devil can grin. "A job that will fill your heart with such joy you'll never want another."                                                                                                                                                                                            “No shit?” I said.                                                                                                                                                                “You’ll be the happiest man in the realm,” he said. "Your spirit will soar like an eagle. There is however ... a catch.”                      “Let me guess,” I said. “I have to hand over my immortal soul.”                                                                                                “Nothing so Faustian," he said. "The catch is you’ll be poor.”                                                                                                                “How poor?” I asked.                                                                                                                                                                        “Let’s just say … a Florida retirement is not in the offing.”                                                                                                        “Intriguing," I said. "The ease of happiness burdened by the weight of poverty. So what’s the job?”                                                    “Making art,” said the Devil. Then he laughed and vanished like mist on wind.                                                                                    I thought long. Assayed my options carefully like a miner weighing gold dust. Finally, I shouted into the silence, “I’ll take the job!”

Thus I became an artist, a shaper of dreams. My days are filled with joy and my nights with the clamor of my creditors.

“Got something for you,” says the hawk. “What?” “A new vision.” “Really? Show me.” The hawk lifts its rainbow wings. A sun-bright burst of light explodes in my head … I am blinded. “Like it?” “Wonderful! Beautiful!” “Until next time, then,” says the hawk. “Yeah … till next time.

Spreading its wings the hawk glides away … disappears in the mist. After my sight recovers I head back to the studio. Time to work.

FREE

Where archetypal dreams are sown,                                                                                                                                                      In lonely lands beyond the known,                                                                                                                                                Where screams the hawk                                                                                                                                                                  And wildcats roam,                                                                                                                                                                                On steeds of thought I ride alone.

The MOUNTAIN of TRUTH

Somewhere to the west rises a tall peak. It is said that one can acquire wisdom there in proportion to the height of one’s ascent … But few attempt the climb for the way is hard and dangerous. Those who try almost always give up in despair. And those who reach the summit perish. Or so it is believed …for none have returned to tell the tale.

The PATH of NO PATH

An arduous ascent … a fork in the trail … a cluster of pilgrims before a massive boulder … atop the boulder a demon sits grinning.

“Which way to the summit?" asked a pilgrim. “Take the path to the right,” said the demon, “for it is the path of the righteous.” A few pilgrims turned right. “Or,” said the demon, “you might want to go left for it is the path of beauty.” A few turned left. “Then again,” growled the demon, baring its teeth. “You might want to go back from where you came. Both paths lead to the top, but the way is hard. Merciless winds will rip the flesh from your bones, the cold will freeze your blood … wild beasts scavenge your carcass.” The rest fled down the mountain. I paused … pondered long the possibilities. Then striding past the boulder I went straight up the mountain. “Fool!” laughed the demon. “You choose the hardest way of all … the Path of No Path!” But I heeded him not and continued my ascent, scrambling over roots and rocks, shadowed by the taunts of a demon’s laughter.

The GALLERY of BABYLON

In Babylon stands a gallery whose innumerable chambers and vast halls stretch into unguessed expanses of space and time. Every work of art made by human hand and every work not yet made are housed within its labyrinthine confines.

Once in the Postmodern section, I chanced upon a room filled with a strange species of bird-men. Standing on human legs but with heads exactly like parrots, first one, then another of these bizarre creatures strutted across the floor with great pomp and self-importance, spouting mysterious phrases like deconstruction! or signifier!  Thereupon, the rest would puff their chests, nod their beaks vigorously and repeat the same arcane utterances. So great was their cacophony that I covered my ears and ran for the exit ... Doubtless, I thought, there must be other rooms worth visiting.

The CONFUSED HALLS of MODERNITY

In the Gallery of Babylon one day wandering,                                                                                                                                      I met Rembrandt.                                                                                                                                                                              We talked of the sweet muse of Beauty                                                                                                                                                And the bitter vision of honest expression.                                                                                                                              Suddenly, we came upon a naked man squatting,                                                                                                                            Legs apart, defecating loudly on canvas.                                                                                                                                      "What  ...?"                                                                                                                                                                                          An artist," I explained. "He seeks the new."                                                                                                                                         "But the smell!"                                                                                                                                                                              "Yes," I agreed. "That would be the sweet fragrance of novelty."

EVOLUTION'S GIFT

Sometimes the only thing between a man and the abyss is a good laugh. Humor ... never leave home without it!

The CONSOLATIONS of GEOLOGIC TIME

There is some consolation in the knowledge that no matter how badly we savage the planet’s biosphere, in a few million years nature will recover. Species come and go … but the Earth abides forever …

COSMIC HAIKU

Cold moonless mountain                                                                                                                                                                        Stars scattered like spilled jewels                                                                                                                                                          No atheist now