Dot? Ed Lynes braces for the the cue from the heavens to direct him but no direction came from up above, only words on page could he see, words he barely understood because he didn’t care to see them for what they were. So Ed Lynes saw only dots on a page, black specks scattered across a white surface, spread out, disconnected, dislocated. He saw on that page what he failed to see in himself. A few months later he took out that page and began to doodle. He was in love so he drew hearts. The curved arcs collided, forging lines through the dots. As the dots became part of the lines, they became part of something bigger. Ed Lynes was no longer just a dot.
Carnival toad lullaby, green bubbly bottom blues,
its slippery tongue, red, sloping, retreating in
needing to please for food, to survive.
As the music became alive in the play of the moment,
surface as entertaining to a crowd of sweat-stained hedonists,
the incandescent stone of a sun beating those empty vessels down,
mother nature’s mysteries boring them, a tragedy.
So all ‘round the freaky little thing they forced a dance, listening to it
singing at the centre of the stage,
a language they didn’t care to understand.
‘The redeeming power of wisdom,
everything containing a portion of everything,’
but ugliness is all they could see in that burping frog,
unrecognizable to them,
Walking into the crowd was like sinking into a stew – you became an ingredient, you took on a certain flavour – Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul — Joyce Carol Oates
Women reading in art.
Who are we? We find that we live on an insignificant planet of a humdrum star lost in a galaxy tucked away in some forgotten corner of a universe in which there are far more galaxies than people – Carl Sagan
This world is but a canvas to our imagination – Henry David Thoreau
A journey inwards, down our own path.