the voice in our head speaks to us with an accent

June 6, 2013


I love Leonard Cohen but he doesn’t exist. What does exist is a mask. I love Bob Dylan but even his name is a fabrication. Like Zha Zha Gabor. (She must have made that up.) Kierkegaard created other voices for his ideas. And he was a philosopher, not a minstrel. Our whole notion of soul is a series of layers. Even the voice in our head speaks to us with an accent. So where is reality in all of this.




Staring at the blank canvas waiting for Beauty to rise, to pull back the sheets and show me her nakedness. I want to peel back the snow white gesso and feel her eyes on the tips of my fingers. I am the hunter, my brush a knife. I want to slit open the perfect belly of her goodness. But always there is a flash of light. The cameras of the paparazzi. Always Beauty on the event horizon. Waiting to show us her black hole. Always the tease. The stripper with the scent of the hunter on her. Eternal Return. Exploding into a new universe. Hiding in the jungle of experience. Camouflaged as reality. I put down my brush, paint sadly sliding off the ends of the bristles. I am sick of these little universes I create. I want to paint a stained glass window so perfect that I can smash the glass, look behind the shattered canvas and find the source of its light.

 Forgotten Lovers


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