SILENCE

I have nothing to say right now.

I'll return to work tomorrow to tackle several commisions.

But, today, I'll be silent.

This is for those of you who need to stop for a moment.

Listen carefully for the sound of wings.

Peace to you all.

M.Z.

http://in.truveo.com/Rumi-Sufi-Poem/id/2956751130

Rain.

Something nice.

For Irving. I fine man, writer and friend.

Peace to you all.

MZ.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3mc8m_vBQg&NR=1

BLANK.

"If the mystic succeeds he has everything he needs - even if he should become an outcast of society. In case he fails he fails entirely, totally and miserably. Nothing to hold on to: no funds tucked away, no lobby, no social network to fall back on, no craft or science in which he can be called an expert. Only the soul - ah, but the soul went out of fashion sometime in the late 2oth century..."
(From "Letter to an American friend" , Summer 2000)

"The creative is that which comes from within and addresses "within"

Al Gromer Khan.

I'll be back as soon as possible.

Peace to all.

M.Z.

SLEEPING WITHOUT DREAMING

I've run out of ideas.

I've run out of paper.

I don't have the time to get involved in real painting, the kind one does with oils, canvas, easels, rags and the usual things.

I'd like to you know. But that's for after the "book" is finished. I might even do my altarpiece regardless of a church to put it in.

Not now though.

I have to wait a bit to gather funds to buy a nice quart of ink, the proper paper, and a few odds and ends that go with the whole lot.

So, I wait.

Sometimes that's all you can do. The other afternoon while in conversation with Steve Bissette I told him of this strange symptom I've had of late. When one is in process of making art, ideas just seem to come from other directions unrelated to the work at hand. Usually, these are stored for further reference when needed. As I've been working pretty much non-stop for the last two and a half years I'm finding the Wells running dry.

I'm just out of ideas. I'm running short on dreams that provoke art. It's so .....odd.

After this book is finished, I'm taking off for a bit and recharging. I really, really need it.

Today, and most likely for the foreseeable future, I'll be checking lots of books out of the library and keeping to myself.

It's to expensive to go for long drives. It's not gardening season here yet, so, I sleep. Read. Sleep some more.

When I've got the free money, the book gets finished and then a blank period and I start again.

Seems fair.

Be peacfull. Read something nice. Go for a walk. Listen to the birds.

They'll tell you stories if you listen.

I'm serious.

M.Z.

PALE.

Extraordinary times.

My apologies for not "being here" more often these last weeks, but work has been intense to say the very least. Do forgive me if I feel a bit cocksure today. I've just now, in the last hour, caught up to myself and I'm so relieved that the pressure, ( self imposed, and utterly ruthless.) is finally if not off, then nearly so. Now, as I calculate I've a measly twenty twenty-five pages to go before the major work on my book is over. But, I'm out of duo-shade paper and desperately low on ink.

So, starting Tuesday, more work to gather funds to pay for it all.

Art, paycheck to paycheck. Well, I'm just a working man after all, no matter the pretensions of the "Artist" with a big "A". I get up and worry about the same nonsense everybody else does. Then I go to work.

OK, something else. I want to relate something not having to do with the all consuming book.

Something that was on my mind a lot thirty years ago. Something that has recently reappeared on my artistic radar.

White.

To many artists the color white is almost a dirty word. Funny, that. A substance that muddies color and turns a perfectly good painting into chalk. But I was obsessed with it. Not so much white paint, but whiteness. A sense of overwhelming light that permeates a painting to the point of otherworldly blindness. Well, quiet without warning the urge to explore this idea popped unannounced into my already vastly over worked head the other day.

So, that's what I'm going to do, I'm going to do, WHITE.

Never fear, I'm not coming out with indecipherable chalky miss-mashes. But you may notice a few new things in the gallery in a bit that are very, well, white.

Oh, shit. I'm not explaining this at all well am I? It's such a difficult concept to get across until one is face to face with the thing.

I suppose you'll just have to wait, or you could go goggle Whistlers "Little White Girl" or something. That'd be a start.

Anyway, right now, I'm going to relax a bit, something I haven't done in several weeks with any success. Maybe this time without the sword of Damocles hanging over my head I'll make it.

Swords have a way of nerving me up a wee tad y'know.

Blessings to you all,

M.Z.