Peace

I looked across the bay. The sun was setting; orange covered. It had been a hot day, but the heat was slowly giving way. I sat looking into the horizon, feeling the sweat of the day slowly dry up and crust behind my ears. It took me a second to gather my thoughts.
I had been considering war. Was it necessary to creativity. Did humanity stagnate under times of peace? Did we simply get bored?
I recall the amazing things of life; I watched a bee hum above blades of grass as it searched for vibrations of colors along the lawn. A butterfly sitting motionless against the glass of a pure white sterile modernist house. A blank page framing it's colors and shapes.
I asked myself 'why expensive art?'
Did the indulgence of taking simple office carpet away from its old life, and declaring it a work of art, giving it new life, affect us indeterminably; reshaping the life of a man with a new life, removing him from the mundanity of his home?
By forcing narratives on ourselves, did we detract from others, from our world?

War must arise out of necessity, some times. But to predestinate it ourselves, are we giving in to an addiction; anxiety revolving around dissatisfaction?

Is peace a lack of war, or is it a relinquishment of struggle?

A Token of Gratitude

I found this attached to my bike last week. Thank you anonymous

Pornographic ethos

Art can be refined. Every movement can be explained to find a full and complex relationship that makes one piece of art whole.

Art can be spontaneous. meaningless intuition can guide you to leaps that transcend possible refraction. No. Not Transcend. Boundless refraction.

Art can be improvisation and logical intuition; constructive recreation, or assumption.

Art can be process; it can be mistake. Inspiration justifies the ends.

so what happens when i put on the song that suddenly pops up in my head?
To master the art of DJ. To know how to surf spontaneity; to know what to play.

Art can be spiritual. It can be destitute; Yearning for the profound arises solitude.
Yearning for the profound drowns us is depths too heavy for our human skin.

So what happens when I surf for a poem to express painful love?
I obsess as if over pornography lay the images of something forgotten, but not completely lost