Drumbeats of my!
City lights burning up
The overcast sky.
Tears, fears, joy ripping my!
!eyes
Drizzle wiped off the windshield!
Driving you,
And your Mom,
4:30am…
A shimmering night when!
Wet reflections trailed
The advent of
You!
- I.A.T.
Oh, I suppose it was about a year ago when Brian mentioned a wonderfully riveting little book and I scribbled the name on the back of a napkin. I bought the book and discovered it to be a prayer book, well sort of: a prayer that I had heard and dreamed of often throughout the years yet never tired of and welcomed every chance I’d encountered it anew!
The book is Zen and the Art of Archery, and in brief it refers to the sublime transcendence where the archer releasing the arrow at once becomes the target at which he’s shooting. The brilliant élan of the arrow as a unifying string connecting subject and object, cause and effect, I and thou, is a superbly compelling experiences akin to ecstasy, making love with creation, consorting with the Gods!it is a rare high that once experienced becomes the benchmark of artistic endeavor and the proverbial Journey to Ixtlan, be it a moment or an eternity…
On March 17th, perched high in NYC, on a cold gray day, the camera acted as such an arrow! The light reflecting off Susi’s gestures, expressing her depth and anguish, her pain and resolve and tremendous clarity penetrated the camera, hit the sensor and recorded for posterity the moments. The light then arced off the LCD and pierced my pupil, affecting a severe retinal burn that left me transfixed and trembling, as if witnessing the dissolution of self or the severance of the cord. For several seconds or minutes the camera disappeared, I could hear its click-click in slow motion blurring past my consciousness. I had become my subject without separation. I had traversed the infinite gulf between the self and the other, deconstructed and reconstructed, broken, insignificant and divine!for a moment. And then it was all over. Sirens down below crying and comforting through the streets, echoing up the glass canyon walls, snared me back to the weft and warp of illusion.
-I.A.T.
…Madonna, NYC, March 17th 1800hrs
“You gotta be kidding me, I mean this has to be a cry for help!” He said.
“But-”
“I mean what are you thinking? This is permanent, for the rest of your life!”
I struggled to get a word in edgewise, “umm, I suppose the question is what is the rest of my life!I mean how many years do I carry this flesh as my transport? Twenty, thirty, forty years more, and then it all rots to naught?”
I wanted him so badly to see that the consequences of our actions are far more permanent than this decaying vessel housing our journey through this silly Maya we call reality. I wanted him to see that a passing glance can be far more permanent and eternal, a glance that quickens the heart and blossoms to a child born unto the world, who leads thousands to battle, lays to waste a river of hope; but alas, my dear friend was busy trying to talk me out of getting my tattoo!”I won’t respect you anymore!” He retorted.
Well, here it is, the fated Orobourus!
Incidentally, I’ve been frequently asked about the significance of alfa 8, and the logo for the gallery!it’s quite simple: you see, alfa is the beginning and 8 is the number beyond the sacred 7!but more poignantly, 8 is the Orobourus coiled eternally unto the infinite. Beginning to the end!the quantum string, the absurd little folly we call our life, an existential quagmire right on the edge of bliss…
-I.A.T.
My Dearest Faust,
It’s March 10th 2007. I’ve been waiting!
The hours turned to days, turned to years,
Centuries have passed,
But today is the day!
Your memory haunts me,
Your eyes penetrate my reflection,
Only you can see me,
Only you!
Once, when I was young,
The days shimmered with translucent hues,
Your smile ruptured my soul, my core,
Tore my world apart and made me whole.
My every sinew yearns to express your intent,
Every gesture signifies your desire!
My thoughts betray my secret,
Every secret is your confidence.
Pearl drops, raindrops, blood of ages,
Moons and suns across dust-swept tundra!
The shifting dunes,
Fall of empires, triumph of love!
Can you see me, only you can.
I am yours, only you can’t.
Shadows have passed across your face
The mirror has lost its luster!
But like I said, the hours turned to days,
Turned to seasons of lives,
Rivers of struggle,
Journeys of ash!
Yet I waited for you
In fancy balls and pretentious halls;
Under bridges, wrapped in dirty blankets,
Watching the train pass, packed with dead meat.
I watched you enter the telephone booth,
Make the call,
Speak to him and
Die. I watched you die.
A thousand times
Battle-struck, I watched you die;
And your little triumphs?
Trite and banal little triumphs?
Glorious triumphs, when you
Reached deep,
Broke the seal that fated your prison,
Your lips touched mine!
But like I said, I missed you.
I’m missing you, every beat of my heart,
Every breath beckons you!
Can’t you see me?
I’m here, not far…
Before you, only eight steps away.
Can you touch me? caress me?
I can!
I can hear your fears,
Deep wretched agony of your loss.
No longer a child, no longer owner of your dreams,
Daisies and blue popsicles and cobwebs!
Parchment and graphite,
Grace of light, delight of shadow,
Hunger for my warmth… What brings you
To ponder these lines?
To mark my memory,
Or for me to mark you?
Your hopes, faded mortality,
Can’t you feel it?
It’s 0400hrs.
I’ve come to New York
Looking for you, hoping to find you
In this tragic crystal menagerie!
How many yellow cabs
Dart through the streets?
Each carrying you to me…
Each one telling a story!
Like black ravens carrying fresh carrion,
Darting through branches of silver oaks in Central Park,
As streams of consciousness
Through frozen fluid expressions.
When Times Square is deserted but for you,
Drinking under chill blue your last drop of hope,
Is that you my love?
Or is that me looking for you?
Your Beloved, Gretchen
-I.A.T.