12 1 20

Suddenly i have clarity about something, that something is not what can be done but what cannot be done too often. Too often i write, i paint, i play music. I bore myself deep into the oceanic flow through my hands, i drown, i sleep not, eat not, see nobody, scar the sacredness of life, i brink on suicide.

There is greatest of joy in relaxation. In allowing growth in the dark; in the silence God fashions what me in hurried act would disregard. In silence i am given direction, dilute my overactive and aimless sense into a fine purification of well guided flow and enjoyments in life for floating up above the still moving water reflections, cast the colors of the deep and high. Petals and sun’s on the surface, endless below. Joy and fortune, eternity. In faith fashioned work my deed is done easy.

My deed is done easy and like Beethoven at the third moonlight sonata playing crazy good past the trill to eternal blissful glib and glee glamour. Revolution is in a restless wrist. The marginalized few fornicating a fewer degree of injustice, enacting greater returns to love where love has been foolishly stifled, genius compulsion for more of love is our justice.

Just as Jesus who bore the death of us all deserved no death himself, had taken death of us all into himself and in ourselves we too carry the cross with ornament of forgiveness. For Christ too did not only die the deserved death of all in propitionary atonement, he too rose into life again. So too we will rise into eternity with him. I write no longer lingering on the feeble edges of my pride, myself is with reason for glory, speaking beyond myself for the purpose of us. We are loved by a God who in faith we adore, follow into life, flower ephemeral our fleeting days while we can we give all our beauty knowing too beauty is only a pretty illusion, perfecting moreover our faith in God for in this alone we play on into eternity. Love is the language. Faith the step in open door. Free falling upwards.

I am a painter so i paint a venetian curtain pulled back by light-blue and red-back hummingbirds skirting the daisy air, swooning under the halo of a sunset, slipping us into the hinge of sea and sky, deep and high.

Love is nearer than poet’s nigh. Love is prettiest in a painter’s eye. Love is harmony with God’s why.



(the page is a location) the heart is love destination (rhyme is ation) – i like the books that know they are books . I pray in all i am love with God