An artist? What from my self are my words meaning? What internal desire of experience is this concept, of “being an artist”, referring to? I see this oil painting on the wall. I amagine painting mabel rabbit with my fingers. “No, I’ll just sketch it all out real quickly, and get it done in stages. I’ll PRODUCE it.” And then I feel myself just painting. Without this urgency in my nerves, without this twist in my belly. I am lost in the painting of it. I am in the calm of my own quietness. A freedom of timelessness.
An Openness of time, as if I am standing on a wheel, a disk, an open plane and this is time. And there is no boundary. There is no thing rushing towards me. No horizon threatens to crash into the frame of my being and dissolve me, shatter me against time, my own mortality, a sense of this fragile form, of its loist of experiences unchecked, so many desires ..unexperienced.
But I am every human being. Every human being has had experience. It is the gluttony of an ego, some sense of ‘mine’ vs. Theirs, as if we don’t all share our ezperiences, as if we are separate from each other, as if your humanity experiencing is not enough, my humanity must experience it too.
But what if we are all here for just one experience? One sense one surrender one story. It doesn’t mean we can’t die and live another one in this same body., but deos it really matter if we do or not? This body or the next one? Except that in this body we don’t have to spend all that time relearning how to live in the world and function in this body in this language through whatever set of beleifs and paradigms we are born into.
All that learning and reincorporating is a chore, isn’t it? So we should stay in these bodies if we can, if we can die to ourselves, the self that wanted that experience, that sensation, that physical experience we wanted to have here, on this earth, on this plane.
The timelessness for me is in the making. In the being present on stage, on a wave (I wish I surfed), of bending into yoga, qi gung, love.
Lucy showed me timelessness, coming over the desert bank of death valley, alive and happy in her blue mens button up, sleeves overlong, flapping down about her sparrow hands, plump lips flush with the exertion of the grade, the chill air that was hot, but everything of that memory feels cool to me. Refreshing.
To be in my own experience of timelessness, how can I get there by waiting to accomplish something else to get there?
What if all we are here to do, each of us, is to have the experience of living in a certain sensation? And we can live in any number of them we choose, but one of them is the food our soul is here for, to feel that in the body so the body can can give it to the earth, so the earth can feel the manifestaion of existence. And when we withhold that body from the earth, the earth is not nourished, the earth is blind, it cannot know human experience we have had. The feedback interchange between ground of being and being is disrupted.
This is my last will, that I be buried on a piget, on an overlook, a gentle getty looking over the ocean. That I be buried under the grass in a woven sack in a fetal calm, head towards the sky, with what is needed and in a proper way so that my decomposing body may feed and nourish the roots and to fruit a stonefruit, a peach tree, where the children may sit or play or listen to stories under my sweet boughs. I hope there is a school on this hill, on this land. A school where I lived and made things with my hands. A school that I built.
nlc, 11,7,2010 signed