"Home is where the heart belongs"
But if home really is where the heart belongs then for many in this era home becomes "homes."
It is not possible to live in a place for an extent and not grow attached to it in some ways. attachment comes in many forms. be it the fondness of a location that holds a sparkle of genius, a moment of understanding, of realization, of appreciation; or a place that holds moments when one feels loved or falls in love. even the spot where one's heart breaks into two, or three, or more, carries the impact of home. for it is when the heart breaks that it understands where it wants to belong.
be it welcoming arms. or even be it a space you had to push your way into and claim yours. be it routines and repetitions that verge on dullness, but in moments of unrest in foreign places carry the sense of security and familiarity only time can build. be it street corners. be it a type of music that frequents a room. be it the smell. the sense of you filling into a space.
The heart belongs to the people. and It is not always possible to gather everyone you love into the same corner. People travel, people move away. you travel. You move away. and when you part, home is once again broken into pieces. of course over time you find other things to fill in the chunk that had chipped off, but it will never fit the same way again. home is always fragmented.
home. it is hard to point out where home is. here or back there. or back when.
you carry space and air. Travel to a new place. live in an unfamiliar location. the unfamiliarity will become familiar over time. not complete, but enough to create a crust around your skin. enough to seep into your pores. enough for the ones you left behind to figure out that you no longer smell or taste the same.
can your heart feel just one place, just one person? you wonder. demand it and perhaps you will rip.
Madison
Madison lied on the edge of the sea but from the road it looked like it bordered the sky. for some reason the name always rings with the sound of jazz music to me. perhaps, because of that boy…Madison in bold black across his chest, his hands sliding across the keyboard, swinging chains of melodies.
well, Madison is anything but jazz. quiet and low-keyed. soft and somewhat empty. and we came on a gray day, when the sky was the sea.
there are certain things in life that can only be captured and withheld by the mind's eye. the moon was big and orange, melting onto the ripples like molten gold, taking me back to that night some time ago. i sat on the black sand. and she sat beside me, pointed up to the sky and spoke. It appealed to her, the moon behind the clouds. much more than the full overt moon. I’d loved it, the mystery, the potential, the hidden. but it occurred to me, the full moon, too, has its beauty, a generous sort, unpretentious, and without reservation.
you light the fireworks, forgetting to turn it to the sea. it ignited and headed straight for us, landing short a couple of feet. i looked at you, seeing nothing but your silver outline. and i still wonder...
We sat around talking. talking late. talking tired. talking happy. talking sighs. most people swell into shape over time. gradually, unconsciously. and they are to you. and you be to them. with some, you realize that switching point. your brain twitch. and you see. suddenly you see them! solid. with depth and weight. with dimensions. with colors and tones. joy. as each of you materialize into my existence. and i, into being.
well, Madison is anything but jazz. quiet and low-keyed. soft and somewhat empty. and we came on a gray day, when the sky was the sea.
there are certain things in life that can only be captured and withheld by the mind's eye. the moon was big and orange, melting onto the ripples like molten gold, taking me back to that night some time ago. i sat on the black sand. and she sat beside me, pointed up to the sky and spoke. It appealed to her, the moon behind the clouds. much more than the full overt moon. I’d loved it, the mystery, the potential, the hidden. but it occurred to me, the full moon, too, has its beauty, a generous sort, unpretentious, and without reservation.
you light the fireworks, forgetting to turn it to the sea. it ignited and headed straight for us, landing short a couple of feet. i looked at you, seeing nothing but your silver outline. and i still wonder...
We sat around talking. talking late. talking tired. talking happy. talking sighs. most people swell into shape over time. gradually, unconsciously. and they are to you. and you be to them. with some, you realize that switching point. your brain twitch. and you see. suddenly you see them! solid. with depth and weight. with dimensions. with colors and tones. joy. as each of you materialize into my existence. and i, into being.
monotypes
I have not written in a long time. life has been hectic, full of things that needs to be done or wants to be done. i have little time to reflect and write. trains of thoughts still flood my mind from time to time but as I carry on they fade off or get lost among the list of to-dos.
Art: I have improved some. made a number of prints and at one point was full of hope.
Recently, one serious look at my works caused much disappointment. the quality is going down. quantity went up but seriously, who cares about quantity? I've developed a sort of McDonald art. An easy-pass, catchy type of image that doesn't say much after the 2nd glance. It is a disappointment and I have to work harder. By working harder I don't mean making more prints. i mean making good prints. put more thought and time and heart into each image.
I don't believe in too much control and calculation, or precision such as woodcut prints. Monotype plexi glass printing has become something like developing a relationship with papers and colors. meaning i make one layer, listen to the colors and what they strive to be. then i add another layer and so on with each layer. i understand better how my colors work on certain paper used, as well, what they want to be. which part needs more life, more layers.
Perhaps these days i don't listen enough. i'm impatient. i want images. so i just simply smash colors onto plate and plate onto paper and mindlessly, swifly carry on. it is terrible.
"Desire" took a long time and much struggle. art has to reflect pain and struggle, even if it comes out "calm and soothing." I want my work to reflect something of me, something of others.
Art: I have improved some. made a number of prints and at one point was full of hope.
Recently, one serious look at my works caused much disappointment. the quality is going down. quantity went up but seriously, who cares about quantity? I've developed a sort of McDonald art. An easy-pass, catchy type of image that doesn't say much after the 2nd glance. It is a disappointment and I have to work harder. By working harder I don't mean making more prints. i mean making good prints. put more thought and time and heart into each image.
I don't believe in too much control and calculation, or precision such as woodcut prints. Monotype plexi glass printing has become something like developing a relationship with papers and colors. meaning i make one layer, listen to the colors and what they strive to be. then i add another layer and so on with each layer. i understand better how my colors work on certain paper used, as well, what they want to be. which part needs more life, more layers.
Perhaps these days i don't listen enough. i'm impatient. i want images. so i just simply smash colors onto plate and plate onto paper and mindlessly, swifly carry on. it is terrible.
"Desire" took a long time and much struggle. art has to reflect pain and struggle, even if it comes out "calm and soothing." I want my work to reflect something of me, something of others.
fullness comes and goes like water tossed onto the sand from the sea. sometimes like the waves crashing onto the shore but most other times like the tide. when it's there, it fills up every corner, and it sparkles under the moonlight. and when the time comes, it retreats, erasing all traces of its being. your footsteps and mine. i am empty again, you realized.
it would be nice to see what you need, and see what you want outlined in boldpoint pens. but most everything's hazy.
it is amazing, the number of things that come out of your mouth that you don't really mean or that you regret stating. conflicted. which part of me is talking? why is everything speaking with a mind of its own, and aiming for paths that do not merge into one. i am only, not many.
it would be nice to see what you need, and see what you want outlined in boldpoint pens. but most everything's hazy.
it is amazing, the number of things that come out of your mouth that you don't really mean or that you regret stating. conflicted. which part of me is talking? why is everything speaking with a mind of its own, and aiming for paths that do not merge into one. i am only, not many.
frantic
the sun broke my shadow into numerous pieces, each pointing towards a different direction. you too are leaving soon. i don't know why but the things you say always weight deep in my heart. about the unbeautiful beautiful and those people with thick dark shadows. i was scanning through my phonebook realizing the numbers are dwindling... my shadow is fading.
i should be at work but i'm still sitting here... tired. not physically.
someone quote a line from a famous German writer that life ends the minute you say "let me be in this moment a bit longer." be content but not satisfied she said. But i kept wondering. there must be things that mean more than others. and when that ends so does part of you. and try as you may, the dead part will not come back to life.
i feel some peace around you and her. people who understand what it feels like to be partially dead and how certain points in time can freeze into concrete. without too much words or explanation. just sensing. feeling.
we are strange beings don't you think? wanting to be understood, wanting someone to see what we see, to confirm our existence and defy our loneliness. and yet we are scared. scared of being see-through and of proximity. too close. give me air to breath. it's a battle to balance things out and not overdo. perhaps that's why i like your silence. not pushing but not leaving me fumbling.
i should be at work but i'm still sitting here... tired. not physically.
someone quote a line from a famous German writer that life ends the minute you say "let me be in this moment a bit longer." be content but not satisfied she said. But i kept wondering. there must be things that mean more than others. and when that ends so does part of you. and try as you may, the dead part will not come back to life.
i feel some peace around you and her. people who understand what it feels like to be partially dead and how certain points in time can freeze into concrete. without too much words or explanation. just sensing. feeling.
we are strange beings don't you think? wanting to be understood, wanting someone to see what we see, to confirm our existence and defy our loneliness. and yet we are scared. scared of being see-through and of proximity. too close. give me air to breath. it's a battle to balance things out and not overdo. perhaps that's why i like your silence. not pushing but not leaving me fumbling.
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