The Magic of Mistakes: Art as antidote to save face.

In whatever field of study, life, or work one is in there seems to be a line of continuity that, in retrospect is perfectly recognizable, logical, and to some extent reasonable.

Here in the present moment, the sencerity of actions become befuddled and murky, as the singing of the birds and breeze of cars passing by make everything seem chaotic-ly fine.

In some sense the reality of living in the present is doctored by the conscious projection of what we know about the past, be it a perfectly recognizable memory or a feeling.

It’s in the process of creating a state of clairty that the openess that guides our intuition of crass and class; and the bewildering beauty that is art, becomes born out of our work into a future, a new past, calling possibility.

Wonderment at the tips of our fingers, the free flowing words, the loosely held paint brush pass and dance that brings into full color the painting of beauty we see as life casted out for all to see, incontinuity.

Here lay a mistake of seriousness in play, calling the just in us to criticize and ask, but “nay” we must say.

The dullnes of the night and the blinding winter of light, they too have sparks of insight.

The stars lay in the backdrop of void, burning their inside, and seem to us looking up, a shimer of fight.

How then we, who have been blessed a sun of moderation, ask the evil of scorching summer and the cold of winter’s shimmer, that’s burried our sight, to oblige in our fight?

It is silence who, claming the knowledge of those who speak, the voice of void.

All with out perportion, in filling and shaping our eyes of artistic delight make anew nature within, casting out, that others continue with our sin, the art that makes magic within art.

I say, it is our void, that wich none of us can fill with the dances of heavenly singing light or burning rage of sins, making to fit ourselves in or cast the fortification against that which is already within. I say, gratitude to our void, it is art.