Everyone Thinks Themselves As An Artist — Few Ever Remain For The Century Afterwards; Most Flicker In A Moment After It Is Painted — Morning Papers XXVIV
Art Is Stark — Art Is Too Revealing — Yet Art Can Be The Most Fulfilling Thing — Care To Accompany Me Into The Vastness?
©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
THE LAST PAPER:
There is so much hope in the beginning of something: “I am Possibilities!” I hear that tender and O; so winsome voice.
Temptingly, as it may appear to be, I wish I could applaud without reservations, and I may do so, but lurking away in my openness within, I fear sometimes it may come to naught. I fear that, and I fear to ingest and certainly impose that pessimism upon another.
I do not seek to withhold them from suffering, as we must all etch a path in the transforming sands, and that had its glistening beauties, defeating woes and those slender serpents that mix up the rap of the mind that seeks easy divides between the Good and the Bad.
Bless the living to be, if we weren’t such beings of the surging currents that electrify the bearing bosom.
So come to me now, I hear you want to be an Artist?
But if you know my words, be precise, this general term of Artist is far too vast to the diet, especially to begin with, you’ll be enthralling yourself to pure and sublime needs for doubts without whacking contrasts.
So avast the Boogiemen in your sights, tuck the sandman away from your door, and keep the television on (Wink-wink; budge-the-nudge).
Now why do I accuse with that assumption of belief in another, firstly it itches the eyes, and secondly it is a grappling point for you and me; referring to the images of the chatter-box, Brief flickers are this beginning hope for such things as creation, that weave and commence you on and on throughout the years, remaining or to follow.
But without the guide of fairness, you may never begin to know what it could be — imagine yourself upon a stage, whirling your lungs out to the notation of lively prayers, as the Orchestra swells to accompany the lifting dazzling moans of passion coming from you.
And you dare to stifle it by a unfair entrapment on your trap — let me tell ye as the fella caught in the Mask of a certain cladded man. Brief is the hope at the beginning, long may it last — as the writer says to me, but to endure the long days is where a artistic stoolie may crave and forge their voice; for not all struggle the same, in these piecing regards.
Auxiliary murmurations, meaning naught, was a note I left to myself here, which was to something that has been turned around, as the final form is a mixture, a tonic, in the musical and imbibed sense, of what it began with. I’m sure any sweet child of the 1910s’ hardly was the same once the end of the road was met by the time the 1950s’ fell on their New England shore ears. Rafters and all!
I believe most do not feel they’re capable or give themselves the due grants of the artistic hood — the imposter or Doppler effect. Ah, humanity, you’re most cute and indefinably sad… Truly, I see it too much.
They say enjoy your youth while you can, and I say yes and no to that, so it is a maybe, because once that youthful period suddenly comes to an end, boy does it hit you like a stubborn mule.
The oh to be unburdened to begin, or at any stage, to allow the stew of intuition take hold of your corporal body and varla coming forth, the artistic devil remains in love with every stroke of their brush, in the same likelihood as a zippy child, and the vigor let’s the undue anxiety not transmogrify their thoughts rottenly.
It is good to doubt and infer such uncomfortable things, but what I believe to create a form on canvas is let a few things go, just a few things and slouch no longer.
Old eyes — one last repeat before the end, one last tour, perhaps to jingle the old batons of yore; There is a side of me that says don’t give a damn about it, but another side of me will contest that — oh, how I pray to compassion to save me in the end, and I repeat that question on and on and on.
And you, other Doctor of me, will certainly contest my reasons —how about you?
Boundaries accuse and accost one from all sides, at the different periods of the livable life, one may begin young, one may begin as a belated bloomer, will either blossom? Well, that is dependant on too much for a swindling fair-settling traveler of my type to make out without specifics. You may and you may not — it is your role now.
Methinks of all those restless nights and these actions of repeat, what does it mean for an ending?
Few spare themselves to be a ruckus in the fabricated smooth cogs:
A Humble artist would blame himself first,
A Hubris’ artist would however blame his tools first.
A Carlin way of delivery, harsh at first, sincere at the last Mark.
So come and see, come and find me for my insubordination here, but it is the full tacking eye of being an Artist — one of those vague terms for such vast things, I.E. call on the Scientist, the Crafter, the , yadda, oh please, have you never held a position as the chief officer for the
Age is never linear, as I believe age is directly aligned to experience, and I am sure any child who has lost both of their parents will tell you, how others perceive you and how you perceive things yourself, it changes you in new-fangled ways.
The contrition of them constricts them in awful ways and thence births a wayward child, the suffering inciting who knows what, perhaps something marvelous yet seen, or something utterly worse than that, or more realistically, they’ll be birthed and moving ever-on, somewhere between the lines, in stark contrast to themselves, and ever so.
Begin now, or perhaps you’ve already begun in the past, unbeknownst to you — I’ll leave the rest up to you.
Ta-ta Now, I dished you a firm ending, go forth and ponder on what makes you bearable in the beginning of things.
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