I am an artist nor for the glory, I do it with interest for the gifts sake, that if I cannot express these overwhelming feelings in some manner my heart would burst. I paint, I write and I play not for man; but because it was given.
Tara Sarratt, 2017
Despite reality’s flaws each masterpiece is worth waking for. A mountain is solid. Stable. A constant. To some, a metaphor of quiet strength. A testament. A rainbow after the rain. Proof that WE are never alone and are loved by our creator. Yes, sometimes life crushes us for reasons beyond comprehension and all we have in that dark time is Prayer. A warm, comforting peace that is something mankind in all its hubris and misled narcissism cannot replicate and never will. Reality has already been done. If anything technology is a back-slide away from divinity. A contradiction to our purpose.
The lightning bug understands life better than we for he is thankful just to be. “Hello.” He greets the world with spectacular glow in the evening. It does not consider the shape of the earth nor plot demise to its neighbors. Can you touch a virtual leaf with real hands? NO. For it only exists to the eye. It is fake no matter how elaborate. No matter how “lifelike” its programmer makes it.
A lighthouse is real; from beyond the offing it guides countless ships back to shore. Towers of old navigators still use as a guide. A tool. Technology is a tool, and as many tools do can be used for good or ill. Nikola Tesla, genius as he was believed the world was not ready and truly we were not. With a black mirror it is so easy to give into desiderata; immersing into an alternate existence. For technology is absolutely selfish, catering to our every desire. A reward without trial. Without planting your garden what pleasure is there in harvest? How can we grow as a people, socialize without contact?
We are slaves to the machine; victims to its process. “I want to be an Internet Gamer!” It is the ultimate shock to hear coming from the mouth of a babe. Therein lies a web for unless we grasp “this is not reality” our lives go to waste. Our potential to do great and good things is quashed.
Our elders loathe the burden of a cellphone as a dog does its ticks and with good reason. Technology is a means to refine lives, not rule them. On the flip-side, It can in the right hands spread truth. Awareness. Hope. Encouragement; to rescue those who would give up. Befriend the lone kid in school… Most are quick to forget there are people behind the screen. And with that comes consequences from our actions and words. I’ve seen people bullied to death through media. Friends and families torn apart by video logs. As with all things digital should be taken in small doses. Do we choose technology or reality?
In my lifetime, I’ve come to this conclusion: We cannot have both. We cannot serve two masters. With so much division, correctness, labels and attitudes, how will we ever reach Metanoia? We do ourselves the greatest disservice. Instead the Box has bred in the hearts of the generations a loss of connection. A weltzschmertz; an entire culture raised by digital nannies with no aspirations. No-future-closed-minds and breathing zombies. People that won’t save someone who is drowning. Instead they record it and mock. Technology is the end. Our reality meanwhile is being torn apart. Storms ravage our lands. Earthquakes. Famine. Floods… Caused by technologies meddling.
I say to you it’s worth every heartache, every flaw, every obstacle to Wake Up. Know what we are. Who we are. Accept our mistakes, repent, and reach out. To help others. Show them real strength and compathy; compassion. For there is too much Apathy; forgetting, uncaring of all we are be it through slow poisoning of water or long exposure to TV. How far is too far before the makers pull the plug? When will we be satisfied?
Technology is the death of humanity. The gateway to Hell.
Kindness the grass and field of spring. Photosynthetic hunter of the seasons bring soothing pastel of the senses, a little less than white.
The emblem of may. Claddagh of friendship, love and loyalty.
Green reflections Screen. Changing the scene. Going organic. Herbal tea. Alive with camouflage and prosperity.
Sanctuary; the one hue valued more than blue. Creative Jade, soft and cool to the touch.
Negatively a poison shroud. Envy and illness. American tender. Martian Peridot from space. Mystical, beautiful Verde. Portugal. Italy. Romany. Attuned to nature, self, and surroundings.
The color of home. Green thumb of Ireland. The shamrock resistance. Good luck to the friendly fool. Green is my soul. It shelters my heart.
Emerald is the path I tread. Midori; calm sage, Viridian traveler of the age. Ever-the-green, imbibed with healing Aventurine of the written word.
“Imagination means nothing without doing.” Profound words for Charlie Chaplain and the lengths which he applied it. To apply something remarkable towards something you didn’t know was lost. The point in being alive, the creative’s strive not only to change your view, but the world itself; for even a thoughtful moment be the center of another universe. For surely a creative knows not their own limit. They are in themselves, remarkable. Worthy of attention. The blank pages of history are filled by writers. The very essence of a voice, of words can alter perception itself. Creatives are a chaotic neutral state dictated for good or ill by the spirit behind the page. Writers ask questions only to build on new ones, crafting monoliths of mysteries to solve. The multitudinous applications of remarkable thought could be argued, are the driving force of humanity. To know more. To be more. To learn more about ourselves and the world. The writing gets louder. our ideas move uniform with each new discovery. If writers are a bunch of people trying to be one person than the book in your hand is a whole being; condensed. In the sheer ataraxia is a remarkable handsel available to you and reality itself. Is it truly necessary for every question to be answered? Perhaps, perhaps no. Ah, but therin lies the elusive limit. Not all questions have answers we can handle nor are willingly ready to accept. Research for truth is not for the faint of heart or the sane, that is why the universe created writers.
One after the other, attention
Sinking funds in high definition
Medial puppets on parade
Long winded, the jokers tirade
Broken facts we all retain
Rewrite history twice, thrice and again-
Give us more!
We the viewers, listening whores
Triggered; desensitized to gore
Watching fields burn as ratings soar
While good ones fight another war
The blue to black, and white to grey
moralistically gay we sway
Loved ones on fire
Terrorists, the pendulums swing
Murder is murder
To write is to scream
Defiance and truth
I yearn to bring
Feed the mission
Marching on without a beat
The clickity clack of wooden feet
The ground it leaks
The blackened sea
No end I see
Our garden rent with political weeds
All to nurture the bitter germ
My grandfather, great-grandfathers and their father’s fought to protect and nurture this land. Especially on this day are their sacrifices remembered with thanks and the utmost love and respect. I wouldn’t even be here if they’d let the flag fall. In these dark times it can be easy to forget what we’re truly fighting for. What MIGHT have been our future. What matters most. If the world ended tomorrow I’d have God, home, friends, and my family. Everything that truly matters. So in that I am forever blessed. I was raised on moral virtues to sustain my soul, and we need those virtues, especially now, when “education” has failed. When religion and philosophy is in shambles. I NEVER forget what my Papa suffered and labored to provide for all of us. He and those good men are gone, but their stories, their purpose is not. I stand with an open heart and mind as the flag is raised; a beacon of hope, prosperity, and freedom- And to those who would burn it, stamp on it, in Papa’s words, “You cowards will never divide us, for while even one of us stands, you’ve got a fight on your hands.”
And yes, I say GOD. You don’t need a church to feel the presence. It’s in the growing mountains. In the roar of the wild Arkansas river. With every birds song of love. With every season. Every miracle. Proof is within that God is there. WAKE UP. WE truly are the makers of our own destiny or destruction. We ALL have our own demons to face. No one is better than anyone else. GET UP. With every birth death is inevitable. We live on in our deeds and our blood. STAND UP. Get out of your comfort zone; it’s sink or swim. We all have to learn how. MOVE. A stagnant life is no life at all. QUESTION if you really need to take all the pills the “good doctor” prescribed from his oversea suppliers who haven’t properly tested their product. Question what is in the food going into your body. Question why there is mercury in vaccinations. Why heavy metals are in our water supply even after cleansing. How genetically modified are we? Look at arguments from both sides instead of charging blindly into a nonsensical war. Is it small wonder you cannot feel God when so much is taxing your body, mind, and soul? Ah, but there is evil in this world. A malignancy born of fear of the unknown. A madness to control and overpower our very existence. TRUE monsters. The one’s that do unspeakable things to children. They EAT human flesh. Constantly tell us what to do think and feel. Make us apologize when they strike us. Smuggle in morally-dead people to maim and kill the innocent. Give us a number and a bought and sold price on our birth certificate. Divide families. Feed us poison in every sense of the word.
The same evil that fired upon the brave, outnumbered men holding up that ragged old flag with their dead bodies so that we could see a tomorrow.
Thank you and with a full heart my friends, God Bless America.
Yes, it is a form of expression.
You tell one, that person either gets it and laughs or the joke goes over their head. A laugh fills the teller with accomplishment.
It gets even worse if you’re popular or a celebrity. Certain contracts and legally binding deals OWN you; they use and destroy you once the money, power, and fame stops rolling in. Your life is not your own and everyone find fault in everything you do. Who in their right mind would WANT that life? Once you’ve been drained of every last drop of magic, they cash in on your death. Reimagined, they forget who you were. And your family suffers your mistakes long after you’re gone.
Written 2/10/1 Rewrite 2/11/17
Plot, what plot? If there’s been one, I’ve yet to grasp it. The further it’s chased, the more faded the path. A tragedy wrapped up in comedy. A feeling you get when you realize, “Wait, that’s it?”
The ticket without refund. Ab Ovo without middle or conclusion. The plot of my life’s confusion. A mish-mash of genres crunched into a sage; one too long to read yet a paragraph short.
Who can tell what the fates were smoking. Someone dropped the ball? So many possibles for our little doll. But do they reach out and grasp them? Not at all. Season One’s kinda fun. Season two’s a blurry bore.
What romance arc? Not even a bit? Whoever wrote this is full of grit. Season three, drama at last. Wait, too much! Great, now we’re stuck in the past. The actors killed off left and right until one remains with no script, staring out among the eyes of the world.
Quick, tell a joke! that works in Shakespeare- if the cast doesn’t croak… Is anyone really sitting there? I’m standing, enacting the same lines over and over. The lights are stifling. Oh! Someone’s there?
Ovular glasses, dark hair- holding the story. “Who are you?” I ask.
“I think you know.”
“Where’s the rest?”
“That’s up to you, me; improves what we do best.”
Phantom insight, dormant magic, elucidate the sky. Inspire our velleity; breathe wing to the night, not once but twice. Usher in the hallowed month; whisper through the clouds to the makers and dreamers:
“Farewell to green, embrace the gilded silver trees.” Tug winters heart-sleeve lunarous cat. Sell us promises of grandeur. Cure our craft in your billowing tresses. Give insight, not second guesses.
There’s mischief to be had, sans fright; a scraping, scratching bite at the back of the soul. Yikes! Not a forthcoming twinkle. Idea, nary a sigh. Covenous, already pining I hear nothing cept’ crickets and the drollous autumn monsoon. Blind moon are you there or dead? Enchanted; lore says, or my steadfast imaginative dread?