Ellie Vortex
Ya gotta start by getting some lines to come out of the end of the brush, prime the pump so to speak. Ellie, two of her, in a sea of vortices. Something about time & space.
Ya gotta start by getting some lines to come out of the end of the brush, prime the pump so to speak. Ellie, two of her, in a sea of vortices. Something about time & space.
Sometimes on Sundays I like to take a one or two mile walk in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains communing & commingling with the wildlife rocks bushes & cactus.
It is or at least becomes at moments ecstatic meditation always drifting back to grumbling about something that annoys me like people who are in that cult of that piece of shit in the White House what I would say to one of them what I would ask… & flick back into Here & Now the air is really clear here you can see Mount Taylor clearly what’s that other mountain over here? It looks bigger ‘cause it’s closer.
Something about Time those mountains are rising up those rocks are tumbling down the sides of the upthrusting hills the process of sculpting reshaping is going on we can’t see it because it’s operating in a different time frame we are these little buzzing gnats scurrying around making little piles of sticks & stones just flickering out in between the actual movements of the living land.
Wow, that was/is a non-climactic event, the Election, it went/is going the way the whole year has gone, a slow-motion train wreck that keeps twisting, groaning under the building pressure of the passion, the power of intent, spewing flaming oil & dropping pieces of broken machinery, but the concluding cataclysmic explosion never comes, so never ends. Once the boiler blows, in a train wreck, the wreck is over, stillness & calm & ash & fallout dust settle over the crater of carnage as responders pick their way carefully through the now motionless & cooling wreckage, over the broken bleeding carcasses, looking for signs of life &/or clues to what the fuck happened here. No, we don’t get that kind of conclusion where the one knight nocks the other one off his horse & he goes ass over teakettle down into the dirt of the playing field. No, we get this; watching CNN as the numbers keep not changing, has he won yet? Has he really won? Have the Republicans’ collective heads exploded yet? Are the Proud Boys running wild in the streets mowing down mothers nursing their babies yet? No, apparently they are fighting with each other about just how to be stupid fucking dicks.
I don’t know. Just what came out when he went to put something in his personal journalish notebook, the one with the fancy hand-tooled leather cover. A marker on the timeline. There’s some blue sky up there, but it doesn’t show up. Prismacolors scan badly; they’re little flecks of color on white, one’s brain puts those flecks together & interprets it as a tone. The camera, or scanner, just sees that there’s more white there than blue & gives one a statistically correct image. Same problem occurs photographing black velvet paintings, except then there’s black surrounding all those tiny specks of color.
It’s a mental image that precipitates out of the artist’s mental impressions when he contemplates the whole process excruciatingly revealing itself before him.
Oh, so it’s like an emoji, right? A diagram of his feelings?
No, it’s not an emoji. Shut up.