Art is Dangerous.
Art is Pain; not Pain resisted, but Pain felt, understood, and incorporated into one's entire emotional, intellectual, physical being: raw material for Art's plane of existence.
Art is Occult, Hidden.
Art is Will, Revealed.
Art will scare the living shit out of you, make you cry, laugh, kiss your ass goodbye, wake you up, inspire hope, desire, lust, greed, envy, hate, sloth, anger, pride.
The greatest trick of Art is making people believe it doesn't exist.
Art is Black Magick (with a 'K')
Art isn't 'is.'
Anything said about 'Art' is as worthless as anything said
The one who is silent, knows. The one who speaks, knows not.
Art will take you from the moment of your birth to the moment of your death, totally fuck with you until you learn to fuck with it, or die trying.
An Artist is both victim and perpetrator in the cosmic masquerade called Art.
Blessed are The Artists, for they are a cursed lot.
Proficient Technique may not be Art, but it sure as hell knows it when it sees it.
Art will give you goose bumps in places you never knew you had.
Art is reckless abandon and precision control between the ecstatic precipice of sex, death, love, and despair.
With unimaginable grace, never needing compliments, Art runs on fumes, breathless.
Abandon All Hope Ye Who enter Art, for Art will embarrass you, make a fool of you, delude you, rob your dignity, bring forth all your submerged psychological disorders, blow smoke up your ass, elevate you to godly status, then plunge you into an abyss the likes of which makes your worst nightmares feel like gentle afternoons, wandering city art galleries.
Art is worth any price.
Art is an illusion.
What is Art anyway?
Sometimes Art gets in the corner of your eye, like a glimmer in the distance, making you look at something someone has done, intriguing to a place deep inside you.
Investigation brings forth additional mysteries.
Maybe it's someone writing a command to look, so you look, and see yourself in an opposite mirror, disguised, a fellow traveler.
If Art has burned a distant hole in you, there might be decades.
The memory of exhilaration reels you in.
You find yourself in a curious unaccustomed role of 'Angelic Being' to this mirror'd, pale Jewel.
Ironic, given the fusion of Left-Hand-Path and Art lost, 'but Angels,' you tell yourself,
'are cut from the same cloth as Devils,
all in Enoch's fevered wasteland imagination.'
In due course, gifts presented, exchanged, the landscaped denizens sized up, measured.
Those distant echoes of Art, and all that cannot be said about it lest the true drama be revealed, filter through into waking dreams where Art resides and ultimately calls the shots on this doomed enterprise... doomed in the sense that the conclusion is already in place before the beginning, so alright then, let's call it 'destiny' instead, less gloomy.
But the template is plain, the scaffolding sound,
the trajectory clear.
The Angel and the pale Jewel reach parity.
It was inevitable. The Angel says to the Jewel:
"Dearest Kickass Bright Light, the lesson is complete.
The angel is now the student.
You are now The Angel, the teacher, the Artist; and I,
the mirror'd entity, return'd to whence I came, ennobled,
enlightened, spent; freed of all Angelic duties.
'Tis yours to carry now, if you can.
I not only know you can, I know you will.
Cursed & Blessed art thou amongst Artists!
As for me, I cannot bear to watch, nor follow the minutia
of your trajectory, for your brilliance would consume me
entirely, and time is still ticking on my shattered clock.
Repairs are in order.
Soar O' Dearest Kickass Bright Light amongst Women, Men,
AND, as simple as that, the freed, former Angel handed over a tarnished halo with spiked
base while admiring the beautiful wings of the pale Jewel perched for flight into unknown destinies.
The Spell is cast.
I wonder what she'll do, this new Angel?
Art, Love's Labor [ALL].
The Ex-Watcher angel, formerly known as Malak Taus. MT
[Written: Monday, May 11, 2009, 6:15 PM - KALIphornia]