Reining a demon …
… 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?
It is how the circus ponies get their revenge.
The difference among choices. Is it much, or more, or plenty, or divine, or sumptuous, or need, or wonderful, or rightful, or luxury, or want, or whatever, or etc.
Sometimes, all it is in the night is just a stone, or maybe a frog … and then another.
Yorick has been missing for awhile, a professional fool’s skeleton, medieval jester, princely tragedy’s companion; lived, died, and resurrected – by virtue of art. He has rested awhile at the river contemplating another apt comment or juggling trick to awaken the witless to their folly, and nudge them to better behavior.
Yorick harbors on a long-embedded log and illuminates (passé) banderoles; thoughts of recurring floods and remaining fools.
Well-aged unicorns (also mythologically out-of-step) have returned to the prairie; in keeping with generations of prying, window-peeping moralist – intent on ending moral turpitude. Desiring “lots”, and “more” and “much” while avoiding labor, (e.g. making a sharable daily bread) the unicorns ride spreading consumable fear and bellicose intimidation. This to the end of quelling prurient visions of glamour and angelic seductive concupiscence, plentiful among the emotives gathered here. Quelling even art and artistics.
The little creek that runs near the tent is clean, convenient, free, and close. Some participants in the reunion of anarchistic emotives have apparently decided to get married or celebrate an anniversary of such. The cake and the wine appear to sit somewhat unstable just now, don’t you think?
Self-inflicted, another name for foolishness?, a concept for the depressed, a way of seeing the world from above, above others, arrogance…then fallen ?
Or, here in the muck…the product of our conceit, and even our goodness; is Heaven just a moment in reflected luminous wonder…?
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 