…thinking (a cathartic ramble)



Do you ever think?  What do you think about?  What is there that you DON’T think about, or don’t WANT to think about?  You ever sit around and just think about…THINKING?  I do, which would be no surprise to those who have spoken more than a few sentences to me.  I’m a seeker, a thinker, a listener.  Yeah, I’m the kind of guy who will hear you say something in June and will get you that PERFECT Christmas present because, by the time that Christmas rolls around, you have long since forgotten that you spoke a word about that antique vase, just like your grandmother’s, in the window of the Antique Shoppe.  The vase that, the very next week, disappeared from the window, and has been wrapped up in an old jacket next to my snow shoes on the top shelf of my closet for 6 months.

Anyway, I got around to thinking about thinking this morning.  Surprise.  I wanted to sit at the WordPress UI and ramble as I thought about thinking.  Why?  I am not entirely sure.  But then I got around to thinking about the visions that I get while thinking.


Yes, visions.  Palpable, touchable, smellable, real, ALIVE visions:  2D visions, 3D visions, 2D representations of 3D visions, paintings, cartoons, 1/2 hour children’s Bible shows, 3 hour movies–and their 3 3hour sequels, the 3 prequels, the plastic figures passed out at McDonalds, graphic novels, a 7 hour rock opera, ballet dances, words, letters, space travel, Purple pastries, and coffee.

When I think about thinking, for instance, I see me in a mountainous valley, with a translucent Purple sky and pink taffy clouds.  The Purple is a specific color, kinda like if you melted the Purple Crayola crayon over the clear lens of your welding helmet, just the right amount, so that you could still see well enough, but so that everything had a Purple tint to it.  As the pink taffy clouds roll by, I can reach up into one and pull down a clutter of thoughts–a “thought chunk,” inspect it, stretch it thin, roll it out, poke my finger through it, nibble on it, think about it, then push it back up into the sky.  It’s all still there, complete and unsoiled, even though I did my best to soil it as I manipulated it in my filthy hands.



I cannot duplicate any of the visions that I get.  99% of my artwork–my attempts at representing my visions–SUCKS.  Except the LETTERS, the WORDS.  As a boy, I drew letters and words; I made up my own alphabets/fonts; I could see rooms full of my HUGE letters, 10′ tall by 6′ wide, in the Louvre, of course.  At least THEN France would have something of value to boast about once again, as they haven’t since before their horribly ungodly Revolution–from which they have yet to recover.



Yes, it’s always been words and letters for me.  You see, I don’t get images of these letters, I FEEL them.  Give me a sketch pad and crayons, markers, colored pencils, pastels, whatever, and I’ll FEEL some letters, some words for you.  They’re all rather too colorful and too filled with abstract creations, psychedelic paisley.  But, to me, they’re alive.  They gyrate and undulate and ripple and swirl and make patterns and tell stories….



It’s all the art that I’ve ever needed.

(The artist who created the initial image above is Erté, in case you’re wondering.  Fine work to be admired.  Until you get a gander at mine….)

}}Time to stick my head in the oven.  Don’t worry:  it’s an electric oven.  You see, Praise the LORD, my dream of becoming a pastry chef is coming true at the same time as my dream of becoming a writer and my dream of becoming a Preacher of the WORD of GOD.  But even Purple Preachers have to clean their pastry ovens.{{


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