Christianity: Nominal versus Fulfilled

Many Christians often suffer from the very scourges Jesus came to annul by dying for our sins and proposing definite solutions to this mainstream problem. You see, a lot of us Christians have resorted to basking in the charisma of the corporate anointing of our churches without the fruits manifesting in our personal lives.

There are two types of Christians (by Christians, I mean those who have been redeemed by accepting Christ as their saving Lord and act according to His basic precepts, not the people who make up the numbers in church).

There is the nominal Christian, the one who lives on a basic level of subsistence, the one who still relies on the milk of the word and who just negates spiritual growth, the one who is just comfortable being a normal, lukewarm, easygoing Christian (truth be told, he's not comfortable at all, as we will soon see).

He's stagnant and he doesn't to admit it, because his natural inclination is towards not changing from his natural frequency. He's "stable" but not "active". He has poise and potential, but no dynamism. Whenever he goes to church, he watches out for the "little prophecies, wordplay of scriptures, twisting of tongues" (as a friend put it), getting ephemerally excited in the process.

Then there's the fulfilled Christian. Things happen for this fellow. He is very dynamic in the faith and he is spirit-filled, hence he knows when there's a move of the spirit and he simply attaches himself to the move.

He lives on a complex strata of existence (as perceived by the nominal Christian; this complexity is just an intricately woven fabric spun from the basic yarns of simple gospel truths.) Every single thing that happens in the church means something substantial and personal to him because he he realises the importance of what nominal Christians classify as mundane. He is committed, hence God is committed to his supernatural uplift too. This is why he enjoys wonderful marital, business, career, ministry etc. breakthrough. He is a happy person and he knows just how to stay happy, unlike the mediocre guy who is at the mercy of moods and chances.

What makes a good Christian rich or poor? Successful or not? Fulfilled or nominal? Why do some people enjoy their Christian races, and indeed their lives, while some others just can't seem to get it right? These will be discussed in the next sequel. For now, here's an hint: Knowledge.

Live well, live right. Shalom.

CLAIRVOYANCE III (Legacies)

I
So those souls slowly race towards me
The traces of my being on the roads they did see
As imprints and ingots made by inks and dots
My lines created hazes and realities void of blots

II
Till I'm old, aye, till I'm cold
Covered by a warm blanket of snow
These dots will keep up impressions and expressions
As shared joys and will be out best sessions

III
I'm on a journey; a crave for a process
Of fashioning per time my happiness
One which is a function of joys and pains
One to share with hearts hungry for our gains

IV
The traces of my being are smoothened stimuli
Off reactions with Christ and with vox populi
What a delight to mediate between glory and light
For heights of art are brighter than sight!

Ara
September '15
.
Footnote: with arms and fingers quavering and hope sometimes wavering, living out purpose can sometimes be herculean, but the constancy of the reality of self-importance is not out of place to any sane mind. Life must be felt, no, lived again.

Adam's apples

I finished this piece in June- it took me a year to finish it however.

Size: 12" by 21"
Media: Black Bic pens on egg shell drawing paper.
Time taken: 12 months (actual working time not documented)

This piece is up for sale. Interested buyers and collectors can contact me through my mail.

OF GRACE AND LOVE

Fluidity of stillness, embedded in my frame
Slowly as my closet gets shrouded in fame
I know of the glory in the biggest name
Which blossomed from the cenotaph of the walking lame

And Christ paid in full for my erstwhile sins
He doused my tears in Joy's hopeful seas
Where greater love my soul's eye sees
My trust's without borders; a life like of coral reefs

I forever will trust in my Lord
For He'll let not rust for my sword
Gory to glory, I'm saved by pain and word
Free to flee from sin's wicked ward

#empireofbards

Ara 'deinde
July 2015

CLAIRVOYANCE II

Drip by drip I sip apostasy
From crystal cups of usurping fantasy
Unwittingly, I routinely renounce my
beliefs
For those same stale golden leaves
That wouldn't make me leave my dependence
On sheer guilt shrouded in facial innocence
I have sold my freewill for fifty cents
But my clairsentience still mingles with my conscience
.
I need the mystery in love
To clarify my crave for the rough
.
Ara 'deinde
September 2015

Excerpts from a freestyle session at EOB

At the Empire of Bards, we play seriously with words. Here are few excerpts from one of our recent freestyle sessions. Enjoy.

[6/28, 8:23 PM] Teniola: Reel me in to the real deal
That my enemies may at my command flee

[6/28, 8:26 PM] Aralola: Power to the plain, sanity to deranged samples
Our ugly cheeks seek pretty dimples

[6/28, 8:28 PM] Mojisola: 'twill cling to our skin forever, every rivulet of dew our lover spray us, twill leave our conscience purer,  floods of blood from the cross of our redeemer

[6/28, 8:42 PM] Teniola: True power lies in wisdom not strength
Neither is it for the feeble but the intent

[6/28, 8:48 PM] Aralola: My tree, remember me from the days we used to talk?
Now the lineage sulks, I don't know you anymore.

[6/28, 9:05 PM] Aralola: Tree of hope, do not mope
If you do, tears will my thumb grope.

[6/28, 9:09 PM] Teniola: I bid my belief in this ageless tree
Indeed it is gift of life and very free

[6/28, 9:11 PM] Tunmise: That tree that doomed men to suffer woe
Has never ceased a season to grow

[6/28, 9:12 PM] Aralola: I feed on relief from a fruitless tree;
Now, I desire for me a filling spree.

[6/28, 9:38 PM] Teniola: Falling trees go to sleep
Rising ones wake to grow deep

[6/28, 9:42 PM] Aralola: On the flip side of much is dearth
But life's plenty will end with death.....

Words have power. We are born to speak life.

At work again- "Bistre Belle".

Well, here's the new piece I just started work on. She's a friend from school. A good friend. I guess I should spend 30 to forty five hours on this.

"Bistre Belle" is a celebration of the triumph of black booster and beauty. Black is gold. Black is best. I'm drawing this because I'd like to show the hidden glamour of an African smile. Join me as I chronicle this piece.

Ara 'deinde
June, 2015

FOR AMOS

This is a commission. It was drawn using black Bic pens on egg shell cardboard. Its size is 8" by 10".

C'est La Vie (3)

Arrival.

Everyone is reeling in resumptive vibes. It seems the glamour girls are more bitten by the bug than the guys- the camaraderie of greetings culminate in inevitable small talk and idle chatter at every turn, nook and cranny in the school premises, as peeps who had not seen in a four-week long aeon get to gist again. Hugs and shakes and fake flattery are the new emblems of social interaction today.

"Heeey! I've missed you so much dear. Come here, come here," says some girl, face full of shale sheen, probably, heart full of farce too. Today's heads reason acceptance as a function of doing what others do, doing the "needful". The other girl in question gives a like response. Of course, that's the sane thing to do. That's the drill, she probably wonders subconsciously.

Everyone looks their best, as though today has been pronounced "FUNAAB social functioning day". Girl A sizes up girl B, head to toe, in shrouded social analysis and says "babe, you look awesome. Such a princess..." The flattered says "you aren't doing bad either. The both of them have overly embellished make-up and diminished cloth sizes (sensibility sizes too, I'm forced to believe). They both seem like clueless actresses in a scene plucked out of some glamorous Nollywood movie.

Everyone lives perpetually with the fear of fear, but these distorted minds can't afford to be afraid of themselves, so they find freedom and boldness in the wrong quarters. Deceit and peer pressure are the orders of the day. This explains why most students dress in a to-kill way or act in self-debasing manner just to attract public attention and validation. It is human nature; the reality students, no, youths have come to see, appreciate and believe. Very few of us make attempts to define our own reality, rather, we swallow hook, line and sinker of stories over-glorified social models relate to us.

Back to base. Think of it; in three or four weeks from now, the razzmatazz will die out slowly like dying embers. Peeps will transit from Pizza world to Garri city. The negative aspects of the realities they have forced themselves to believe will call home; by then, it would be too late to search out an identity that can last. Of course, there ate always make-shift solutions. Why do you think people steal, lie, cheat and commit other vices? The answer is not farfetched. They can't lose face, so there must be some way to keep spinning the social yarn.

What we fail often to realise, however, is that character is what needs to be built, not reputation. When the social fabric is ready, there must be some strong body of character to fit into it. Placing carts before horses is insanity.

Ara 'deinde
June 2015

At work...

Coloured pens on plain drawing  paper, 10" by 12", 16 working hours thus far.

SHALE PILLARS

We gathered so much, yet we left everything behind
We combed the crusts for corruptible treasures to find
But Heaven awaits the cruel's repentance as hell calls for cries of the kind
No more will I seek my freedom's arms to bind

Now that you're back here, my heart won't fear
To glee upon the freedom of your face so fair
With time, I bet, your make up will run
And your fair skin the sun may burn
But this love won't fade off this old heart

Last night, cupid shapes did deform
As the clouds of nocturne lost their ameobic form
Hope's grasses got fed with wet grace
Yea, obviously hard was new life's soft embrace
Still, love, fall not upon me again as acid rain

I'll plant my sweet kiss upon your silky brow
Yet, by tomorrow's surreal sunrise, you'll miss the snow
Repeal that, it's not what it should be
We should still be us, friends, you and me

Ara 'deinde
April 2015
#empireofbards

DESIRER

(A piece for performance poetry)

I don't just want to be the man I am
I want to be the man I can be, the true me
The me that is to violate mediocre rules
Rule my mentality and potential with an iron hand
Hand down the rudiments of common sense to those to come after me
Mediating between spirit and physic, soul and body, body and spirit
Embodying the true spirit of emancipation of the Nigerian state of mind.

I do
Want to be the hand holding the hands of the destitute
The lame, maimed, "area" and prostitute
Fool-proofing a sinner's feeling of euphoria,
Not one he gets from drugs and mugs filled with bitter booze;
Not one the killer gets after killing just to feel good;
No, not the joy of lacerny nor of evil propounded to feed on good;
Not the pleasure of pain when a frail saint fails and falls on a bed of thorns he calls the bed of love, lust it is....
That's no truce with my truth!

They say charity begins at home, but where is the Charity to share when the love we feel is from the head and not from here (the heart)?
I want to love these people, feel what they feel sometimes, teach them how to cope with social solitude and society's disparaging attitude towards humanity
But
I want my own me too
The true me
I can and will be
The real me

The truth of that euphoria is the truth in the love of Christ
Christ sent from God
God that so loved souls so lost
Love so pretty and pure
Purity worn in the form of a demure garment
But
I tell you what, I want to relate with that euphoria too

I desire of me the strength of steel
To acquire a zeal, not treasures to steal
I want stirred in me a peace so still
Of a new agenda, with God's own seal.

Ara 'deinde
April 2015

Quick...

Expression of an Expressions Model

Let's say... 70% completed. This has been coming off a long, long line. A line of unremitting ink flow.

Paper: Flip side of egg shell drawing paper.
Media: Black Bic™ pens.

ROUND AND ROUND THEY GO

Beautiful couple they make. It was a delight working on this piece. It took longer than I'd have wanted though, but the end justifies the means.

To illustrate the latter statement, the bride's face was drawn in the space of five days, but the man's? Two hours! Two freaking hours!

I still can't fathom how I got it out in the space of so short a time, but one thing I can say with all certainty is that I discovered a hidden, untapped energy source. It's there. I just haven't been good at harnessing it.

For tech details:

Size: 10" by 12"
Paper: Chi board drawing paper
Media: Black Bic™ pens and a Corer Lucky pen.
Time taken: 14 hours.

Uncle's apple farm

Here's the next deal, a 16" by 22" piece I'm currently working on. I really like it.

Paper: Egg shell cardboard
Media: Bic™ pens and Corer Lucky pens.

RETURN FROM ANATHEMA (A collaboration between CeCe Ireneh and Ara deinde

I remember days when my lakes froze by noon
Days when the night skies denied the moon
I reminisce that cold cave of horror
nights when beastliness was thorough
Oh! How I shrank with terror

"Hello, can you hear me?" I was beseiged
I kneeled, shrieked and beseeched
White faded into grey, those told lies
I can't forget times the truth never seemed nice

Before my sight, my heart lost its eyes
Squalid vistas, plus, I crept into ice
Oh rain, fill this drain and flush me out
Life numbed my brain and taped my mouth
They took it all, even the reservoir
They made faces and said aurevoir

Lord, quench my thirst with liquid laughter
Increase my pace as that of a panther
Can't this crying critter smile again
Won't I exchange my pains for gain

Give me life, give me hope
Make me smile, cut this rope
I want flight from this nadir
Give me wings of elixir

Here comes light, am I right?
No more binds, or am I blind?
I once felt anathematized by the heavens
At present I can levitate into joy's sweet haven

Love so profound, heavier than lead
Soothes and heals like balm of Gilead
I'm translated into paradisiac relief
Even if I'm blind, this relief ain't blind for belief
Now I'm safe , filled with glee
Dead to fear, brave and free

CeCe Ireneh and Ara 'deinde
February '15
‪#‎chatpoetry‬
‪#‎empireofbards‬

SOKALE SENIOR (Plucked out of my diary, 03/01/15)

We are the most passive things in life, not time. Time has an element of harmonic constancy embedded in it- everyday will always have 24 hours each. Change is passive as well. Every second is something more appropriate to say, void of embellishments of any sorts. Maybe young people, people in my genre, need to appreciate this fact some more.

That said, I stand outside on the portico behind Abbey's Ogere house. The sun scorches and tears and boils, licking the skins of critters in sight in radiating ferocity. Down below, masquerades and people frolic, beat drums and felicitate with unseen gods. Meanwhile, inside the house, Abbey's dad keeps Abbey glued to his seat. Finally, I ruminate, he has found someone to ease him ephemerally out of loneliness' grip. He lives alone in this town house.

"Orí e to dàrú o, kò dè ní da fún e", an irked mum curses her small erring daughter and beats the sun's smearing sultriness out of her. In the distance, the masqueraders still dance and the drum lines are still wavy. I'm surprised beyond measure to find that more than three quarters of the people down here are young people, hence my opening retort. Have they forgotten this is the 21st century? There are better things to do than dance away precious time in perversion of gods that can't breathe. And there are churches and mosques here o, but the hearts here are tuned heavily to paganism. That, in a way, shouldn't surprise me. Ogere is a small town typical of Yoruba traditional town settings- old houses, nice roads, rusty roofs, friendly but less enlightened people, frustrated mums and submissive but occasionally recalcitrant kids. More surprising is the presence of many young people here... Oh, my! Have I forgotten all too soon that we are in festive periods? Many of the young men and women and kids in the local diaspora have come back home.

Abbey's father's house is large enough to occupy the quotidian lives of more than 10 people very comfortably, yet he's the only one that stays here. There's a long, large hall, a gargantuan sitting room, four large bedrooms, front and rear porches, and finally, the replication of all these features a floor below (the house is a duplex). His father is more of a sage than a man. A septuagenarian sage. I am not surprised at how wise his son has turned out to be.

Last night, I observed many little wonders in this man, his house and his community. The house might look rusty but obviously, its occupant isn't. He has a physical appearance characteristic of the shades of a once well-built man. His photos on the wall in the hall spells his debonair personality. I'm quite sure he held girls by his spell in his prime. He has an undiminished firmness in everything about him. His voice is still thick and drab. His words? Full of an old man's wisdom. His gait is pleasant and straight, a big feat for a Septuagenarian. Domineering over these debonair features is the fact that he loves to read. He reads anything and everything he finds to read, because knowledge, according to him, shapes refined thoughts. He has a lot of books that border on many subjects. I even can see some great books on fine art here...

He farms- his current occupation. When he was young, he was in the judicial service, serving as a court clerk. One thing that still strikes me about him is his depth of knowledge about many fields. A true sage he is.

Whenever he talks, he makes  chronological references to the 60s and 70s. That, I opine, was the peak active period of his youthful working life. He narrates countless experiences that reflect his philosophy in life.

The pagan rants still vibrate the horizon. Dust fills the distance. Men sing and drum and dance and eat and drink. The women are out of sight, probably weaning babies or winning new ones from their hubbies or cursing their kids in the shaded backgrounds. Abbey's dad is cooking. I stand at the back porch. My eyes still take in the sights of this solitary town and its unspoken wonders and woes.

Ara 'deinde
03/01/15
Ogere Remo
#empireofbards

MAGIC INFESTED SMILE

Boluwatife.
Size: 10" by 12"
Medium: Black Bic™ pens
Paper: Chi-board.

This is my first drawing on chi board. I think it's quite cool though. I hope to do more on this paper type in future. It has one obvious advantage: It is very large and can accommodate large drawings.

This drawing was completed in 15 hours spanning through four days.

FAMED SOBRIQUET

I'm beginning to get afraid. Is it a crime to
have a unique and easily recallable name? I
walk innocently along roads in school and in
my locality and I hear my name intermittently.

"Ara, how are you", A asks. I can't remember
meeting or seeing him before. Nonetheless, I
reply "I'm fine" and a conversation ensues.

"Hey, Ara. Wetin dey now", B quizzes. I probably
know him, but I don't know his name.

"Ara! Ara!", C calls from a distance. I don't
know him too. I walk over to him and greet
him. "Bros, good evening."
"Oga Ara, good evening", D greets in the
MANCOT bus. I've never seen her before too. I
try to make up conjectures in my head as
regards her identity, but futility takes its toll.

These are aside the myriads that know me but i
don't know at all or those I know but I don't
know their names. Most times I feel very guilty.
I try to find out people's names and commit
them to memory, but heck, I'm no robot. I've
gotten several accusations from people I meet.
They say I don't greet them when I see them.
How can you greet someone you don't know
ehn? Haba!

It feels good to be widely known within the
school's walls though. It lends a feeling of self-
importance.

Ara 'deinde
Feb '15

#empireofbards

Stars are us.

Hi, stars. I stare at you and I think I can see
mars. There are the several flickers that scare
away the dark- joyful, passionate and bold,
sparkling flickers. Some stars even have the
shape of flowers.

Hello, air. The breeze my skin doth smear. The
lover's silent sounds my ears hear, and I can't
help but wish she were here. Here with me.
Here to breathe. Breathe to live and let
depression and dirty dirges leave.

Hey dear. Haven't you learnt enough how much
I care? Does living in love have to cost an arm
and a leg? Do I have to pluck out my eyes and
lend you to see how much I love you?
I love you.

#empireofbards
Ara 'deinde
Feb '15

SILENT TOWNCRIER

When you prowl like a lion on the streets
Fainéants that prattle hide behind sheets
Over their heads hang a serene hush
As the hypnagogic fields suddenly become lush

Your whims are subtly inscrutable
Like seeing in deserts iced water tables
Your acts prove unpredictable
Who knows maybe you'll soon ride a tiger into a stable

Won't you make the macerator mad
Or cause the cursing critter to cry
Spare the young and innocent lad
And the old raconteur who shouldn't yet die hard

Death carries with it the dagger of suddenness
It decimates amidst concealed sullenness
Nonetheless, we are yet akin
To one with incorruptible skin.

Ara 'deinde
14:07, 12/02/15
#empireofbards

NB. Photo credit: wallpaper-kid.com

I'LL TELL MY STORY

So I finally decide to stall these wheels of stagnant flows. There are those times you have to tell yourself your story, times when you should lip-sync to your own song, times when only you can be your own muse.

I almost went bananas when my fingers fainagued for so long- shades and strokes got spontaneously replaced by strums and silence. The soul's silence. I couldn't speak because I didn't speak about damn too much. When words and wisdom finally chooses to flow, the knack of nature for expression makes my offal ache. I've been too silent that I probably have gone dumb, an inertial ill.

Everyone's got experiences. We can tell our stories the uncensored way they are, the way we view the world, the way we think and act. No one's against such. I'll be happy if I tell my story without bowdlerization of any sorts. If I can't tell you how I'm structured, no biography can.

Ara 'deinde 
#empireofbards

Reticence

Till we grow weary...

At the time of our crescendo, the air around us
is filled with charges of euphoria, but chagrin
seems to set in after a while. The nadir seems
so close to the zenith in most cases, leading to
tragic falls in morale of the spent mountaineer
who ends up feeling mutineered shortly after
his ascension to the summit.

I'm not talking about dysphoria resulting from
lack of achievement, I'm referring to that as a
result of lack of fulfillment. We reach the top of
the academic, economic or professional ladder,
and alongside the short-termed feeling of
achievement, we also feel like we say hello and
wave goodbye to a happy life instantaneously.

What I'm trying to picture might seem bizarre or
even profane, but you and I know it does
happen. There's a thin, blurred line demarcating
fulfillment and success. You can be a success
without being fulfilled, but what's more
important? Fancy an igloo in the desert, or
nicely engineered ships plying city roads.
Square pegs in round holes, right? That depicts
life without fulfillment.
As an afterthought, I have the delight of my
reserve. I find the finesse of life embedded in a
reserved lifestyle. I'm sure you're wondering
what my conclusion has to do with the premise
I raised. Everything. In a taciturn state, the
mind has an enormous capacity to think and
make clear decisions, so my opinion doesn't
mean I loathe the top. Why should I? It only
means I want to make calculated decisions
when I get there. To stay at the top, one needs
a cool head that won't give in to the top's
extremities.

Ara 'deinde

IF THE LORD LEFT ME A WILL...

From contemporary times, I have been
inevitably schooled in the light of parenting
that there is an omnipresent father who resides
in heaven and accedes to my constant
development in life. His is a love even the
heavens find tactful to explain. I grew up with
my one foot in mud and the other in a pool of
purge. Even then had the consciousness of His
greatness been etched in my then mindless
heart. I didn't love God or didn't love Him
enough, but in place of the reprisal I expected,
He showed me unconditional and undiluted
love. He simply had a complex penchant for
blessing people, and that didn't exclude fags
like me that deserved exorcism.
Jeremiah 29:11 says it all. He's always had big
plans for my life, a big picture had He in mind,
but I was too mindless and eyeless. I couldn't
see much of His love, extravagant in bearing.
It's more than what I can quantify in literal
terms, because it's something even beyond the
comprehension of the supernatural. That great
love comes to bear in His disposition towards
His children. He says we are the apple of His
eyes. "Isreal have I loved, Esau have I hated",
said He. Don't forget in a hurry that we are
descendants of Israel (spiritually, at the least).

I felt hurt and very distraught when I ruminated
over thoughts of all of God's promises, and of
course, the consciousness of His nature of love
vis-a-vis my retinue of regrets and constant
woes. These weren't the things I expected to
behold, afterall God isn't a man that He should
lie. God said I'm treasured, but deep down, I
felt like an overused piece of rag. He said I'm
free because I know the truth, but I rather felt
still in chains. Wasn't He the one that claimed
He would supply all my needs according to His
riches in glory? Why then did I feel like a
church rat with attenuated fur, running through
life's dark crevices?
His nature and promises just didn't
comensurate with my ill fate. I just couldn't
comprehend why even if I felt I was on the
godly, goodly track, I still felt like a piece of
crap. I had to search the Scriptures for solace.
I stumbled on John 6:27. It is only through
Jesus Christ our life could have fruitful
meaning. Moreover, Jesus said "I am the way,
the truth and life. No one goes to the father
but through me". There! It dawned on me I had
been going behind Jesus' back to try to obtain
God's blessings.

I liken it to having in our possession a will
endorsed by a rich man, with us as the major
beneficiaries. I obviously need a lawyer, or
better put, a solicitor to help me claim my
inheritance, if not, external dissenters and
aggrieved people will be against me. The devil
and his cohorts are the aggrieved here. Christ
is the lawyer and solicitor who argues my case
before a grand judge, God. Jesus paid the
ultimate price for whatever blessing we might
be requesting from God. He even paid more
than the value of all we can ever need. All we
have to do is just go through Him and not
attempt a short circuit. To receive the promise
of the lord, we need someone who can fight for
us and serve as a mediator between God and
us.

Self righteousness is greatly insufficient to
bridge our divide with the sovereign lord. If the
lord left me a will, which He did, I need Jesus
to claim my inheritance.

Ara 'deinde

Dilemma of a nocturnal artist

I've been at this "night class" drawing. Several people walk up to my
table to admire my ongoing work, but their approaches differ, in very
amusing ways.

A comes, peers hard at me, then at the work, then at me again. "You be
wizard, baba", he exclaims. "How una dey use biro dey paint?"

B is a lady. She looks at the work in utter disbelief and before she
passes her remark, she takes the pen out of my finger's faint grasp and
stares pointedly at it like it's a mystical object. "Like seriously, is this a
normal biro?", she asks, still dazed.

C comes by too (and there are several pure clones of this C guy tonight)
and asks, "abeg bros, shey na you dey draw this thing?"
"Yes", I tell him.
"Like, shey na biro you take do everything and you sure say na you dey
draw am?"
Now that makes me feel slighted, but what can I do?

Worse still, D drools to my table and says "guy, you print this thing?"
You go fear questions fa. FUNAABites can really bite harder than Suarez
sometimes o.

Ara 'deinde
#empireofbards
Feb '15.

FACEBOOK

I take a break from my nocturnal drawing, and
here's where I spend my 10 or 15 minute
leisure. I observe the posts and pictures. Some
people just don't change. They just can't.

There are the men's ladies that post flawless
pictures, you could swear they never slept
without electricity or they never did anything
involving drudgery since their birth. Their
pouted pictures ganer hundreds of likes from
toasters and admirers alike. Hmph!

There are the ever garrulous and braggart
fellows that simply have the online commission
to make noise. They say so much but have so
little to relay. They, in their minds' eye, are the
only wise and wild ones.

Then there are the "online underachievers",
those little crop of people that actually say
things that matter in many positive ways, but
the target audience is always targeting "hotter"
sources of info. These underachievers hardly
get credit for the truth they administer (well, we
hate the truth shaa).

Facebook is really a book of diverse faces.

Ara 'deinde
February '15

Commissions...

 

 

A just completed commission. I sometimes wish commissions could stay longer with me, but providence always stipulates otherwise.

SPECS:
Size: 12'' by 16''
Medium: Black Bic pens
Paper: Reverse side of egg shell cardboard (The egg shell surface pisses my pens off. They are good for early texturizing tryers though.)

HEARTS ON RAGING INFERNOS

Many a time, the pragmatics of pain is present in my heart in tranquil peril- only I can fathom its depth. My travel into the woods with twisted thistles and thorns tracing my track is not an uncommon Odyssey, an unwelcome one it is though. My outsides are cool, but my insides are the opposite of blue. As much as I seek to feel love at least when I close my eyes, the hatred that radiates stifle like ice, sometimes, frozen ice.

All of a sudden, an inferno lights up my heart and sublimes the freeze into steam. I didn't ask for an extreme firing like I'm getting. Lukewarm would have been just fine. Passenger™ says "we burn with millions of little lights shining in our hearts. One lights up everytime we feel love in our hearts, one dies when love moves away. However, the flames of love here is burning with fiery friendliness. I'm so hooked to the beams of love that my heart melts in the flames. The flames bring what I've been on the run from. Pain.

It sometimes seem like fireflies have come to the rescue from the cold crevices of carnage with their seemingly colossal wings, but at other times, they seem as though their dragon fires spew against their wings and cause me to gravitate towards the snow again. I nevertheless levitate to repeat the appalling cycle. Amidst all the ruckus, one thing is still sure though. Love isn't lost. My friends prove that, and she proves that too.

Ara 'deinde

SALT IS SALINE, NOT SWEET (Be Real, Be Free.)

Sometimes you think your situation is so helpless, not until you free your mind. We want to want. We want to feel a way we at present don't, thus our myopic vistas blur what our faith should see on the horizon. We want the game to be what the game could never be- bigger than life. Life is bigger than the game.

An important reality that affects us at present, presently and in the far future is I am me. You are you. Faking won't fake that reality, so let's just call hoes hoes and bath the shades in light. Light from a torch of truth. We need between our minds and sense of reasoning a true truce.

It sure would be a pleasant parley. It's difficult facing reality, but it's a phase that must always re-occur. Here's how: reality beckons; find your place and stay there. You're unique.

Talking about me, I just want to be able to express myself without mandatory acceding to what someone else is unconsciously trying to make me express. That's tainted expression and it's expensive. I want to be free.

Ara 'deinde
01/'15