“Going back in time at least as far as Plato there have been those who insisted that poets, and artists generally, are mad as hatters. Plato thought they were “inspired” and the Platonic dialogues are full of exchanges between Socrates and assorted poets and artists who are unable to explain to Socrates what exactly it is they do and what it is they claim to know. “ – Hugh Curtler
Well, you see, or maybe you don’t, because I cannot really articulate exactly what it is that I do or do not do – it’s more like asking why a cat suddenly tweaks its attention to an unseen entity two feet to its right – as it leaps skyward and moves laterally three feet to its left – it’s a spacial shift of inspiration that strikes when least expected, and one grabs a pencil or pen or burnt stick of charred wood while trying to record the snippets of random thoughts that waltzed through my mind and scribbled themselves in my psyche, and like a quickly-evaporating dream they’d be lost if I didn’t capture them that very instant — or like an attempt to capture the way the moonlight sifted through the layers of interlocking overhead branches that looked like a negative image of a spider’s web but then if you think about it too long or stared at it even longer, well it looked like a normal full-moon night with the light filtering through the interlocking branches, so after the rain ran me back inside, I was hanging out of the window to try to remember exactly what made it seem interesting and why it seemed inspiring while mosquitoes fine tuned their warm-blood radar devices on every square centimeter of exposed skin – but at the moment I swatted the thirty-fourth mosquito I realized that WHY I was hanging out the window and scrawling the moon’s image on the back of a takeout pizza box was so I could share with those trapped in a world of delusion what it’s like to be out here in what once upon a time was the normal world, where the inhabitants kept in touch with the rhythms of nature and the cycles of the seasons and where the first forecast of bad weather was when the pelicans flew several hundred miles inland, and those people on the coastal areas knew to prepare for a really-bad storm.
Oh. Hi there. Pardon me, but I get like this sometimes when there are so many inspiring images and unique experiences coming at me from all directions, and I try to capture them with words and with drawings and thank goodness there’s the option of a camera which does a fair job but the camera cannot capture the hallucinogenic effect that thousands of fireflies cast on a dark-of-the moon walk down a country road or grasp the importance of emotions felt under the full moon when its light is mirrored on thousands of giant teak and banana leaves after the rains have stopped, and a camera cannot record how those things make us feel – well, no, I am a little wrong because some talented photographers do an excellent job of planting the intended effects in our own visual fields, and we are moved by their images — but this rapid-fire typing cannot keep up with my much faster rapid-fire thinking, which illustrates what it’s like to live without the parameters of self editing one’s thoughts, to tap into the artistic freedom of glorious madness, inspired by a post by our friend Hugh Curtler, who has a gift for nudging my sense of humor while he addresses more-serious topics.
Hugh also has a deep affection and concern for his fellow man. He is one of those “…good people trying their best to do good things. “ Thank you, Hugh. I thought it best to leave my extremely-long run-on sentence/comment here!
“In any event, poets and artists generally are no more neurotic than the rest of us and their power as artists consists of their ability to deal with the conflicts they experience through their talent and skill that allows them to create poems and works of art that reveal to the rest of us what it is they see and we are all missing.” –HughCurtler.com – Are Poets Mad?
So what is it that I’ve seen since I read his post (offline) and pondered what to share — what others are all missing?
One afternoon of heavy rain broke this seasonal dry period and triggered the coffee plants into bloom – what a beautiful sight! The delicate aroma was a fringe benefit!
Before a painting session, I often take a walk to saturate my senses – poor me! The not-very-busy gravel road offers beautiful views of the reservoir as well as tree-top views of the birds.
I’ve enjoyed making friends -from afar- with a pair of ‘nesting’ Gray Hawks… Other ‘common’ species loitered just long enough for identification, but in my book, they’re not common at all!
I have also been fine-tuning subtle layers to add depth on older almost-finished paintings; here’s one:
The painting does not capture the intoxicating fragrance of this nocturnal bloomer. Brugmansia is also a very dangerous plant, but we’ll save that for another post! I could, however, blame the above ramblings on the influence of Brugmansia! Or maybe my daily guayusa ‘tea’ is to blame.
Thank you all for induging my uninhibited ramblings. No more guayusa for me today!