Transitions, Dreams, or Artistry

My dreams last night were beautiful, though I remember them so poorly. There was a beautiful forest of oceanic greens and blues, waving in slender, gentle hues and towering towards the heavens. I remember there were people, great and illustrious people, illuminated from within like angels, shedding auras of gold and drinking from crystal clear waters, singing in songs that moved the waters and the wind in an organic dance.

You always wake up, of course, without knowing where the people are going into the woods and for what, or whom, they sing. But I knew they were singing for me, and it was a procession of sorts, not unlike a wedding or funeral, except with a natural festivity - a religious festival.

Today, my drawing assignment was an apple, with light shadow effects. I can tell you that after less than a week's worth of practice, I'm still quite miserable at drawing, but I can already see a little difference in my outlook on things. Really, this is a practice in visual comprehension more than mechanical aptitude. Normally, I see a door and think: "functional; means of passing from indoors into nature or vice versa; opens in or opens out" and so on. 

Already, I've noticed a fractional improvement towards, "door: crimson red with small, indentations like a subliminal window underneath a low-sloped triangular threshold. Immediately over the door is a thin, rectangular window that allows little light through due to the overhanging threshold; brass, rotund knob, and no lock; door is constructed of a light, polished wood though paint is peeling; swivels outward onto a small block patio of cement surrounded by rhododendrons, with ivy crawlers sneaking up the walls on either side of the door" and so on. But mostly, shapes and shadows, moods and tones. What can I reproduce in simple pen or pencil sketches using my current knowledge of such things?

Even though this will be a long process, I'm excited for where the journey will lead me, and already I'm enjoying my little sketchbook and flipping through the pages, noting the small improvements and mistakes as I've learned tiny new tricks.

Virgo Rosas

A small hill before the larger climb

beneath the clear-blue sky, punctuated

by a low line of clouds
crowding in purple-white against the horizon

like the shadows of mountains, erupting

in the setting of the sun -

a purple, thorny coronet
around the heavens.

I summit the wide, eagle peak

spreading its craggy, ridged wings,

bald-capped, save a fairy ring of trees - 

it pauses before flight, locked in ice

and an angel in a tee and casual jeans

prays, kneeling, desperate for some way.

daisies braided in her hair, and roses, but

she's crazed and

a little fae from the nightmare of her days

she begs for love, and faith, and light

to guide her on the path that fades.

the sun descends and the owls, too,

ask unanswered questions, who

am I, passes through my mind, 

as the beautiful girl and the flowers

in her hair, become but ghosts in the mists -

who am I, Antheia, to love thee

Antheia please

The flowers, the blooms, I can smell them heady-strong, and I'm drunk with their love. The starlings nesting in roof slats warble obnoxiously; the trees shrug the world of ice from their shoulders with deep, ancient groans; the stars glitter and parade into new locations while the sky subtly lightens her hue; but it's the flowers, the blossoms I await in my room.

The prickly roses are sleeping beauties, tulips, voluptuous lips of spring, the wildflowers showering the mountainsides paint a picture so brilliant, I discard my easel and become a boy again, rolling down slopes and beneath the willows and evergreens. Spring, spring is coming, the season of life-giving green, days where the light is greater than night.

Where baby bunnies cluster around in the tall grasses, glancing at the true blue sky between the shivering pines, and the sing-song breeze brushes past and whistles to the tune of life; as deer pause by the shimmering silver of streams and lap at ease; when the squirrels chatter with the chirping chickadees, and cottonwood seeds float along the streets and hillsides. Antheia, please, clothe the mountains extravagantly; Rhea, lady of the wilds, wrap the stones, forests, earth, and living with verdancy, and let us see something worthy of a resurrecting.

Sometimes, the loneliest of places are within the wildest of crowds full of unfamiliar faces. You catch fleeting glimpses of passing emotions like sparks from a fire, but never linger long enough with another soul for warmth. It's like a dream, in a city street full of ghosts (are you walking through or with the stream? it's impossible to tell. Is anyone moving?), and the voices and noises around could be the hiss of the wind as easily as the words from the lips of these empty, translucent beings. (am I the same ghostly figure as these? what do I look like in their eyes?) Sometimes, the most fulfilling talks are held from hundreds of miles away, and you only wish they would drag you through these crowds, or that you might fight through them together. But it's only a dream, and the sun will rise and shed new light on life if you wait long enough. 

Sometimes, the greatest joys are those where it's just the holy spirit and I, and she doesn't mind that I know not how to pray, she intercedes anyway.