By Jon Rappoport – May 30, 2016
Note: as you read this piece, see how far from it or how close to it you are. Realize that if you’re a thousand miles away from it, that’s interesting. It’s quite interesting.
The painter was well aware that he was talking to himself. He was considering various ideal objectives and states of mind. This dialogue was, in some sense, productive, but it never reached a final conclusion.
However, when he stood before the blank canvas and began painting, the dialogue vanished. Instead, he was taken by a stroke of the brush, by a mere mark of paint on the canvas, by an edge that appeared, by a shape, by two shapes that stood side by side. None of this required words or was helped by words. He was operating in a different space.
He was beyond ideal this or ideal that. He was sensing his way through spontaneous happenings and accidents.
Sooner or later, he would begin to make sense of what was on the canvas; and then, usually, another process would begin. He could easily overdo it. He could try to build the picture into something more specific. Often, this effort didn’t work.
But it was fuel for the fire. He would add still more to the painting, and then he entered another unknown. This was good.
He knew and didn’t know at the same time.
He was outside normal events. That much was obvious. He was in a “territory” that required no explanations.
He wondered what life would be like if it unspooled this way.
What would people be like?
Would it be the end of all hierarchical orders of things?
And if so, then what?
One day, while painting, the canvas spoke to him. Its language had no words, only sensations. The predominant sensation seemed to be flying. The flying entered the room where he was working. Where it came from, he couldn’t say. Perhaps the sky.
Then it stopped.
As if music had faded out.
He kept painting. He kept adding paint to the canvas. It occurred to him that nothing or no one could keep him from this.
He was free. He was unhinged from some practical flow of thought that colored how he faced ordinary reality. That was gone.
Was something supposed to take its place? Apparently not. This is was not an exchange or a bargain. This was a doing in and of itself.
It was so obvious and natural, he wondered why everyone didn’t engage in it. The answer came to him. People were engaged otherwise, in the idea of systems and patterns.
Systems and patterns were a default position, like leftovers after a meal.
These odd leftovers…people had grabbed on to them. They could have chosen anything, but they chose this.
And then they had gotten used to them. Very much so.
Life began to be seen through the leftovers.
It was not to be seen any other way.
No exits or entrances. Just steady-state.
People ardently promoted the leftovers. They built castles of the mind by and for the leftovers. They wept like babies whenever the leftovers began to float away.
Whole civilizations argued and fought on the basis of which leftovers were best.
A few people tried to destroy the leftovers by force. This didn’t work—and it spoke to a paucity of intelligence and imagination. Such people seemed to be intent on reshaping themselves into grotesqueries. As such, they made incomprehensible demands without end. They tried to elevate this gibberish into an ideology, and failed.
The painter painted.