Zuihitsu

There is a labyrinth through which we must pass to come, at last, to the Soul.

Music, art – all Creativity – can be, should be, the Golden Thread.

A poet is different because of his also: 

clouds are also alive,
fantasy is also real.

Psychologists speak of the “lyrical flux” of the unconscious.

I meditate that, hopefully, my freely flowing painting may be as a Song from my Deep Unconscious, my Soul.

To learn the secret of a magic trick is to diminish our wonder. We now know more – but Know less.

Life is magic, its Source the Secret. The more biology, the less Wonder.

The composer proudly proclaims: “Composing for me is creating within constraints.”

Why must there be constraints? Why is he so fearful of his Muse singing free?

I find myself singing “Cheek to Cheek” as I’m painting.

That’s how close, how intimate, we are, the canvas and I – and we’re dancing!

Psychologists declare that, as the child matures, he comes to realize that clouds are not alive.

Well, I’m a child – again.

Not just to paint – but to paint musically: an outward expression of the lyrical flux, the Pulse, of the Deep Unconscious.

Listening to Hovhaness,
I’m aware of the superb composing.
But with Handel,
no composing – it’s just There.

Differing degrees of Inspiration.

I’m gazing at the clear sky above the trees,
wondering about the Spirit World.
A solitary cloud, so white, floats by
– then all is blue again.