Recovery -
It's funny how a learned response works, seeing your post and having it fire a thousand well-worn synaptic pathways, already my mind leaping upon possible avenues of theme bonding, and I stopped. I got up, went for a walk around the DataCenter(I'm at work), pounded the ground with my feet, picked up some trash on the floor and sat down again. you evoke thought and emotion in such a strange way - it's hard to codify, it's hard to even describe, but unfortunately it's hard to feel when it's not in my line of sight.
You're a beautiful painting, a memorable song, a glorious edifice reaching up to the sky - you evoke emotion and instigate introspection with such grace and beauty - but I look the sides at the other people in this gallery, at this concert, at this street corner, and they all have their own moon-struck look in their eyes. Realization hits me like the sun shining off of your thousand mirrored windows, illuminating me, and I'm blinded and don't notice if anyone has had the same revelation - that your beauty moves many, but isn't aimed at my heart. A cloud passes overhead and your beauty is dimmed, the band finishes the song and the set - imploring me to visit the merch booth, and the museum is closing, the polite attendant informs me, seeing me with that lost look in my eyes.
You're a work of art I want to adorn my walls, a musician that I want playing a personal acoustic set when it's just the two of us, you're a beautiful statue that I want under the willow trees by my pond, so I can talk to you of the world and things.
I've been told that there are scores of artists making things all the time, and I'll admit it's true, but there's still so much I don't understand about this connection? is it one way? is it only imagined?
It's hard to imagine how you feel about a painting on your wall until the flames are licking the rafters and you change your dash out of the house into a rescue mission for the beauty - so what I'm saying is, I don't know, I'd like to, but the building is already built, the song is copy written and selling platinum, and the art has been hanging in this gallery for years. How good is my memory? what color eyes did that portrait portray?
there comes a point where you look at the cardboard cutout by your birdbath, under your maple tree, in front of the fence, where you see the neighbors' yard, filled with play sets and ask what it is you're deifying.
This is not a new game... so don't think that you know. Causally I confide...
You're a beautiful painting, a memorable song, a glorious edifice reaching up to the sky - you evoke emotion and instigate introspection with such grace and beauty - but I look the sides at the other people in this gallery, at this concert, at this street corner, and they all have their own moon-struck look in their eyes. Realization hits me like the sun shining off of your thousand mirrored windows, illuminating me, and I'm blinded and don't notice if anyone has had the same revelation - that your beauty moves many, but isn't aimed at my heart. A cloud passes overhead and your beauty is dimmed, the band finishes the song and the set - imploring me to visit the merch booth, and the museum is closing, the polite attendant informs me, seeing me with that lost look in my eyes.
You're a work of art I want to adorn my walls, a musician that I want playing a personal acoustic set when it's just the two of us, you're a beautiful statue that I want under the willow trees by my pond, so I can talk to you of the world and things.
I've been told that there are scores of artists making things all the time, and I'll admit it's true, but there's still so much I don't understand about this connection? is it one way? is it only imagined?
It's hard to imagine how you feel about a painting on your wall until the flames are licking the rafters and you change your dash out of the house into a rescue mission for the beauty - so what I'm saying is, I don't know, I'd like to, but the building is already built, the song is copy written and selling platinum, and the art has been hanging in this gallery for years. How good is my memory? what color eyes did that portrait portray?
there comes a point where you look at the cardboard cutout by your birdbath, under your maple tree, in front of the fence, where you see the neighbors' yard, filled with play sets and ask what it is you're deifying.
This is not a new game... so don't think that you know. Causally I confide...