Passing through the visible. . .

Passing through the visible.  In art and images.  A series of self-portrait as experiment. I am not an apparition.  Question. Not a ghost in the mirror.  Question.  The photos prove it. Right?  I am not invisible.  Question.  In and out of the void.  Potential title for painting.  Passing through the visible. Potential title for painting.  No value.  A pun.  Just checking.

 

It began with the dream.  The one at the beginning of the week where I reached in my pocket for my phone and when I pulled it out found it broken in half and watched it crumble.  Disintegrate like glass.  Itty bitty flecks.  No repair.  Sharp and sudden and final.  No communication.  Disconnected.

We all circle the earth in our armor.

 

A job that suddenly ends like a car crashing into a tree.  And then, like a cartoon, no one is really hurt and we start again.  Never happened.  Repeat. Though on some level it feels that violent.  Okay.  Hmmm.

  

And there is death.  Out of our control and so far away.  There is devastation and love and gathering.  Observation.  There is peace and anger.  There are questions without answers.  There is preparedness and shock.  There is wonderment and bafflement.  There is no communication.  Or is there.  That’s a question too.  The dream tells the story.

 

The painting in flux.  Composition no. 9 or no. 10 or all the compositions and all the possibilities and nothing.  It is one moment in time and then another.  It is ever present and changing and I could throw it away without regret.  It is the process.  One day at a time.  Monday morning after the rain.

The alligator is belly up on the rock outside my door.  It is yellow.  A yellow belly.  Another oddity.  Was it the water or the wind or something else?  Someone was in my house.  Not a friend.  Not invited.  The bathroom tells the story but it is only conspiracy theory.  Intuition.  There is no fear.  But wonder.

All the rugs are gone.  That is the first clue.  Another ending.  A shift in what was commonplace every other Sunday.  Reliable.  All my jobs are ending.  Shifting.  Nothing is guaranteed.  A moment of powerlessness.  Days.  Digest.  Regroup.  Go forward.  These are the lessons of life.  Of doing the work.  Of awareness.  Of taking the risk to connect and the loss that follows.  Of letting go of expectation and entitlement and negative self-defeating patterns.  I am passing through the visible.  Child of the moon.  Invisible is still a place.

The face in the mirror is mine.  The eyes of my father.  I am the bastard daughter.

 

 

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