November 10 2020


I’m in an early morning mountain desert haze. I read a secret painters language in before sunrise’s blue hour. God is love, I’ve learned the love of painting from the first artist.


Skies are a patterned blue, textured with deep space and closer clouds adopting a reddish hue of lightyears rising.


Moon’s a crescent, a far east star beats the haze with a glisten and glow, a keyhole in the sky. Most things are just silhouettes, the wisteria, my neighbors yellow tree, birdsongs. 


I’m back inside with water splashing in my face, my dreams recollect me, the moon reflects in my eyes in the mirror, i wash away the night. I heat last night’s coffee from Lux on the stove pot, take to the antiqued checkerboard table by east sunrise opening my eyes to the open window. Light slowly pours in my bedroom.


All the blue-reds of the sky adopt a peach parma haze. Birds, well one bird nearby, and if memory is well i’d say she’s a mourning dove lipping litany of sunrise, a bolero. Sounds like soft and warm synth pads are the distant cars whooshing into their day so slow, so soon. Everything is music. Life is looping.


I’ve coffee, ink, nicotine and prayers. My attention and attention full and free for love, is set to watch the wonders of everyday put on play. Sunrise is my favorite scene.


There are light blues now and the clouds look like they’re burning mute into a green field of peach roses. I can smell the grass, I see the light tremble of a leaf, a dewdrop slip and rise, mountainous east star locking up the night and veiling herself for day. Moon stays a-glowing with that beige, pink, yellow, white and blue smile from emerging a black night.


I want to paint all the colors and their specially new relations i see. I’m gifted an eye to this sunrise as though it is the only one i have and will ever witness. I like to live like this, everything feels like the first time. Truly all things are in cycle, crafted still with the new sense in a perfect moment. God unveils mystery and i ask for mystery unveiled. I pray thanks for the colors, the light, the new constancy, sunrise in my eyes. Parallel dreams of magic love brewing in the reach of a star, medley mix of a clouded hour’s color, heat of the moon, warmth of the crescent smile. Autumn shift; I’ve comfort by a fire place, layered coats and long johns, hot coffee held in one hand, the other holding my love’s, my eyes on that east star, a dimple of deep space returning when skies turn blue, my solar night lamp flickers off, the songs of people louden, dreams are actualized, breath begotten in another new, same feeling of beauty eternal, of God’s painting I live inside.

Clouds bright pink, then yellow, steady at a light white. All colors of the flowers return waking with anything but illusory vibrations of their variant colors in orange cadmium pops of oleander, purple sex dreams of wisteria, bluish parmas in a nameless one. 


I shower, do yoga, reheat coffee, laundry, dust, decide not to decide what to do today and follow rightly on impulse. I’ve writings to collect. A shop to set live. Paintings to paint. Photos to look and take from. Letters to elucidate. Skies to watch.


I am no measure to myself, neither is any other fir to be measure to me, me to any other. I strive in eternal strides with glory to the creative hand of God, the gospel is good. We are loved for life. Beyond ourselves; immeasurably beautiful in God’s awareness. 

Today I sit at the green writing table beside Ariana. Light fixtures flash in and through shade of laurel leaves in a tree we sit beneath. I walk off, into the alleyway, dance in a puddle i think best resembles a portal like Harry Potter’s magic inclusive. “Come set a spell” writes on a low hanging veranda of a historic sculpture, I crouch in my long johns and photograph. Ariana looks at the flowers. I ask permission from nature to pick on of her orange and beautiful blooms, for which a flower i have no name and all the more distort my honeysuckle dreams in. Ariana’s November is her past relived into rpesent, she’s both in happy reverie of memory and presently watching me pull back the green pistils of a flower and suck the honey through my lips like a spring bee. 

Today; so it seems i’m a writer as always been. I notie the life happening. Lady in the window reads a book called the organized mind, as is mine. Birds sing and grackels sqwuak, fly into the tree in the cool breeze, perch above me, my head, my mind in rhyme with Ariana as we write ourselves outside of time, sharing mystic spaces between. 


Space shifts ariana and I into her car, she plays Tobacco Sunburst and calls me into a poem entitled red eye. I write: 


Red eye, why oh why red eye, do i rhyme me by and by when all the while the days feel something the same, some fresh cyclical recurrance. I pass teh same golden fields, ride the terrace, leaf the same beige page, red my eyes with words i write deep into nights; in the mirror, am lost for words, an elegaic communication with energy, virbrational patterns, paint and shaped abstractions of fears, feelings, emerald freedom, i write into the mirror, red eye.


I ask Ariana for a word to keep me going, “try high”.

Try and sway i do in the easy breeze, please take me high, take me into streets of infancy, that first hour feeling, high, i fly with planes hum, the drum of our people’s heartbeat, the red of politic, the blue of skies, the yellow of fields, the green of trees; by and by i am high on a red eye.



So by and by we drive to my place, she teaches me Gymnopedie on piano. I invent new chords, record them in my creative intellect. I photograph drawings in the long green grass. We visit Gabi at Jasmine JO. She’s their new flower artist behind the counter, the lovely smile behind a mask, she’s way out. I write next to pink roses on a mohogany table while we wait on Gabi’s shift to end. 


We drive, Gabi, Ariana and me to Tempe. Climb a desert mountain. Photosynthesis with my eye to the birds on flower bushes, we take photos at the flower mill. Feeling ternal. Symbols of a better tomorrow today, we are windows open, we are models and photographers both, creations and creators, alive in our art, the gift of God. 


Between folds of love, eternity rests in the coming together of multiples. Love of God and loved by God – one.



“Trust. Pretty soon you’ll be golden.” Karen Hand rolled up her old window, smile with a smile that love all, curious is she about all, kind, open about art is she. 


Karen gave me a ride back to the park near my childhood home. I met her at Starbucks where Gabi and Ariana dropped me off, just beside Teriyaki Kitchen. I told her how i must have been dead to the flesh, left this body and i dance with light about love only now. I feel changed i’d said, she said you feel changed now and yes i said i’d been up in bed once, little as 3 thinking about how i came to be, my parents conceiving me, then before them, and on God created things and how long before that had there been eternity? 


I re-enter an eternal recurrence. Karen tells me she’d been up about six, three or five years little with a mother married to an alcoholic and thought there must be more to life than this. Ever since she’s been the question of love in every faucet of our fine universe. She drives off, out of Starbucks, she’s once a lay hypnotherapist. I speak on the coalescing universe; what that means to me is we are all one since ever in God, returning to God in art, in love we become love. I mean that Art is the road by which God has narrowed me into Love absolute. 


Frankly i believe I did die in those headlights, God out bodied me in blessing to be into eternity, left me oh my body filled with wonders of love for the latter days. So in my dreaming days i walk the park, lay my back to an old pine, birds sing in the trees above me.