Tag: circus

#75…considering the demon Beauty…

Published on by herbeaton

 

DCS_1629Reining 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.

 

 

#70…ahh, ahh, charming angels and romantics purists…

Published on by herbeaton

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As you can see, this dazzler has lushly decorated beauty – foregoing simplicity – knowing that psuedo-charm will attract gallant purists.  Primeval myth, covetous medieval glory, and opulent circus maidens churn impulsive purists.  For the enticed, hormonal dust never settles and the vainglory flood of desire never recedes. Spurring on in rapturous clamor they seek to capture the untouched “all”.  Even if that “all” is disguised store-bought-angels, store-bought halos, and store-bought lovely taffeta and pearly goddesses in spray-gold bartered carriages. Vanity is wonderfully alluring for purists.

Modern, technically enhanced, and mythologically misconstrued unicorns play their roles, with vanity and dizzy pursuit. Benighted valiants who, it is said, lack the virus of lust; practice a type of chivalry – in hot pursuit of the (idolatrized) virginal.

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IMG_0006Well-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.

They have put to chasing the nearly feral young (so fragile in morality).

 

 

Could it be that our reunion of anarchists in a circus tent on the prairie, which holds the brazen charm of individual enticement, is soon to be surrounded by the panting breath of self-made (aged past sin?) purist on contrived unicorns damning pleasure’s end?  They will demand “all”.

 

Youthful ardor has dashed ahead to grasp and gorge on the romanticized pure beauty but, alas, the utilitarian must be replenished…

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…in olden chivalry, this is when lance and arrow inflict the unicorn’s demise.  One purity superior to another.

#64…considering manure and weeding…

Published on by herbeaton

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The emotives, artistics visionaries in outlook, have uncovered their agrarian roots.  While their tent world is airing, these balmy days call up the genius of gardening.  Spring opens all that will come; fruits, vegetables, viney growths, sprouting green goodies, the gentle haze of chartreuse over loamy soil ( a spread of lightly sanded microbial nursery and grave).  No bugs yet, just a few bees gathering in the ditches pollinating flowering weeds.

But surely the bugs will come, with associated fears and pain, and the delicate delights now coloring the roadside will spread happily among the rows of newly planted edibles.  The elbowing for sunlight, the spreading drinking roots, the happily (are plants happy?) gnarling fertilized stems will need removing. Killing (killing a happy plant?) from these purposeful rows, now neatly tilled valleys of ancient worm graves, will be required.DCS_1682

 

 

 

 

 

The circus, as mentioned, uses part of the tent for their menagerie, assuring a plentiful supply of manure to replenish the soil (though not likely to return it to the prelapsarian) but maybe allowing some dance of a sort: a grim pass between danger and delight, beast and grace, weed and fruit, stench and aroma.

 

Sometimes (maybe always) even the simplest places have layers, some meaning veiling some other meaning.  Myth upon measurable truth, nobility upon coarse brutality, angels (the good kind) upon fearsome savage, all contained in a few squares of a measurement; studied surface laid upon the unfathomable. Aromatic manure upon antique compost, all feeding weediness (and so the question – who will weed?)…and maybe…gain fruitfulness.

 

As spring moves souls and seeds this world of effusive artistics has a plethora of planters. But the garden holds sparse hopes for abundant fruitful harvesting, considering the happy weeds and the plentiful old and new manure,  and it being probably bereft of weeders.

 

 

 

Planters are cocky, forward, proud; the harvesters self-congratulatory:  but in between must be the weeders (when employable), hot, bug-bit, bent, ill-tempered; maybe also feeding a crotchety delight in killing.  Across the road crop farmers use chemicals, kind-of crotchetiness in a bottle.

 

But, for this artistic’s garden, the only hope is that a disciplined few will be weed editors.

 

 

 

 

#58…considering unemployed elephants…

Published on by herbeaton

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Unemployed elephants, shouldn’t we admit that it is inexplicable – the course of history.  Unemployed elephants with nothing to do, covered with dust and mud and sequins and plumy tops.  Unemployed elephants, unconcealable immensity of individuals – dense in matters of gravity, numbered as Stars, as real as the circus unknowns.  Unemployed elephants, bearing their wonderful equipage showing the finesse of their servant girls, now wandering in the provinces.  Some in memory ponder the big idea, the Big Tent, presenting the fears, the follies, and some skills brought to – finesse; and the value of pachyderms, now past.  Maybe it is best.

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Do Elephants Remember Mastodons?             oil        H.Eaton

All emotive lives are the stuff of dramas, runny mascara on artificial heroes, pains from discarded dreams (or is it discarded activities); taming a beast or learning what the beast would have. Sequins and ribbons on wrinkles and scars.

The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture sits on the glacial out-plain of the ancient iced home of the mastodon. As things warmed the tree top ripper and scat pooper provided useful service. Mastodon was gone long ago, before these enforced migrant elephants came to entertain and provide bits of a story.

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We have offered fields for the elephants to spread their droppings and fertilize the home of ancient grasses, the gift to future growing.  A home for unemployed elephants, as if we knew the mastodon – or remembered to care.

Please join us next Saturday, the befuddlement of urban myths arrive at the tent.