No man is an island, so no art is of itself.
And synesthesia between art is the only way to know what art is. How can literature rise without rhythm? How can painting sing without music? How can a tale move without an image? An art walled away, itself to itself, dies.
As poetry comes from music, let that music play on. As music comes from life, let the life live. And in the silence between the notes, consolation. The dreamer will think of clouds, the pragmatist will think on irony; all the while the artist thinks on what is, or was, shall be or should be. And yet all are human, all different, all the same.
What binds us is stronger than what divides us. That is the soft and loud of art: All is one. Chaos to cosmos, Destruction to Creation, Death to life, Night to Day. There is a unity in art that says there is a unity in life. The artist may veil it, he may even refute it. But can we even have the very thought to hold the brush if chaos is total? Form implies order. Form is not possible without order. And so for art to exist, so must order. Therefore there is order. And so art. And therefore art unites people. Art is the fraternity in time and space. And among people. It is the eye into the heart. It is the ear into the nature. It is the vein into the precious, mineral soul.
Let the storm clouds gather, their baleful portent. Let the money-men win. Let the stupid have their victory. Let old gorse prickle. Let all follies have their run (their run will be had). But wherever, whenever man looks up, in, or out and thinks; what he seeks is truth. And truth is always there. Always there. A thing that is, for truth cannot not be. It is a thing that is, not a thing that isn't.
Therefore make art.
There is no war between reason and art. There was never a battle between Rousseau and Hogarth; Jefferson and Beethoven. The battle is, always was, between the Agora and Ideas. Between money and the just city. Between the money, which thinks itself power, and art with its belief in the pursuit of ideas and feeling. Yet, what is man to do? He is a piece of clay. Yet his dreams, the beauty, the soul and the spirit? Can you keep him low? Is he just a consumer? Is the mind too primitive? Ah, there is the irony. Man's hubris is cosmic, his reach far, beyond the planet. Yet there is still no cure for poverty.
And Jupiter is large with no life. And what does it suggest? That, fool is the one who thinks smart and strong are the same? Or big is clever? Or large is life? Fool, our race is full of fools. But it is art, its emancipation, that gives us the view. Informs. Say, we are a scientist lying, in wait of a galaxy to turn, and to prove an hypothesis. Yet, in that wait the artist has already given the answer. That is nature. The artist is unaware of what he has, yet the scientist finds the proof. So a lovely un-scripted alliance exists between them.
Why?
Truth.
Truth is the rhythm of cosmos. Was it thus? Will it be thus? No. It is what is. Is now in perpetuity? No. Truth is evolutionary. It is what is. But only in the moment it is. Is that casuistry? No, the meaning of truth is that which recurs. Pattern is truth. And that is arbitrary, yes. But that which endures is truth. Truth is that which repeats. The question is how many times must it repeat for it to be considered truth. And maybe it is a million. Perhaps a trillion. Or perhaps we decide.
Art loses to money because the Neo-cortex slower than the primitive brain. The artistic, the thinking, the dreaming, the laughing mind, is slower than the fighting, the warring, the territorial, the greedy. That is how our brain is made. The gun has always been mightier than the thought.
Rise above that, and you might avoid repeating catalogue of misery in history.
And, so, we say we are civilized.
If we could organize neurons now, we would throw away the bi-pedal with lightening speed. Man must rise. Or intelligence rise. Out there in the destiny, will intelligence survive? Nothing is possible, in that vein. But why should man be in that destiny? We are destined to end all our thinking, art, life, hope, dream, angle and aim by either our own stupidity, which is inexhaustible, or by the star-death, galaxy-oblivion or cosmic implosion.
What hope of intelligence?
Or are we one of many? Many Comose's, repeating? In a multiverse? Dimension surplus?
Alas, Occam's razor is very sharp. What can be proved is. What can't, isn't. That's the end of it.
It is art that unifies. Music to painting, painting to theatre, theatre to literature, literature to the flowing river. What does it do, it keeps an eye on man. It is the microscope to the heart. It is the overflowing of the breast. It is the sage reflection of the well examined life. It is man, it is him. It is truth, that which recurs. And if it doesn't, it's not truth. C'est Ça.
Maybe one day, intelligence won't rely on the bi-pedal. Could such a mind survive through time? Oh please, take Beethoven with you. Please? Let all stupid things perish, let smart things endure. This is not sophistry but obvious sense. But I plead a case for Beethoven. You will never have better. If there was only one man to whom I could speak, it is Beethoven, as much as man may speak of the deaf.
What diamonds we throw away, and in return, what coal we clutch. Yet why not love each other? Why not forget territory? This is arts humanity. And greed? - don't call it geo-politics. Let's all be long on ideas and short on things, for things are greed. Things are battles. Things are war. Good heavens let us be brothers. For heavens sake let us be brothers.
Things make us primitive. Things make us stupid. It is things that stupefies. The immaterial makes us smarter. The more things, the more will be destroyed.
No. Things are the problem. Oh, cut out the Limbic, cut out the Amygdala. Let's be past those things. Let us be past those things. Because those things are greed and money and power. Intelligence should live with ideas, that way they live with love and without greed. Is all that fine by you?
But if man wants to live sustainably with the world, he has live with its ideas. Not it's things. You in posterity understand, it is sad man now that doesn't.
Perhaps the future of intelligence is formless, thingless.
So you in the future, if you know, arm yourself. Never trust authority. Never a soft code.
And remember, money, greed, wanton, is all the realm of things and, so, unnecessary. And so things that are death disguised, that lead onto death. Oh, what of love?
And all art is connected. As, all life be so. It is to ideas, not things that are our legacy. Why then, you idiots, do you thirst after fools?
And yet, why not you feel our love. You, stupid idiot fool, no-brains, you still need love. And love you will have. Love is yours.
What waits us, is the marriage of art and love.
What waits us, is rising above ourselves.
And synesthesia between art is the only way to know what art is. How can literature rise without rhythm? How can painting sing without music? How can a tale move without an image? An art walled away, itself to itself, dies.
As poetry comes from music, let that music play on. As music comes from life, let the life live. And in the silence between the notes, consolation. The dreamer will think of clouds, the pragmatist will think on irony; all the while the artist thinks on what is, or was, shall be or should be. And yet all are human, all different, all the same.
What binds us is stronger than what divides us. That is the soft and loud of art: All is one. Chaos to cosmos, Destruction to Creation, Death to life, Night to Day. There is a unity in art that says there is a unity in life. The artist may veil it, he may even refute it. But can we even have the very thought to hold the brush if chaos is total? Form implies order. Form is not possible without order. And so for art to exist, so must order. Therefore there is order. And so art. And therefore art unites people. Art is the fraternity in time and space. And among people. It is the eye into the heart. It is the ear into the nature. It is the vein into the precious, mineral soul.
Let the storm clouds gather, their baleful portent. Let the money-men win. Let the stupid have their victory. Let old gorse prickle. Let all follies have their run (their run will be had). But wherever, whenever man looks up, in, or out and thinks; what he seeks is truth. And truth is always there. Always there. A thing that is, for truth cannot not be. It is a thing that is, not a thing that isn't.
Therefore make art.
There is no war between reason and art. There was never a battle between Rousseau and Hogarth; Jefferson and Beethoven. The battle is, always was, between the Agora and Ideas. Between money and the just city. Between the money, which thinks itself power, and art with its belief in the pursuit of ideas and feeling. Yet, what is man to do? He is a piece of clay. Yet his dreams, the beauty, the soul and the spirit? Can you keep him low? Is he just a consumer? Is the mind too primitive? Ah, there is the irony. Man's hubris is cosmic, his reach far, beyond the planet. Yet there is still no cure for poverty.
And Jupiter is large with no life. And what does it suggest? That, fool is the one who thinks smart and strong are the same? Or big is clever? Or large is life? Fool, our race is full of fools. But it is art, its emancipation, that gives us the view. Informs. Say, we are a scientist lying, in wait of a galaxy to turn, and to prove an hypothesis. Yet, in that wait the artist has already given the answer. That is nature. The artist is unaware of what he has, yet the scientist finds the proof. So a lovely un-scripted alliance exists between them.
Why?
Truth.
Truth is the rhythm of cosmos. Was it thus? Will it be thus? No. It is what is. Is now in perpetuity? No. Truth is evolutionary. It is what is. But only in the moment it is. Is that casuistry? No, the meaning of truth is that which recurs. Pattern is truth. And that is arbitrary, yes. But that which endures is truth. Truth is that which repeats. The question is how many times must it repeat for it to be considered truth. And maybe it is a million. Perhaps a trillion. Or perhaps we decide.
Art loses to money because the Neo-cortex slower than the primitive brain. The artistic, the thinking, the dreaming, the laughing mind, is slower than the fighting, the warring, the territorial, the greedy. That is how our brain is made. The gun has always been mightier than the thought.
Rise above that, and you might avoid repeating catalogue of misery in history.
And, so, we say we are civilized.
If we could organize neurons now, we would throw away the bi-pedal with lightening speed. Man must rise. Or intelligence rise. Out there in the destiny, will intelligence survive? Nothing is possible, in that vein. But why should man be in that destiny? We are destined to end all our thinking, art, life, hope, dream, angle and aim by either our own stupidity, which is inexhaustible, or by the star-death, galaxy-oblivion or cosmic implosion.
What hope of intelligence?
Or are we one of many? Many Comose's, repeating? In a multiverse? Dimension surplus?
Alas, Occam's razor is very sharp. What can be proved is. What can't, isn't. That's the end of it.
It is art that unifies. Music to painting, painting to theatre, theatre to literature, literature to the flowing river. What does it do, it keeps an eye on man. It is the microscope to the heart. It is the overflowing of the breast. It is the sage reflection of the well examined life. It is man, it is him. It is truth, that which recurs. And if it doesn't, it's not truth. C'est Ça.
Maybe one day, intelligence won't rely on the bi-pedal. Could such a mind survive through time? Oh please, take Beethoven with you. Please? Let all stupid things perish, let smart things endure. This is not sophistry but obvious sense. But I plead a case for Beethoven. You will never have better. If there was only one man to whom I could speak, it is Beethoven, as much as man may speak of the deaf.
What diamonds we throw away, and in return, what coal we clutch. Yet why not love each other? Why not forget territory? This is arts humanity. And greed? - don't call it geo-politics. Let's all be long on ideas and short on things, for things are greed. Things are battles. Things are war. Good heavens let us be brothers. For heavens sake let us be brothers.
Things make us primitive. Things make us stupid. It is things that stupefies. The immaterial makes us smarter. The more things, the more will be destroyed.
No. Things are the problem. Oh, cut out the Limbic, cut out the Amygdala. Let's be past those things. Let us be past those things. Because those things are greed and money and power. Intelligence should live with ideas, that way they live with love and without greed. Is all that fine by you?
But if man wants to live sustainably with the world, he has live with its ideas. Not it's things. You in posterity understand, it is sad man now that doesn't.
Perhaps the future of intelligence is formless, thingless.
So you in the future, if you know, arm yourself. Never trust authority. Never a soft code.
And remember, money, greed, wanton, is all the realm of things and, so, unnecessary. And so things that are death disguised, that lead onto death. Oh, what of love?
And all art is connected. As, all life be so. It is to ideas, not things that are our legacy. Why then, you idiots, do you thirst after fools?
And yet, why not you feel our love. You, stupid idiot fool, no-brains, you still need love. And love you will have. Love is yours.
What waits us, is the marriage of art and love.
What waits us, is rising above ourselves.
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