Inner Image 1

I see clouds passing over a blue sky like leaves are gently carried on soft currents of a river. There’s hardly any dimension to these puffy things. The mother cloud dominates the herd of little puffy things. All of the clouds are distributed across my field of vision in a fractal way.

The main subject of the image slams into focus with peculiar abruptness. A torso. A flower like nesting. A head leaving its home of shoulders and throat. A neck that draws a trail from torso to head. I see parts of the subject's whole that blend together like the flow of a Hellenic garment. I see transparent shapes on opaque forms. I see tangible patterns on intangible forms and tangible forms on intangible patterns.

From the base or nesting to the head, all is in beautiful anguish. The subject emerges from a flower or at least a form that is flower-like. Perhaps another soul would see that the subject has been born from a flower. The flower is in partial bloom. The next upward form can be seen to have erupted from the red of the pedals. An eruption that warrants a sense of freedom. Freedom from a coddled life. The torso is born out of a violent becoming.

Setting my vision on the body I see a man. He struggles to pull himself out of the lofty nest in the sky. What was in the nest of potential? Was this heaven? Was this not heaven nor hell? His posture is that of a sewer worker climbing out of a manhole. The subject's right arm pushes down on the pedals of the sky flower. How does the force from his upper body affect the structural integrity of the flower? The man has strength but he is clumsy and top heavy.

Taking my sight away from his right arm, I follow my vision from his right armpit to his left arm. He is reaching for something. I can’t see what he might be reaching for. He could be reaching for God. He could be reaching for that long sought after romance. Even as he reaches for a thing that is not there he could not have it anyways. Yes he is an adult man, however, he’s like a deformed infant born without a left arm. The only thing raised to the heavens is an appendage that ends with half a forearm.

As my focus fades from his forearm, something new gets snared in the trap of inner vision. I look upward, scales and texture dominate the space. Now I feel I have some relationship to the mannish thing that is coming to be. His neck is not of any human size or shape. His neck is not of any human color or texture. My beloved man in the vision boasts a serpentine throat. His throat takes a few extreme turns but it wavers enough to denote an underlying serpent's spine. The scales keep changing. My vision can not settle on the color or the pattern. In essence it is a snake neck.

Some explosion goes off once I finally see the face of this image. His head feels as if it is severed from the logic of the focal point. It is as if the subject's head is returning to the puffy things, literally and metaphorically. The head is a flattened shape. His face filled with harshly defined form, graphically rendered. The scalp recedes into the background, not joining with the herd of puffy sky pillows. His scalp blends with the furthest planes of imagining, the blue of the sky. In a small sweet moment this feeling of insatiable longing folds into finality. Wholeness occurs…

“I am of sky seed. Father likened mother to a flower and so a flower she became. Of flower and sky seed I was born. Look at my ego and hear the sting of my venom”

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