The
understanding that comes from certainty is not an understanding I have. What
are words? Words can wound, words can offend, but we are the ones who determine
which words have weight. Words do not create, movement does and that is why
actions speak louder than words. Words really don’t matter, nor can anything be
summed up in a few words which is why the writer once said he would show you
his faith by his works.
My words share what I have done, that
is why my words fall under the genre of confessional, feelings professed,
actions confessed, words that do not depict events correctly are called fiction,
but words in and of themselves have no power, they do not bring understanding
or clarity unless that is what we say they are doing, so the question isn’t
what are words but what is our brain and how does it function? I don’t know; all
I know are words and how I’ve determine their individual usage.
How can I find meaning when I can’t
even find meaningful words? Words can be used to satisfy the carnal, when I am
hungry I can order food, but when I walk amid the pseudo spiritual sayings
printed on plaques I realize it was not words that satisfied my hunger but the
food and words can only soothe if we allow them to, but in these plaques I find
no allowances. Artists put words on wood, everything from Biblical sayings to
Rastafarian, lying on tables attached to their artists who wear t-shirts that
read Irish luck or beanies over dreadlocks. I find nothing dark, just trinkets
for tourists, nothing that sets me on fire. This is called the Downtown Los
Angeles Art Walk, well I’ve walked, but I never found any art. I find more art
in the atmosphere, though I still don’t find any meaning, an order to this
chaos. Stand on a Los Angeles street corner and observe. Evolution is an
over-used word, I just see what has become: buildings built around others that
are old, characters creating traffics jams as they scream at the color of cars,
even the business suits have scars but words will not take us far if words are
all that is offered as healing.
This is the concrete jungle and we are
all wildebeest and keeping a wary eye out for danger is considered normal as we
sniff the cracks in the sidewalks for grass that we can graze maintaining the
illusion that words are real and our thoughts define us; that simply by
agreeing with a certain arrangement of words we have aligned ourselves with the
truth and determined the meaning of life even though it doesn’t reflect what
is really happening around us. It just allows us to solve by simplifying everything
into syllables, but words only mean what you want them to mean and are limited
to your descriptive power at this or any hour I will define art as a painting
of un-watered flowers dying in a garden bower, but even though I will have
found a definitive I will ruin it because I will only be able to assess and
affirm with my thoughts, which are, after-all, only words, and worse than that they
are words which I have been taught.
***
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