Sea of Cloud

Nov 19 2020 – Nov 24 2020

Bjorn Bengtsson



  • In Flight


Good morning how are ya i say to the morning light, mountainscapes slanted back in geometric forms against a horizon sky coloring up in gradations of a brown-pink, near green, then yellowish blue hue to hang large a canopy of sky over me as i ride into the airport, here i am, i find myself; First with thoughtful remembrance to God, God is grounding, spiritually perfect to meet me where i am at, my breathing deepens, body loosens, jaw unlocks, thighs spread, arms fall loose at my side. Had the wrong address but found the airport and is my fear just like that. Deepened into a misdirection till an intuition to good glows golden, leading us on into purification of the present, all exists as it was, and now there’s a new state of mind, a peaceful thyme of my mind to God. I am fresh mint in thoughts of God. Good to live the days presently i live into, i call on sunrise, a bright future now.


There are always days and there are nights. There are two in harmony. I think of two koi fish swimming colored and colorless in an endless, infinite coalescence; I’m looping on dewy morning grass. Perfecting language of the winds, lights; all the while walking in a dim lit cove, seeing this glowing pond in my eyes, two kois swimming in their circles. Night becomes day.


Light bright yellows blow smooth and hardly shaped by the airport building shapes, the backdrop of a light blue glistening sky listening on to birds i’m sure are singing, people waking with the sun, all the while a crowd herds aimed only at boarding behind me. I’d emptied my coffee regrettably not sneaking past security to have a fresh 20 oz cup of coffee Nate had gifted me last evening, when i was with my family, i drew them all drawings, i talked about life, art, women, the light on the lake water rippling like sound waves and i surely hear Fur Elise play as i’d looked at splashing laps of water from the great fountain, a monolith statue personified into a water spirit, a thousand koi spitting golden streams of liquid from their lips into the dobson lake.


Planes are more over my mind with constant departure, a steady rise and drift all of us into a blue and beautiful mass of wonder, of awe, of all these things and more i think as i look on through the large airport window glass. I remember my mother had asked if i’d have a journal, that she’d excitedly read what i write. I like that. I see the yellows of sun take to pink, my eyes drink perfumed air in happy happenstance, i’ve ordered a new hot coffee now, have water, people and thought and plane watching. 


Petrichor; I’ve not learned how to draw plays in my headphones. The year is 1975. Red is the color of the white walls, blue people skirting along, a man in a white suit sings of love, geometrical abstractions are astutely crafted, hardening the loose overture of a new era. I feel Rothko spiritual in my wrist. I’m in a timeless airport really, adjusting the clocks winding tick tock like my grandfathers gold watch and the way i’d learned just now as i burn my tongue, i might miss my flight, i keep drinking, the steam warms my dreaming face. I notice two girls at a high table beside me, they’re wearing a bunch of bedazzled glimmering hands in their bling rings. I’m still wearing my gold blue eye ring.


  • Boarding a plane


Deep in my reverie, i’d noticed not my plane boarding and missed my flight by one slight minute. I just told the lady i’m now sad and confused a bit and she understood, got me the next flight. I sat in the terminal, leaned back to breathe deep and easy as breezes west to east blew in plane after landing plane. I leaned my head back, glanced right. Woman in the seat behind me watching me watch the planes, the color gradations gliding up from the off and far mountain ranges, my best intuition had put me here, same travels but oh so different than what could be. I wonder how my first flight passengers are up in the open air and i imagine my role in a plane crash. I suppose the others surrounding me too. I’d be an artisan of course, coursing streams of still moving water into the hearts of many. Coursing my creative stream into useful bowls, cups, architectural structures, mental landscapes, fictionary writer to a love language and generations on will see the stars i see. In truth this plane’s boarding at early day, suns already risen, people peopleing on and about some misanthropic thought in another’s head turned to a lovely acceptance, saying me and all are welcome, fun and fathomed in this flight. 


  • Sea of cloud


Nest of sky, plane boards movement of a millenium, speed increasing, faces smiling, love tight, plane takes off the ground, ears plug, i write, in flight, disillusioned in the glory of lift, my best height, thousands of metals glistening in the sun.


Over the desert mountains, an isle of silence. Secret loves tucked under blankets of slowly ruffled mountain bed sheets, lakes with figurative expression, and a floating abstraction at horizons. Play of blue valley shadows, fronted by the yellow pink and brown desert. In the clouds. Turbulence not found, a more grandiose metaphor. 


  • Piano


In dallas texas i play a piano in a second story bar, i watch planes while landing keys on how i feel. Lady at the bar notices i;m not feeling too good and asks whats going. All i say is i;m thinking too much in my head. Like a prophetess to truthful feeling, she hears me, she speaks serenity to my soul, then said i’m too scared and shit to be in a relationship and sure maybe she’s right; that moon woman holds a pice of my soul and without i’m something like a cloud, distant and magnificently drifted in the life, the breath, founded in the love of God who keeps with, tells to us we are never alone. Found with a spirit, a soul, another day blooming forward; taking off again. 


  • Isles


Thousand and more miles in air, clouds below, look like kites with a string of shadow. Sun is bright as ever could be. Horizon is a pnk cut. Page is green. Earth only a haze. Sea of cloud. Clouds are projectors of light, puppeteers, standing on blue shadow stilts; its a great show. A sleep felled me and my mindful eye, laid back in two airplane seats, i recalled a dream, having lived it moments later, gliding up in a sea of cloud, passing back under the atmosphere into mission. God creates all i see. I am in love, in awe, inspired. I wanna be just like you God, you are God you are love i love you.


On landing I thank the pilot. I see wheat grass rolling in the wind, new birds. I walk a new biome entirely. The air smells like rain, but dave picks me up from the airport in mission texas smiling and says the moon crescent will hold in the water from rain. I love the humidity, all the cool winds, the spirited whisper of peace amidst confusion, walks me along isles of conversation.


Clip clap the isle of conversation. God meets me within. I’m tearful, wept and all wallowed about my reason, haunted, stupid sober, sunk and sad, emotionally and physically exhausted; I give love for life, courage in action to positive change, accepted to what happens, decisive to more live. I;m peace in a flower, fortunate fragrant for not sticking around hate, in love in God; i’m no pleasure, i’m whats needed, need only love.


  • Mission


God is love

Love is God,


Oriental reds, old town hidden valley, saints, flower paintings, long sleep, emotions, city with palms, winds, light lead grey skies, big golf course backyard, grass, memory, grandpa’s house, dreams, awake with free playing.

I smell the mission air, i;ve mission on my own here. My heart beat pumps near every third tick of the clock. I believe the clock is on the other side of the wall for the only clock in this room is a still old adobe one with turquoise stones at 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, and 11.


In the early morning light the ruffled draperies unfolded, petal and shimmering like flowers. Red nameless flowers for now are outside growing, happy colors in this plain. I’m seated in someone else’s bed, pillows with intricate red and gold leaf designs for a table, fathom over headboard, out the window watching the day colors awake. 


Mission texas is calm with sort of hospitality i love, good food, a little forceful for eating but hey, it’s good food. A little hospital fearful but that keeps the old folk busy, that’s life, they’ve got music jams and dave plays accordion, he also enjoys just sitting and watching. 


While I acquire my new van, run rosary beads along the fine light purple interior, blessing the vehicle for lovely passages, safe traveling, God’s blessing, sweet dreams and active love. I’l be on the road today, on the ever way of God. I follow the winds, I’m wind watching myself wind-riding.


The clock is still ticking and boring me deeper about my eyes open to a pink and blue gradient sky. Green grass, wheat grass still on the new landscape. Here the trees have an eyeing unfamiliarity although i breathe easy, walk calm with recompense to greater abundance of peace. I wonder what art piece this trip is conjuring. I love myself enough to turn off my phone. I absorb the atmosphere. Feel the colors under my skin, take in new morning bird songs. A clocking chirp plucking at morning breeze harps as she sways in the winds she creates. Flying over greens in tones of verdant variance i’ve not yet witnessed till today. I am meditation in a nation of new ways for eternal love. God meets me here as i am watching a long neck crane bird construct a flight; i’d been up in that pink and blue sky too, over the impossible greens and long yellow planes sailing on a sea of clouds and bewildered by God’s creativity and power. Oh the love!


  • Rothko Chapel


Purple, green, near-black, gold bronzed tears pour in streams of delicacy, spiritual infancy from my blue eyes. I can hardly enter the chapel, i remove my bag, my hat, wish my shoes and all my clothes too. I stand at the entrance naked as wet oil. Only moments into entering i am tearing, softly sobbing before the behemoth of God’s glory in paint colors in me, in me Rothko’s spirit enters.


I’m crippled, squatting, weakened and light as the whole of universe, i’m before the painting, wiping tears but they keep coming, my eyes burn with glory, i cannot see. I see so clearly. I wipe away my world, open more, expansive, take everything in. i see the purple one just to the right, then an eternity in the last one, i’m inches near, i walk behind a friend on a bench to the back right. Light fixtures flash before me, i try to discern them and i cannot. I see flowing waves. Birth of our world. A bell rings, a soft gong and i’ve only experienced three paintings. I whisper to the green haired woman in a facemask if that means time us up, she nods, i bow, dance out and feel a different world outside. I lay in the grass, listening in the wind. 


I coalesce my spirit in with wind. Wind up back in front of two lovely desk ladies and i;m on standby again for the next Rothko experience. Its like this because of the Pandemic. 


Waiting, i write, i walk the dark, past people stretched out in long grass, writing as though form found us again in an old greek met with nature metropolis. I please myself to touch and walk beneath the large bronzen cross statue, to sit by the pinnacle point balancing a jewel shaped stone some twenty feet height on a pyramid in a small still water pond. Leaves float on the surface. I fiddle a red rose petal in my fingers.


My second time in the chapel is a study; the paintings are alive; I notice the flimmering matte texture to Rothko’s stroke, the perfect imperfect to his color. The painting on the back right still swirls. I’m the only one 8 inches from paint, 7 when the bob head woman in the corner turns her attention to the dreaming bench watchers. I am careful not to obstruct other’s views and spiritual mount, noticing a flittering bug casting a huge shadow onto the paintings, my perspective is variable. My perspective is spiritual. I notice every little stroke, the globs of paint here, multiple layers figuring formless, ghastly abstractions, hazed like in new memory. Rothko paints the experience. 


I join a woman at the left and bench. She’s so calm and in some far near reverie. I nearly fall asleep looking at the triptych to the left. I know Rothko feared black, but these are not black. I know because I nearly wept at them until i for close and saw green in the tint. A purple framing, sparking amidst the abyss between. 


There was a small box in the bottom left with less layers, like a portal left open; i enter, i speak with rothko in pictorials. He and i see in the mixture, assuming faces as fast as i fold and flip open my feelings, he dispels each in the kindest coalescence, whispers soft eternity into me. 


The God of creation, art, God of love in we, our artistry. 


  • The Both


I walk between tall skinny long reaching trees, green and white. In a re-memory of my drive here.


Flew phoenix to dallas, dallas to mission, dave picked me up and took me to the old folk parks, hidden valley in south texas, two miles from the mexico border where a blimp surveys the sky.


I step on an autumn leaf, crackle. Moon is perched above the pond point, crescent.


Slept in an oriental red bed. Had hospitab;e hours in mission, ate lasagna and cake for dinner. Slept better than i have in a while. I awoke to my song free playing, wrote, yoga, walked long and meditative to native birds.  Found a translucent dragonfly wing.


When i’m back at the van, the key turns, a man is picking sunflowers in moonlight in the chapel garden. 


I drew dave’s backyard nature, greens, yellow, blue, a pink special, highlight. His wife gifts me a box of a dead woman’s quilting notes on japanese art. She makes me two eggs and a pot of coffee dave said she was really sick but she lights up about her artistry. She’s sweet smiley, has made two lunch sacks of ham and turkey and chicken salad sandwiches when we’ve returned from the dmv; i’ve my new van.


On the road the can tells me it’s name: Ibrahim. Feels right. We cruise through biomes of savannah, clouds, swamps and marshes. I smell river air miles before we cross bridges over still run water. Trains with graffiti art pass by and by, same pace but opposite direction as me. A border patrol pup searches Ibrahim while i tell the officer ‘m headed to houston, Rothko chapel, am i part of a church group? No, oh, i keep the faith i say, showing him my mother medjugorje mary rosary, he smiles with blue eyes. I received a voice memo from Bethany about love, life, the days, work play, her parents divorcing and trauma. I record one for her on God is love, with you, i am with you in spirit. I tell her i love her i hardly know her. I know you can love someone without knowing them, love them in new ways as you get to know them. I tell her about the biomes, Rothko, my travels.


The roads out from Rothko;s chapel remind me of late night pokemon in the city. Streetlights and aura glow. The road from daves to houston was peaceful minecraft adventuring. I am living my childhood dreams. I’d love me if littler me met me now. I laugh to myself in agora cafe, the woman in the window before me adjusts her facemask after sipping espresso. Music goes quiet. I run out of things to write about, sip my hot houston coffee. 


  • Agora Coffee


Louise sees me through the window and i see her. Soon we’re sitting together outside, i read her my writing, she’s writing, telling me her favorite color (orange). We’re both lonely in houston, alone together now. 


Now the moon’s a crescent, stars are dim in the glowing aura lights of the city cars hum constantly, choirs of metallic clunks, drinkle clinking at the cafe, keyboards tip tapping, my ink spilling, conversations in and out my head:


“It’s definitive. They’ve kept the beach bum in houston to a general service of the city, i like the social been in a while, you go switching; yeah, laugh, i mean years ago it was fun, beautiful beaches, the caribbean, i love her though, it’s just like a different type of person. I went to laughing, um, columbia, indiscernible mutter tropica, missing the cool place to be, open vibe, leg tappings, swaying, dancing, parties, when i was invited to go to columbia, okay we’ve got to columbia. I was not expecting how pretty it is.”


  • What was before?


God is love, the home in the heart of soul, singing sweet serenity, here, prosperity. In early morning i’m awake, autumn trees, houston city sounds, i write on my stomach, laid out in my can, Ibrahim (the father of many nations). I slept safe when in prayer, rested well my body and mind. Now i wacth cars pass out the back windows, pass in front of an old soul antique shop. The wonderful trees stand tall, wonderfully made. One had yellow leaves and the other a deep green. The whole sky is misted in an ashy blue wet white. I read on a wall the words “love is the light that sparked when only darkness existed.” an intricate web of geometrical lines and swirly, vibrant colors painted on a city building mural. A car pulls up and parks just behind me. I close the blinds and go internal.


Love is the light, the presence of God from eternity and on to eternity. I contemplate what there was before all of this existed, only God, only love. God reached into God, pulling forth a spiritual breath, a voice of love in light, unfurling universes, people, sounds, trees, winds, oceans, butterflies, colors, feelings, people. We are people fashioned in love alone, in us is eternity, that is what matters, that we feel through source of life, reach within and out into the endless love residing in each and every thing. Love is an interconnecting silk thread, strung in God’s bountiful being seeing that we see this gift of life, gift of love, each person, feeling, color, butterfly, ocean, wind, tree sound, universal people, each illuminating light in this constant manifest of God’s love. 


A truck beeps on by. I feel a bit tired still, i slept at about midnight until seven am. Coffee shop a hundred steps away opens in an hour or two, rothko chapel at ten am, then i’m to gather whole, healthy, natural foods and water for our next drive to san antonio.


People depart the beeping truck and begin building on the neighborhood home beside me. Rattling vehicles pass in chains, the occasional rhythmic step of a runner, not a voice can be heard, however i intuit often an internal speaking that leads me always exactly into the moment as it is – God willed. Now morning light pours in the window, washes clean my vision, casts soft delicate shadows to my writing pages. I hope to smile into the sun, to drink two large hot black pecan coffees from agora, to write, draw, photograph, sit with rothko once more, collect good healthy food, be at rest in my spirit, my mind alert and healthy in thought, my body still well with less of typical comforts of sleep and a space for yoga and freshening up. I freshen in the morning outside air, breathing this eternal breath of light, love, God.


  • Obelisk


Nature smiles, sun listens her glisten eye on me, breathes life in through old pine’s laurel leaves. I breathe easy. Easy now. Slow and melodic, tracing symbols with twigs, branching my experience into the soil outside rothko’s chapel, nature is my chapel. I whistle with birds, hum with earth’s vibration, meditation, yoga, write and coffee and smoke in the flickering lights. Clouds pass, leaves twirl, fall presently in autumn.


  • Rothko Chapel 3


I enter the rothko chapel in the light of day. Only natural light now. The air is sweet, melodic, paint is smoother, more in a unified blend. Myself alive – with the purple, the near black, maroon, gold glimmer, shimmers of spirit, fourteen paintings. Alive, rothko and myself on the mahogany bench. I ask him how he is and he, lightly larger than myself, smoking in his own chapel, points with his other fingers to the purple triptych on the back wall, looks through his glasses, through time and past black and death altogether to see in my eyes.


It’s just me at the bench, swaying back and forward, quieted in color, making our lustrous strokes in paint, i’m sure it’s still wet, still fresh in spirit as ever, a monolith erected outside of time and slipped into this world in divine attribution.


I see squares, shapes spaced spiritually internal, in lines of life, alight rothko walks our the canvas, from that black square on the bottom left, lips a litanical word to me “Paint your spirit son.”


I see Jesus on the back left purple solitary piece, perched in purple on the cross. Birds flying in landscape on the front right.


I revisit the one who’d me cry to yesterday. I hear rothko “paint”. Put oil to canvas and let the spirit guide your hand. Put color to life, live alive and never take your own, bless this world with your gift, tell truth of our soul, to our soul, carry on spirit; accepted, i wander the color, wonder of awes.


I enter a room in the first to the right purple one, the one I cried into. Rothko tells me to remember the room, two walls and an open door on each, a person in the right door. A cross and robed figure cubed in the middle of the room. The long strokes, color inlay miniscule and fame at heart, pretty color, a big square in the upper right. Who could tell what only paint will have us feel, the absolute spiritual. Feel of light, life, love, going on. A brushing laughter and i’m on again. 


Painting my dream. 



  • Spiritual 1


Tribe or tongue elicit periodicals sporadically purloine feminine star shone nightly bright rosary beads wet wonder with all people’d love of best reality, most real is my imagination of a nation of people in love, unitive singularities pleasing fanciful diatribes, diaphragms overflowing fecund for fortune is in what’s presently said is momentarily no one nearest as divinity part to full rapture in collective unconscious collections of a writer with one night at a hotel stocked to tonight only lipping rose petal wilt but beautiful i’m going to glory early however you hear it its felt spiritually sounding without walls, harrowing headless happenstance, a lot of elicited atriums pumpings put forth by God in love, let us know silence nearly, dearly my beloved loudest follow accidental hazard, happy near death to I wanna live right now.


  • Spiritual 2


I’ll give you something to read, why not give you something to read if you’re not picking up this pen yourself; have yourself know i’m just reading along too. God is with so we’re never alone. I am with you in spirit my love, yellow heart. Live on in the divorcing of trust, fragrance of fearless faith made in life. Were life a person, and life is, would you treat yourself with love?


  • Spiritual 3

Harmony with silence. Inevitable three, pleas to divinity we sing muses of most high angelic and all else of us only slightly higher and nature compatible to worship, have us in your master hand, you peace of heart, body, mind. My soul in your spirit, believe you breathe, fill this ink in lustrous wonders of the beyond. Shatter silence with the first act. Echo my remembrance to new faith in every fortunate second breath, breathe in through me, O, a life, way oh. Tell us God you are love. More than again, met new here, bot some fanciful there, everywhere here, perfect in the silence, a whisper calling through us the veil


  • Spiritual 4


Time is measure of distance between marked happenings. Measure is subject to feeling. However you feel, feel loved, feel love.


Space is the indication of inhabitance in perceptual sensation. Perception co-created. There is an internal and external world. Harmonious prince and princess, kingwoming under God’s fluidity. Perceive love, acceptance. 


Love is everything. Love is a quantifiable variance of attention; there is always love; God is love.


  • Spiritual 5


Do you believe? Flowers are eternal for possessing a quality of eternal beauty, before attentive attribution to faithful adherence in religion, keep first faith for gift of your individual expression of God’s face, you love.


  • Spiritual 6


Fear becomes faith. Anger becomes passion. Envy becomes potential. We become better on and on only in the merciful meeting of God’s spirit in being rightly attuned in-for-with love. Our vices are aptly our highest virtue.


  • Spiritual 7


Art is prayerful communication with people of the God of the created everything speaking through one body from all of our soul like the ocean went through a straw. All is mystery, all is simple, all is quiet, all is well.


Is there anything else?


The universe is mind and your universe is yours. God lives through human to human. How you treat another is how you treat God. Consider this! How do i feel about myself? Feel love. Endless love.


That’s all for right now. 


  • Nature


God is love. Love is within us ready to be pouring out and watering the hearts of all as flowers are welcome with life. We may be but a numbered years on earth and our home is eternally kept. Within, the eternal home is open, from eternity endless abundances of love, light, life flow forth. This is our source, why we can say we and our. We are people united in the creative spirit of God who fashions us moment by moment to love, saved to eternity by Jesus, known duly as we are loved by Yahweh. In all love we become better flowing streams, still moving water, channels from the deep, passing into time nad space and returned to the deep. The flow is a homely feeling, a good active expression of the art of life in which the spirit of God makes us, blows winds, stills and ripples currents, grows a flower, a tree, affection for a love. We are loved infinitely and loved at the exact moment on our life, ascension and attention in love in God being in God.


Sunlight, morning overture whisps, whisks light in through laurel leaves of an old pine tree patch. Shadows fall and glide along the earth. A tree is rooted so it never moves, lived the whole of its life in one space. Swaying, growing, propagating, casting.


Sleep dreams me in slumbered delicate passions on my feeling for being alive another day is good. I’ve powers of spoken truth, speaking you and I’s through all i see in my mind’s eye and my outer eye. Nature is symbol of spirit. Speak true of a landscape and you’ve given word of your own person’s landscape. I need only use one word nature to encompass the flowing life from God’s creative love hands into trees, stars, flowers, birth, death, why we smile, myself, you, more flowers, birds, voices, songs, sights, pictures, memory, rocks, rivers, hands and writing and so much more rests in the cocoon of the word nature. Nature is active life unfolding, mirroring internal, external, flow, creative representation of God’s love. Purifying to the source longing, a chapel for adorers to gather, believe loneliness is quelled in birdsongs, be enlivened by the lights, colors, sounds of sunrise. Climb a tree, lay beneath a tree. Finger play the dirt with drawings. Running hands along the wood of a tree, leaning head too and hearing the earth breathe, pulsate with the same unitive beat as us. We are unitive by God yes and we are singular expressions, together fully and in part to whole. Love each thing without want in return. Be strong to yourself, take merciful care to your needs and give of abundant sourced love of God to all created things, knowing that how you treat these, neighbors as we naturally are, we’ve treated the God of love, universe, creativity, perfection, grace, power, beauty, forgiveness, mercy, salvation, elation, joy, jubilee, sanctity, attention, ascension, glory, goodness, patience, kindness, nature, us; God in love. 


  • Cavana


In morning i routinely exercise my getting ready ritual. Write into three pages, take a walk outside, feel sunlight and pines, another nap, i paint the walls of my hotel room, discerning a hidden language in the color red with oil painted lines, i’m interrupted by a crowd of people in pink plastic chairs in my hotel room, they leave, i receive head from a black haired woman who puts her hair tidy up in a bun; i wake again, yoga, so nice to shower with warm water, my body breaks smooth and builds up again, wet water streaming my back, my hips, ruffling waves in my hair and a bit gets in my eyes, i receive a flashback; scene change as i hear water washing in the hotel’s central meeting point, an old japanese mexicana inspired color palette of yellows, blues, beige, deep greens and red adorn the amulet space, i sit two stories up in a circular cavana. Old palm leaves as thin thatcher roof, everything made of wood, a cat catches my left peripheral elegance glance with purloine elegance and i name her murakami. I call from up on the cavana canopy, “murakami, kitti, kitti, murakami” she stops, sends dust particles floating past her illusory trail, her objective momentum stopped to now discern the source of her hearing. She looks everywhere but up for the few minutes i incessantly call sweetly her name “murakami”. She scurries out the door, a boy and a girl roll a white lace cart by with blankets and towels, thudding to each tick of the wood planked floor. The design of this cavana is immaculate, intricate so much so were i to write you a portrait, i’d be lost in an abstraction by the large verdant leaves, repeating bench seats and ‘x’ patterned open walls, red tall lamplights, a waterfall rushing crystal clear blue sky water, ancient trees spoke of in the orient, dappled dots of hallucinogenic woodgrain, engrained with pen writings, crayon colors and knife engravings of phallic truths. Sun beaming bright as a speed beacon above. My peace in this respite. 


  • Black Milk


Laughs of overture, overturn keys of opulence, polarity percolating prefecture for possible, possible better future. Remember tomorrow was better? Better heard were train chugs, chattering chuckles of passing stars. Stars are different here O’Keefe tells me, i sleep in the new mexico desert with her. Smells of bones and flowers. She holds my hand while i drive, cuddles beside like blue with white, snug sacred and God told me to paint because i love. I saw sunset colors, cows grazing in Lordsburg, blue sign, pursue the blue, yellow sign, highway daisies in Houston, ruby in el paso, stars are different here. I kissed Kahlo at the border of an era. Cried with Rothko Wrote with Camus on a spiral stair. Smoked in a cabana, drowned in my language. I’m born to be an artist. I sleep starry eyed and sanguine serendipitous for this, slush vernacular in us, our soul bereft by not a thing. Thinking my reality beset me no line between dream and reality. Really all i see is God, heavens gates widening in every particular, universally studied, drank black milk, twice a day derived suns coming and going, still enough for a bird to swoop soft and whisper a morning dove in my ear, here for love alone, sunset in my palm, sunrise masterpiece canvas at everhand. I read the signs, top to down pandemic socks. Scuff my birth on a tongue, writing, the time does not matter, should it happen it has, should you live you are, alive in love forever.


  • Pursue the Blue


God is love

Love is God


Sun in rise milks blood red orange skies align in with my minds eye for beauty expression, for God’s painting session i am present absolute painters love painters of course and we really love the blowing autumn leaves, wind laurel trees, sun kissed green blanketed in fiery overtones on angels swooshing, their cute cradle of a new world, divinity never dies. Rhyme by and on any time, painters gather real dreams on atmospheric canvas, elegiac sculptures in texture, tangible souls sweat in soft inlays of clouds, angels, angels reflecting translucence deeper than my morself sky, moreover i let angel awake within, sing on God is good, glory, love light and color in this sunlight, this morning rite. They bring on yellows, momentarily fixtures riding spectrums of subjective eyes, writing into the clouds God is alive, God is alive, God is alive. 


And i lay warped in all my clothes and a blanket, cuddled with Georgia O’Keefe in the back bed of my 95 limited edition ford van, blinds down and in pours light of our majesty, who has seen this new mexican desert sunrise is who has seen the active hand of God in love. I’m born Bjorn with paint wings, flying in my fate of becoming born with genius in paint. Though blind shadows fall far long on the flat savannah plains, blind resonance recollects me to majesty, austere simplicity of a genius expression in another morning made and i wonder with awe in all the colors, the fluttering leaves, wind filled with different words, magic in a dust settled wait, watching the world of ours unfold like an eternal flower, slowly progressing like mountains crawl, leap at loves passing in, new era in my eye and now in my hand, a name of the God in dimension. 


Lordsburg is where I am, sun watching, sweet devotee to all God allots active dream living, artists living, loving living. In my slept i saw slopes of grandeur, watched a friend play foolish and die in my hands as i sand in a heart beat sequence, only hoping to return bright life to eyes, beat to heart. I swam in seas of experience. I saw tumbleweeds float on interstate 10 west, cattle grazing in grant  new mexico, hold O’keeffe’s hand as we drive the wonder, full of wonder desert she once painted so many times and encourages me now. In soft voice pursed lips, a small squeeze of my hand and elegant eyeing my hand, then my lips, my eyes, speaking into my heart to paint because i love. God gives. She sits silent, window rolled down and wind in her long hair, smooth on ridges of her skin. I tell i’m patient, accepted to spirited overture, turning my gaze into pursue the blue mountain skies. Mine ours, Gods, God of love. 


I feel free, free, free, full of love for creative venture, not bogged by manipulative emotions of city people think me like a kit to do this, or be tha, or why aren’t you… no, i am alive and that is what counts in the race of everyone, see i am love, instilled in God;s good graces to elicit love my dearest friends i wish to be no trouble nad if i am as strong as the winds which rocked me in my van to bed last evening, believe I will fly and blow us beyond ourselves, pursue the blue, the God in you, God of love lingering, enlivening eyes again, fire in the head, ocean waves of the soul, starry numerous expanse of eyes, drive of hand, feelings flow, intellect shows the age into a better future today, full feeling source for love, mystery absolute, God at hand, in love.


  • This Moment


 This moment will construct a generation of love. Believe this moment constructs generations of love today. We are free in love, people absolute, spiritual truth, living our active thought. I offer us a rewiring. Poverty, malice, fortune, the broken bones of fear have pried us into a lie of a time fashioned by power for self-pride. This moment believe we are people absolutely free. Forego your sovereign righteousness in this moment. Leave severed ties stringing you along by lie after lie. Truth rests in the actual, the living dream, this moment. I offer us reality, this moment to breathe, to sleep away the lie of self above another. See in this moment we are all one people, absolutely loved into this love by a God nearer than thought, nearing the moment, not forgetting beauty eternal, not forgetting love exists, love is in full capacity to be seen, be lived, be love. 


  • Checker Board Buddha


God is love

Love is God


Find me at the table of clouds, incanting rains of word, of sing song birds swooping through valleys, cresting on croaked peaks of absurd jubilee, be my endeavour one of love alone. I allot the spaces between souls no separation, invoke a nation today in me unto love. The satisfactions of the sky, colors adrift into once another sunrise passing day unto day, way by way, heralding the good graces of a God sustaining us, all of us our life in love, fashioned in the intellect of eternity, we are free people at last i say. By excuse me not when i say at last, were there a bottom to this well of soulful expression, commissioned by three, trinity of God the father, son of God our salvation, spirit of intercession within. 


The body soulfully intertwined with sanguine unitive, once again i favor loose overture over no other thing. Find all happens in seasons, serenade spring flowers, winds in autumn, lights in winter alight, sun in summer. Be a person of forever, today. Be love, today. Be born by renewal of the day again, today is a new day. New sounds texture the neighbors rooftop, scrape birds wings with flutter infidelity, ostensibly smooth as the milk yellow light, black water shadows cast, curate us our painterly hours adorned in auras  of on and on and on again, new, never ending, we are timeless creators we say, serendipitous to have ever been wandered into a life like this, this life is no accident, reason of God, not human, has borne you, made strange marriages and divorces and asleep still by all you, by love for full. Be love within God’s own. 


Who could tandem ride tears down chutes of air sockets, lock snap and twig bones, craft an intellect to the mystery. In the desert I am deserted not by God. presence is in active attention. Attention leads into adoration emulation, shrines in the starry eyes, suns in a mouth a-smiling, sailing trains chugging into ears, spiraling cochleaic curves of a woman’s body, the mold of clay, a man’s stature, shape of a cloud, dimensionality of our time and our space in this, our newfound era – demonstrate every dimension of your love, grow  a hand, a head, a heart for her, for him, for them. Be love in all and every possible reception of energy, love now, you are not late, the time is now. Nestle gongs on high stairs inside, kneel at the open glass of an eye, drop down the well and enver plop, and be loved within God’s own.


  • Brooklyn Room


Mind art with Eddy Hopper. Stones of thought endlessly falling down chutes of air, whittling words into the well water air, never at last, reading: infinite. New veau eat shrines of tapestry, tap toes to dissonant justice, its a freakish beat to be what you believe, to have a dream, see and conceive, watch your hand move in majesty be love my all and every person.


I love people and I can’t help seeing people, being in places, people are landscapes and whole dimensions, even in a still painting to an active eye both and all three – viewer, painter, painting are alive together because of eachother. All rooted in God.


A dilemma. You do love people, and the distance feels most loving that is difficultingly sad to the communicative spirit; water wants to flow into water, biome transition to biome, spirit to body, color to light to object. It is love abstraction, defined by reduction, a simplified form for the purest expression ostensibly inextricable to the flowing idea, following ideations from vsco photo browsing and my painting session this evening include: 


Composition splits dimensions

Space is the relationship between the dimensions

Color enforces the spiritual dimensionality.

These are my intellectual study thoughts on only what picture tells and friend’s conversation inspired gravity, comments on reversed ceiling, friezes left and right, clouds below us.


  • Lux


Have first understanding in your true, your centered still water ocean of self. You have love in with God within, in this true location of self under-stratospheres of stars I ask the constellations we’ve made out, what is understanding? Who am i in the light, space, color of God? I am love, true to the same unitive sense of all of us as one. We are beautiful eyes, stories we share the same textured memory, interlace sovereign happenstance in a pretty postulated vernacular, write books on an encouragement, make me, make you, make us the love we are already within God.