The Interview

Written July 16 20 through August 15 20

Finished typing on August 27 20



These interviews play on the etymological meaning of the word ‘interview’. The word interview finds origin in French, stems from the roots ‘voir’ – to see and ‘vue’ – a view. 


The voir of the reader, as has been every person, even the vue here, is natural. Every person sees, naturally. What every person sees is new, that is because every person sees differently.


In an interview we ‘see eachother’. We see of course how the vue here sees differently as the voir conducts a series of questions. The vue may be understood in being a view, the interviewee. While the voir conducts a series of questions, enabling us to see, the interviewer. Welcome to the interview. 


Vue: thank you, I feel welcome here. I’m glad you see. We’ve gone inside now, the summer sun was all over me. She drew water from my skin like she needed it. It’s nice inside; I love the empty blue sky, but surely these verdant walls are enough to satisfy. And I’m no longer sweating red on the outside.


Voir: Ah, I’m glad we’ve made you feel welcome, allowed; rather, I’ll say. Should we be getting on with the interview?


Vue: yes, while I believe it best we keep my answers simple, your questions should be easy, understand?


Voir: yes, now what does an interview mean to you?


Vue: seeing as I am the view for seeing in this interview; I easily could say my Self and capitalize the S. You know, the self that gives life and love and suffering to us. That would suffice. 


Of course and in my short answer to your easy question I’d say all necessary questions would have been answered. ‘Us’ could simply end the interview.


Vue: we’d see that to see eachother is less than how we see differently. Yes, to see eachother is to see how us as the same.


Voir: how do you see us as the same?


Vue: we all see.


Voir: and this makes us the same?


Vue yes.


Voir: naturally we are grateful for your insight into the matter of this interview. Let us begin again simply, what is your name?


Vue: Bjorn


Voir: what do you do?


Bjorn: love


Voir: how then do you love?


Bjorn: any way I can, really. I paint and I write most naturally. I’ve made myself to be a vessel for love to fill and overflow for others. See, love is like water, love is God, I’m a well: and I’ve found myself most colorful to us in the village where people need water.


Voir: where is this village?


Vue: inside.


Bjorn: well; currently I live in Mesa, Arizona. The sun heats the concrete above 120 degrees in a lovely summer’s day. You can even cook eggs on the sidewalk. I had an egg this morning, July 16 2020, but I did not cook it on the sidewalk. I have a green pan that I cooked the egg with olive oil on.


I then nearly ate the egg on my green plate. But back to the village. The village is wherever us is, wherever I am. The village? 


Voir: would you say people everywhere need water?


Bjorn: quite naturally, yes. That’s an easy question. 


Voir: and you could have simply said yes, yes?

my thought 

Bjorn: yes.


Voir: now, tell us more into this village where you are. Some setting, perhaps?


Bjorn: at the moment I’m sat outside; in the green grass. The grass swirls in concentric motions, beautiful sways always I’d attribute to the grass itself and I know it’s only always sways at the mercy of wind.


Inside: my room, there is paint everywhere, it’s quite difficult to describe inside as it’s always changing. There are always paintings being painted. My output is one piece at a day or three. I paint with oil on wood panels, currently a 48 by 46 in. panel, the size of space on a wall where a painting should be hung, stands on my once black leather couch and leans against my bedroom wall. Both the couch and the wall are covered with strokes of color from past paintings which desires more space than the wood panel canvas could offer.


I paint in my room the most today. The words you, well you are seeing us now. The summer sun makes me red. Otherwise I paint en plein air or in my backyard.


In my backyard are many lovely flowers. Pink and white and red petunias. A purple blossom potato plant. Sunflowers, some small and already are yellow; some mammoth sunflowers soon to be yellow. A purple Japanese wisteria. Pink hollyhocks. Many a flowers occupy here; and while I enjoy even the dead ones, I am most compelled to paint flowers as alive and as often as I am able. You know; painted flowers never die? Love this so much!


Voir: yes, I know. And in your backyard, the green grass yes?


Bjorn: yes, the green grass where now I sit. Shirtless, red paint on my fingertips, grass sways between them.


The pretty birds can’t much handle the summer sun, so I’m left with the sound of empty blue sky accompanied quite harshly by the inside ac and the crackle call of grackles. I do prefer silence; only the empty blue sky.


Vue: music.


Bjorn: apart cloud dissipating into sunlight, most simply I’d say mysely.


Voir: and where are you when not in silence?


Vue: everywhere.


Bjorn clouded. When with others I occupy myself their minds. I see every person as love. I can learn, I can grow, I can help grow every other person. 


See, what sufferings I inhabit are not unlike that of every person. I’m quite lonely, likely on account of wishing help to every other person. I’m alive, at times I wish I were no longer be, but death is a fine conversation point. Wherever else but up, into life! into love! Is there us, from such a low place?


Voir: is it solace you wish to give to every other people?


Vue: solace yes, understanding as well. I understand people most in their sorrow, I suppose this is how we all are. I want to give love and accompany us, our sorrow. I wish we were happy more often, then would be, I suppose; a different kind of writing. 


 Bjorn: precisely, love infused solace.


Voir: and to what does this solace seem?


Vue: understanding.


Bjorn: this solace can beat be compared to a garden walk. This garden is life. Our feet must keep step. Be you barefoot like myself, thorn and thicker thin the flesh. Or wear you your sneakers. We all walk this garden.


My road is narrow you see. A terrible, beautiful path orchestrates my step. I seek to clear the way of thorn and thicket, the ground can be soft and dewy for us. 


I seek to take upon myself the pains of life and of these pains extract every ounce of joy. I’ll point people to the flowers, soften our each other’s pain in the Self. This is to what solace seems to me, an understanding of our joy and pain. This is why I paint flowers.


Voir: they are beautiful, I’d say joyous flowers.

I’d agree 

Bjorn: thank you, this gladdens me which you see.


Voir: what more do the flowers you see express?


Bjorn: flowers are more of less. They are eternal and mild. They are symbols of a heavenly rooted earth. Painting flowers allows me to feel I am seen from what I see; a unitive experience.


You see, flowers are delicate, easily fleeting frailties, petals in a swirling wind of time. When I say us, I say we are like this. We come, we go, we give what beauty we behold, we are blooms of breathing praise, we wither, wilt, mulch the ground and again we come. I paint the persistence of people and flower, for once painted, we are never dead, not in the sense of being forgotten our understanding. 

This is so beautiful. I love your insight on the similarities of people to flowers and how you describe the flower’s lifespan and purpose. 

Imagine all the unseen colors, the lonely fields of flower and the crumbled color petals beneath the shoes of the careless, burnt into concrete. Beauty is eternal, flowers and people are eternal, our beauty eternal deserves to be seen.


Voir: do you wish to evade death by painting?


Vue: yes.


Bjorn: I die whenever my fingers touch oil. Did I mention I most enjoy the joys of finger painting? 


Well, yes, it’s this death of my desire which opens me, that love may love through me, with colorful resplendency. I am ever so weak. I acknowledge my death humbly. I do not believe Bjorn will love long? I will die as any of us do, naturally. And as I live, every petal of my energy, the ends of my breath are given for us to consume life and love. Love is also eternal. If I am annihilated into love, then I do not die, though these hands, these painted fingertips and tongue may be consumed by us. 


Voir: Why did you question when you said you do not believe Bjorn will love long? Is that something questionable to you? Are you questioning it because there is a possibility of love continuing after death? 


Vue: I believe the question mark was an accident. Serendipitous one at that. I do believe love continues through death.


Voir: is art eternal to you then?


Bjorn: so long as art is solely about love, then yes. But art is a temporary house of this everlasting expression of love. 


Voir: yes then, might you give us more into the house which you currently reside?


Voir: hold on. Hold on! Is this the kind of interview where I am able to ask my own questions?


Vue: well, yes, why of course. Seeing as you are the ‘to see’ and I am ‘the view’, naturally our seeing questions the view.


Bjorn: well, yes, of course. Like the moon tonight, a crescent moon tonight; a slim crescent lacking night.


Voir: well, then. However do you question the crescent moon?


Vue: seeing from.


Bjorn: the moon is the greatest, rather second greatest messenger of light, save us good Jesus who did save us our Selves.


As does the moon only appear in loss of self face, only the moon is seen as a reflection of the sun. Surely tomorrow is a new moon, new beginnings are dark, we cannot see them and yet they are necessary that we might see the moon’s crescent, sun lit smile again. Can you see me smiling now?


 Vue: yes


Voir: that is why the moon is the second greatest messenger?


Bjorn: yes


Voir: lovely, the analogy just warms me inside. But we must also be outside, no?


Bjorn: this is a point of contention for me, philosophically call it a dualism of the internal and external. The new poetic etymologist might call it ofstereous. How one person inhabits many a trait. This in which I live, of which you ask, is home to the first great messenger. And outside I do things like cook eggs, but more paints, peruse the longings I have in the moon. 


Voir: I see.


Bjorn: that you do. 


Voir: funny. 


Bjorn: would you mind me to ask you a few questions now?


Voir: ah, like what is seen looking back in, a reflection of sorts I see. Do go on then.


Bjorn: precisely then, the way you put that – a reflection of sorts. I myself do find it to be quite the difficulty? And do forgive my presumptuousness in speaking in sorts of myself, that in a reflection ourselves might not understand easily who is reflected. Don’t you agree?


Voir: well.


Vue: yes.


Voir: considering the interviewee flinging ink at hand, I suppose the reflector and the reflected are one in the same. 


Bjorn: good, that was all, carry on then. 


Voir: what did you eat for dinner this evening?


Vue: appetite.


Bjorn: I snacked over left over eggs I’d made three of the eggs this morning, ate one or so about evening. Then proceeded with the same green pan for which the smiling me made eggs to then fry toast to the tip of the brink fore olive oil and pan heat burnt the bread. Had been polaroiding self portraits before a red and yellow painted flower field. Quickly returned to the less colorful kitchen in time to enter back into time. I had lost sense of time in the flower field forgetting nearly how dearly I’d love for that toast to not brink over into burntx forged my what over still twitching broken, and battered and still ticking hands of the tocking clock. Below the plastic thing on the wall, I, like a fiery Tesla rocket returning red and yellow still but quietly landing in a distant green pasture of earth, alone and grounded, a blue thin white cloud passes by, solitarily filling the empty blue sky. Like that did I reach the toast of the green pan before the brink of burning, then flip off the stove top heat, clean the pan and what was it you had asked again?


Voir: dinner?


Bjorn: oh surely! Forgive me, my dreams do consume me, my voice, where my mouth consumed one or so eggs and perfectly browned bread. My lips are pink, slathered over by police oil, washed thoroughly with sips of coffee and a shower of pure as white blue water and that was my dinner.


Vue: that and the words.



Voir: well, let us carry on then through the day, the days which followed.


Vue: fell like swirls to a petal’d wind.


Bjorn: again I’ve been running around with clocks going round. Though these clocks seem to have lose their typical ticking way. The moment is eternal, snaps their tocking hands into oblivion. Then the hours have grown insufferably long, their tock ticking hands like a wave never returned. And the years, they go so fast, their tick tocking.


The elucidation I’ve talked on clocks is then a moment we’ll remember as a single leaf on the shouldered bough of a tree or on my bare chest. My heart touched through time as though it did not exist. And when the ocean went through a straw. Moreover how I felt like a straw the ocean went through. 


Voir: ‘we’ll remember this’?, ‘a straw the ocean went through?’


Vue: yes, like leaves to the wind.


Voir: I’d asked how went the days which followed our last speaking together. You answered with elucidation talk on clocks and that line. Would you care to expound?


Bjorn: as real as the Canticles had been, Ezra Pound, look him up, the critic poet, how he critic’d himself so inscrutable. Those Canticles of his, then how they’d been inspired before by Dante’s paradiso, purgatorio, inferno. How that comedy inspired also Jung, his Red Book. O how my days have felt the same. Comedically concentric. 


You ask how went the days of mine so I tell you, paradisio, purgatorio, inferno. I cannot could I tried; to tell of anything of reality, or actuality; as they who speak apart world enmity would speak. No, I’d seen no reality, not actuality at all. Yes, I’d only felt myself in relation to time. How I measured to the passing hours of past poets.


Beyond them I think of David. David who psalmed with the filled harp of his hand, that sound! so beyond him! Beyond any time time or actual human but of every time and every human. Beyond Bjorn on July 21, mid afternoon in a summer’s breeze, felt the heat of time, heard the cicada’s buzz, watched the wind flow through wisteria leaves as though with their verdant wave had shared as messenger, a hello from wind, from time herself, through green veined palm.


Maybe it’s just that I don’t remember what yet has happened in the following days. Since we last talked I painted this and this and that painting. Yes, three to ten including the paper works which surely, be it still they being self portraits colored in oil around sumi inks, shall be of no measure to the greater canvas works. Two canvas works whittled with quick, sharp, discerning applications of the color I’d felt and more of less of that feeling. 


See, to paint; I start I with my initial feeling then follow with more of the actual thing, the feeling driven deepest. This most commediacly manifests with repetition, repetition with form, repetition with color, repetition with flowers, repetition with yellow, blue, red, green. Repetition with repetition. The feeling driven deepest then can most clearly be seen with repetition of inducing the feeling into vision. 


Then I paint, I’ve found the feeling, the reason then is the movement, movement reasons me. Likewise when I think, what did I do the following days; I think then first, then some complicated actuality. 


Like the paper oil works, then the two canvas works, and the greatest upon which greater still works were to be done upon. About 7 of them including the triptych as count each wood panel individually to the count of how many 46 by 48 in. oil wood panel paintings I’d done since last seeing. Well, let’s see.


There was; I’m about to get more into the paintings, each individually as it so excites me, so if not your reason to materialize with the movement of actuality, really the most mystical magical way an artist works, then I’m sure there will be time later for you to listen tick tocking.


Well, where was I?


Vue: interview.


Bjorn: yes! The interview where:


There was not enough energy in me to follow through on what yet’s happened in the following days since last seeing one another.


I apologize, as I see time is up I should be getting back inside to my bedroom to paint again, all this running around again. 


Look, seer, that you are. I’ve so many things, the wonders of this world, and like David, the Dow casts of his soul, our soul, the unshadowed remembrance. Like Rembrandt then Van Gogh painted the source by consistently, so inscrutably painting the light effects of the source. Likewise is my soul shadowed with downcast and I call Lord help me, save me my soul, your ever watchful remembrance unto loved, how in even in a thought of you light burns away the anguished of my forgetfulness, I remember you are love, O God, God source and seen in all.


Akin with David I sing, I pray the paint tube of my hand be filled with wondrous colors of You.


I’m off to painting again my Voir friend, you shall see me again.


Vue: and might I add I say, it feels good to be a sailor; this straw, this pen. 


July 23 2020


Voir: it’s happened again, we meet again. I am here as your friend, tell us you lover, to me your listeners how are you?


Vue: I listen to music that disappears.


Vue: proper applications of paint create proper attributes to faith.






Bjorn: I would like to dedicate these moments to sweet silence, for silence is… well…


Voir: very well.




July 24 2020


Voir: and did you in that empty blue sky, our silence, find yourself? 


Bjorn: yes, you see we held a picnic in empty blue sky. My lover and I. Gabriella Elise like the piano piece which I so dearly love. Which plays you like a step to step and skip harmonic garden walk. Nothing but the soft pastel breath on the tulips. 


Voir: so silence you held with another?


Bjorn: Yes, to be alone together. That beautiful sincerity, serenity.


The sheets flowered with stars ruffled eventually us to green grass grounds of earth. Naturally she left and I found physical silence too. No body to feel, nor body to feel me. No olive skin hands in my own. No deep cedar sea bowing her two soulful eyes with mine to the greater sea of love, her brown eyes bereft me. No midnight river hair, lavender lush with smells I’d forget only to recall so overwhelmingly inscrutable in some far off year’s wind. No tulips kept wet in the vase water. No tulips kept wet in the vase water of which I’ve wept into. 


Only blue sky, empty blue sky and me on this evening.


Voir: and what did you see?


Bjorn: I believe that is up to you, yes still I’d been cloud watching, midnight, July 24; a still beating heart being sewn together. Wishing to consume the sky. 


Voir: and after seeing this heart’s stitching?


Bjorn: I returned myself to painting. Some few flower, or less to more inspired flower paintings. Covered near four, but only two fully eight foot by four foot wood panels with red then green then nearly white and left unfinished for it is best this wat and then the blue nearly too but find myself still sticking paint with glue and old old paint rags to the spades left unfinished. 


Voir: what is it you desire?


Bjorn: To desire not.


Voir: don’t you need food, sex, sleep?


Bjorn: I desire not in only desiring love. All necessary constituents to the status of my well being follow suit this singular desire to love, be love, be consumed by love. I eat, sleep with what’s necessary, paint and write most primarily. 


Many are the suns in a yellow sky, many of one. Likewise a yellow stroke in a blue one is many of one. Love is. Love is not one of many, and love is many of one. 


Voir: do you love Gabriella Elise?


Bjorn: I do.


I feel love happening through me, it’s like that line we’ll remember together, it’s only that with her – I feel like a straw the ocean went through. 


I do know love is God is the ocean, she uses me like seeds in soil do the sky by clouds. I am the sky, summer rain flows in me. Who could be inhabited by the ocean and not weep? Who could look barren upon fresh seed, fertile soil, serenity to be and not weep? 

I know no one, not even myself in this silence. I slip the verbatim drum beat of my heart into word, poem and paint and what for? What to accomplish to an endless love? There is no accomplishment. Only the endless is all. Only rainfall to sea. 


Like yellow would my thoughts in an avocado run nearest the center seed source. I am always, whether in exposit of the woman i love endless, save our physical silence, which I’ll learn to love for what joys her joys in me too; and too in any topic of thought alofted by this world or bedbunked below the almighty’s rain of dream am I apt to recall the yellow azure I call thought by a source to myself i’d ascribe not, and to every self i’d ascribe, as scribe to the impassioned interact, the soul flamed with endless love, on its cyclical yellow way to consumption. 


See, also like a yellowish avocado are my feelings too ripe, too tender to not be delicately sewn in the beat, in the shape, and to watch, look it there, a sewn heart, floating there, spilling blue, into us, self. 


See my impassioned interact is so excited to soar and beat the heart with word. I’d call myself of one many being attributed by their seeing. I paint as I see, not like I see, the actual progression of paint application follows with as much faith as one has that they can continue whatever it is they are doing because naturally they will carry on faithfully seeing. So like this does then color coalesce at my yellow flesh touched by the God the source fingertip and and tip myself, sourced ink over well with the ‘where?’ of wind. Writing is thinking and I’ve learned to lose my thoughts. That’s it most simply. Simply said I give the prayer God to mercifully move my hand and I watch my hand move. 



July 27 20


Voir: it’s been what? A week since we last did see one another, yes?


Vue: three days, my friend.


Bjorn: three days and yes it’s felt to be quite the stretch of week.


Voir: The suns which rosen and gold did rise each day in our eyes, clouds amidst the deep empty swept up winds of thoughts of not our own, stars glazed their shine in ht ebacks of them, the shapes of clouds backlit by constellation, a new moon grew into crescent moon. And the times between sun and moon, day and night, the blue hour of both, not nor day nor nor night, the both together. Did you see it? Did you, moreover did you feel it?


Vue: I believe nametags were willingly loved into disorder this fine afternoon,


Bjorn: and yes, I suppose I feel all. It can be quite overbearing bearing one body like it be a sanctuary. Gold tilled and aromas flower’s lavender lush scented sweet the way you speak. The way you speak unconsciously to yourself. To yourself among the many shaped thoughts you might, like me, say to have no regard for these many thoughts, conscious collected, who is me? And be like me, who among the many thoughts collected a few dropped conscious or cumulus cloud shape. When like me, I was as empty as the blue sky. As directive as the wind.


Vue: I feel like there’s something you’re not saying. You mask meaning with poetic puncture, a lot of alliteration pops so fluently. You free fly the ‘me’, ‘like me’, forgetting the reason being.


Voir: The reason being, whyI prefer broken clocks who are stuck ever on a time stopped at say, 3:33, I must say and with my saying such elongated certitude our clock is there ticking still telling me time is up. Any last questions which shall remain unanswered?


Bjorn: truly, why is it, know I love it, what i cannot quit the writing till God’s glory be given? Love, the God of love, ‘that God is love’ sings to me in the sanctuary, here, only in since our last seeing i’d like to offer a sweet hug through space and time, some poetry to kill the time, to endeavor our love of love. 



July 28 20


Bjorn: Oh I’ve lost it my friend.


Voir: what may be the it?


Bjorn: eye, Oh, well lets see if it I can retrieve:


See I’d been feeling yellow all day. Dyed my hair yellow and it didn’t stay. Drank from a yellow cadmium coffee cup, lit stoges with yellow flame of a yellow lighter. Painted a few yellow pieces, flowers and a self portrait and sun. and then i was pissing in a porcelain white toilet, ah I did paint an all white piece. Called way everlasting. A piece of Yahweh. But back to the pissing when I watched the orange, blue light sway forth and to.


The sun was near setting so i thought maybe it was having difficulty finally drinking, could not decide whether the days would turn into nights or nights into days. Orange, blue light sway forth and to. It continued still so I thought perhaps way off clouds were passing through, passing shifting shades of light through the window, to the bathroom, in my eye. No clouds though, you know this ksy, empty. Blue, orange sway forth and to. So i thought I heard the wind say itd only been at making the cypresses dance in and out the sun’s rays and that had been the cause but who could tell whether the voice was true. Orange, blue light sway forth and to. To me, myself, I’d concluded the cause to mere synaptic hallucination. I’d felt often the space my body occupied to sweep itself away as though my perceptions, loose as they may be, could tidal wave and sway, say sweep the floor off my feet. Light was a pretty face for color and easy to manipulate. See, paint had taught me. Taught me perception is the all re-creating force. Our eye is most apt to be opportunity at hand, ating the world like it were only play. And the world is only play. Hallucinations, sways, color throws and eyes inner and outer, the roles we choose play us.


Vue: the roles we choose play us.


Voir: Yes, the orange blue light sway forth and to; and still I’m bereft by knowing what is it? What is it that you call on me as friend as lost?


Bjorn: It can be anything. The mind can conjure anything. Some call it nothing, a petty philosophic piety to their own prideful lust of loss. And no, this it, this is everything.


I’ve lost everything my friend.


I’ve lost everything for one sight of love, one sense, one simple longing of love. That God may live on, as love as God as love does. And does fill humans like us to the point of feeling like everything is lost, only that like a yellow coffee cup emptied, it can be filled again.



July 30 20


Bjorn: Voir my friend, what question could you ask that could come close to the idiosyncrasy of this living?


Voir: I do not know. Give me direction then?


Vue: Lateral.


Bjorn: Imagine all the clocks ticking tocking, ticking, their only time nonchalantly stopping for no reason in particular, their hands suddenly stopping. Their hands suddenly stopping their tick tocking.


And time was not up, like the reincarnated next life of a floating fortune cookie that just simply reads ‘Love’ with no punctuation or other explanation, purely love as the sole reading of a life.

Nor had time been down, like babies baptized in birth control. See, time was completely still, not going anywhere and seeming to me to consume slowly at my fingertips, drifting lateral. 


Voir: I see. And I know you;d like to ask, how could you? If only an inkling of your idiosyncrasy were to etch to the face of another there’d be a friend, surely. I do believe today is national friend’s day. Would you be so kind to sketch us a portrait of them, our friends?


Vue: I look to the moon alone.


Bjorn: Well, well yes, yes thank you for seeing as you do, as seeing as one does make one of many. That’s how art brings us together, makes one’s seeing a one of many. Now, many of my very few friends are artists themselves.


Gabriella-Elise – my love. Her eyes make my heart play like the near end playing of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, third movement. Her memory serenades me, sweetly sings me into a soul tied dream. Often I meet her on an ocean crest, riding up the glow of a red sun setting into empty blue sea and sky. Us above, cliff or brinkside, amidst the glow of wheatgrass, softly swaying in sea blue breeze. Her hand soft like the white flume of a wave or hair of golden wheat. She’s nestled into my dreams the way the seasons swirl round the moon. 


Beth Whiteman is a new friend. She’s of the kind to delicately weave herself with genius. I told her today, as she modeled for me beside sunflowers, how I’d dreamt I rode a thread needle called time. Time carried me through everything it could possibly pass through, sewing through with streaks of gold fabrics. It was the ride of life, the ride one cannot get off of, the ride I cannot leave, the ride which will weave many to one, with genius threads of gold.


Beth is an artist. She drew sunflowers as I collaged her portrait and told her my dream. Beth drew the old cut knots of the sunflower with swirls. Emblems the swirls were of life’s never ending, simply spinning further into itself. Beth has a genius. 


Everett Milloy is another artist friend. The most charitable lens an eye could see. He’s a photographer, a friend. I sold him my second ever painting, ‘man like moth to flame’ for the piece brought tears to his eyes. He sees the way some see like no other and share with every other. He’s apt to photograph for us, us.


Trent Alber is an old friend who works the arts with creator, destroyer left and right eyes and hands. He’s onto music now, he plays better than Hendrix, were amount of the same soul measurable. Truly to be more honest of oneself is the greatest measure of virtue, moral, any aptitude. 


MJ is an artist, moreover my brilliant friend. She is the renewal of youth with word. Her written word is beautiful, i’d assume, for i’ve only heard her speak and even then that was much time ago. Alst i saw her I’d given her a painting, I swear only we saw what we saw. 


Lastly is my aunt Sharon, she’s a sage at the window. She writes. She’s a thousand and more miles away in Michigan yet we facetime to discuss art and she mentos to me. We’d speak last in our writing both, finding peace to the endless of art at finding reminder to God. To feel through all we’d said and arrive comfortably to the anchored soul, floating freely, swaying like water into water, thoughts into God.


God is my best of friend, the reason I’ll never be alone, never without love, always at the face of love. What more is a friend than a new face of God, another drop of love lateral into love; God is love.



8 4 20


Part 1


Oh it’s just the most insatiable thing to be longed for after you’re dead. Doesn’t anybody tell us today that doesn’t tomorrow not knock? Not knock nor, today keeps up the clock, keeps ticking.


Say have all these conversations been only the head, in the head I’d say most naturally yes they have been interviews like any other conducts to themselves in seeing another in themselves.


See I think the play interesting, last the lights shadowless, the drapes drapeless, undress I did the idiosyncratic nerve tips talking inside me, but. But now. Now i’ll come together as one, see to it my seeing and seen lack no singularity. This is oneing. 


I’ll put it this way, nothing is seen save a seer. See we all see and all things deserve to be seen. Be it red tomatoes, sunsets, sweepings of winds up through grass and the thoughts i’d had and had thoughts prompted by the unseen.


I believe, I do, that the unseen rests in the eyes of another part of ourselves. How else could we know of another thing save a seer.


I’ll put it this way, body, spirit, and soul – harmonically singing into the mirror ink and grid paper. See that is me, all of me. 


I ask you then what do you see? Be it body, be you body. Be it spirit, be you of spirit. Be it soul, be it every soul. Be it any and you’re not quite unlike us. 


Part 2


Most naturally I’m quite the obsessive one. Always obsessing on about ‘the “one”. My soul sweeps me like grass and I being perceptive at by body can only swirl, can only sway, can only give way to the promptings.


They, (they being someone. I may have heard this to myself rather and I’d say rather quite disarming I’d be to discount already what I know to be true and here on will say: the soul is alive. The soul is alive.


So I’ll say it a third time, as repetition speaks so impactful to the body by unseen prompters that this is true: the soul is alive). 


And I believe it, I do. There’s me, sat outside in a floral chair swatting the filling air of fly buzz sounds and slipping back into that floral chair for finally accepting that fly that occupied my mind, all the while i’m sipping of a yellow something like an adults sippee cup filled up with black coffee that’s iced and tinted with swirls when back yesterday I was at Steve’s Espresso ordering a black americano when Emily, the blue eyed maybe, blonde definitely barista who had suggested to me ‘why not with oat milk?’ And I’d say sure and we’d carry on our singular talk on art and expression and i’d pull out my same old type and new token tote stuffed and this time pocket filled to residing then a black dual tipped brush pen to sketch Emily’s eye as she spoke behind the glitter sparkle of a facemask in the spirit of sick times over coronavirus pandemic but her eyes were sweet even if i’d not yet felt the sound of her lips with mine so i’d keep on sketching her eye, with what color i do not know for i only had then a black sketching flair pen, dual tipped even was that sketching brush pen and the other end of that same pen was black too so i had no way to depict her eye but by patter to which i did bubbly circles that I believe to me represented bubbles of air in water, blue water and with a swirl here or there to display my loves for what fills the empty blue sky and why I think her eye must then have been blue, not red like the pen, not a dual tip sketching brush pen, but a black tip colored red papermate flair pen that bleeds red ink with ease like the current sunset i see wherewith the sinking sun sips up all the last dapple blues of the skies, makes them not empty and inserts slits of red under the lips of white swirling clouds that are likely carrying rains over of the west california sea in an evercurrent of east wind over here now to me in Arizona, in the green sway grass, watching the sunset as only my body filled with soul and filling the insides of my mouth through my lips with sips of a yellow cupped ice coffee from Steves where i’d met Emily and her inscrutable eye and with mind blue I fill the seat of a floral chair. 


Part 3


I wrote. Sat and read what i wrote. Sat what i wrote. On the table beside it now were’ an interplay of words woven into the fabric of unreality. Though really it was only a floral dressed tablecloth that was the cloth for this table and now had taken shape of the surrounding metal bars and based and red cushioned chair i sat in in the grass as i wrote and i thought thoughts long like painted fingers on a large clock about how i’d lost what it was i was thinking about and how every tick seems only to stop the hand when i’ve returned to the Spirit in a thought on God.



8 5 20


I’d like to think this world was made for us. I do think that quite actually and with the most positive of my exceeding premonitions i’d say the world is wonderful. So long as we are here to see it, wonder in our eyes, it’s wonderful. Full of wonder, like starry eyes. 


And seeing as i’m on a sort of jubilee in the mind of me, that is a happy place apart memory making in intaking gluttony. I’m just simply sweet smelling the purple plush flume lavender blooms whirling in the wind from the purple japanese wisteria. It’s the simple attentiveness to sensory experience that just joys me, makes me feel this world was made for us. Wonderfully made. 


I mean surely, surely this world had been wonderfully made. Why else would the sweet smells with shearling flume bloom winds wind up in me the urge to create myself, had not a creator instilled this scene to happen? A wonderful creator who’s made this wonderful world that us may be full of wonder at the work and attribute the joys tethering to the creator.


The creator itself, being God, being made beautifully manifest in sweet winds and in me the winding into creating like that creator. So then creating is sacrament tether to me. Its the solitude for which i find i;m most accompanied by a spirited sense of us. I’m not creating alone or for myself or any particular reason but to love alone that oneing sense of us made manifest creations of the wonderful creator. 


Enough word play for me. Wonderful as it’s been, yes, i’m off to paint again as its my sacrament and my sacrament is like breath, it’s as necessary. Necessary to create with love like us, our creator is. 



8 8 20


On days like this I’m prone to wander the wonder silence. I slip past every thought destructive as my feet softly press like a skin thread blanket to the lavish strokes of green grass before my feet. I think sensations the finery. The finest of all behaviors, all modes, all personality in our being. 


So I stand or I sit it does not matter it be green opaline lavish grass or the delicacy of burning concrete on summer’s day. Sensation keeps living a reminder.


More than this! Sensation is the joy of living. There is a difference between being alive and actually living your life, I think as blades of green swirl inbetween the vales of humanity or be it just my toes. The sprinklers, their fabricated rains did not sweetly set dew drops to cool me, my feet this pleasant morning. No, only the bald heat of sun to turn them yellow.


Being a painter; you say you can occupy the mind or walk a day in there by assessing the state of a man’s shoe or woman’s soul but i’m barefoot and still with the white and blue oil paint streaks on this man’s feet, one; or you; could easily say i’d be a painter. Sketch an analogy so metaphorical of blue and white basing his feet and attribute our composition to a feeling sensational in flying with and by attributes of the mind. 


My mind? I thought and thought to whom had addressed the question. With the wilted sunflower pocketing the lined years palming my hand I’d thought on the attributing of the mind. To whom could – just then did a dash of light return me presently to the white lines of yellow light emit the sun in singular long and intermittently elongating lines touching on every open hand and space and nerve end we call not a shadow. 


Being a painter i’d thought i should have a favorite color and called it yellow. That way I’d paint more honestly as I painted the intensity, high saturations and acutely placed by childlike adoration into adulthood hands finger painting their feelings. What was placed? More than color, form, line, shape, a story visually, like how certain words are sweet but mellifluously messy or lull the day synoptics to a perfect literature. On all these what was placed met quite easily but alas it was more indeed. More than all this by never knowing this at all and what i’d place with color i knew not had; i simply saw more and placed less was all.


But a state of habitation in being, for a month or for a week or a moment like eternal. Strides flush the eyes, serenade the soul and the body be too weak to withstand currents, laughing lappings of laughter lavishly lush in the ear of many alternates.


It had been at a picnic, a morning picnic lakeside. The air was new york. The grass, rare here in Arizona. My lady lover and I held this picnic and she pulled an orange out of her pocket and both we did paint it.


Stories upon stories I whistle through the green lavish grass leaf between the left side of my right thumb and right side of my left thumb pursed and whistling my breath into musical uproars of saintly whistles. When the cicadas chimed in too, buzzing their heads on being incessantly eternal for a moment


But they left their shells, they did, I do believe they, the singing buzz of cicadas eternally left their shells and remained always, as if to look at a person more honestly for a moment and say they, that honest person was most whole, all of one thing in that moment.



8 9 20


With peaches in my hand I opened my eyes departing the fruit medley colored scape of my lavish dreams. Turning my hands over through light linen sheets soft as clouds, quiescent as the manner imposed to one fond of watching them drift off. Drift off back into a more wakeful sleep for which I call my wakeful routine a daydream endless. I wander by and bout with bulstrous cloud sutures, ever idiosyncratic mannerisms so I thought so individually complex to the world of singularity that we all share that even in waking up I still felt to be lulled by peach colored hands now washing my face, too dark clouds, too early morning still, was it only 2am?


It was anything like time had furnished me past the square thing on the wall with a hand here and a hand there indicating a concentric binding to being, only being binding to me when scouring the depths of my Delphic memory, I thought, “I’d like to think not thoughts about or by memory, you see I most enjoy the medley of our eternity and the back and forth sways of a single being, a body of water even one loses their cane over, finds their childlike rhapsody or first taste of strawberry again in.” And that’s precisely what I thought the reason to which I said “I’d like to think not thoughts about or by memory,” for I’ve seen the most wondrous things when it feels like the first time, the first being of all ‘us’! All of us! and I felt I was the first being to firstly feel this play of life. This play of life, this pulsing sensation in my cheeks, rose gold of the sunset blushing the spaces risen, cheeked up even beneath the light linen blue allure of mine own eye. But of course I’m not the first to feel like the first time ever living, save help to those who think then they’re the only one who lived, poor mechanical synthetic abbreviations to personal person to person love does this kind of thinking persuade their thought to act. Be it better these idiosyncratic thoughts inspindle me round the ways of how every one of us belongs to ‘us’ and with a civic duty, to the modernist, a dharma, a tithe to the religious, post the modernist, a right, and if a right be it an obligation, as though it were breathing to an artist, a feeling that the days must go on, however much I’d like them to not. Not for fancy fancy cursive sweeps into suicidal places, but rather that my thoughts decrees that in breathing I’m reminded that I’m living, not by my own breath, by the breath of what holds us together as ‘us’. And I feel a bit left out, honestly. So I open my eyes, see the rising and the nearing half moon chasing the sun through night with the feeling of the same look in its eye. I look to the moon. I thank the creator of it and what it reflects, how it exists a bit more because I see it, and the creator, however endlessly endless, seems to still exist a bit more because beauty in a lost second. The clocks keep ticking, the heart beating, breath breathing. You must live, read, I write. You must live. How precious us gives one of us life. (Gives us life in becoming endless its own to live past life evermore)


And we are free to roam. Those were the last words I really heard, there may have been more which followed without meaning to me for those were the last words I really heard as I shut off my music. Snug my feet into the grass, looked up to the lines streaking light across the cloud scattered, otherwise empty blue sky where the sun yellow and shining had been rising. This was not the end of the playing of music for sure, surely, this sunrise is a song of its own. The wisteria leaves all japanese’d in their flume blooms, their leaves rustling with the wind. Wondering to me, ‘where does the wind come from? Could it be the west? Well the leaves bob and sway like bobby bobbers fishing line left to right if one were facing south toward the hollyhock bowing pinks into green grass, so surely it’s either facing south toward the hollyhock bowing pinks into green grass, or surely it’s either by depiction of sways left to right either east or west this wind blows but so slowly it goes I cannot tell the whether each. Or was the wind only in my mind”, I tried to unthink.


Of all efforts in unthinking I think I’ve rather set a loop of thought like childlike awes and wonders merry go round. I sat the half sliced shell bowl of an avocado, twiddled grass leaves, in my hands and feet a numb sensation that felt stronger than to feel nothing so i took it for the moment too that lost its this moment, the moment, that moment monotony and simply seemed to me to spiral me merry go round my mind.


Had not the same sunrise been still rising, slowing shadows shorter and hitting little hot white light streaks to the top of my shaved head, my head would not know it was or had only been minutes or so since i last recalled the passing of time since attempting to unthink a thought when surely if not for this same sunset rising i’d have thought myself still into eternity, that moment.


That moment still urges me. The moment everytime I think of how every everyother moment building upto this moment were all moments of their own and have all together come to create this singular passing moment so that later still at perhaps moon-up tonight when the sky glows golden shell and orange I’ll say in my soul I’ve felt eternity again.


So there is us, we live our lives like people were only moments and at some later coalescence of soul I think the lesson will be that eternity created is God.


It’s unstoppable the same way that moon rise orange tonight. The thoughts impenetrable and only casts me there with peace. To think of God being endless, the moment. Us roaming into God’s mind sweet mellifluous soul.

Second part


When you really polish something is when you see limitations of what is possible as I thought when I wiped clean the kitchen island of red light sennelier oil pastel. Polishing what is possible.


Holly-ay-o it sang! Walking through sliding glass doors where clouds lipped at blue in the most informable manner, sliding straight into not a murky reflection but the actual thing. Clouds nowhere to be seen though, the sun was setting, goldening the outside floor. For where a moment I looked into the sun and burned red new beginnings, a metaphor or the actual thing everywhere I’d look, for the sun burned herself to my perception and when I’d blink for the next couple minutes I’d see her still.


See her still reaching beyond metaphor, placing past the present actual, receiving still her warmly touch, my love, I wrote with paint this earlier eve on the words ‘How Many Love Sunsets?” No, I do believe I painted in brilliant yellow, the same color as the light the sun streaks from a red light center over saintly blues about the words, yes, the words, ‘how many sunsets my love?”


What it meant not even I knew then, all i knew was i saw myself merely paint to which i felt and called it poetic. At that I slept away the burgeoning beats of passing day. Stood tall later, refreshed for an attempt at sleep with actual resort between sleep and wake, between dreams and more dreams and all the more did dreams seem so visceral, so visually enticing me not to sleep that i’d miss the opportunity to paint some, not to be either apart the decorative display of fanciful imaginings made once to be actual.


Anyway the day droned on, I stood by the window, slipped up cracks of light through the blinds by a white two way pulley rope stringing me, my countenance as that of Apollo whose hand, his movement was his white steed, burning light as he pleased.


Most sensibly I sought pleasure at prayerful painting the actualizing of my dreams, dropping my will like the slipping off of my shirt, wearing wind as my shirt, noticing the winds first brushing the left side of my body where the hollyhock singing back holly-ay-o! Sounded more to me like a hallelujah!


I noticed I write till I reach thoughts on God. I realized I’d noticed this and that again my thoughts began looping and it felt lovely, so permissible to imaging the God of love as a hand soft in the northward wind, singing hallelujahs, feeling love at the mere thought of God. Ah! How wonderfully gracious the gift of breath that we use it well, sing! Sing on, I say to us! Sing your God of Love!

8 10 20


Naturally as my thought returns like every ‘like’ were more than a comparison and really the actual thing. I see the sun rise again and again. I give graces, my eyes to the pretty view.


Voir: a moment please of my own to impart some sense I told as it pertains to the lengthy ways you’ve told on a single idea of seen and seer as one. Could we leave it at that?


Vue: yes.


Bjorn: yes glory be the barest people, their good Godly light, Love of God, God of Love.


8 10 20



Surely I’ve thought this before: I thought, thinking on something to pledge my pen, this hour, the name of an outnumbered star to. Surely when with recessive talk at the table of conscious pops, be it raised voices not hands of the unconscious we gather and like petals are sometimes pink, yellow, white, blue we do raise up to the winds, the sun, with dance, with glistening eye.


That’s what I saw when I walked through the garden bed out back the space of the place I had to call home. Had it been my life I’d be in the duplex off Turney, two minutes a walk to the largest park I’ve seen where the horizon fades and the sun sets before the east to west north and south ends reach the eye. And on quicker afternoons or late evenings I’d put on my sunflower etched facemask to face pandemic and people of the spirit of this time with easy ease as I’d make my way out the wooden door numbered one, slip myself with winds over the wheat grass in the park where my way, my daily step had in a day already worn away a familiar path. It’d be not winter, so no frost. I’d dance over leaves of grass, with them, howling hallelujahs to the devotion sun, soon before I’d known it’d be an autumn moon and I’d cross the lightrail tracks, perpendicular cradling up cracks of rocks sliding, like depths of an interview being teething on tectonic plates and shifting under my white Reebok shoes as I then with the same shoes stepped into Lux Cafe to go with two light roasts, no hot I prefer, yes, I have my own pen thank you, a tip, and with conversation payed for I’d nod, give honest abbreviation to the barista, she looked lovely in that lace and his hair beside her was the most funkadelic thing I’d seen all week.


Back behind a wooden door numbered one was I walking now, having stepped out of my daydream of the life another me would live in this house I’d been visiting to be with prospect of renting and making a new home, had not the sun slipped through to the next lower latch or notch in the window blinds and shine into my daydreaming eye of mine, waking me with feeling abbreviation, adoration again to the constancy of the sun, the stepping out of dreams and back into the droning on of mindless day.


So then I had the idea to become thought itself. Think it to become thought itself, with me, that to become thought itself was truly a declaration of living honestly at the face of being. 


Metaphysical mishaps would have the scholastic up in their chaps, grinding away their mnemonic nomenclature to match; had their eyes gone mad? Their minds to meddle with the becoming waters of losing peace while reading and shining purple aura or a wiry there down the page that catches the eye glistening yellow and takes away from the place of reading or place of being there with that thought and colorfully back here doodling another thought, thinking me, Oh, myself has many a facet, be it philosophic, or is it poetic, be it, any of the artistic, that’s it, itself. 


See, when I write I catch the words at the heel. And if that means I find interlude at looking at the stars and picking up again, midword at ‘heel’ because I’d questioned whether biblically Jacob or Esau was Hebrew or something named heel-grabber and how in Genesis, God had said to the serpent you shall bite his heel. And He will crush your head, I believe those were the words and most of all I believe in Love as God and depart any serpent of lies so I stand that word to be not heel and instead as I look back to page with pen from the stars, I say I doodle words like a child.


I’d outgrown my youth back into childhood adult awe and wonder to being with a pen. A bird, it a dove? Either the way there it’s beautiful. I’ll say it’s a dove. I’ll pray with words like recounting yesterday. I’ll write myself into the echo chamber that is your head, I’ll sleep always the anything that is not love, living always in love, never dead.


I had a vision, I lived that vision. I didn’t care to sell books, not to sell paintings, not reach any status above another, no; I can only say my vision, yes the one lived was eternal and I’d lost the world that way, danced on the brinks of endless till my breath gave way and I glow, I flow with every word, lift with holy wind. 


The grass is magical here. Even the grass stained feces of a dog I’d somehow not stepped on and still managed to kick like a dry rock in Arizona. And even that looked glamorous to me as I sat down in the cherry glow of the outside string lights, past them the blue, pink white, dazzle of evening stars, somewhere between them orange bright street lights where beneath I heard people on a midnight stroll and then the streaking whistle groan of a car getting going the birds in the orange, glowing green tree above the evening stroll where feathers flowing and orange and green leaves growing were now falling into the hands of a woman’s memory in her absent feelings of drought, sacked up against a lamp, on a lawn or recliner chair, squared or polka dotted and tears in her eyes as she looked photographicall her feelings of current loss at olden joys. 


I felt like this as I counted the coming to pass months then years when then my dad would be off to Heaven, heralding the winds of moments. I nearly cried, nearly watered the blades of time, dulled them, set them glimmering in only starlight then the rising of the moon.


Miles off I thought back to earlier today when I’d imagined I knew it wasn’t only imagination that swirled my thought with others and be me oh my mind a mentalist I’d say I would read minds and never when I wanted to. 


Miles off the moon rose in the reflection of my lady lover’s eye. She looked on with grace, with bells of mercy, cadmium holes of the night sky, the sea of her needful eye for beauty. I told her look in the mirror.


I said goodnight to the moon miles off as with a step in front of the other I did walk through the doors, into the bathroom and look in my own mirror and I saw an inescapable madness for genius, had found me in all my running, beckoned me on to paint doodles and word the doodles and I had to and nothing else in all the peripherals of my, me oh my this being mattered.


I said you do matter and my molecules danced inside jittering with mystic reverence, all of us nattering because why not? Why not be of love? Why not believe in God? Why not breathe; keeping all this with each inhale, each exhale, align with the heart beating each pump, each blood vessel rising, eyes, glimmering questions that are obviously reminders of truths that have made life less intolerable, more alive with God; Love?


Why not carry on the interview? There are so many of us, so many a ways to glorify love of our God. Find light in love. 


8 11 20


The suns risen yet again. The day being August the Eleventh and year 20.


Last evening was lovely, lavish to me in all beauteous unexpectancy. I didn’t remember a thing but for a moment sat on my floor, I socket if the yellow glow string lights and locking my wyes last every physical thing. I swayed with the beat of my heart, aligned my breath to it and fell deep into trances if purple aura wonder. Where is ever the sky hung a dream a star a cloud a moon I was there. Where so ever ever expanding reaches across continents to the rising of some Japanese one’s sun I was there. Where so ever there was life and it was seen, I was there. 


It seemed not being where I was allowed me, my mind the resplendency of traveling wheresoever I pleased to be. I pleased to be everywhere, in every moonset, sunrise, flower field and mind. Making way with dance, with song, with trails of love tread through for us. For my lover this way marriage of sensation to desire. They’d say, surely, well it’s only in the mind, and of course everything sensational passing a filter of a predetermined desire, seeing no thing is ever seen as it actually is and this actually is wheresoever, ever howsoever you ever can conjure to see it. They’d say surely. As though it were words philosophically all too logical to then deconstruct the world of dreams I danced a balancing act into.


And none of their thoughts however being was to them, being so philosophic could conjure. As I say, mindless rather was my body as that’s the current causation if a mind living in a world of dreams. The way the petal of the sunflower looks so beautiful both when it was on the head of the sun and as it now flowers with the wind in a swirls whirl of sensation, direction, adoration to the way a mind traveling can serendipitously find itself always exactly where it should be. 


Presently, returning me oh my mind to the sunrise now peaking over my oriental neighbors wall and smoothly heating the top of my yellow shaven head. Hanging below a body of flesh, the allure of two blue eyes locked, gawked with awe and simplistic wonder at the moving of their own hands with ink upon a page. It feels magical, this moment was all of it. Worth writing into every time, the joy of being on the fringes of every new creation, that the creation is the talk of the creation.


And I think back to the first hour of the world, when God’s thought talked every ounce of being into existence and it kept echoing further and deeper and echoing the echoes till even today I think I hear now a descendent of the same Holy Lip. I hear it the way sounds transverse to the sight of colors, a synthetic adherence to an interconnectedness. The morning dove sings, lifts up its wings and rides the westward wind, shouting out like the lines of light of the rising sun, falling golden on green grass, dewy green grass with orbs of water being consumed by the world of light they wished and they wished and they did reflect and I break off a piece, just a sliver of grass to look into that dewdrop, watch it, the rising of the sun in it, the dewdrop, consumed entirely like people to God.




The date is eight comma eleven comma twenty (8,11,20). Rather those have circles it’d be (8•11•20). Anyway. It’s August now. I’m writing to you now my friends as it seems this mindful traveler has peaked in all the wonders of blessings that can be bestowed upon a woman or on a man or any human like us, O the blessing of revelation, the notice of God breathing beauty in all, all things of life entangle their joys save us our excitement attribute the love of our being to Hod the lover of all people, all of us human, man, woman. That we may rise up, rise up with our God to the places of the unseen, being woken to our eye like the first break of light at day. All things are suddenly clear, a moment of illumination, and back again the blue, the empty blue sky filled so whole again by the person of God inhabiting is the sky as he, or she, or all people alive and if this thing called ever can be filled by the being of Got as the sun, shining past illusion to breathe the light of life into day, he, thinks he’s dancing, I do think I’m dancing, like the greatest ball gown in a ballroom, stride to stride slipping with ease the air, it’s not fair, not fair, not that this life ought to be fair, but why not our perception there, let that be fair, play share and tell the whole nation what you bright with class to this ballroom my ballgown lover.  




Look, here I write simply as I please the pull of words from whispering. Any sensical vibration in your mind might be accolade if heavenly heights meets dancing one floor above us. Us here on the green lit ground. Neon nomenclature walks through city with night, cars slip vibrations like vamoose through the dim orange fruit medley of the street light at night’s light posting up beside a silhouette of tree. When long ago people and friends were true, we didn’t need social obligation for survival alone was love for one another. And today when living is all too easy that living alone is sometimes the greatest struggle, I say live on, walk the grass green, love in the light, live on most importantly and speak truthful your please. Let your pleas to be only to the highest of love lifted into us, smiling with the God of love more than initial twinkle in the eye, more than the whole eye, than the whole of light, and more of God everyday, less of less love, more of love, more of God; let us love to this pleasure. Glory be to God. Amen.


8 12 20


A nicety, yes a nice-ety it is to be alive. You see. To smell oleander plume pink and white made, drift through the day, a hello to suns and moons and sleep up your own universe, wake and do it again and again. 


The sun cannot stop rising. I cannot stop these thoughts in their inkling if reaching once again in inking this pen dry that I too will die and live on with graces of God, the after-universe.


How pleasant then a sound is death when the life of happiness, peace, joy, love especially is the constant fulfillment for all of eternity, the after-universe.


Today washes way, by the banks of time’s forgotten yesterday already the golden streams of light rushing currents of yellow smiles into the flowers will fade too. Even the flowers and their singular moment of expression to eternity, even this pen, this hand, this eye, this interview; have I not forgotten?; will symbolize; well naturally way leads on, word will it still be?; a moment of ever-soul. 


I cherish the cherries red like oleander plume and picked their fruit from the tree of this time. Those roots, the tree of time’s roots dig deep, they have no rising, tick, or tocking, or caterpillar slowly crawling, stopping, none of this time’s expenditure if not by a life which supersedes it. Gives glamorously lavish itself, imparts itself as though ‘it’ could embody anything. So then, the flowers, trees, clocks, suns, moons, people, their deaths, their wars, their midnight loves and the roses they pick for love, sunflowers for coming together, orchids for the finery, oleander and ivy for the departing days; all these carry fruits of the eternal; this universe. 


And still I wonder. I wonder what? What of the ever-universe.


What’s a universe of endless life, endless of the happy positive life giving things? I mean here in this universe, all is so muddled, sprouting and sending seeds to the wind faster and qualitatively most with haste. I’m happy to feel for a moment the silk skin of an orchid flower, pot my ear flower the tru k of a thousands of years old tree, run my hand circling in winding up the clock, bathing bold and beautiful the sun over me, quiet and quiescent with the moon, to love people even if love here, in this universe is muddled, slowed, stopped all by the flesh of forgetfulness. Had the mind been already in ever-universe? Been the universe ever to reveal itself before fleshly death?


Can I only imagine an endless sunrise, every season and face of that moon at once over every flower and finery, and at once all stays in the moment of one? One thing must it be, the filling of the ever-universe, only one thing. That life eternal, follow death, is a vast ocean of love, of light, like the sun right? Endless suns rising and setting with all their saturations. All at once the light of the sun nestled in the ocean. A hand vasing its palm, holding up the ocean consumed the sun to it’s lips, holy God lips and drinks. 


8 13 20


The love, the kind of love I’m talking is endless endless waves washing way with the self, slipping me, oh my perception beneath the blue tides of alway being.


At least that’s what I think, my thought of a thought I had enter me. As I lit a stoge, wore a light light linen flower blue shirt, striped with pants and little emblems of beads holding paintbrushes, a pair of Ralph Lauren Polo pants I’d made to be the perfect painters pants. The hems down near my heels and toes and soles and bridges would glide just smoothly over the morning dew atop the grass. As I’d enter my chair the hum of an ac unit begins, hummmmmmm, on and on the same static reverberation which lulls me deep my cyclical dream land occupied through and througher still past physical sounds of hums or cool grass and releases of morning dew drops, througher still my sensations touched an entity called time or touched me and I returned sensational. 


Bjorn: often I’d say the questions never asked are the most interring. What the ‘it’ in a sentence can symbolize, a universe, a straw in the ocean and the lip pink ears of us, we drink to ourselves our idealizations, our fears, our mastery over being beings who belong, must belong to it. 


Maybe not a part. Maybe ended at last lines up above here.

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Maybe accepting change. Maybe accepting change is the greatest change of all. Whether we with stars adorn our glistening eye, basking with breaking light wash through with blue and swimming into the night, shadowed by what illuminations haunt the empty, still the acceptance of change, the comfort of the sway, this is home enough. 


Candle wick, candle lit consumes itself by what it loves. Be the illumination any more illuminating I find myself consumed always by that which I love.


Oh and how love wears faces of fear, when the wind dances the breaking currents of light, flush like breaths too close to flame, my paper erupts with light, I with fright, the candle burns through, let love consume, let love consume each into us. 


It be the finery of our fears I admire, I face myself wholly and honest too, I think as now as I write by the flickering candle I wonder whether like I, will this candle burn through or will the wind take it in its own direction, it’s own time. 


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Oh it’s just the strangest things that have happened upon me, my life in the last succession of times I’ve happened to catch a peripheral glance at a clock and have ring the notice of this time in my mind like it were more than just a clock, so unobtrusively tacked to a wall, tick tocking away, like it were an alarm clock! Ah! The subtlety of my naïvety is too short, nearly minuscule altogether and altogether nonexistent there were the naïveties of living only for only all of life was this now, this refreshing, this alive. 


Oh I have just imperfect dreams. You don’t need to be perfect to fulfil your dreams. Say, you don’t even need to fulfil your dreams. I’ll set sails to the winds of God’s direction, let us fly Yahweh, let us fly with love. All the artists of love – I, an artist of love, let us fly. In any manner the matter of us extends to any who has perceptions, the artist’s perceive their perceptions and thus they create new perceptions. Some of you will look to one that looks out upon a lake, some of you will be the one looking out on the lake, I’ll be swimming. Because like any other, any of us, I look from things and not at. That I try in the least. I succumb myself to the personality, the life of the inanimate made animate simply by being seen. How good it must feel to be lake water, currents of winds, angels floating yellow above your blue, dragging streams of currents by the bottom tips of their floating angelic toes.


And today my feet touched the ground. I felt the grass, always the green between my toes. The throws of change had made me spun round and I took the door with the most light inside. God.