“Bird Man’s Dream” was painted over yesterday’s painting (previous post “Layered”).
I usually paint and paint, until the energy matches my energy. Painting helps me process many depths of emotions and energy.
I noticed he is ‘shitting’ on the current life picture.
An artist’s mind being peeled away.
The painting above was done over another painting.
Flying Elephants
The judge
judges the judge
For behaving as judge
Villains
coloring villains
outside the lines
The Watcher watches
from a space
in between
where words breed
Imagining
Their kingdoms
of sandcastles
Built upon the other
Without thought
of the coming waves
Watcher floats
on the sea of sea
Drifting
Turns the cheek
to find no cheek
Comes the pictures:
A High Priestess
in her high castle
gazing down below
mocking stupidity
Comes the pictures:
The Low Warrior
standing his ground
glaring upward
cursing the darkness
Mirrors within mirrors
The monster and the muse
The muse and the monster
Standing low
Pointing up
Standing high
Pointing down
The judge
judges the judge
For behaving as judge
Villains
coloring villains
outside the lines
A singular ball
bounces
down, down, down
A singular ball
bounces
up, up, up
Fires burn
A bucket of hot tar
Down!
An arrow lit aflame
Up!
Invisible Sanskrit
Dripping squid ink
Up becomes down
Down becomes up
Upside down
Upside up
And choice drains out
Inside the watching
Merry-go-round
A spectrum of
merging blue
Twirling
Evaporating
The Watcher moves
as jelly-liquid
swimming in
folding batter
Springing rope
shoots up
Crashing ladder
swoops down
Climb!
Cling!
Climb!
Cling!
The claimers shout
at the claimers
For acting as claimers
A flag of proclamation
erases the errors
of flag of proclamation
Their way
becomes
absolved of error
Their way
becomes
solvent
made of error
Handless
Watcher moves
Legless
wobbling on splintered-stilts
Telepathic ringing
stinging
As nettle stings
Houses built: woven baskets
Houses built: deep wells
One carries solid
One carries liquid
And they battle over
What is
Flying elephants
holding
The ears
of flying elephants
with snake trunks
The water gushes out
of fork-tongue
The judge
judges the judge
For behaving as judge
Villains
coloring villains
outside the lines
Samantha Craft, July 2020
“Wrong Planet”
About 10 layers of paint, spent processing feeling displaced on earth and by others’ ways. The outcast watching and reflecting and attempting to communicate with a device to the other standing in odd, bird-like clothing. I am trying to relate the person to an animal, but they aren’t anything I recognize. The ‘helmet’ atop emerged from a combination of face-blindness and the unfamiliar atmosphere. The letter A represents earth, where there is no telepathy. Sometimes I am the one in the strange costume being judged, trying to breathe and adjust; but most of the time, I am the creature, feeling confused and bewildered, longing for home.
My heart is full of He,
again.
He rises
ember-shade,
and dances past
the prowling night.
in dusty field,
made hay.
A flower to the fowl,
I see
Him, here,
in touching stone;
A heart so tender, laid,
As river to the throne.
I watch Him pass, the passerby,
the sky, a fading-grey.
I hold Him in the heart of hearts,
just near, where angels sway.
Their voices
chant in unison;
A whisper, “All is near.”
I wander past the tipping stones,
where caverns drip of tear.
A honey dew of
Atmosphere.
Listen, still,
the gatherings,
of cantors bathing wills.
“Harken, here,” they come to be.
Their telling thick, as true.
“Can you see beneath the sea,
where fathers anchored blue?”
I’ve come again, to traveling,
with blankets tender, sweet.
Wrapped within the evermore,
Where babes are fast asleep.
Can you see them,
as I do? The willows,
dancing home,
to where the blind man walked,
Ill-temper, tamed in tune,
of flank and staff, immune.
“Come gather, here,”
Day beckons, glee;
the one I know as true.
And step by step,
I enter thee:
The one, becomes the Two.
How fortunate, this rose of thorn,
this breaking bread of mire.
How roads,
turned frail and broken through,
have led, the dire,
Days.
I’m headed now,
to brighter place.
Where angels dance and sing.
Remember thee,
of yesterday,
when I, was slumbering.
As Above, So Below. The painting can also be turned around. Above, what is sewn in the alternate plane of subconscious and intention is planted on the earth level. Below, aliens are admiring the universe with wonderment.
The Monster and Wise Man. From a distance the wise man is a woman, up close, you can see his ‘wise’ beard and ancient face. The Wise Man is healing the monster. The monster is also the wise man. There is the earthly plane between them. 99% of the time I do not know what I’m painting. I paint as a type of prayer, meditation, and therapy. I did not paint the face on the wise man or beard — it popped up when I was wiping the canvas with a wet towel. The sapsucker or woodpecker to the far left was also not intentional. The monster appeared on his own.
Bird Man and The Lady. I painted this over an old watercolor that had images of love. Atop the layers, on the left, is my honey, David. The Lady is protection, light, and represents my love and admiration. I was also contacted by a Facebook friend stating a baby bird she found. and tried to save, passed on right before I finished my painting. If you look to the far right, there is a little girl standing sideways facing the left (her sleeve is rose) and pointing to the left at a mushroom. Not intentional.
He doesn’t say I’m beautiful.
He helps me up the stairs with a gentle guiding hand.
He hurries to the room, when I call out his name, whatever room I’m in.
He comes home with surprises from the local bakery.
He wheels me through the airport and museum, even as he is uncomfortable with crowds and it hurts his arms.
He doesn’t complain.
When I say I am thinking about growing my hair out grey, he encourages it, and says he likes grey hair. When I say my hair is actually more white than grey, he says he prefers white.
When I put on a bit of makeup, he says I look nice but also look fine without it.
When I look down at my growing tummy, he says, “I like it.”
When we have a spat, he gives me space and then asks to come in, and then apologizes for his part–sometimes with handwritten letters.
He rubs my back and kisses my toes. He holds me close when I cry and have trouble falling asleep — from anxiety, pain, or fear.
He listens to my frequent nightmares, the ones from dreams and the ones from the past. He asks if I am drinking enough water, and then brings me water, in my preferred mug (the clean one that doesn’t smell bad), with water he has collected from the artesian well downtown.
He leaves his office room for ‘object permanence checks,’ as he knows if I can’t see it (him), sometimes I question if it (he) exists.
He never comments on my messy, unbrushed hair or mismatched clothes. He doesn’t readily point out when I’ve made a mistake or error . . . in words or judgment.
He finds my oddities and antics and misuse of words to be charming.
He doesn’t laugh at my ways or mock me, or shake his head in disapproval.
He gives me the space and freedom to be me.
He is proud of my efforts at home and beyond, and tells me so. He stops to look at me, I mean really look at me, and offers a kind, gentle smile.
He makes a point to tell me this is the happiest he has ever been in his life.
He doesn’t objectify me or compare me to other people.
He doesn’t offer ways I can improve myself.
He rides the waves of my hormonal outbursts.
He prays for patience and to love me the best way possible.
And he does.
He tells silly, off the wall jokes and riddles.
He dances with me in the bedroom to ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’ and sings out the lyrics in a bashful voice.
He takes me to doctor appointments.
He helps shop for groceries.
He stocks the car and attic with emergency supplies.
He lends his dress shoes to my eldest son for that important interview.
He is silent and full of grace in harder times.
He is resilient and full of spunk in lighter moments.
He has introduced a genre of movies and shows that add spice to our collection. We bird watch together from balcony chairs, the ones he bought cushions for.
He refills the birdbath and worries for our feathered friends, scolding the neighbor’s cat . . . to go some other place. He says he will do something, and then he does it. He speaks the truth.
Means what he says. Says what he means. He says he’d die for me.
His hugs are tight and warm. He is a gentle giant, and my steadfast cheerleader and protector.
He doesn’t say I’m beautiful. He shows me.
—
Clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsentience, claircognizance —
I’ve experienced these each since a small child. My book was a calling. A calling from my higher power. My journey here as well.
Like many a wanderer and light-seeker, my faith is shaken and challenged, often. I’ve faced a plentitude of demons — both spiritual and in human form.
It’s not uncommon for individuals who have been diagnosed with gifted intelligence or on the autism spectrum (or similar profiles) to have ‘unexplainable’ cognitive abilities. It’s not uncommon for the aforementioned to be extremely empathetic and empathic.
Some of us have a unique connection with the divine and hidden world.
Having experienced knowings my entire life, I have no doubt there is much more occurring than meets my worldly eyes.
Something I’ve learned in the eight years since my personal journey began with ‘Aspergers’ (now also recognized as ‘autism’), is that if I wait and watch, people’s true colors appear.
I’ve learned I need do little to nothing and all will unfold and be revealed.
Today, each time I’m tested, by one force of nature or another, one circumstance or another, (I now have 6 chronic pain conditions.) though the challenging circumstances typically result in the dark night of the soul — several dark nights — I’ve learned that I return from the bleakness and blackness to find my being fortified.
I return braver, and evermore determined to live by the light.
Perhaps because I’ve experienced miracles, I believe in miracles.
I am fortunate in having found inner peace with my calling.
I carry a profound sense of peace with my works and writings.
I rest my fruits of labor in my higher power’s hands. What will happen will unfold in the right place and right time. Who is meant to cross this path with me, shall.
I know without doubt that the end product, the fruits of my labor, are rooted from the soil of my intention. When intention is rooted in connection, love, and service, the fruits undoubtedly demonstrate their origin.
Today, I stand on the foundation of my past behaviors and actions. I stand with integrity. There is no closet housing a dark secret or shameful act. No hidden agenda to expose. No eagerness for ‘followers’ or eagerness to be heard, or right, or loved, or accepted. Only a calm knowing all is.
All I need do is observe. To watch what is attracted to each of the flowering fruits. To recognize not all fruits are nourished in righteous soil. Not all are watered in grace.
I steer clear of the fruit that attracts the maggots and flies.
I choose adamantly to bask under the shade of the fruit blessed in butterflies and hummingbirds.
I watch and observe my present words and actions. For what I sew in yesterday’s labors, becomes the future path I walk upon.
~ Samantha Craft, June 2020
Subjectivation: The Castle’s Keeper
In the act of identifying as outside the norm, or in presenting outwardly with attributes which fall under the encompassing label of anomaly, one is thusly distinguished by self and society as an outcast.
Cast away from the middle ground, removed and divided from the dot that hovers on the center of number line– the heart of box, the eye of needle–one becomes adrift in a land of make believe constructs.
Broken truths, as yoke from egg, fall as they may; the sun of knowledge blinding the eyes from beyond. Beyond what is, removed. Beyond what is, replaced. Beyond, existing still in another time and place, forgotten and lingering on the threshold of reasoning. A waiting watchman set upon a hill of misty sky.
Society, as too a construct, dictates limiting and finite truths based on anomalies in perceived character. An interdependent system of preordained order that creates something of nothing, collecting assumed data as input, to produce a tangible interdependent product of conclusion.
Thoughts built upon thoughts. Castles in the sky illuminating bricks layered upon bricks of a builder’s wants and truths.
Even as the watchtower keeper rises, his naked eye upon the many, parading his power and dominating might, the causation blossoms. It’s blooms as dark petals penetrating what was in a place of no end, nor beginning.
As a bonafide noun and as a moving verb of action, the keeper himself, who houses his truths, in baskets woven by weaver same, cannot exist as a singular, without observing below. His careful watching a method for collecting truths and making sense of senses. A complicated matter, as even the senses were once eradicated from the mist, gathered in safekeeping to make sense of what seemed of something.
Interdependent is the onlooker, whether glancing in the clear lake or within the walls of decorated turret.
One, in himself, split he wanders; footsteps marching, pounding through the differences within and without.
Within, erupts comparison to aspects of other parts of self. In how fingers move to become separate from hand, as the heart from the mind. Likewise, spirit from soul, life force from nature.
Nighttime fails, and he, the one, divides and divides into separateness, not as an organic substance, of blood and pulse, but one moving in way in which the outside orchestra is silenced.
A singular onlooker, the outer world wiped clean, what is recognized, other than wholeness, other than a new one: undone, unraveled, re-birthed.
His mind drifts and a voice enters:
“As the baby is of all, undistinguished, as is man, though he knows not of this. By nature we take from what has been seen and create that which is unseen, illusions twisted into fabrics of causation that speak of a forbidden truth of naught.
A twisted, again, labyrinth of makeshift corners and caravans, marauding living forest of unknown potential. A potential to mask the substantial of what is, to procreate what has come before.
We are neither here nor there, but bound to the evidence set forth above and below us, as even the ground and sky become tangible in their blundered separation. How the blue that is not blue, divides the sky that is not sky, from the earth that is not ground.
And still, we seek this separation to makes sense of what is naught. Keying the inlet of mind with a cause for opening, as fish spawning in river too cold. What is birthed is naught, as creation is numbed in the shivering-blind.”
Opens the eyes, the keeper, if such word as ‘eyes’ existed. If such word as ‘words’ survived; if either ‘existed’ was scribed. For if person existed to scribe, with instrument to hold, and hands to grasp, had he grasped for the end, recognizing no beginning, recognizing his recognition was not of him?
A some semblance of a once someone drifted. Neither here nor there, in being, but in believing he be, and believing he believe.
For who is the one who believes?
Said I, “I am I.”
Said I, “I am.”
Irradiate the one (of I), irradiate the all of illusion.
Irradiate the illusion of more than one, irradiate the separation, the norm, the typical.
For it is not this ‘them’ that breeds and dictates isolation and destruction and ill-ways, but the belief of the belief.
For when all is erased, as pounding wave to sand, what remains out of sight, are the intricate makings of mountains crumbled, smoothed over by the ages of time within time. A barrier to existing within existing.
And how can this gentle mind of man, this watchtower keeper remain nimble, yet taught? Centered, yet swinging? A spectrum concaving into the unbearable light.
And though he be the mountains still, and the very sand beheld. There is nothing of nothing. No words in his tale, as the very breath that is blown, becomes wind to cast sail to sea drifting in existing, unseen.
The wandering keeper, stepping: a dream within a dream.
His castle, shifted.
The bricklayer, the valley, the very bricks, merged.
The one who watched becoming the one watching. The one who waited becoming the one who arrived.
Samantha Craft, June 2020
Other blogs: https://everydayaspie.wordpress.com/ https://everydayaspergers.com/
A flashback post from this blog on FEAR: https://bellyofastar.wordpress.com/2013/05/17/the-map-of-fear-and-the-indicators-of-truth/
Strength of character
slumbers deep
in quiet confidence
Energized unity
deafening noise
to prove, to be
Turns rosy cheek
to claimed friend
Their voice: bitter malice
Patiently awaiting, betterment
For no one’s sake
but own, undone
Ties of want, unthreaded
Untethered, snaking jealousy
slithers, to find calm
Pool of tranquility
well dressed, tailored spite
disrobed and naked
at solitude’s threshold
Fear, he shrugs, before
disintegrating as cinema witch
Vanished the dark
When tongue
held silent
Belly of a Star 