(But first this inquiry) Does He have a right (is that the right word(?)- it is such a big word – to visit? Would it be best to just stay away? She is, after all, trying to grasp and maybe emote some timeless grace.
Close to the river, the thickets (as good as any other background for mortality) limit her (as they do him); and maybe – maybe is such a big word don’t you think, (maybe?) – maybe She wants some quiet from the chaos of emotives and bomb-throwers, and enfant terribles, and maybe just (and is this the smallest maybe) maybe from He and his craziness?
Now that He has passed the conspicuous discrepancy (He, faulted, walked the straight and narrow – to her) shouldn’t He be acceptable? Maybe (as one might think) maybe, to be with her at the river…maybe? Maybe He has his own flowing grace or simple crazed value.
Or maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe She just wants to ponder a while, stare (or gaze) through this moment …
Apparently, with some alterations on He’s part, romantic negotiations are in process.
As it is, playful expectations are accompanied by that which begets fear; poison ivy, scratchy thicket burrs and branches edging the river’s ankle-deep poetry. The easy grace of youthful cinematic romance (certainly absurd) ineptly flows. Airy posts, charming gifts, and romantic dress more appropriate for elegant studios may not be the best in a snaggy fact-ladened riverine encounter. It is high-summer, bugs and sweat, smells and flying insects and snakes (thankfully no venom) and spiders and jumpy things. The gifts of a young man, the momentary relinquishing of props, the poetry of late afternoon (and mosquitos to follow), perhaps the right words; may, (if the universe retires from interrupting) unfold some delicacy, some grace.
Although well-intended, even the elements of the simplest desires aren’t always landed in the best place.
He, male guide for this blog, wears his craziness. It is far to vasty a space to cling only to worried craziness, you know, the interior kind. On a trestle, He is doing what daddy told him not to do; frivolously wandering where other men work. No matter that his pride is augmented a bit, considering that daddy also told him to walk the straight and narrow.
Field (another name for labor), it’s high-summer, nature does the work in grainfields; it’s to late to intervene, to early to benefit. Time for a boy to wander.
Meadow (another name for ball-field), it’s ripe for pondering the good and lovely, retirement to a simple nap, or onto adventures and the dangerous remains inside the still tottering boy. However, to go from field to meadow graciously, he must walk the straight and narrow, just like daddy told him.
Predicaments, the trestle, no shortcuts (plan an escape?). There usually is a slight impediment at the border of any meadow.
Access will hopefully go un-noted, in the legal sense, now that the cows are gone to industrial pasturage and no bulls guard the harem.
There is the hope that He will continue towards goodness, proceeding through the meadow; ambling to a rendezvous at the river.
She, the feminine guide, and his pursuit, is presumed at the river.
… a pensive mode, little concern, just the decoration (please), the sunlight, the quiet repetition, the ongoing distance, all those bits of actions good for happiness; some resolution eventually, some hope of a steadfast grip on protective surroundings.
But sometimes there is a fight to be fought, a battle – maybe not desired – but, nonetheless there.
No time for the sissy-shit.
There must be some moment when the door can be slammed, confirming entering the confrontation or the withdrawal. But then again, which is sensible, it is never quite clear.
The artistic resume, the scribbled history of location-dropping; value credited to an unattainable past held in unalterably storied, and very significant – places.
A “wise one” type, common among emotives, has told a story about “previous” enfant terrible reunions being superior to this one ongoing in a circus tent on the Illinois prairie.
Back then, and specifically there, superior artists were more admired, philosophies deeper, emotions purer, significant cultural bombshells much more exuberant; and patrons “acquired” art, they didn’t “buy” art.
These statements are influencing a coterie who have adopted that story and enhanced it with more, very mentionable, locations; Paris in the 20’s, a charming rural Adirondacks village, a melange ala’ Bali, and a private Aegean Island (owned by an uber-rich hip virtual-reality youngster), plus numerous, conspicuously exotic, others.
An expressive street smart type, seeing an opening to drop an emotive bombshell vivid in self-righteous anger, exploded about being “cut-out” of the “previous” reunion by the “aloof lap-dogs” of the monied-class types. That also attracted a following.
A robust series of bombs began blowing off amid the effects of the hot, humid, buggy, dusty and pollen embedded summer atmosphere … more memorializable angst.
Please note the following …
Instead invective reigned.
To this hyperbolic confusion yet a third leader formed a group opposed to the “tirelessly effete” first group and the “boringly vulgar” second. To this, the third added that their movement had “distilled the paradyms of the past into a new language of art”.
One would hope for an ancient, deep, wet, wishing-well to dampen the fuses, but alas, this is not the case. This gathering of smug, crude, and benighted neo-something artistic types continues; as fuses sputter towards dry powder.
At least the common simili about art/life imitations makes sense. Let’s not discuss other comparable truths.
Imagine a hormonal bloom, a late-puberty flowering…
Young man (more to the point … old boy), your powers are rather extraordinary in a world of awesome super magnificent and other superlative banter; or, possibly only marginal. But such as it is, here in the middle of the Illinois prairie, rascals show-off. ‘Twas (once upon a time) considered suitable to gain the affections of a damsel.
Surely, demonstrating powers in the increase would always be best. Some evidence of growing power, some undaunted mastery, some fantastic!, some midsummer tassel of potency, some fizzing and sputtering hormonal bombs, and the like.
But, some things maybe aren’t so easy, considering modern times.
Maybe she carries her acceptance complex interwoven under cute emotion bomb appliqués. A bit more openly now than ever before, but, still discretely hidden; luminous, wet, curled in silky wonder.
It just is not all that clear. Hormonal blooms (exerted emotions) for the rascals, the boys, the young men – expect a solid response. What is the boy’s hormonal bombs use if not to spout it’s power?
But is there an assertion that won’t just energize another defensive … as so described … hidden indescribable ephemeral bomblet? A bit more ethereal, a bit more feminine.
… Beauty … Beauty certainly isn’t a demon, is it …(or maybe – she)?
Is there a tethering grace to hold the pony’s desertion or revenge?
There is noise in bumping cans, tubes, brushes, bottles, razorblades dividing pleasure from depression (simple, just scrape off callused dried bumbles). There is racket in traffic, robo-calls, bad media speakers, word questions for which there are no answers (impatience awaiting sober silence or skill?). There are memories, bits of love, clanging mushy heady grey matter (or warm red embodiments), alarms beepbeepbeeping (is it commerce or just legality?). There is loud partisan truth (for which there is no rebuttal). All this, and obviously more, attend while roping a delusion … the reining of Beauty.
And yet some, covered with dust and ashes, persevere. That is okay, and noticed, but please don’t burden the wrangler with your delusions. It’s that day’s work, a tiny skirmish with an outrider of the sublime, a vengeful circus pony; and plenty for the painter’s day.
Beauty has within – a wildness – to birth awe, but beauty is not awe. Beauty is tied to controlling acts of delusion, of a final ruling, maybe unity, even unalterable hushed simplicity; beheld, maybe, in joy. And yet it changes, often degrades; entropy attending the stillbirth of awe.
Artistics possessors of technique and emotions, even greyed and ash covered ones, mostly lack that silent simplicity: and seek painting (circus ponies and more) for fun. Now there is a delusion! Fun is less than joy, and that’s a fact. The restraining lead tied to beauty is going to snap and lash through delusions, the stumbling, the wild skill-less drippings, the slashing; the meek even cowardly smoothing: hoping for that simplicity, a circus going solemn. And yet, beauty is more than that and less than awe, and that’s a fact.
But shouldn’t fear reign in the confrontation with demons?
Can we be fools, funning with Beauty, restraint ruining the savage unleashing of joy: and still face (and even grasp) the descent of awe?