DEAR JACK :: Things are about to change around here

In response to The events as they have happened so far

Dear Jack,

I hope that you are enjoying the month of December and able to experience the calmness of the curious ending and the excitement of our days changing. I tend to stay close to home and if I were to divulge a pattern it would be that I burrow inwards like a hopeful animal. Today's letter is quite abstract due to my flurry of personal activity to turn things over and reach for something glorious.

Lewis Carroll's original sketch of Alice

From here on out, I will stop leaving the impression that I am a rabbit looking at my watch. I do guard myself from the external forces that contain us.  A more truthful explanation is that I admire our friendship and enjoy being courteous. I would never want you to worry that I was detained, or at a loss for words.

Clouds out my window

Our correspondence is very much like the olden days when letters took a long journey to reach the eyes of those waiting for news of life elsewhere. I do prefer the mystery rather then being on a schedule... except the schedule that I have been easing into over the last few months! I am preparing to jump some hurdles next year and it will take all of my reserves to do it.

Channel ©1994 43" x 37" charcoal and oil pastel on paper

Partly, I am returning to how I was in my 20s. My work ethic was focused obsessively toward a goal that I could not name, but that I deeply felt. The point was not so much the art, the painting, or the series, but the act of making. I created a strong escarpment on which to build. I accumulated material evidence about my internal guessing, while solidifying the terms of my art practice. In time, I became a confident young being, one in pursuit of refining a process of discovery and of naming my own convictions. 

Next followed a period of probing every thought and cradling surges of imagination regardless of their rational.  I was a vital being and a very keen connector of things.

It was a time to honor the idea and take notes. I worked without imagining an outcome.  Sometimes, I lost trust in my ability to translate such vaporous things. Though it turns out that all my notes are in use today,  keeping me busy pulling it all together.

My art became more complex, mostly due to the variety of pieces and the scale of the idea. Often I elected to put down my brush in order to create a different type of art, which concerned some and perplexed others. (Someday I will share my views about painting.) I proceeded bravely, coaxed by blaring music as jumped, twirled, and danced around my studio making art that had no attachment to anything, but the fact that I was making it.

One evening at dinner I tried to explain, somewhat insouciantly, what was coming into existence. A friend and an art critic (very astute in outsider and public art) said, pointing his hands in the air, "this is a Gesamkunstwerk."  I didn't know what it meant, but I received a gift that night, clarity to see that all I had instigated fit together despite myself. Excitement is an understatement. I renewed my determination and acceptance of my drawn out process. 

A step forward: sacred cloth held in a sacred box

Now 12 years in the making, I estimate that I have about two years left to complete the installation. It was not my original goal, so I sometimes am panicked over my obligation and the timing of it.  Some of the most beautiful parts of this endeavor are derived from limitations and boundaries; accepting what is rather than wishing what it should be.  Just as with the objects, all prefabricated ideas of who I was or who I was to be had to be surrendered. And now I must evolve further by reshuffling, shifting into a new gear, and re-prioritizing. Even I get dizzy hanging around me.

Folder holding a collection of many great trees of our earth

My Gesamkunstwerk is a full room installation.  It is a story about an artist that spans 1000's of years. There are relics and mementos that are all very precious and rare. I am thrilled you brought up your library. I have one too. Mine focuses on format and the sensations found in three contexts; individually, in a group, and then as part of the bigger installation. I have tablets, scrolls, manuscripts, and prayer books to name a few.  They all fit into a huge cargo trunk filled with shelves and custom compartments that hold each type of "book." Once closed and locked, the outside is adorned with stickers that I have designed.  Everything is crated, as you know, and stored for the future.

Today, I am again working feverishly and obsessively with a keen direction and self-imposed assignments. The difference is that I do see the outcome, not in full detail, but I can feel the immensity and power of my goals.  I repeat the tasks in my head, the list is my mantra. I probably have more planned than I can actually accomplish, but, it is good to pile it on. I have this sense that we live in urgent times, and, too often, I feel like I am not working hard enough. 

Blinder ©1994 24" x 25" charcoal on paper

2012 must be fruitful, so I have put blinders on. I need to place myself in quarantine and limit distractions. Because my output is of paramount importance I will guard what I take in. I mustn't react. I must only do.  At the core of my motivation resides a delicate longing for humankind that I cherish. I wish for us all and must nurture the wishing by emptying myself.

Retablo #3: Brat, oil on metal

This is a big step for me in my development as a woman. I feel that I am reaching that final retablo where the woman sits silently still, yet looming brightly. I am stretching out to enter this stage for the first time, brushing up against her. As I approach, I summon every facet of myself. I use my full imagination like a saint, swearing an oath to get things right.  I will work like a horse and make the mysterious art heroically.  I will call upon the brat to help get things done; she who is often a bad ass, bold and defiant, demanding and ornery, convincing and effective, but never mean.

Just wish me well through it all!  Our correspondence through 2012 will be held dear.

Warmth, xxlee

See all nine Retablos; stages of womanhood

See some of the books that are part of the library in progress

FOUND:: Book No. 124 - The Long Pause

I find myself staring out the window for long stretches of time each day. It is sensational how we don't know what to expect from our environment, the surprises emphasize that earth is not what we knew.
Once again, though, we worship her, as if begging to be excused for the stupidity of our species.  We seriously understand the miracle of such a planet that is indeed a paradise.  The united efforts of The People's Assembly give us hope. We feel secure because there is intelligent leadership. All actions are thoughtful during this period that many call "The Long Pause." Much of the populace is reminiscing about our days here, resulting in a firestorm of historic literature and a resurrection of contemplation and discussion.  The walls at our local meeting hall are covered with quotes from books. We can go and visit for hours with others, as the earth churns outside.

It is very hard to imagine that a lake can flip; a body of water forced to fold in upon itself and whole communities wiped out in one instant. I didn’t know about the Lake Nyos disaster of 1986 until people started referring to it. Known locations, where methane is escaping after millions of years of being tightly stored beneath the earth’s crust, are increasing. Nyos was considered a freak event back then, but now we have learned that there are several incidences around the globe.

Affected areas include, melting permafrost and warming bodies of water. Slanting houses, falling telephone poles, and sinking railroad tracks, roads, and cemeteries are stories going around. Sink holes are commonplace. In the south, cracking earth due to drought is the culprit.

Bodies of water are effected when the warming of the surface changes the water pressure and weakens the icy sediment below. This enables the centuries old gas to leak out. In most cases, the methane releases in millions of tiny bubbles that create a powerful fizz or a giant, dangerous burst.  Scientists have made maps of the most effected areas and those that are at high risk for an explosion. I have seen photos of the unique donut shaped ocean rocks that were formed while acting as vents for powerful methane streams.

I have also seen photos of methane bubbles that were once trapped in the frozen lakes of the northern hemisphere. Nature has its beauty in all of this, and, it is remarkable how the planet is responding like a breathing organism. Many of us are calm, having surrendered our fear and accepted our unpredictable days.  We are grateful that we haven't experienced some of the worst disasters. Each hour is a treasure and we are more aware of what happiness is.

A very small portion of the living seems to continue on, if awkwardly. We have active methane release areas in both the east and west coast waters of America that have become a bit of a tourist attraction. Expensive packages include boat accommodations and helicopter rides "for a bird’s eye view."  

Increased fighting over the collection of gases for commercial energy is predicted. There are a few, they are referred to as "leftovers," that are moving quickly and carelessly with their imagined plans to capture the potential profit.  They have no regard for what the people wish or even for common sense laws.

A new phenomenon that was never expected is episodes of radiant heat coming from the earth.  Though uncomfortable, people survive and the damage is manageable. Some people treat them like a sauna, thinking they give a full body cleansing.  Scientists know where they will surface, so it is part of the weather forecast; we now get above and below "weather" reports.

This oozing vapor mainly occurs in the evening when the sun sets and the temperature drops. In the distance we witness beautiful colors in the sky, rainbows, and slow rolling cloud formations caused by the moist heat. It is strange to look out across the city to see glorious, abandoned honeycombs.  It is as if the earth has the flu and we are experiencing the fever dreams.

The written passage is an account taken from damaged journals and sketchbooks that were "found."

FOUND is an art installation that depicts a time in our future and a changing world.

View an early 21st century painting series "The year the permafrost softened" 

Methane photos by Ned Rozell, Tom Levitt, and Rick Bowner

DEAR JACK: Are we there yet?

In response to: Do you know

Dear Jack,

I have been away for a few weeks, as you know. I returned home shy, private, and introspective.

Traveling shook things up enough that I become someone unfamiliar. It takes time, not to find myself again, but to invent new parts to latch onto for a start fresh. While away, I enjoyed being unplugged from things. I even considered staying unplugged. This silent trend continues and my comeback is slow. I take on the Internet with caution, weighing the use and importance of every motion.  No matter how serious my new goals are, I have a keen demand for enjoyment and fun.

This journey, which was the third one this year, stirred the melancholy that resides in me.  This melancholy is not good or bad. In fact, as I note below, there can be an upside, if I navigate quietly through it. It is like touching everything you own, which I did physically when we moved last year.  Now, I was given an opportunity to touch all that I own inside of me. It is a monotone undertaking, not up or down. It just is. I am glad that Joel likes driving, because I sat on the passenger side watching things pass by. My watching becomes a form of emptiness that is a cleansing, like a sour milk jug in need of a rinse.  

I took in much and I let much go. My travel pattern seemed to be city-woods-city-woods with lots of water added, such as oceans, lakes, and streams that flow of over big rocks. At one point I was on an 18-hour train ride. I love the train and it reminded me of the summer that I had a European Rail Pass, hopping on trains from here to there without much thought. 

I wrote many letters to you, but each one I tore up and tossed. I couldn't quite capture any moment because there was nothing in tune with time. Each occurrence seemed watered down, blurry, and fleeting. While in New York City I tried to write to you while sitting in a rooftop garden in Soho, a small loft building still clinging to the days when artist's ruled the area. There was one part of a letter that I did I save. I tore off the top and the bottom of the yellow lined sheet.

Here are the words in between: I went to use my cell phone, which only has about sixteen phone numbers in it, and found a dead tick flattened on the knitted protective case.  The size of it was quite alarming and I am thrilled that it didn't attach itself to me.  I flicked it off and it landed on the sidewalk under the table of the outdoor cafe.  I stared at it trying to figure out if somehow “Tick in the City” could be the title of this letter.

Wound 45"x45" oil on canvas

I am drawn to this passage because I continue not to find one single metaphor in it. It is a very rare sensation for me, to be void of meaning. On the trip, my wagons came unhitched. Like a balloon releasing air quickly, I flopped onto the landscape, coming to rest without a big view.

When on the coast of Maine we surveyed some family land on top of a large hill that we call a mountain. It has lots of acres without anything built on it. There is a beautiful view which includes water down below. There are evergreens, yellow birch trees, and brilliant maples.  In the ground brush there are zillions of ticks, so we needed to check ourselves many times after departing. Even while being extra careful, it happened that one morning after a stroll, as I was brushing my just washed hair, a live tick fell on my lap. Joel killed it. Another concern in high remote places is keeping an eye out for big birds that can swoop down and take little pet dogs. It happens.

Story of the universe No. 12, 70"x80" charcoal, conti, chalk, college and gesso

There is talk of blasting a hole in rocky top of the mountain that would become a tidy basement and a place to park things. I get excited listening to my brother's plans. My main concern was finding the spot that was to be my grave. Everyone laughed, even though I was quite serious. Mind you, I am very happy. I love my life. I just don't find the topic of death emotionally draining. I confront it head on, because it feels good. It is our destiny, so I do not deny its place in my future. I want to be involved in my death, just as I am involved in my life.  I plan to travel well and on time.

I am gratefully that you put up the diagram of "Everywhere" in describing The Institute, your Institute. You know that my studio becomes a fane for me, devotion without distraction.

I have grown up saying "I am almost there." Not like a child's "Are we almost there?" "There" was in the distance, but within reach.  Over time, I was taught that "There" was "Here." I accepted this notion of presence for a long time.  Yet, as I grew older, it occurred to me that "There", once you became aware of it, was no longer "here" because it passed by and became then. Needless to say, living in the moment didn't work for me any longer; it felt too still, like a burnt out house.  Now, I am reverting back to my original thought. (For the record, I am discovering that many of my first thoughts were suitable and perhaps I was smarter as a child before the world wiped its hands on my heart.)  Once again "I am almost there." Seizing the moment becomes a great effort of diligent activity focused on a sky shimmering with expectation. I cannot be a spectator of this moment. I must be someone that activates the present as it is nearing.

So here I am, alive and home again, busy on many things and pursuing many goals. I can't wait to report to you as I move closer to "It."

Tears in the city

Much of my current mood is attached to a few happenings. One may be retrieving the bronze tears from the Buzzards Bay. These 100 tears have humanity disturbing traits carved into them.  The tears came out of the ocean aged with patina and quite beautiful.  The horrible words are no longer legible.  Nature took them away. Since they are gone and we are nature, I can only surmise that, if human's put their minds and hearts to it, we can erase the things in the world that cause harm and sadness. This is my thesis.

Bronze tears after spending five years in the tides of salty ocean water

I am feeling the weight and heaviness of this, the second part of three, beginning to subside.  For six long years I have been dabbling in the darkness, and now 100 Tears: Part 2 is almost complete! Passing through the shadows had its downside, but now 100 Tears: Part 3 awaits me. These are tears of joy, hope, an otherworldly beauty comprised of everything that is there (almost.)

I look forward to hearing more from you,
Warmth, xxlee

DEAR JACK :: Trying to be a saint is a human right

In Response to: Hey come here I want to tell you something 

Dear Jack,

Once again it is wonderful to hear from you and find that you have unearthed some good points to ponder.

My statement "We see the world in the way that we are" means every individual sees the world differently. We each see the world out a lens shaped by the experiences seared in our brains, both tacit and vivid. And, we cannot ignore the coping mechanisms that make things bearable. We all have filters that can delay or coat what is seen. Within our mix of individual capabilities, many can enjoy seeing eye to eye, an understanding or admiration of sorts. A growing trend I hope!

Tower of Babel by Brueghel

This time in history is a fascinating one. Much of it is due to technology, the speed of communication, and the amount of information. Civilization has traveled a full circle since the Tower of Babel.

Rather than a god changing languages as punishment, the story is an account of human nature and space.  In a highly populated area, a group of residents sets out on an exuberant quest to build the tallest building on record. Experts have declared the tower is the Sumerian ziggurat of Etemenanki, which I accept.  No doubt, the mysterious mountainous landscape was an inspiration. It was a huge endeavor that spanned many decades, more time needed tha n any western cathedral or Great Wall. The material used was a type of brick that required maintenance. Apparently, one can't build a tower over 100 years and attend to the repairs simultaneously.  We can imagine some arguments and power struggles ensued. An "I don't understand what you are saying" or "I don't get your drift" are just a few examples possibly heard at the construction site.  In the meantime, the population grew and took this story with them. They spoke of a large building intended to rise into the blue sky that could not be built due to an unreasonable plan. "It was a bad idea. They got what was coming to them" started the stories of unusual doom. Our distant ancestors began developing their languages using the originating sounds and adding to their vocabulary. We all know how the whisper game changes plots. Then one day a local newspaper, The Bible, decided to print the story without much investigation and said, "as it is written, so let it be." (Something like that.) But, my point is not "How big ideas fail" or "How stories get started."

 
The world was big then and the world is smaller now due to the number of people on the planet and on the internet.  Here we are, 1000's of years later and it's the Tower of Babel in reverse! We are joining up with our different languages and encouraging a new form of communicating that unites us. Our expression is streamlined and direct, while using fewer words and increasingly relying on visuals just as our ancestors did.

I love Yeats not only for his poetry, but also for his and his wife's collaborative final work, The Vision. I am sure that the Yeatses would not mind if I take their illustration of two overlapping gyres and add my own thoughts to simplify and update them.  On one side we have a large space with a small amount of human population, on the other end we have limited space with a huge population. There is an end and a beginning which over-lap, meaning, they occur simultaneously. The new beginning starts as the end approaches. The question many ask is what happens at this curious juncture? How does one move from the shrinking to expanding?  We live in a time when we are squeezing through the funnel tip.  If things become dense, it only makes sense that we must become lighter to make it through. I can only introduce the suggestion that it means dropping some baggage. Getting rid of all those petty human traits would be a good start, since they really do no one any good.

I dropped all of my baggage
The Ragdale Series

 
Social media is an environment in which to start practicing being light. We can test our own ethics, civic responsibilities, and spirituality day to day in how we treat others and what we elect to contribute. Our thoughts vibrate outward, our words can help reshape the world. Much of human behavior has been somewhat reckless to this point in history, but in a smaller amount of space our behavior must be more thoughtful. Collectively, we have the opportunity to make some changes here, if we act quickly. I am rather excited about the potential available to us to make improvements.  It is creativity in the broadest sense. We are in motion holding a fresh chalkboard with the chance to invent a global reality together.  My focus tends to lean towards this creating, adapting, and evolving part. I am trying to push forward with whatever tools are at hand.
  
As far as senses, it might be a chance to return to our senses in every way!  We can re-examine our needs and re-establishing our methods for fulfilling them while perhaps re-discovering some dormant senses. Arousing new survival techniques might strengthen our inner senses, while our other five sense make aesthetic adjustments.  It is fun to imagine that social media might draw out our 6th, 7th, and 8th sense, senses that don't require much space. It is possible for us to become more conscious citizens rather than excessive material consumers.



I am not presenting this as truth or that I know any more than the next.  I present this from my studies of nature and how things work in short and long counts. I am “scanning the literature” so to speak.

The root of my hope is very challenged, as I depart to gather up my 100 Tears: part 2, bronze tears etched with disturbing traits of humanity that I left in the ocean five years ago. I am nervous, because, on my excursions I know that I can't control the actions of nature so I don't know what I will find. I will have some discoveries to report when I am done deciphering things.

This letter is only the tip of the iceberg, I can go on and on for days about all the notions I have and the ones forming. I have more thoughts concerning the senses in relation to the natural elements if you wish to hear them.

Watch What You Take In, 18x24, collage and acrylic on paper

 
All of us can only take in so much. We have choices and must curate wisely, according to what propels us. As you know well, this can be done without judgment or hurting others. All people are many things and online we experience a part of them, not a whole. Labels are now useless because people can't be summed up. I really don't use the word "friend" much any more. As a noun it seems obsolete because I am encountering more beings at faster rate. I prefer the adjective "friendly", it gives me the stance to welcome anyone at any moment of interaction. If someone reaches out to me, they won't be ignored. I try to give thanks and trust that people know I am grateful to get noticed sometimes.

Tumbleweed on Fence,  60 x 50, oil on canvas

In the end it's one big tumbleweed, a gnarl of stuff that can't be measured adequately because it is a moving beautiful mess. We just need to let it blow along its path so it loosens, softens, and comes undone. (Not caught on a fence like the one in my painting!) At any given time, you can hop online to find an assortment of people with different things to offer. It never stays the same... ever. People come and they go.  It is best not to place expectations on anyone in social media, but rather on social media itself.

I followed you, and now circle you, because you make me laugh. A "sense of humor" is one of the additional senses we need to develop because it makes things light. You also present new observations found in everyday existence. I love when the mundane is proven electric! So please, continue on with your elevated view and know you have a big fan that loves your "handouts."

We need gods, saints, and prophets now. It’s a tall order, but some have to rise to the task.  Like the Sufi dancer that stands like a teapot, one hand up towards heaven, the head slanted so the lid to the heart is open, and the other hand extended outwards,  I recognize some of the online exchanges as "hand outs" such as this. Food from the Gods can be found here. There is no need to build a tower anymore.

I am not a saint, but that won't stop me from trying to be one. It's a human right!
Love to your household,
Warmth, xxlee

Remember, I am traveling. Internet access will be spotty for a bit.
A poem I wrote about sainthood, feeding birds, and art.

Waterfalls of White (part 2 of 2)

Read part 1

Shan and I were swallowed up in the piles of airy white silk as we slide across the deck of the moving boat. The opportunity to seek more information from my little helper came to a halt.

In one split second a whishing sound came across the deck through the air above us. Shan and I looked over at Jianyu, his eyes opened wide and froze in their sockets, his head drifted downward towards his chest and his mouth opened to expel a gust of air.
“What is it?” I asked as I stood up.

His hand reached upward and I noticed the tip of an arrow protruding from his upper chest. Blood trickled out in several lines down the carved texture of his vest and began to expand through the fibers of his shirt underneath.

Both Shan and I ran to Jainyu. I leaned him into me as Shan wrapped his arms around his waist and began to cry. My hand glided across his back searching for the arrow’s end. A seven inch wooden shaft protruded out of Jainyu's back, just above his shoulder blade.  I pried Shan’s arms away to detach him and pushed him back, as the three of us dropped to our knees on the white silk. My face was close to Jainyu’s and I saw the years of hard work and of thought in his eyes.

There was activity all around us and Jun arrived. He shouted for some to slow the boat down and for others to prepare a table and to boil water. The deck grew silent as the children took control. Jun left for a moment to retrieve a special tool to cut the end of the arrow off.

The blood became heavy and traveled quickly across the surface of the deck wicking up through the layers of silk. The rolling sea of white soft mounds soaked up red for an unreasonable distance from where we knelt. Jainyu’s eyes were piercingly deep as he looked beyond me.  Suddenly he gasped in my ear, “Throw the cloth in the river!” I heard him, but I assumed it didn’t matter. I couldn’t move. I stared at him wondering. His expression grew desperate. “Throw the cloth in the river. Now!” he yelled hoarsely.

I trembled as I turned to gather up the reddened silk in a haphazard way. It had absorbed the blood and there were only darkening smears left on the dark wood.I went to the edge of the boat again and again, dropping long strands of silk down into the river, tying together ends when I came upon them. All the organizing and measuring was undone. When the silk touched the river his red blood dissipated in the flow. The silk moved gracefully in the tinted water.

Jun cut the wooden shaft and Jainyu cried out in pain. I looked backed to see how Jainyu was doing and our eyes met. "Don’t stop,” he pleaded. “Put the cloth in the river!” he added in a softer voice.
I pushed as much stained fabric overboard as I could find.

Several young men arrived to assist Jun in carrying Jainyu away. I attended to the fabric flowing in the water as the boat finally began slowing down. I sat on the edge of the boat and watched the silk swirl about naturally on the current. It was beautiful and calming. The sun was high in the sky. I was alone but for the giant fish swimming around the cloth inspecting it. The water, minus the dolphins, twinkled. The birds on shore were silently watching. I waited for the right moment when all the white cloth seemed cleansed and I felt ready to haul the bundle up. I rung the water out as I pulled the wet silk back on board.

Jun came on deck to tell me that he had pulled the arrow out of Jainyu, who now slept, and that we could only wait. The edge of his cuffs were now trimmed with blood. Together we laced the silk around the deck, over ropes and rails. The boat was enshrined in hanging white silk, sheer enough to see layers deep. It began to sway slightly in the light breeze as it dried. There was a scent, a natural smell of nature, of river water, which made me grateful to be alive. As I was caressing the silk against my face I was compelled to ask Jun why Jainyu was attacked.
“I am sure we were suspected of having silk worms on board.” He replied
“Worms?” I wondered without stressing the question too much.
“Yes. There is a battle to guard the secret of silk and there is worry that the worms and the methods for making silk have been stolen. We knew the danger.” I wanted to ask more, but a young boy arrived and announced that Jainyu was awake and wanted to see me.
“Me?” I nervously questioned. Down the wooden ladder I went and pushed open Jainyu’s door. I poked my head in just a bit.

“Come in, Dear” he said with a gentle voice. I stood beside him, finding it difficult to look him in the eyes. “Please, have a seat.” My two feet never left the spot, as I twisted awkwardly to land on a bench like chair. Jainyu pushed himself up and begun to talk nonsense that made me very uncomfortable. His words were both puzzling and affirming.  “You will return safely to where you belong, Dear. I learned something and you need to listen to me very carefully. You will know what to do, Dear. Don’t ever second guess that.”
The room started to spin. So much was being said in so few words. I placed my hands over my ears and demanded “Stop, please stop. You don’t know what you are saying.”
Jainyu seemed to know who I was, not just at that moment, but, perhaps who I was before being here.
“There now Dear, it is all settled. Jun will care for you and will be by your side. You need not be concerned about this life. Jun loves you and all will be completely well.”

I was now able to look him in the eye. He seemed to embody the feeling of contentment that I had experienced on deck. He then requested that I go to the top drawer of a cupboard were I saw delicate boxes and wrapped bundles.
“Please take that little pouch towards the back and open it.”
I undid the ties that were the handles of a simple colorless bag. Inside there was a small purse, a clutch made of wonderful, assorted brocade fabric and a huge, heavy metal clasp with intricate artwork on it.

“See that man. That’s me.” Jainyu said as nodded his head towards the purse.
He made me smile and for a moment he seemed like a youngster and I was the adult. I peered closely as I ran my finger over the detailed imagery of a man running with a teapot through a forest of trees. I started to unlatch the purse to see the inside and how it worked.
“No, don’t open that yet. There is a gift for you. It is for later. It will help you remember.” Jainyu instructed me, “What you must do is put the bag around you and wear it at all times.” He continued, “You must know that I love you. I love you and will always be with you. In all moments of life I will always be with you.”
I felt as if this love was the answer to life, I drank it in, and wanted it all to be true. His love seemed so wide that it spanned all of time and was for all people.
I draped the bag under my jacket, pressing the contents to my body. My face softened, I could no longer cry or smile. I felt free from the desire to have things make sense.

I sat down by Jainyu's side as he rang a bell, knotted with a faded and worn red ribbon. A young child entered the room and was asked to find Jun, who arrived quickly.
“Jun, as you know, this is your ship. All on it is yours. You know your mission. You will help the children and you will care for Lin.” Jainyu explained.
With a few quick statements and a bow, Jun and I were bound together. Jainyu, with much effort, removed his rings and slipped them one by one onto Jun’s fingers. He then placed one of Jun’s hands under his chin, pressing his head on it in a tight hug.

Jainyu smiled at us as his eyes relaxed and I reached out to touch his face. Jun rested his hand on my back. We didn’t say a word as we all huddled together closely. The moment was charged and I had butterflies inside of me. His energy was leaving him, but it was not loosing power. The life force left his face in an instant. I can’t really say what happened, because I didn’t see a thing, yet the sensation of power seemed to travel up and through the points were the three of our bodies touched. It seemed like forever, but I knew it was only seconds that I felt the marrow in my bones move. When I looked up at Jun, he peered down at me with warmth in his eyes. Jun pulled his hand out from under Jainyu’s chin, strumming his fingers over Jainyu's body like a harp, then reached to cradle my fragile neck. I tilted my head to press my lips into the palm of his hand. We were both united in a way that felt as if we both knew all things without needing to speak a word.
Jun placed his forehead on mine. “I am with you now. I will never leave your side.” I did not have one single worry in the world, not one.

“We must prepare the return of Jainyu’s body to nature immediately.”

Up on deck the sun was setting. The silk was completely dry and I started taking it down, pulling at it so it would fall and flow all over me.  As the sun disappeared into a pink glowing sky, all the children gathered on the deck of the boat. I was amazed that we numbered close to a hundred. Into the water we lowered the warrior’s body, rocking the plank so it slid off into the river without a splash. With each breath, I felt the purse close to me, wondering what was inside. Most importantly, the man on the metal clasp was with me.


Photo of silk in water is Johanna Williams via World Rivers Project, stork is a detail of the mural Hospital for Tropical Diseases, London. Silkworm art via Wikipedia.

Waterfalls of White (part 1 or 2)

One morning I woke up to a creaking noise, a rocking, and a breeze weaving around the curves of my body. Upon opening my eyes, I was surrounded by swaths of white cloth beneath me, wrapped around me, and pouring down on me.  I could see where the cloth was suspended, cascading down through a hole above me like a waterfall. The blue sky, with bellowing puffs of clouds passed over me. Light flickered in through a tiny window in the wooden plank wall. I was in a serene place, like heaven. I ran my hands over my body to make sure it was me, over my waist, up across my chest, past my throat and to my face. My young body was as I remembered it to be.

Suddenly, a young man poked his head through the hole. “Are you getting up sleepy head?” he asked with a laugh.  He disappeared quickly and reappeared, without knocking, into my quarters with a tray in his hands. He set it on the surface where I rested. It held a heavy bowl of steaming water with what seemed to be a cube of tea at the bottom, a shallow plate filled with something like "cream of wheat," and a peach which I recognized immediately. “We must be quick, there is so much to do,” he exclaimed, as he reached out his hand to help me sit up and then handed me the tea to drink.

My hair fell forward and I saw that the strands were long and black. “You slept very well, very still.”  He was Chinese, barefoot, and wearing loose oversized clothing that tied at the waist.  He seemed so familiar to me. I watched him as he went about the room tiding up. Another kid yelled down, “Hurry up Jun.” Jun turned to me. “I will see you on deck, Lin,” and darted off.

I realized that I was no longer in my time and place. Feeling a little uneasy, I prepared myself to start the quest for hints. It had been years since I had thought about the tunnel in my grandmother’s basement and meeting Jeremy, the young boy who worked at a tavern in Providence. I had convinced myself it was all a dream. I was ten or eleven years old now, soldiering on through my childhood, accepting the situations handed me. Yet, to have a second journey occur changed all that.  And, it was different. I didn’t seem to be enclosed in a vaporous mist, hidden and secure.

With a few quick slurps the creamy cereal was consumed. I finished the peach and tea quickly as well, cleaning my hands on a moist cloth on the tray. There was a little jacket hanging on a post and I put it on over my boxy sleeveless garment. All the clothing was soft and lightweight in muted reddish purple, like a raspberry color.  The jacket had three square-shaped knots that latched shut. There were two pockets, each stitched with flower designs of red thread.  I found no shoes, so I made my way barefoot out the door and up a set of steep stairs.  All the wood was shiny and smooth. We were on a boat.

Once on deck, I saw that the boat was different than most I knew. Low rails at one end grew tall as the ship sloped upward.  Square, ornate sails dropped from two masts like open fans that had lost their ends. Flags and tassels blew in the wind that carried us through the water at a nice speed.

Giant river sturgeon

The river was beautiful and enclosed by rolling hills with steep sides, some rock and some covered with green. I saw enormous fish swimming below and along side the boat. There were large clusters of dolphins following us and singing with joy as they leaped in and out of our wake. I couldn't take my eyes off the natural beauty surrounding me and stood by the rail for some time. I felt at peace, wondering if this was home. Perhaps, what I had left was not my true life. I saw a watchtower and some sort of waterwheel that carried water out of the river. Birds stood on the shore, well fed and content.

The ship’s deck was loaded with children, some working with the white material, others sailing the boat or attending to maintenance. Jun was there and motioned me over. “We need to finish measuring the silk in this compartment today.”

He handed me a string he used for measuring and introduced to me a young boy, Shan, who was going to assist me.  Jun went about his business as a leader and gave me a squeeze on the arm before attending to the other children once again. Shan and I began to measure white silk, which appeared as if it could easily add up to thousands of miles.

Soon an adult arrived, a strong looking man with long hair, a long mustache, and wearing items that were layered and textured.  He wore a stiff leather vest with a flowing white shirt under it with collar and cuffs that matched. His shoes were tough boots that road tall on his legs. He had rings, a necklace, and a knife holder that added to his air of authority. This man looked right at me chillingly. I felt as if he could read my mind.  He came close as if to say something and then continued walking to the side of the boat. I was drawn to his mysterious and all knowing presence. He inspected the waters, the hills, and the sky. “Jun, we must go faster. Put up another sail,” he commanded.

Court ladies preparing newly woven silk

More children flooded the deck of the boat and since there was commotion over the sails I pushed closer to my little helper to try to learn more of this situation.  “How come there are so many kids,” I asked.
“Jianyu gets us from the orphanages up and down the river. He saves us. The silk helps take care of us. We help make the silk and deliver it to the crafters.”

This young boy had no problem with explaining things and he seemed to know a great deal. “Why does he do this?” I asked.

“He is trying to stop all the kids from crying.”
“Stop the children from crying?” I was confused.

“Yes. His wife died and now she is trapped here, below the sun and just above the earth.  The only way out is for the children to be saved and cease crying. Jianyu works to help free us so she can return home.”

I felt dizzy. I had heard this before, a story about a woman trapped and connected to the tears of children. The wind picked up and my long hair flew about as the silk puffed up to take in breathes of air.

“Do you know her name?” I asked.
“Guanshiyin,” Shan replied.
“Do you meaning Kwan Yin?”
“No. her name is Guanshiyin.”
I could say no more.

The world was enormous at that instant. Time felt continuous and connected. I remembered all the porcelain statues that my grandmother collected. I remembered the story of Kwan Yin. She, (though in some cultures is a man,) has compassion for humanity and wishes that pain be taken away from life.  She is called many things that are spelled differently yet all sound very closely related. Another of her names is Quan Yin.  I froze as I stood so close to her beginnings. The woman named Guanshiyin is real and not just a statue.

The boat picked up speed as we move through a deep passage. I lean towards Shan to ask one more important question. The boat tilts to one side and we are separated as we slide about in the white flowing silk over the smooth wood of the deck.

Read part 2
Chinese Junk and scroll detail of silk work via wikipedia, traditional painting of Sturgeon via The Guardian. 

DEAR JACK :: We see the world in the way we are

In response to: If Jack did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him 

Dear Jack,

Hello, it is so good to hear again from you. 

What is up 70"x80" oil on cavas

I am glad that I can write to you in good spirits. You see, last week it was as if I were on a ladder when all the rungs broke and I went crashing to the ground.  Not all is lost, however, because the lower I go, the more valuable my potential becomes.

The Party always begins when I go to asleep 26"x35" acrylic on paper

I must share something that originates from my childhood.  In the evenings when I grew tired and was in need of sleep, my vision would break up into tiny moving pieces. It was not blurry, but rather a very crisp picture of tiny specks showering about in all directions like dust in sunlight.  No one really understood what I was trying to describe and thought that perhaps I was just making things up.

As I grew a bit older, I learned how to adjust my eyes and induce this way of seeing at any time of day. All objects ceased being solid shapes to become masses of millions of pinpoint-sized sparkles.

After I had spoken of it enough, my mother took me to the eye doctor, who said that I didn't need glasses, which was a real disappointment since I had already selected a style I loved.  He told me that I had perfect vision, "but I doubt that you can see an atom."

I thought he said "Adam" and I grew very confused.

My episodes continued, so we headed to the eye clinic in Boston. It was a wonderful drive because it sits right on the Charles River just past the Boston Pop's Bandshell, a huge prehistoric beach shell which I could easily imagine washing to shore.

The doctors found nothing wrong, yet mentioned to my mother that at first they thought I was seeing white blood cells on the surface of my eyes, something people notice when staring up at a blue sky. But, since I experienced this sensation day and night, they thought perhaps I was seeing "floaters" or "swimmers" stuck on the filmy layer of my eyeballs.  The diagnose boiled down to me having microscopic debris on my eyes.  "Dirty Eyes" lets say. 

One doctor said, "You might want to study science because what you describe is a proven theory." He went on to explain that all things are made up of moving matter that the naked eye can't see, that what we think we see is not really there and that what is really there we might not see. "You might enjoy looking into a microscope,” he said.

I think, if not for a few turns of events, I would have certainly been a scientist of sorts. I appreciate that these professionals gave of themselves to inspire me.

How rumors are started

Anyway, my mother amazed me as we went through my childhood with a mix of laughter and seriousness.  On the way home she said, "You see things differently, that is all.” She continued, "Do you remember when you asked me what Daniel was doing in the lion's den with a bunch of bananas?"  Of course I did and we fell into a serenade of giggles.  All I saw were bananas in the artwork instead of angel wings. This might be one impression that stirred me to be an artist. I wanted to go into the world and draw things in ways that could be seen and understood clearly.

Animal eyes at night 35"x56", 108 4"x4" oil on panel mounted in wooden alter with closing doors

There were numerous times when I thought something went wrong at birth and I got animal eyes.  I knew, thanks to Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, that some creatures experience their world broken down in prismatic colors, flattened depths of field, or energy sequences. I would ponder aloud, with my mother in earshot, if somehow I had lion vision, or owl vision, allowing me to see the minute airborne pieces. 

My father's reaction to my vision problem was very different. As an optical physicist working at MIT (Lincoln labs) and Itek, both laboratories in the woods outside of Boston, and exploring lenses and films, he was reserved about topics involving his work. 

He was quite somber when I told him that the doctors said I could have had a "corona effect."  My mother said, "No dear, I am sure they said a cornea effect." 

We never knew exactly what my father did, but it came out years later that many of the labs worked on top secret projects, one happened to have a code name of Corona, designing reconnaissance satellites. My father was very intense and didn't encourage my "fanciful ideas", especially talk of seeing the commotion caused by the movement of molecules.

"High-temperature radiation produced by The Big Bang" Cern Scientists

Soon after, I began to worry about my hearing because, and even still today, words get mangled in my head. I don't wear prescription eyewear or a hearing aid.  I have learned to find wonderment in my misplaced words because so often the words I think I read, say, or write end up being far deeper than the "proper" one. 

I know you enjoy researching as much I do. It is delightful to confirm that many ideas go back eons and are nothing new.  I love how fields and schools of thought can collide to make new contemporary connections. In studying there is never a need to come up with a final answer. Not imagining a final outcome keeps me grounded in the giant world of possibility.  

I love books, yet have become proficient in maneuvering myself around the internet and waltzing by aliens, giving a nod to Jesus, saying Hi to a god, combing through conspiracies, bypassing Satan, and galloping over doomsday tales. In respect to ideas, I only wish that more people would understand the origins of some of our widely held assumptions.  I have enjoyed learning about the notions of an etheric presence, electrical frequencies, and lines of emanations. Tesla mentions a "cosmic force," a type of naturally occurring radiant energy occupying everything everywhere, just as ancient cultures allude to philosophical ideas about liberating oneself from worldliness, a release from material concerns.

Today my miniature way of seeing arrives freely and can remain for a nice duration. The world becomes a vaporous mass of zillions of random particles in a blizzard from every direction. I can see the surface of my eye, make the distance clear, and bring the whole horizon into focus.  These sessions are thoughtful, like daydreaming or what some call mediation, I suppose. They should not be confused with seeing auras, because that seems to be connected to emotion. Nor are they like my optical migraines, those painless light shows. These are My Gamma Waves.

The way things are hidden 48"x36" oil on canvas

A rare occurrence is when I become distracted and am forced to break my focus, meaning pulled off course and drawn into worldly thinking. I stumble and fall just as I did a few days ago, but now seems ages. This letter represents a climb back up, mainly evoked because I am able to describe and share these thoughts with you. Like the rungs of a ladder, I reach up past the familiar and climb further to where the view is grand and I use my time searching for things that are hidden.

The element of ether 12"x12" etched mirror framed in metal
(Shot facing a blue sky)

Here is an artwork that I made for an upcoming group show on the five elements which will be hung like the periodic table. Of course, I chose the classic fifth element, ether. Originally thought of as a layer of ozone, I defined it by embracing some of the ancient texts that offer "steps" to quiet the mind, act without attachment, and see how small things are absorbed into one.

What interests me are what humans exude and add to the space around them by way of actions, words, and thoughts.  I used the mirror to show that what is added to the space is a combination of all of us.  

Whether anything is true or not I find it comforting to imagine that each individual has creativity and the ability to contribute to the picture. It is easy to understand why some call the fifth element "Love,"  though that seems only half of the story.

It is very hard to say if people are ready to hear more interpretations, however old or silent or new. I think it depends more on how things are delivered, how things are told.

I want to express things in a language that eludes and can be felt. I think this is why I decided to call myself an artist and to set about joining bunches of things that add up.

Have a wonderful time Jack!
Warmth, xxxlee