Physical Objects Become Metaphor / Pilgrims of Spirit

Physical objects are created, As assemblies of components, Arranged in new relation, And declared a thing.

The thing — its form, its purpose, its function, its relations — Becomes new possibility of thought. New metaphors for spiritual hermeneutic, New analogies for rational foray.

So the physical object, Which was born in imagination And given flesh, Becomes the food for expanded imagination, Which opens the possibility of the birth of new objects.

This is the circle of life. This is the portalic function of art, Where descendants and ancestors are not in linear relation, But beget one another in simultaneity.

Life imitates art. Art intimates new life. Creativity is drawing circles with a pen Whose ink is pulled from a fountain of aether.

The artist is a shaman of sorts, Who can diagnose and heal, Not through stilted commentary on dead bones, But only through expansion of consciousness.

The artist draws from invisible realms To make visible the expansion, Which portages the senses Back unto the invisible, To expand the house of invisible With new guests.

The Artist is travel agent, Who gets commission from the invisible, By contributing to its spirited economy. A fixer, a coyote, a smuggler, Bringing new migrants Seeking a better life, For themselves and their families — Courageous pilgrims, Feeding only on hope and longing, And faith that they were always residents of God’s country. Exile, the precondition of return home.

....

The artist has to play both sides, Or risk impotence.

Stay only in the sensuous, And one risk sloven, profligacy, and dullness.

Stay only in the clouds, and risk incoherence and arrogance.

The circuit needs to be complete, For electricity to flow.

There needs to be a flame, but also a candle to host the flame.

Candle-less flame is not a human right, We are flesh too. Flameless candle is not a right human, We are meant to combust and transmute!

Our flesh is an object of creation, Physicalized for the purpose of expanding the possibility, Of life on earth as it is in Heaven, Each of us created unique, As symbols of the connection itself.

Like a tree with roots reaching down to earth and skyward, We are each metaphoric and analogic, To something we ourselves must discover for ourselves, by understanding ourselves to be artists, Who too are works of Art.

*"Stulted commentary on dead bones" refers to the compulsion of the cynic, the art critic, the disgruntled modern artist, standing in the museum critiquing others work and making negative meaning out of envy or desire, lost in post-modern jargon, writing obsfucating texts, lording intellectualism over others because of their insecure position in the brute arena of "society" or "the economy". They are the shadow of the actualized Artist or philosophe. They are cut off from their Source (shadows having no meaning of their own without light) and only sustain by feeding on poison, drawing from other's shine. We must help these lost souls, first by not becoming them ourselves, and secondly by showing them new possibilities via the shape of the object of ourselves.