Thursday, May 13, 2010

Learning to Listen

Ink Therapy sessions 4, 5, and 6 were awash with the struggle to relax my attitudes toward white space. 

In session 4, I had to start with written words again. Not my idea of what should be happening. A few more scratches here and there. A few more words. A couple of ink washes. 

Tanda was no help this time; he kept his distance. Back and forth I went with myself. I struggled with me. We struggled with we. The result: a muddy, complicated story hardly worth interpretation. Looks like my muse is getting raped by a story line stork! 

No sure way to experience a resurrection. No impeccable inkings here. 

Click drawing to enlarge
The devil is in the details.

Session 5 began with a few small rivers of ink wash, an oil slick. I searched for continuations of these image streams, but few appeared. 

First to appear was the horned bull. Next was the dweeb hunkering under the Roman helmet. The dog showed me his backside was nothing more than my fingerprint. A pineapple like vase erupted in faceless heads as if their identities were all tied up.

After the beacon of help shone from the lighthouse, a space age Tanda pretender appeared in a small water craft. Inking was pretty stupid today, I thought.

At last go, the notion of Time did present itself with a meter’s hand protruding from a black ink peninsula. 

Click drawing to enlarge
Oil Slick

During session 6 things began to make sense; I began to get some of the story I was looking for. 

It appears my muse is energizing Mitote, the human and cultural fog Toltecs tell us we are born into. Life has been hijacked by vested interests pretending to offer Truth, pensions, and possibly the favors of Lady Gaga. How much of that hogwash did we blindly accept?

Time reappears like soggy pizzas afloat in rolling seas. Tanda is afloat, seemingly brain dead. There is no Cogito ergo sum; sum is dead and buried. Mitote wins.

It’s time for a Revolution to begin.

Click drawing to enlarge

In Mitote we trust.

Next time: Conflict Resolution


sladkomn said...

Amen, amen, I say unto thee, thou shalt eventually be impeccable, which is to say without sin or the illusion of same.

I notice the word "resurrection" also, and see dark possibilities rising, as I imagined the entire Resurrection Cemetery, in Mendota Heights, rising, last Monday, when I went to visit Mark's grave on the anniversary of his death.

Your doodlings, dawdlings, droolings, brother, seem to connect with the great themes: life, death, resurrection, and, sure, the rape of Leda by the swan.

sladkomn said...

I like Mitote and the blank-faced (fertile? receptive?) zap-mama. It's appropriate, as they say, that we trust in something, and if not God (god / gods / gads / gadzooks!), why not these mysterious mitotes:

"The Coahuiltecan's religion was like many Indian tribes of North America. They believed in many gods and held many religious ceremonies called mitotes. At these ceremonies the Coahuiltecans used peyote. Mitotes celebrated many things, such as puberty rights, and were held mostly in the summer when enough food could be gather ed to hold a feast."

Is George (the Mason) Washington giving Tanda the evil eye? I like how Tanda is slipping up slyly to the customary icons.