Art as colour therapy STUFF

 

Stille i stormen

Painting my way

Though a rather uncomfortable

Hospital stay

 

Kraken poetry

We do not eat the Kraken

All that water looking ironclad

Steely grey against the lightning storm above

Only movement 

our chests as we breathe

Not a wind but for the air we let out

It's unsettling this mirroresque sea against 

the raging of skies so high above we 

can only see the flashes in the loom,

Hardly a boom reaches us

The slow flattened surface disfiguring that half crested moon

reminding us of a golden octopus we once tried to eat in Greece

Arms contorted

Now white against the black płate it had been thrown onto

Menacing it looked

Blaming

I remember thinking that had this creature been the size of a house 

it would be exactly what I imagined the Kraken to be

I have a soft spot for the Kraken 

Naturally, we didn't actually eat it

One doesn't eat magical creatures

Monsters or not, they deserve respect. 

And time

We eat our words, our hearts, our pride. 

But not the Kraken

#sussithepoet

#bluemind

 

 

The Humans Who Inspire Me: Tjasa Owen

www.tjasaowen.com

An American seascape painter who continuously inspire me by playing with my colours

ok, not MY colours, but the colours that vibrationally signify my true self

Maybe yours too?

Anyways, I do not know how, but in a previous life I think Tjasa might have been my favourite muse, an angel in disguise, possibly a mermaid sister

and

Every

Single

Day

I feel seen when I look at her paintings.

It is a really beautiful thing, feeling seen.

Invisibility was always a theme of mine growing up. 

Double-edged sword kindafink

wanting desperately to achieve that perfect level of clear water blend-in-ness

cherishing the ability to disappear

but also hungering, starving to be seen. 

Really seen

As the person I was. 

I had a strong sense of self even as a child

and I knew I was not truly seen.

Loved, but not for who I really was. Does that make sense?

Anyways, what happens sometimes, 

when I see certain constellations of colours, like the ones Tjasa use,  

is that a song forms in my head

a seashanty-like wave of nodes and words kissing my synaesthesia brain

like the painting above did:

'Sea Grit'

 

Piano I Ching

Piano I Ching

There is a glorious smell of piano in my study

Throwing me down the path of basement lessons with cute 'klaver' teacher as an impressionable teen. 

No nodes could be taught,

I was dumb as soup. Which is why first two teachers gave up on me.

I could hear though. 

Mozart and Beethoven, a salad of Straßes and a side bar of Beatles. 

Bitter sweet memories form as I sit here looking at the remainder of a 100 year old piano split to kindling. 

The I Ching of change right here on my table. Our piano always sang change. Stuffed into the 70ies home bar area in the white house dad bought when we were too broke to stay in the one before. And the one before that. Still, he wanted his daughter to play an instrument. We had tried the accordion.

It weighed more than me and had it after I drew blood on its clasp falling over it 

That. And the fact that I have no left right coordination. Was a leftie, turned right in first grade. A thinly disguised attempt to 'normalify' the last of the Mortensen kids. Having failed to succeed with the other three, all stops were pulled. They failed. Instead I could both write with and not write prettily with both hands. And if I had ever had any, the ability to know what was left or right, how to coordinate the two with hands feet and eyes, went. My exceptional father saw the clumsiness as a sign I was his ... Flat footed fella he was. Walked like a goose. Although, feeling loved by your dad is great, goose walking ambidextrous five year olds do not fare well in rural seventies school yards.

My foot to shin aim was perfected soon enough. Unfortunately, this would not help me 10 years later cloppering the pedals on the sad bar piano that had replaced the atrocious accordion. Black gentleman he was, still smelled of smoke and bodega. In times of strife dad could always find a bargain. Wolfgang I called him. Ivory fingers, at least a handful of the slices of dead elephant missing. The old man was injured. Mum had him tuned once. That would do it tight dad said. 'It is not about being in tune, it's about knowing the dance.' Explained a lot. Half the family couldn't carry a tune if it were a feather the other had perfect pitch. And then there was me.

#sussithepoet

Dancer

 

Dancer

It was the way she danced. 

Her touch on the floor so fleeting it seemed inconsequential. 

She had asked me to come. 

She needed a dancing partner, she said. 

Admiring her now, I know that was not true. 

This girl needs nothing when she dances. 

Not music not gravity, definitely not me. 

Inconsequential me.