April 5, 2010

Robert D. Wilson's

"The Wonderland Amusement Park"

will the

cheshire cat smile at

me like a

leftover moon

on leave from his senses?

robert d. wilson

©2010

i feared the

darkness that cradled me,

and listened

to teardrops sweep

away the sea

robert d. wilson

©2010

"Be kind, for everyone

you meet is fighting a

hard battle."

Plato

The other day on Facebook, I asked a well meaning question that, to my surprise, lit the embers of a woman who made it her mission then and there to chastise and deride me publicly, even those she's never met or spoke with me publicly. I'd read a chapter in the 1970's in the book, Utopian Motherhood, that has plagued me ever since. The author talked about the public's perception of artists. He said many non-artists, those seduced by the media into following the herd to feel a sense of belonging and safety, think of artists as mentally unsound, oftentimes disturbed, rebellious, abnormal (whatever that means) and eccentric, if not teetering on the edge of madness.  


Most artists, those not using this year's popular colors or colloquialisms, are free spirited people who view life differently.  To them, if everything were black and white, there would be no need for art, as art is not black and whit. It sets no boundaries. It's akin to being a crew mate on the  Starship Enterprise, exploring an eternity without end, never knowing where it will lead them  Picasso could never do what he did at the turn of the 20th Century when he followed Nietzche's advice, destroying beauty to create a completely alien kind of beauty, in life and in his relationships with women, as one of  Cubism's pioneers. What he did in the beginning of the 20th century was light years away from anyone's norm, then or now. At first he paid the price for his so called social deviation, the object of ridicule and ostracism, selling few paintings, and thought of as an insane young man. Yet he was secure enough in his ability to see and feel what most do not sense or see, that he continued what most called a downward path, yet he forged a new path for the art world, and his paintings before and after his death cost millions of dollars to purchase, and crowds at modern art museums but tickets in advance to attend showings of his original works.  In a period of 12 years, beginning at the age of 14, he went from painting Primera Comunion to Avignon. Picasso left home and went to Paris, a haven at the time for intellectuals, poets, writers, open minded artists, and rich people , who if you were lucky to have one as a fan, could support you until you made it on your own.  I don't believe in luck.  You have to go after it and make it happen. Some people sell their souls, like a dance teacher lover of a relative who lover in order to survive had to do sexual favors for the woman who was elderly.  We've all done things that weren't kosher to get what we wanted.

   "We live in illusion and the 

   appearance of things. There is a 

       reality. We are that reality. When 

      you understand this, you see that 
          you are nothing, and being nothing 
    you are everything. That is all."

Buddha

I used to compare myself with others and felt inferior because they in a way were my gods.  I started surfing after I graduated from middle school (Grade 8).  It was a great summer and I had a lot of good friends.  People introduced me to other peope who in turn introduced me to others who were popular. I dated a lot, was a weight lifter, and enter the local dance contests, won at most, and even danced in contests on the Sam Riddle Show.  That summer was over before it started.  On my first day at High School (9th grade) I hung with a crowd of surfers who literally worshipped a guy in the 12th grade who who was a top surfer, owned a woody wagon, and had a way with the girls.  I did this for a few days until I heard him talk to a buddy in a low voice, "I wish these wannabe leeches would stop following me."  I learned a lesson that day:  to be myself and never walk in another's shadow.  And to be yourself, you has to be true to your heart.  I can't be you and and you can't be me. Each of us are who we are. Hanging out with a popular person is like

allowing someone to choose a cologne for you.  Every cologne a person wears will smell different on the next person.

The dilemma: follow the herd and be someone you're not in order to be liked by insecure people who need a mirror OR be true to yourself and face the consequences.  What others think of us is illusionary. They can never know us because they don't have the rite of passage through your soul.

"Throw your dreams into space like
a kite, and you do not not know
what it will bring back, a new
life, a new friend, a new love,
a new country."

Anais Nin

my mind's the

sea you sat under,

basho, when

you stared across the

sea at sado island

robert d. wilson

©2010         

it's cold
she tells me, pretending 

it's a joke . . .

an open window

with the shades drawn

timeless, her
voice a changeling . . . 
summer night


the circus
today was usurped
by rain . . . 
the clowns on our floor
watching cartoons


ahead . . . 
the half life of dusk,
shading trees


why she played
god and wrestled 
the wind,
i'll never know . . . 
canyon echoes


the moment
between codas . . . 
breeding words


i am at
times unlike the bible
i don't read . . . 
a man trapped inside
the bathroom mirror


can stone and
dew share a petal?
fencing words


i prefer
the solitude
of calm . . . 
a theater of
song without thought


your mind . . . 
plays vibes in a pasture
of egrets


bent over,
she listens to the 
cadence beneath
the soil, singing it'd
way to the ocean


ipod and
bird song; sweet the
empty minf


my fee
love the caress of
wet fingers . . . 
just a dream,
chides icarus


wind, you
flatter me with touch . . . 
those thoughts!


a fool to
think you could love me,
an old man . . . 
inside a circus mirror
writing poetry


paste this words, 
sun, into your
reflection


am i in
dali's painting of the
toreador . . . 
erasing memories
with rainbows?


dragonfly . . .
carry my dreams across
the ocean


who's real
in the volcano's
bowels . . . 
brown skinned children
bowing to the reeds


laughter . . . 
tiptoes past a 
reticent moon


her feet,
like the egret's,
a still life
painted with breath
on a bamboo screen


our puppy
visits in the dreams we
can't remember


one more time,
the tic tock of dali's
twisted clocks . . . 
erasing the fence between
dreams and reality


at dawn,
when dreams rest . . . 
our breath


in the 
kitchen at dawn,
stirring the
puzzle's missing piece
into a cup of moon


shed your leaves,
tree, i want to see
all of you!


will the moon
dance tonight when
wolves howl . . . 
their pitiful songs;
the sky pouring milk


cicada,
is she worth dying for?
windsong


pigmy deer 
trod through the meadow 
of my dream . . . 
led by a shaman
shaking a sage brush


walking 
past lantern fish . . .
short night

she feeds me

fish and rice on the
day she
returns to the church . . . 
wearing blue denim jeans


starless night . . .
i close my eyes, sifting
silence


robert d. wilson
©2010