In the battles of searching the man and his spirit. By moonlite night walking. With brushes in hand; lack of sight for directions. ears only, skin to guide. Feet that long for the drink of water. That still spurn on the will of man into the drifting of the night. Into the nocturne of man. As much so as she. As she would be the unending depth of all sea. Of all sea's?
Enter's the character, speech:
Nocturne of the desert.
"Did you believe you could paint better than I?
From a man speaking to no one there.
"Did you think you would have what is not even mine?"
"I believe," looking blind eyes for the sky of the moon, "still, I believe".
Character places material before blind man.
says of the character, "Then try. Try with these materials. If you can. Paint better than I." Mockery. The manner of the character as the man fumbles for the shape of things in the sand.
"Your times are over. Never to return. It's useless to even try. You cannot paint better than I. No. Not ever."
The man tries.
Among the cold night of the darkness he begins to draw what he sees. The character kicks dirt at he and his work, disapproving at it's simple beauty, Character snatches up the piece from the trembling hands of the blind man. His eyes fixed with envy, he stares into it.
break to show art:
The blind man again fumbles to bring forth another.
Quickly the character snatches away his utensils. "That's enough! You will never paint better than I! It will not be allowed!"
The character spits, and once again kicks dirt in the face of the kneeling man.
"I'm leaving your dumbass to die out here." - Taking all supplies the character retreats, turning away he leaves the scene, mumbling curses for the man. The trail of feet sound dies slowly into the night. The blind man stumbles up to his feet, his eyes look again for the moon, for the sky. He walks on toward the direction of the moon.
low the music sounds
Cut to the rising sun of the Bofecillos. Man stumbling towards the heat of the sun, hands running across the spine of cactus; falling, getting up, still blinded, stumbling. Falling to hands and knees the man is done. Alone in desolation.
A voice speaks of an ancient tongue:
(Culimnation of many tongues speaking the same thing)
"Be healed, my son."
The man's sight is restored. Blinking into the recognization of the sand. His white grit of pearl teeth crack with joy. His hands grasp the rock and sand, his eyes water like rivers of fresh wells. The voice reminds again, faded, as if continuing about a walkway;
"You are healed my son."
The man lifts his restored eyes from the ground:
His face is focused upon, eyes fathoming their interpretation, disbelief? Wonder! Shear fascination. He stumbles again to his feet. Blind, perhaps, again already his motions resemble those that are without eyes. The man moves forward:
Revelation of standing horse in sun:
He makes his way slowly, for the close proximity of the waiting horse, standing in the place of the sun. The Last Horse. His ride has come for him...
The seal is broken.
to be continued
The Age of the Gentile is Over.
Friday, October 18, 2013
They will come around again.
I purchase with money and time.
Time I don't have.
I trade my life to see them grow.
To have them seen.
Hear their statements made.
"We are the end of abstraction.
We are the other extreme of Supreme."
I wait for the combonation.
I can see it working like the gears of the clock.
I wait patiently.
For the combonation of resource and time.
They tell me their history.
Where and Why.
I say, "The statements you make are your own ending."
They know that already.
That is fine.
"Abstraction is dead. We are The Last"
A revolution is a rotating point on a wheel.
Each round a revival of time.
Challenges already begun:
Refine definition of real.
Define position in time.
Links to my artwork
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- ► 2010 (39)
- ► 2009 (52)
- ► 2008 (25)