hungry ghost

hungry ghost : december 2010

a hungry ghost wants more than what's available

more than what is attainable

more than what necessary

insatiably devouring ; satiation is non-existent

always wanting, craving, needing more

ACRYLIC PAINTING : LUNGS

An acrylic painting I did, this evening to the tunes of Coltrane's rendition of "Favorite things" and his album "sunship." I had consumed Nokcha tea with wisconsin grown ginseng brewed in it as well.

This depiction of some lungs ; the breathe of my thoughts upon this apex in my timeline. Transfigured in my mind mountain, climbing with out a belay.

Tea in the air and o2 in the nostrils.

Make my moments mean more than combing my hair in the mirror.

Life is Tubular

A Tube to Eat

A Tube to Drink

A Tube to Poop

A tube to Breathe

All the Tubes Will Set me Free

It's an interesting position to be in.  The idea that I need or may need extra tubular assistance in order to function is a humbling one.   I like to think that I can eat enough food and breathe enough air to survive.  It's a new daily appreciation to take a crap without needing the assistance of an enema or a medley of laxatives.  Trust me, you do not want a small bowel obstruction.  So all of the tubes can be helpful and can prolong functionality, but at the same time it's imprisoning to have a new set of appendages attached to one or a few of your organs.

So I'm hoping to stay away from tubes as much as possible, but, like a friend giving you good unwanted advice, can be valuable in times of need.

Just as long as I never need a tube to Think.

Music is Laborious.

To turn one's vision of thought into an audible wave tantrum is a complicated and exhausting process.  Think of Jogging with boulders chained to your ankles, then Jumping into a pool of sand made out of rubber.  Hearing your amplified intuition is like drinking hair into your ears.  If you don't comb it first it's painful.  

I've lifted weights on the guitar.

I've swam a mile, the butterfly, on the synth.

I've hop scotched every 2nd grader into the ground on the drums.

Yet every time, while amidst the process, I am light as a feather in outer space.  Till it's done and I am a rock buried deep within the mantle of the Earth.

Heard the thought before a noise is made.  

Make a noise before the thought's complete.

Completely hear the hair pouring into your ears.

Good music is laborious.

Am you is?

The Question 'Why?' is really the question 'Why am I?'  Sometimes I think questioning our existence and purpose succeeds in removing ourselves from the 2-dimensional palette we're placed on, and in a moment we create a new brush stroke on the canvas, which is the real world.  This implies that some people are never more than a color swatch waiting to be spread and blended into reality, occasionally being spritzed by water soes not to dry out, cracking and crumbling to dust before the feet of the easle.  So if you think you are what you do but you ain't who you be  then you must ask 'why?' and be who you am.             Am you is?