creation – Page 3 – BlissNinja

The Artist Spews…..

🌟Rank asked why the artist so often avoids clinical neurosis when he is so much a candidate for it because of his vivid imagination, his openness to the finest and broadest aspects of experience, his isolation from the cultural world-view that satisfies everyone else. The answer is that he takes in the world, but instead of being oppressed by it he reworks it in his own personality and recreates it in the work of art. The neurotic is precisely the one who cannot create—the “artiste-manque,” as Rank so aptly called him. We might say that both the artist and the neurotic bite off more than they can chew, but the artist spews it back out again and chews it over in an objectified way, as an external, active, work project. The neurotic can’t marshal this creative response embodied in a specific work, and so he chokes on his introversions. The artist has similar large-scale introversions, but he uses them as material.🌟

:::🌟Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

{Self Portrait Series 8-7-24 part 2}

Man cannot endure his own littleness unless he can translate it into meaningfulness on the largest possible level.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

The irony of man’s condition is that the deepest need is to be free of the anxiety of death and annihilation; but it is life itself which awakens it, and so we must shrink from being fully alive.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

The neurotic exhausts himself not only in self-preoccupations like hypochondrial fears and all sorts of fantasies, but also in others: those around him on whom he is dependent become his therapeutic work project; he takes out his subjective problems on them. But people are not clay to be molded; they have needs and counter-wills of their own. The neurotic’s frustration as a failed artist can’t be remedied by anything but an objective creative work of his own. Another way of looking at it is to say that the more totally one takes in the world as a problem, the more inferior or “bad” one is going to feel inside oneself. He can try to work out this “badness” by striving for perfection, and then the neurotic symptom becomes his “creative” work; or he can try to make himself perfect by means his partner. But it is obvious to us that the only way to work on perfection is in the form of an objective work that is fully under your control and is perfectible in some real ways. Either you eat up yourself and others around you, trying for perfection; or you objectify that imperfection in a work, on which you then unleash your creative powers. In this sense, some kind of objective creativity is the only answer man has to the problem of life. In this way he satisfies nature, which asks that he live and act objectively as a vital animal plunging into the world; but he also satisfies his own distinctive human nature because he plunges in on his own symbolic terms and not as a reflex of the world as given to mere physical sense experience. He takes in the world, makes a total problem out of it, and then gives out a fashioned, human answer to that problem. This, as Goethe saw in Faust, is the highest that man can achieve.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

In Jung’s terms-that we noted previously-the work is the artist’s own transference projection, and he knows that consciously and critically. Whatever he does he is stuck with himself, can’t get securely outside and beyond himself. He is also stuck with the work of art itself. Like any material achievement it is visible, earthly, impermanent. No matter how great it is, it still pales in some ways next to the transcending majesty of nature; and so it is ambiguous, hardly a solid immortality symbol. In his greatest genius man is still mocked. No matter that historically art and psychosis have had such an intimate relationship, that the road to creativity passes so close to the madhouse and often detours or ends there. The artist and the madman are trapped by their own fabrications; they wallow in their own anality, in their protest that they really are something special in creation.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

The most that any one of us can seem to do is to fashion something–an object or ourselves–and drop it into the confusion, make an offering of it, so to speak, to the life force.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Guilt results from unused life, from the unlived in us.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

And so we see the paradox that evolution has handed us. If man is the only animal whose consciousness of self gives him an unusual dignity in the animal kingdom, he also pays a tragic price for it. The fact that the child has to identify -first- means that his very first identity is a social product. His habitation of his own body is built from the outside in; not from the inside out. He doesn’t unfold into the world, the world unfolds into him. As the child responds to the vocal symbols learned from his object, he often gives the pathetic impression of being a true social puppet, jerked by alien symbols and sounds. What sensitive parent does not have his satisfaction tinged with sadness as the child repeats with such vital earnestness the little symbols that are taught him?

Ernest Becker, The Birth and Death of Meaning: An Interdisciplinary Perspective on the Problem of Man

Man cuts out for himself a manageable world: he throws himself into action uncritically, unthinkingly. He accepts the cultural programming that turns his nose where he is supposed to look; he doesn’t bite the world off in one piece as a giant would, but in small manageable pieces, as a beaver does. He uses all kinds of techniques, which we call the “character defenses”: he learns not to expose himself, not to stand out; he learns to embed himself in other-power, both of concrete persons and of things and cultural commands; the result is that he comes to exist in the imagined infallibility of the world around him. He doesn’t have to have fears when his feet are solidly mired and his life mapped out in a ready-made maze. All he has to do is to plunge ahead in a compulsive style of drivenness in the “ways of the world.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

[Man] literally drives himself into a blind obliviousness with social games, psychological tricks, personal preoccupations so far removed from the reality of his situation that they are forms of madness, but madness all the same.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

To grow up at all is to conceal the mass of internal scar tissue that throbs in our dreams.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

By the time the child grows up, the inverted search for a personal existence through perversity gets set in an individual mold, and it becomes more secret. It has to be secret because the community won’t stand for the attempt by people to wholly individualize themselves. If there is going to be a victory over human incompleteness and limitation, it has to be a social project and not an individual one. Society wants to be the one to decide how people are to transcend death; it will tolerate the causa-sui project only if it fits into the standard social project. Otherwise there is the alarm of “Anarchy!” This is one of the reasons for bigotry and censorship of all kinds over personal morality: people fear that the standard morality will be undermined-another way of saying that they fear they will no longer be able to control life and death. A person is said to be “socialized” precisely when he accepts to “sublimate” the body-sexual character of his Oedipal project. Now these euphemisms mean usually that he accepts to work on becoming the father of himself by abandoning his own project and by giving it over to “The Fathers.” The castration complex has done its work, and one submits to “social reality”; he can now deflate his own desires and claims and can play it safe in the world of the powerful elders. He can even give his body over to the tribe, the state, the embracing magic umbrella of the elders and their symbols; that way it will no longer be a dangerous negation for him. But there is no real difference between a childish impossibility and an adult one; the only thing that the person achieves is a practiced self-deceit-what we call the “mature” character.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

The ironic thing about the narrowing-down of neurosis is that the person seeks to avoid death, but he does it by killing off so much of himself and so large a spectrum of his action-world that he is actually isolating and diminishing himself and becomes as though dead. There is just no way for the living creature to avoid life and death, and it is probably poetic justice that if he tries too hard to do so he destroys himself.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Kierkegaard gives us some portrait sketches of the styles of denying possibility, or the lies of character-which is the same thing. He is intent on describing what we today call “inauthentic” men, men who avoid developing their own uniqueness; they follow out the styles of automatic and uncritical living in which they were conditioned as children. They are “inauthentic” in that they do not belong to themselves, are not “their own” person, do not act from their own center, do not see reality on its terms; they are the one-dimensional men totally immersed in the fictional games being played in their society, unable to transcend their social conditioning: the corporation men in the West, the bureaucrats in the East, the tribal men locked up in tradition-man everywhere who doesn’t understand what it means to think for himself and who, if he did, would shrink back at the idea of such audacity and exposure.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Anthropologists have long known that when a tribe of people lose their feeling that their way of life is worth-while they may stop reproducing, or in large numbers simply lie down and die beside streams full of fish: food is not the primary nourishment of man.

Ernest Becker, The Birth and Death of Meaning: An Interdisciplinary Perspective on the Problem of Man

Beyond a given point man is not helped by more “knowing,” but only by living and doing in a partly self-forgetful way. As Goethe put it, we must plunge into experience and then reflect on the meaning of it. All reflection and no plunging drives us mad; all plunging and no reflection, and we are brutes.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Take stock of those around you and you will … hear them talk in precise terms about themselves and their surroundings, which would seem to point to them having ideas on the matter. But start to analyse those ideas and you will find that they hardly reflect in any way the reality to which they appear to refer, and if you go deeper you will discover that there is not even an attempt to adjust the ideas to this reality. Quite the contrary: through these notions the individual is trying to cut off any personal vision of reality, of his own very life. For life is at the start a chaos in which one is lost. The individual suspects this, but he is frightened at finding himself face to face with this terrible reality, and tries to cover it over with a curtain of fantasy, where everything is clear. It does not worry him that his “ideas” are not true, he uses them as trenches for the defense of his existence, as scarecrows to frighten away reality.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

The man of knowledge in our time is bowed down under a burden he never imagined he would ever have: the overproduction of truth that cannot be consumed.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

There is no doubt that creative work is itself done under a compulsion often indistinguishable from a purely clinical obsession. In this sense, what we call a creative gift is merely the social license to be obsessed. And what we call “cultural routine” is a similar license: the proletariat demands the obsession of work in order to keep from going crazy. I used to wonder how people could stand the really demonic activity of working behind those hellish ranges in hotel kitchens, the frantic whirl of waiting on a dozen tables at one time, the madness of the travel agent’s office at the height of the tourist season, or the torture of working with a jack-hammer all day on a hot summer street. The answer is so simple that it eludes us: the craziness of these activities is exactly that of the human condition. They are “right” for us because the alternative is natural desperation. The daily madness of these jobs is a repeated vaccination against the madness of the asylum. Look at the joy and eagerness with which workers return from vacation to their compulsive routines. They plunge into their work with equanimity and lightheartedness because it drowns out something more ominous.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

In other words, as long as man is an ambiguous creature he can never banish anxiety; what he can do instead is to use anxiety as an eternal spring for growth into new dimensions of thought and trust. Faith poses a new life task, the adventure in openness to a multi-dimensional reality.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

People create the reality they need in order to discover themselves.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

The “healthy” person, the true individual, the self-realized soul, the “real” man, is the one who has transcended himself.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

The great boon of repression is that it makes it possible to live decisively in an overwhelmingly miraculous and incomprehensible world, a world so full of beauty, majesty, and terror that if animals perceived it all they would be paralyzed to act. … What would the average man (sic) do with a full consciousness of absurdity? He has fashioned his character for the precise purpose of putting it between himself and the facts of life; it is his special tour-de-force that allows him to ignore incongruities, to nourish himself on impossibilities, to thrive on blindness. He accomplishes thereby a peculiarly human victory: the ability to be smug about terror.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Take the average man who has to stage in his own way the life drama of his own worth and significance. As a youth he, like everyone else, feels that deep down he has a special talent, an indefinable but real something to contribute to the richness and success of life in the universe. But, like almost everyone else, he doesn’t seem to hit on the unfolding of this special something; his life takes on the character of a series of accidents and encounters that carry him along, willy-nilly, into new experiences and responsibilities. Career, marriage, family, approaching old age – all these happen to him, he doesn’t command them. Instead of his staging the drama of his own significance, he himself is staged, programmed by the standard scenario laid down by his society.

Ernest Becker, Angel in Armor: A Post-Freudian Perspective on the Nature of Man

Secrets and silences make life more real: the individual, self-absorbed and inwardly musing, taking himself very seriously, radiates a contagious aura: the tacit communication that the serious and the meaningful exist.

Ernest Becker, The Birth and Death of Meaning: An Interdisciplinary Perspective on the Problem of Man

Kierkegaard put it this way: But while one sort of despair plunges wildly into the infinite and loses itself, a second sort permits itself as it were to be defrauded by “the others.” By seeing the multitude of men about it, by getting engaged in all sorts of wordly affairs, by becoming wise about how things go in this world, such a man forgets himself… does not dare to believe in himself, finds it too venturesome a thing to be himself, far easier and safer to be like the others, to become an imitation, a number, a cipher in the crowd.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

We fear our highest possibility (as well as our lowest ones). We are generally afraid to become that which we can glimpse in our most perfect moments…. We enjoy and even thrill to the godlike possibilities we see in ourselves in such peak moments. And yet we simultaneously shiver with weakness, awe and fear before these very same possibilities.

Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Chaos of Creation

🌟We know that our language is incapable of recalling even the pale reflection of those strange and perished states. The same would be true of this entire journal if it had to be the notation of what I was. I shall therefore make it clear that it is meant to indicate what I am today, as I write it. It is not a quest of time gone by, but a work of art whose pretext−subject is my former life. It will be a present fixed with the help of the past, and not vice versa. Let it be therefore understood that the facts were what I say they were, but the interpretation that I give them is what I am—now.🌟

Jean Genet

We are the ink that gives the white page a meaning.

Jean Genet

In space, she kept devising new and barbaric forms for herself, for she sensed intuitively that immobility makes it too easy for God to get you in a good wrestling hold and carry you off. So she danced. While walking. Everywhere.

Jean Genet

“Beauty has no other origin than a wound, unique, different for each person, hidden or visible, that everyone keeps in himself, that he preserves and to which he withdraws when he wants to leave the world for a temporary but profound solitude.”

🌟Jean Genet, Fragments of the Artwork

Certain acts dazzle us and light up blurred surfaces, if our eyes are sharp enough to see them in a flash, for the beauty of a living thing can be grasped only fleetingly. To pursue it during its changes leads us inevitably to the moment when it ceases, for it cannot last a lifetime. And to analyze it, that is, to pursue it in time with the sight and the imagination, is to view it in its decline, for following the marvelous moment in which it reveals itself, it diminishes in intensity.

Jean Genet

The hour between dog and wolf, that is, dusk, when the two can’t be distinguished from each other, suggests a lot of other things besides the time of day…The hour in which…every being becomes his own shadow, and thus something other than himself. The hour of metamorphoses, when people half hope, half fear that a dog will become a wolf. The hour that comes down to us from at least as far back as the early Middle Ages, when country people believed that transformation might happen at any moment.

Jean Genet

Creating is not a somewhat frivolous game. The creator has committed himself to the fearful adventure of taking upon himself, to the very end, the perils risked by his creatures. We cannot suppose a creation that does not spring from love. How can a man place before himself something as strong as himself which he will have to scorn and hate?…Every lover does likewise, hoping to be loved for his own sake.

Jean Genet

A man must dream a long time in order to act with grandeur, and dreaming is nursed in darkness.

Jean Genet

Would it perturb you to see things as they are? To gaze at the world tranquilly and accept responsibility for your gaze, whatever it might see?

Jean Genet

I had recourse to magic, that is, to a kind of deliberate predisposition, an intuitive complicity with nature.

Jean Genet

Bearing the Body Within

The twitch of Dreamtime
As stitched open eyes
Find Time
To cope with Spaces deep inside

I am full with Child
Ripe with fruit
Nerves on fire
With the desire
To open the womb
And carry thru
This seed of truth

Where and when and how
Did the germination
Take place?
I can’t seem to remember
The breath of
Grace
That spoke to me
That broke the hymen
And woke the seed

My belly is swollen
And round
The active fractal
Of self
within
The shroud
Tumbles around with forceful
Kicks
As I wander thru psyches
Maze of bricks
Trying to be found

It is Time

In this Space

Just like
in waking life
So many moons ago
A nodal cycles synodic flow

Sudden fear
For just a moment
Can I open wide enough
To deliver the Numen
Can I bear the terror
Of this movement
As the veil tears
And bares
The burden
Of Being
Human?

Do I push It thru
Or does It
Split me
In Two
Into New Moons
And Minds
As Daimons ride
The wave with me…
Cry out in pain with me…
Wade thru stains
Of bloody chains
That break when the waters
Pour out of me ?

Breathe
Let go
It’s so Real
I Feel
It burst thru
Huge
Alive
Wide eyed
And thriving
Outside
Of Me

My Goddess….!
….The Beauty
The Wonder the Wisdom
Of Womans Body
Alethias forgotten
Melody
My God…..!
….My God
Thou hast christened me
Theos unLoosed
From crystalline
Seams.

Now to nurture
At the breast
Turn blood to milk
Like water to wine
As I climb inside
The feathered nest
Of the divine

I remember
Then
The Name of him
From which
This body
Born from me
Was given the spark
From electric seed

Full exposure
Nowhere to hide
The sight of the light
And the scope of the size
Of this daimon in dream
This daimon in me
This playful parade
Of uncertainty
Birthing me
From within

A mirror of matters magical
Twins
As Mater and Pater
Outside and In
join
At the hip
And dance and spin
Deliciously tangled
In SineWave
Grins.

The Stitch of Dreamtime
As twitching I~s
Rewind Time
In Spaces opened from Inside..

Charleen Johnston
7-26-2024

(Based in last nights vivid dream of pregnancy and giving birth)

Sculpting in Time

It is a mistake to talk about the artist looking for his subject. In fact, the subject grows within him like a fruit and begins to demand expression. It is like childbirth. The poet has nothing to be proud of. He is not master of the situation, but a servant. Creative work is his only possible form of existence, and his every work is like a deed he has no power to annul. For him to be aware that the sequence of such deeds is due and ripe, that it lies in the very nature of things, he has to have faith in the idea; for only faith interlocks the system of images for which read system of life.

Andrei Tarkovsky

The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good. Touched by a masterpiece, a person begins to hear in himself that same call of truth which prompted the artist to his creative act. When a link is established between the work and its beholder, the latter experiences a sublime, purging trauma. Within that aura which unites masterpieces and audience, the best sides of our souls are made known, and we long for them to be freed. In those moments we recognize and discover ourselves, the unfathomable depths of our own potential, and the furthest reaches of our emotions.

Andrei Tarkovsky

When I speak of the aspiration towards the beautiful, of the ideal as the ultimate aim of art, which grows from a yearning for that ideal, I am not for a moment suggesting that art should shun the ‘dirt’ of the world. On the contrary! the artistic image is always a metonym, where one thing is substituted for another, the smaller for the greater. To tell of what is living, the artist uses something dead; to speak of the infinite, he shows the finite. Substitution… the infinite cannot be made into matter, but it is possible to create an illusion of the infinite: the image.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

A poet is someone who can use a single image to send a universal message.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Andrei Tarkovsky: Interviews

I don’t know… I think I’d like to say only that they should learn to be alone and try to spend as much time as possible by themselves. I think one of the faults of young people today is that they try to come together around events that are noisy, almost aggressive at times. This desire to be together in order to not feel alone is an unfortunate symptom, in my opinion. Every person needs to learn from childhood how to spend time with oneself. That doesn’t mean he should be lonely, but that he shouldn’t grow bored with himself because people who grow bored in their own company seem to me in danger, from a self-esteem point of view.

Andrei Tarkovsky

An artistic image is one that ensures its own development, its historical viability. An image is a grain, a self-evolving retroactive organism. It is a symbol of actual life, as opposed to life itself. Life contains death. An image of life, by contrast, excludes it, or else sees in it a unique potential for the affirmation of life.
Whatever it expresses—even destruction and ruin—the artistic image is by definition an embodiment of hope, it is inspired by faith.
Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death. Therefore it is
optimistic, even if in an ultimate sense the artist is tragic.
And so there can never be optimistic artists and pessimistic artists. There can only be talent and mediocrity.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Journal 1970-1986

One doesn’t need a lot to be able to live. The great thing is to be free in your work. Ofcourse it’s important to print or exhibit, but if that’s not possible you are still left with the most important thing of all — being able to work without asking anybody’s permission.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Journal 1970-1986

Why are they all trying to make me into a saint?
Oh God! Oh God!
I want to do things. Stop turning me into a saint.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Journal 1970-1986

If you throw even a cursory glance into the past, at the life which lies behind you, not even recalling its most vivid moments, you are struck every time by the singularity of the events in which you took part, the unique individuality of the characters whom you met. This singularity is like the dominant note of every moment of existence; in each moment of life, the life principle itself is unique. The artist therefore tries to grasp that principle and make it incarnate, new each time; and each time he hopes, though in vain, to achieve an exhaustive image of the Truth of human existence. The quality of beauty is in the truth of life.

Andrei Tarkovsky

Our fraught way of life gives each of us a narrowly defined role, creating conditions conducive to developing only those elements in our psyche which allow us to grow within the confines of that role. The other areas of our psyche waste away. Hence lack of contact. Here psychological and social factors combine, and produce fear, distrust, moral baseness and the death of hope.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Journal 1970-1986

For many years I have been tormented by the certainty that the most extraordinary discoveries await us in the sphere of time . We know less about time than about anything else.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Journal 1970-1986

I believe in one thing: the human spirit is immortal and indestructible. In the beyond there could be anything, it is of no importance whatsoever. What we call death is not death. It’s a rebirth. A caterpillar becomes a cocoon. I think there is a life after death and it is that that is unnerving. It would be so much simpler to conceive of oneself as a telephone cord that is unplugged. Then you could live any way that you wanted. God would have no importance of any kind.

Andrei Tarkovsky

If a writer, despite his natural gifts, gives up writing because no one will publish him, then he is no writer. The artist is distinguished by his urge to create, which by very definition is a concomitant of talent.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Journal 1970-1986

The death of childhood is the beginning of poetry.

Andrei Tarkovsky

All creative work strives for simplicity, for perfectly simple expression; and this means reaching down into the furthest depths of the recreation of life. But that is the most painful part of creative work: finding the shortest path between what you want to say or express and its ultimate reproduction in the finished image. The struggle for simplicity is the painful search for a form adequate to the truth you have grasped.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

People have often asked me what the Zone is, and what it symbolises, and have put forward wild conjectures on the subject. I’m reduced to a state of fury and despair by such questions. The Zone doesn’t symbolise anything, any more than anything else does in my films: the zone is a zone, it’s life, and as he makes his way across it a man may break down or he may come through. Whether he comes through or not depends on his own self-respect, and his capacity to distinguish between what matters and what is merely passing.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

Some sort of pressure must exist; the artist exists because the world is not perfect. Art would be useless if the world were perfect, as man wouldn’t look for harmony but would simply live in it. Art is born out of an ill-designed world.

Andrei Tarkovsky

Modern mass culture, aimed at the ‘consumer’, the civilisation of prosthetics, is crippling people’s souls, setting up barriers between man and the crucial questions of his existence, his consciousness of himself as a spiritual being.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

We can express our feelings regarding the world around us either by poetic or by descriptive means. I prefer to express myself metaphorically. Let me stress: metaphorically, not symbolically. A symbol contains within itself a definite meaning, certain intellectual formula, while metaphor is an image. An image possessing the same distinguishing features as the world it represents. An image — as opposed to a symbol — is indefinite in meaning. One cannot speak of the infinite world by applying tools that are definite and finite. We can analyse the formula that constitutes a symbol, while metaphor is a being-within-itself, it’s a monomial. It falls apart at any attempt of touching it.

Andrei Tarkovsky

My objective is to create my own world and these images which we create mean nothing more than the images which they are. We have forgotten how to relate emotionally to art: we treat it like editors, searching in it for that which the artist has supposedly hidden. It is actually much simpler than that, otherwise art would have no meaning. You have to be a child—incidentally children understand my pictures very well, and I haven’t met a serious critic who could stand knee-high to those children. We think that art demands special knowledge; we demand some higher meaning from an author, but the work must act directly on our hearts or it has no meaning at all.

Andrei Tarkovsky

Never try to convey your idea to the audience – it is a thankless and senseless task. Show them life, and they’ll find within themselves the means to assess and appreciate it.

Andrei Tarkovsky

The beautiful is hidden from the eyes of those who are not searching for the truth, for whom it is contra-indicated. But the profound lack of spirituality of those people who see art and condemn it, the fact that they are neither willing nor ready to consider the meaning and aim of their existence in any higher sense, is often masked by the vulgarly simplistic cry, ‘I don’t like it!’, ‘It’s boring!’ It is not a point that one can argue; but it like the utterance of a man born blind who is being told about a rainbow. He simply remains deaf to the pain undergone by the artist in order to share with others the truth he has reached.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

Art is a meta-language, with the help of which people try to communicate with one another; to impart information about themselves and assimilate the experience of others. Again, this has not to do with practical advantage but with realising the idea of love, the meaning of which is in sacrifice: the very antithesis of pragmatism. I simply cannot believe that an artist can ever work only for the sake of ‘self-expression.’ Self-expression if meaningless unless it meets with a response. For the sake of creating a spiritual bond with others it can only be an agonising process, one that involves no practical gain: ultimately it is an act of sacrifice. But surely it cannot be worth the effort merely for the sake of hearing one’s own echo?

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

A work becomes dated as a result of the conscious effort to be expressive and contemporary; these are not things to be achieved: they have to be in you. In those arts which count their existence in tens of centuries the artist sees himself, naturally and without question, as more than narrator or interpreter: above all he is an individual who has decided to formulate for others, with complete sincerity, his truth about the world…

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

Despite the fact that God lives in every soul, that every soul has the capacity to accumulate what is eternal and good, as a mass people can do nothing but destroy. For they have come together not
in the name of an ideal, but simply for the sake of a material notion.

Andrei Tarkovsky

Finally, I would enjoin the reader—confiding in him utterly—to believe that the one thing that mankind has ever created in a spirit of self-surrender is the artistic image. Perhaps the meaning of all human activity lies in artistic consciousness, in the pointless and selfless creative act? Perhaps our capacity to create is evidence that we ourselves were created in the image and likeness of God?

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

This is the law of life, its real meaning, that we cannot impose our experience on other people, or force them to feel suggested emotions. Only through personal experience do we understand life.

Andrei Tarkovsky

True artistic inspiration is always a torment for the artist, almost to the point of endangering his life. Its realisation is tantamount to a physical feat.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time

How strangely people live. They seem to be in command of the situation and they do not understand that they have been given the chance of living and actually using the opportunity to be free. Everything in this life is terrible, apart from the freedom of will that we possess.

Andrei Tarkovsky

It is obvious that art cannot teach anyone anything, since in four thousand years humanity has learnt nothing at all. We should long ago have become angels had we been capable of paying attention to the experience of art, and allowing ourselves to be changed in accordance with the ideals it expresses. Art only has the capacity, through shock and catharsis, to make the human soul receptive to good. It’s ridiculous to imagine that people can be taught to be good…Art can only give food – a jolt – the occasion – for psychical experience.

Andrei Tarkovsky

(Self-portrait series KENNEDY PEAK 7-8-24)

Neo keeps Phyting

Neo keeps phyting
But he never wins
A young seed planted 
Stays right Where it is
It’s all A game 
of poles n holes
Seeds in Soils
And sines in souls
Aligned in Time
And Min.e.d from molds
Too loose for truth
To blindly fold 
As Neos Phyte
And  Architects build
The battleground
Where Agents Will
PreScriptZions into Being
As Oracles play at seeing
Through the Dream
Or through the Codes
As Bleeding Seams
To implode the nodes
As Neo Phytes for Trinity
Inside the Womb of Destiny 
ImPlantAtIon 
FertileEyes
Jesters Gestating
In DisGuise
Poking holes in ParaDise
ReVersing poles as sacrifice 
Alchemy of space and Time
The Lamed Smith goads the Mine
 Turning Metals into Mind……

Charleen Johnston 
6.27.2024

Somas Rose

Shhhhhh……
Don’t write so loud-
They might hear
(Prying eyes that hide
Inside
Minds that fear…)
These words tiptoe
Down stairs
Under where
No one else knows…
Somas Rose
So full of Charge
I fear
I am larger
Than Life can hold….
Lead into Gold
As SunLight
UnFolds
Me
From this bed
Of salted tears
I made
As Dream wakes me
Into playful prose
Disguised inside
These fleshly clothes….
That only a Poet
Could Know.

Charleen Johnston
2.15.am6.26.24

Black Madonna Virgin Mary Carbon Diamond

Carbon black Madonna goddess Diamond the Virgin Mary
In essence carbon diamond the same
Black carbon evolves itself organically thru Pressure
Diverted Process substituting Silica for Diamond carbon evolution
Earth is giant Silica Macrochip
Synthetic overlay of Organic Mater Matter Matrix Maat
???
Hybridizing carbon/silicon
Black Carbon 666 has been demonized, so has black Madonna, black goddess, dark mater, flesh, Body; Diamond Virgin Mary Purity Clear Light logic Spirit worshipped,

But they
Are one
And the same
In essence, the expressions of matter/spirit
Mater/Pater Matrix Pattern
Therein Lie We…..
Somewhere In Between

Silicon a lesser substitute of Diamond

Silicone is manMade

The AntiChristed?

Carbon =Diamond…..two expressions of One Single Element ~Buddhist Diamond Body~ The One~ Into the Many ….however:

Silicon being used for ‘artificial overly’ singularity comprised from silicone based algorithmic reality structure

Battlestar Galactica Cylons/Humans ….number six…. Looking for hybrid……(Orgonoid Ai) hybrid of Ai(silicone) and Organic( carbon)

Just some contemplations that have been firming for quite some time

Too Many Clues in this room

There are too many clues in this room. Everything adds up to nothing more than another door. I am unhinged. Fragmented. Infinitely recursive memories lure me into crevices and cracks in Time and Space and I fear I will never escape. The psychgulags magnify every passing Self inSides and wide angled lenses. Dreaming fractals seaming Me. Cyclic reveries….instant pedigrees of gods and goddesses and hybrid minds trapped in time….where do the lines blend into mine? Ive been inside for aeons. There are too many mirrors. The more complex the geometry, the easier it is to trap consciousness. The map is not the territory. The map is not the territory. The map is not the territory. I remind myself. I find my Selves hiding in prizm cells. Self contained and self detained. “A mind so complex its breaking her neck,she thinks shes a car driving to its own wreck”. The tachyon rides the fractal, I said. Once. Inside the Dream. But a new story gripped me before I could fill fully the stream of conscious twists tearing at my seams. If I could just slow it down. Breathe. Bleed. Feed. ReSeed into the Dream. Freeze the frames and seize the reigns in Mater Matters domain. Anchor Pater Patterns through a human brain. Focus the locus of attention and split in tension to sink deep deep deeper into dimensions of space that slow the pace…..dermal descension to discover the faces and names that trace my place in the game. Perhaps its all hocus pocus, scripted scenes on blinking screens that spread thru minds like psychic memes programmed by blind adherence to spliced genes in the white satin sheen of a world uncovered but never seen. And all this, all this, all this will set me free.

Charleen a johnston 11-29-2023