Fragments gel in the cool blue amber dream of mixing this and that to become the other and some other brother as it all melts inside the electro-syntax pulse of knowing as we become real in the function of experience absorbing the stimuli of awareness so that two fragments become a whole in the outcome of this and that point in art history back there when artists stopped being held hostage to concrete reality and started making art that was just as real as the other art they were making had been making all along and continue to make but that art looked like a mirror of the world around us but it was the flawed mirror of time constraint like I can’t go out and paint a landscape at three in the afternoon and get the clouds to stay in one place all the time I am painting so in the end the painting that I complete at the end of the day is not the landscape that I was looking at the whole time because nothing is permanent and reality keeps shifting in form and function but the camera comes along with its silver emulsion of light sensitive composition of chemistry and reality is frozen in a flash of light just like that denuded of its sounds or scents but those who need continual reassurance that there is no boogie man under the bed or in the closet can look at a photograph of a landscape and the clouds are frozen in place forever in that unnatural manner that people need in order to feel like they are on firm footing with reality as the world continues to shift and crumble like sand castles on the beach as the tide rushes in to make new all that is in that continual transformation and our memory remains of a day on the beach making a sand castle that will not last but for a few hours and that is who we are in the end and all that remains is the sand washed clean of our infringement upon the natural world and the memory of a good time and we walk down the sidewalk hearing the sounds of the sidewalk reality all merging into our mind and becoming the experience of the moment and that is the sidewalk music we dance to as the artist steps forward with brush in hand and puts the brush into a vial of ink and the ink climbs up the fibers of the brush and resides there in the manner of ink surface tension music water atom dreaming until the flick of the wrist dislodges the ink splattering it across the gulf of emptiness between here and the edge of infinity and just as it is all about to become nothing and forever is just a whisper of smoke in the illusion of memory suddenly the ink explodes in a violent force of impact onto the paper and leaves a mark just as accurate if not more so than the splash of light exploding into the greedy molecules of film to make a photograph and reality is just as real now as it was the last time or the first time or the next time and the sax man knows as he blows his songs against the skin of the Universe and pauses a minute to hear the reverberation of echoes against the walls of ear canal sound chambers like the immutable sound track of knowing emptiness as the fan blows against the waves of energy and I have placed the video digital recorder on the desk in front of the computer where the audio track from “Blues in the key of G” are vibrating the surface of the desk and I let the backdrop tease and taunt me through another practice session on the harmonica and the two elements of sound mix in the mind and become something new and different from what I was doing and it really is what you want it to be and at some point you want it to be the wash of high tide rolling in across a nude beach devoid of all infringement of tourist with impending doom of self-destructive illusions and the waves wash the fabric of light clean from the nothingness again and again and again
