We experience so much we don’t have words for.
I was laying down when I “wrote” this—journaling, scribbling, doodling, drawing, and it felt nice; it felt as if, somehow, I was transcribing little pieces of my environment into a different shape—a complete story, all at once.
We have, so far, built a world where our unique gifts are stifled in the name of progress, success, and personality; a world where we feel alienated, confused, and oppressed. And so I think, perhaps that is what Art is for—an excursion beyond our limitations, beyond the domains of learned language, to broaden the scope of what we can share.
So, I have been writing these poems in a spontaneous language. They happen automatically, and they surprise me as much as they may surprise you.
I learn from them.
Here, language isn’t forced into being. Marks are free and direct.
Here, language is immediate; a dance. What is read is no longer “heard,” but beheld.
Then, we are left with artifacts of expression and attempts to articulate an ever-deepening sensitivity to the unfolding infinity of our being.
What do you see?