Creature of the Light Nº1

Sometime ago I finally came up with another idea for a series. It was thankfully inspired by e-mails exchanged with Megan; what a deeply cherished spiral of influence. I think it's my third serie already, but the first in 3D. I'm somewhat thrilled because of its possibilities (although nothing here is a big deal, except having the fresh air of inspiration). It'll be a "double-helix" serie of organic art: Creatures of the Light and Species of the Dark; it may allow me to post very cherished poems about good and evil, and about the paradise won and the paradise lost. I'm excited with the possibilities, although I really don't like to work on a serie of a concept because it restricts the creativity, but my creativity has been clearly unexistent for months and surely that's why I'm excited about this and thankful to know Megan; it gives me a glimpse of an objective. All this is based on my teenager fantasy of becoming a mural painter, I wanted to paint a struggle between good and evil on every worldly scene, every human act, but I never found the opportunity of studying visual arts. So this is a very reduced version of that teenage dream, downgraded to organic art, but it requires my fullest attention to the escorting poem. So I wish to cope with it.
It is ironic that this came up under the pressure of a hard time in my life, but who can't say something different?, nothing shows up on a perfect moment and in its perfect place.
This is the first one, best viewed full-screen. Next ones will not include so much babbling.



You can play the song with this gadget:

Baby, I've been waiting,
I've been waiting night and day
I didn't see the time, I waited half my life away
There were lots of invitations and I know you sent me some,
But I was waiting for the miracle,
For the miracle to come

I know you really loved me
but, you see, my hands were tied
I know it must have hurt you,
it must have hurt your pride to have to stand
beneath my window with your bugle
and your drum,
and me I'm up there waiting for the miracle,
for the miracle to come

Ah I don't believe you'd like it, you wouldn't like it here
There ain't no entertainment and the judgments are severe
The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum
when you're waiting for the miracle,
for the miracle to come

Waiting for the miracle there's nothing left to do
I haven't been this happy since the end of World War II

Nothing left to do
when you know that you've been taken
Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb
Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting
waiting for the miracle to come

I dreamed about you, baby; tt was just the other night
Most of you was naked, Ah, but some of you was light
The sands of time were falling from your fingers and your thumb,
and you were waiting for the miracle,
for the miracle to come

Ah, baby, let's get married, we've been alone too long
Let's be alone together, let's see if we're that strong
Yeah let's do something crazy, something absolutely wrong
While we're waiting for the miracle,
for the miracle to come

When you've fallen on the highway
and you're lying in the rain,
and they ask you how you're doing
of course you'll say, you can't complain --
If you're squeezed for information,
that's when you've got to play it dumb:
You just say you're out there waiting
for the miracle,
for the miracle to come

Leonard Cohen, "Waiting for the Miracle".

The Blue Flower

I knew I had to redo the blue flower of Novalis (my utterly beloved Novalis!), the previous attempts of the past year (1 & 2) sucked big time, were never worthy of the symbol. This time it is definitive; but the image only works in full size.

I'll not bore you with the hard work it took, or my exhaustion, but only say that the computer work is less and less everyday, and the human work is more everyday; the "interactive" part, in "interactive genetic algorithms" is the most compromised here lately. The more you look for something in particular, the less you should trust fate; also the symbol of this image means exactly that; interesting.

Well, it is amazing to have a literature buddy :-) It inspires me the best ideas and inspires me to work hard just for the pleasure of it, the possibility of beauty arising, constantly pushing the Dharma wheel, the relentless quest for truth. My darling Megan, without knowing, pushed this through.

If you have never read the unfinished novel "Heinrich von Ofterdingen" and didn't clicked on the wikipedia link, the blue flower that Novalis thought is "a central symbol of Romanticism. It stands for desire, love, and the metaphysical striving for the infinite and unreachable." With enough luck, this image of blue petals and a starry night, can get close to symbolize that, and if you see it full-size and get close to this dark image, will see the tiny little divine stars, reflected like nightly dew on the petals.

"The flower" (previous post) becomes now the infinite divine flower, an interrogation of life, love, motivations, experience, purpose and infinity.
Incidentally enough, my town these days is populated with blue morning glories, and they seem to capture the sun within them, like the one to whom this image is made for:
It is yours, Bronwyn; and the quotes below.

"It's not the treasures I care about" he said to himself "such coveting is miles from my mind, but I long to see the blue flower. I cant get rid of the idea, it haunts me. I never felt like this before, its as if I dreamed of it years ago, or had a vision of it in another world, for who would be so concerned about a flower in this world? and I've never heard of anyone being in love with a flower. Where did this stranger come from? None of us had ever seen anyone like him. I don't know why his words impacted on me so deeply, the others heard him, and they didn't produce the same effect on their minds. I cant even express the strange state I'm in. Sometimes rapt in delight... but when I forget about the blue flower, a nameless longing takes possession of me, no one can understand this. I'd think I was mad, if it were not for the fact that my thoughts are so clear and connected, and I understand so many new things. I've heard it said that in the olden days, animals, rocks, and flowers all spoke to humans. I'm haunted by the idea that they have something to tell me, and I feel as if I could comprehend their speech. I used to be devoted to dancing, now I love music."

[...]

Deep in this gem do mystic letters glow
Deep in my heart a hidden love does grow
From one there rises sparks of unknown fire
The other is consumed with loves desire
In one the glorious light is buried deep
The other will loves impress ever keep

[...]

Is not the yearning in me the same as in the dream, at the sight of the blue flower? What is the strange connection between Matilda and the flower? The face which I saw in the calyx was Matilda's, and I also remember seeing it in the hermit's book. But why did it not move my heart then. Oh she is the visible spirit of song, and a worthy daughter of her father. She will dissolve me in her music and become my innermost soul, and the keeper of my holy fire. I feel an eternal loyalty in me. I was born only to honour her, to serve her eternally, to think and to feel her. Doesn't an undivided existence belong with such a vision and adoration? And may I be blessed to be the one chosen to be her echo, and the mirror of her being. It was no chance there was a feast at the end of my journey, and the blessed feast surrounded the supreme moment of my life. It could not be different, her very presence makes everything festive.

[...]

With full rapture Heinrich called out 'O eternal stars, you silent wanderers, I call you to witness my hallowed oath. I want to live for Matilda, and eternal faith should bind my heart to hers. This is the beginning of a new eternal day for me. The night is over. I ignite the ascending sun as a sacrificial fire.'

Novalis, "Heinrich von Ofterdingen".

The flower

For M.



I am a kind word uttered and repeated by the voice of nature;
I am a star fallen from the blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements with whom winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth;
I was reared in the lap of Summer and I slept in the bed of Autumn.

At dawn I unite with the breeze to announce the coming of light;
At eventide I join the birds in bidding the light farewell.

The plains are decorated with my beautiful colours,
And the air is scented with my fragrance.

As I embrace slumber the eyes of night watch over me,
And as I awaken I stare at the sun,
Which is the only eye of the day.

I drink dew for wine, and harken to the voices of the birds,
And dance to the rhythmic swaying of the grass.

I am the lover’s gift; I am the wedding wreath;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.

But I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.

Kahlil Gibran, "Song of the flower" (A Tear and a smile).

The Great Wave

OK, people, finally I'm sort of content with something I made, even kind of proud. This is my version, completely evolved out of interactive genetic algorithms, of the Katsushika Hokusai's "The Great Wave off Kanagawa". I utterly needed to do this, it was an urge bigger than life to me these days, I couldn't go on with my mind and my heart if I didn't try with all that I am to recreate an electronic version of it. One night I woke up with this foreboding words out of the dream: "I'm drifting and the storm wave is coming. I know." First, the words put me to think that I had one enough apocaliptic colour and vision on Dawn of the Apocalypse, but soon after I noticed: "No, no, I'm wrong, this is something else, this involves another symbol, and another connection". This dream came out of the pressure accumulated, the passion just because, the contempt about, the pulling to, the visionary response to the mediocrity to which I don't want my life to ever finally go into, if it does, it will be in total dissidence for the fact, disobedience for the universal rules prepared to push me to, and disregard for any other who don't resist to the same tragedy. Recovering any dialog with the Muse is priceless, I've been without her weird quirks for so long that any contact is appreciated to the most, so that other connection that I presumed it might be with my Muse again?... poor being, thirsty trying to get water out of the rock of my creativity, but still around, after years of yearning for it.
Being an inspiration for another being in this world (as my beloved writer Jorge Luis Borges have said) it's not a minor thing at all! Do never underestimate the power of kindness nor inspiration. The inspiration that pushed this urge to grow until it was an unstoppable impelling force (a wave itself) came from the influence that the conversations on exchanged e-mails with my kindred spirit Megan have had. Every detail pushed me to recreate this opus, the Great Wave, that I've adored since a teenager -may be insulting it too instead of doing a rendition. I know the Mount Fuji is not there, not there also the repeated Mount Fuji on the wave forms, I know the background is too simple (still, genetically evolved, and the colours gratify me), I know all the defects of it, I've been the one over it for around 10 days of feverish work!, but also I know the basic power of it it's there in a way, pushed by nightmare colours, and the fingers, the hands of the Wave are there about to grab our souls in the final cleansing of the surface of this earth. I know I'm talking obsessed about it with my actual headache and my hunger, so it's a big relief to drop it for a while, to let it go out of the system, to the restricted public view that this blog has.
Finally, some rest... hopefully ;-)

I think the connection is quite well represented by William H. Davies on its extreme lucid and eternal poem down below.

My back is turned on Spring and all her flowers,
The birds no longer charm from tree to tree;
The cuckoo had his home in this green world
Ten days before his voice was heard by me.

Had I an answer from a dear one's lips,
My love of life would soon regain its power;
And suckle my sweet dreams, that tug my heart,
And whimper to be nourished every hour.

Give me that answer now, and then my Muse,
That for my sweet life's sake must never die,
Will rise like that great wave that leaps and hangs
The sea-weed on a vessel's mast-top high.

William H Davies, "Love and the Muse".