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Why We Can’t Get No Satisfaction

"...Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those tress be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal - yet , do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou has not thy bliss, For ever wilt though love, and she be fair!" ~ John Keats~
“…Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those tress be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal – yet , do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou has not thy bliss, For ever wilt though love, and she be fair!”
~ John Keats~

Some people think that it’s the tension of being left wanting  that makes the artist, the writer, the musician.

Sometimes the beauty of the human spirit expressed through art shines the brightest in the darkest of situations, where want and need constantly lurk behind the corners of our comfort.

Contentment and satisfaction are often short-lived, a tension always pulling at our attention, our ability to focus, and our ability to be at ease with less.

So it is with art, the same as with our lovers.  “Are you tired?”. My head was tilted back, my vulnerable neck left exposed, and my eyes were closed. I felt nothing of hunger, or cold or wanting. “I’m content. Sated.”

I like that,” he said, reclining back on his elbow.

Sated. That’s an evocative word isn’t it?  It’s so much better than happy, ok, or even relaxed.  Sated, it whispers hints of sloth after completely satisfying the deep hunger of lustful  greed and gluttony.

Being satiated rarely leads to ground breaking creativity. It usually just leads to deep, restful sleep.

So why is it, that with our partners we always want more? What’s wrong with a partner who completes you intellectually, another spiritually, and another sexually? Why can’t we just let go of the faults, the tension, the wanting the impossible of knowing someone completely when we never really ever know ourselves? Why do we always want more?

The beauty of all of these relationships; the spiritual, the intellectual and the physical is that they stand incomplete against the measuring stick of perfection. I believe that the beauty in relationships is much like art; the sublime shines brightest against the darkness of lack.

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The Beast is Sated

I took some time off a couple of years ago to write a book.

Like a true writer, I picked it all to bits until I couldn’t make sense of it any more. I’ve gone back to it a few times, never getting past page two, editing and re-writing.

Today however, I took a bold step toward the grumbling belly of the creative beast that has been pawing to get out and prowl.  I have engaged an editor to fine tune it all. Sated, the beast calmed and curled up next to the flickering embers of my creative self.

To tame the beast, I have stoked the fire, and am ready to embark on novel #2……

another bukowski

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Confessions of a Gallery Junkie

Musee Rodin - Adam
Musee Rodin – Adam (Photo credit: John Kroll)

You all know by now that I adore my time spent at the local art gallery.

I have been blessed by the art gods, or pan-sexual-life-affirming gods (whomever inspires you my darlings), to live near a world-class gallery.

I spend many a Sunday afternoon sipping wine in the  member’s lounge, chatting to fellow artists, wanna-be artists, or perhaps just myself, Moleskine and smooth writing pen in hand.

Some days I write pages, and other days the page holds out its fabulously, gnarled hand and won’t let me write a damn thing.

Most of all, beyond my nine-to-five life, the gallery feeds the flame of my creativity.

The art feeds my imagination, and what, pray tell,  my sweet, tender ,figs, would an artist be without imagination?

My top ten fantasies inspired by the AGO

1) I finally find that flowing scarf that never snags, flops into my soup, or makes my voluptuous ass look big. I also find the perfect sexy boot that doesn’t make me sound like a Clydesdale clopping across the sacred silence of gallery space.

2) I am bent over the knee of Rodin’s Adam, being shagged mercilessly by a very determined lover. He must be virile and skilled enough to finish the entire job before we get tossed out of my Eden of art forever. Preferably he speaks no English. Better yet, he doesn’t speak at all.

3) All of the books that whet my insatiable appetite for the exchange of ideas are priced reasonably, and I meet a man across the crowded, over-priced gift shop who is as hungry for intellectually stimulating intimacy as I am. (Hopefully this one speaks English, but with a sexy Irish brogue, or French yum-yum-accent).

I’m afraid that sums it up. I know lovey, I know, I did say there were ten fantasies, but I can’t share the rest with you. I’m saving them for someone special.

The gallery inspires me to creative, lustful, philosophy. It’s as simple as that. The other seven fantasies are for that yummy man, whom I meet as he sizes up my books and I size up his, er, um….anyway, our, eyes lock across the crowded bookstore/coffee shop/gallery/coat check/gate/pub/studio, and I know he’s the lucky one.