Friday, November 12, 2010

like watching paint dry

ahh... do you?
do you like watching paint dry?

well, it seems wet for so long.. so long,
and then before you know it, it is dry
dry and cracking and in need of another coat?
should it be repainted so soon?
it would look nice if it was.

if I were to sit down with such a panoramic canvas to paint the skies, paint the lands of Virtuality.. would I? so dry.. and cracked...

maybe with accents, with blotches and impromptu dabs and streaks I would mar the beauty that is already here, call it my own, yet the work of another with my touch.. a beautiful abomination, mixture of the everlovely and.. me.

if I could pull away the sky and look down on all that has been wrought, by the land and my own hand, what might I see? unsurpassed beauty.

Virtuality has a once again different feel, but if change is normal, can different actually be different? These hills, valleys, trees bloated with fruit, these small snaking streams with elegance in the smallest detail, are as they always shall be, changing, ever changing in constancy.

And the people! O they run and laugh, their grins contagious as they bowl through fallen leaves, the colours of an Autumn without match! They entice me and I am running too. The laughter as if it never weren't, echoing fully through the vale.

This night, what was just Once, a memory or a hope, or an overwhelming tranquillity, now stretches, through time and we shall call it life, knowing this is the way it should be.

from a torn sky looking down, wandering the not-there channels in and through, the wonderment arrests me while spinning wildly.. should this change and something come in its place, it will be as it is now, different yet the same, as such life is.

with joy,


Friday, February 19, 2010

wet paint

walking the slopes, ridges, plains of Virtuality has been a long time coming, and a long time past. yet, here I find myself once again.

Little seems the same. I see no one. The valley itself is naught, at least in eyesight. the music yet swells, a beautiful resonance with the scape of the land. Trees, jagged and stark, stab the sky; their leafless limbs try to rend gashes in the too-perfect clear blue of sky. The trees themselves are more than perfect. Solid pastels of colour; yellow, red, orange as if covered in wet paint. I cannot touch them to be sure - that would ruin the ethereal stillness. I can only observe this new landscape and wander/wonder.

from where did this paint come?

...and why, I wonder.

That floating mouth in the distance - that smile, rather - that I can now see... those beaux yeux seeing me... maybe they know more of this new world and how one survives here.

One can only hope!

taste and see..

and with cheer,