On my other blog I went on about using a space in Oranga to do various things and sent a letter to the Mayor asking if I could. They said no.
This raises quite vital questions for me which are basically about me having designed myself to do specific things in a specific way and finding the world I live in has absolutely no use for that way of doing things.
It all started a very long time ago but the short story is of being open to ideas and visions that require my skills to come into being. Take this with a grain of salt though as it is my understanding that even being capable of recieving these ideas and visions requires an outlook of an empathic nature that though not completely selfless is moving into that territory. But as I have become more proficient at bringing whatever is required into being.... into being, the resistance of others to those visions has become more pronounced. It's as if my own acceptance of such inevitabilities are completely un-inevitable for others and this has brought me to a point of asking myself why I even bother.
I'm also fully aware that this may seem entirely self congratulatory and that I'm awash in my own in-consequence and striving to defend a mirage of usefulness both to myself and the world... but I realised long ago, as I said above, and have ruminated vastly on such, is that we cannot see what is possible unless we are faithful servants of the impossible... that is to say that the element of risk almost has to become alike breathing... not thinking just doing and letting the outcome be what it may.
And now it seems almost pointless, which I understand, trying to save the world... especially when I'm asked to do so. But I'm glad actually, it's about time I reset my priorities and had a bloody good look at the foundations I've built for myself.
Just on Sunday I was at the City Library... it had occurred to me that morning that it would be a good place to visit, and upon entering they'd changed things around so my initial idea of getting to know the comic book shelves was thwarted as they were not where they were before but that's what librarians are for even as they carry that look of being supremely interested in somewhere else except for where they are.
So after bothering the noble carer of tomes I headed into the labyrinth of streetwise insouciance strutting through it's own nonchalance... well the modern stuff anyways the seems to revel in brevitable awkwardness and the inability to draw properly with captivation of it's audience in mind, alike most post modern art, and I was within the comic book section and found quite quickly what I didn't actually know I was searching for. I found an illustrator who'd done a specific illustration which was an answer to a question I didn't get around to answering the last time I seriously put paint to canvas. As soon as I saw it I realised I had a hankering to solve that particular problem and even remembered the recent questions I'd asked myself which were, in hindsight, hankering back to that unsolved question.
Knowing then that I was onto something, following my muse, hearing the voice of God, unearthing a future germinating in the black soils of now... whatever you want to call it I went up the stairs to the Art section with nothing in mind except the possibility of older style comics and happened to pass one of those trolleys with books yet to be returned to their warm shelves. One book stood out but upon looking didn't do anything so I walked on and the little voice said go back... so I did, and found what was calling.
Being inspired has never been a problem for me... being bothered is where things get difficult. This why I've come to allow such mystical intrusions into my life... because I'm lazy. These channellings of what could be, and normally obviously so, kind of set out a path that's always interesting and not so much for the outcome we might suppose is relevant but for the irrelevance that churning through such mud unearths. It's like a get out of jail free card, collect 200 bucks, and be back at the start. A covered walkway that stretches ahead and features a playground to play in and when I can be bothered doing anything play is my favourite thing!
But I've got to regard this impetus to play with colour with a realisation that I might be choosing painting to simply put off a duty within myself to give due regard to my last big speculative outing where I filled a gallery up with objects and none of them sold. The thing is paintings take no less time, far less materials and best of all pack down to almost nothing if the buyers of such decide they don't want to own them.
Then again an option slightly nefarious has raised it's head whereby I can pay for my Gas bottles rental and get them filled... as well as replacing my hoses which are 30 years old... at least, and blow holes in themselves every time I use them now, which is a slightly dangerous state of affairs... and restock the steel and make some big shit!
Ok, I've re-read the top and I remember what I'm on about... now that's a pertinant way to end this. I don't fully remember though, but enough for it's relevance to eventually find it's way into my observable reality.
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