The Art of Creation

I wanted to post something before I left Korea, but instead what I have done is to write this post for the future. I happened to go through an old blog of mine that I still post to on ocassion.

The words are mine, the images are the works of artist, Philip Brooker, who has been an artist who has poured his life into his work. He was born an artist. He will always be one.

At this reading, I will be in Paris, the day after Christmas, the journey will have been long. I will be going through the usual arrival processes and getting myself settled in with moist eyes because it took me so long to come back to a place I love.

I wrote about the valley of darkness we all go through. It was strange reading this post, because it almost seemed prophetic. It has been a very difficult year in the West. There has been much suffering, but do your best to touch as many lives as you can.
(C) Philip Brooker
In a World of Art...

It is out of the forces of great pressure from this earth great jewels are formed. It is through great oppression that heroes have arisen. It is through much struggle that voices have risen to create some of the most incredible views of canvas, of scultpture, of words, and of music.

Through the valleys of want some of the most incredible renderings have been produced to reveal more to humanity. Most aspire to greatness, yet fail to walk along a path, choosing comfort and safety of the commercial.

Is real art, the most private kind of work? Where there is no interpretation...no message, but the state of being? This is a time where through much adversity there will be the most incredible works to come. Remember, Paris had vacated the artists, and because of the war, many came to try to rebuild their success over here. Some succeeded, some starved, and some were forced to try to survive in concentration camps and their voices were never heard from again.

The mediums of light and dark, the sweet and the sour, and our current state of alarm are the seeds that can be turned into the muse we seek. For it is out of conflict we grow and it is revealed what really matters. In our state of humility we begin to see the larger truths...those universal ones that we have ignored...those whispers of our heart.

It is one thing to be paid for doing what you love to do. It is another to sacrifice to do what you love...and another to have the courage to live the life you want to have. The displaced community of creative genius who mime their way through other outposts, playing roles of other vocations who scream inside to fuse their words, images, and displays as long discarded dreams...

Of course, there are still dreamers. Waking up in the world of illusionary security being told what is of value in a society that struggles to find its way. What a time to be alive...for a new awakening is beginning. Where there are worlds of currency but no real wealth, except what we bestow upon each other with random acts of kindness without seeking reward.

Yes, this is the greatest resource available...more than credit lines that people have snorted like lines of economic cocaine. There is us...the creators of our own destinies.
12/17/2008

Happy Holidays

Christmas Morning


There was a sidewalk troubadour, twelve-string in hand, he said
"Come hear me warm up my guitar..."

A vagabond in tattered old rainbow poncho
Was pushing a shopping cart, a cart decorated with snowman
Reindeer, garland and a sign that read

"Happy Xmas, I'm homeless, please help."
A red, white and blue striped wolf, visible only to me
Moved him down the sidewalk nipping at his heels.

A group movin' to a jazz trumpet and drum said
"He's a taco short of a combination plate!"
Their laughter rose into the sky...

The full moon floated in the sky like a white plate.
I wanted to walk into the mountains
find the place heaven split apart and fell to earth...

But the troubadour sang a Christmas song
of three ships in a harbor on Christmas day in the morning, he sang,
"And all the bells on earth did ring on Christmas day in the morning."

An angel, audible only to me, sang into my ear, "And who
Will ring the bells for the poor on Christmas day in the morning?"
The singer sang on, he was warming up, he sang for me

He sang for the bum,
Christmas morning, Monday night, December 15th.



Rayn Roberts
2003

Let Me Show You Paris

Along the Champs Elysees, where the wealthy come just to shop at Louis Vuitton, you will see a world pass by any cafe in clouds of cigarette smoke mixed with Chanel number 5. My eyes saw the world that is ignored, a woman who prays for the pennies to come in to survive on the streets of Paris. I feel the March rains and think for a moment of my own heartache of waiting for an artist, a friend, and the pain subsides with the stark hunger in the streets. The beautiful lights lose their luster as the well heeled passer-bys mock the woman I find my heart breaking all over again. These were my beginnings in Paris, where I came solely to pursue my passions of writing and love...only to see I could not be blind.

As I found the beacon of the Eiffel calling me, I replicated the picture on my vision board. I found the park at the foot of the Eiffel and was dazzled by the reflection in the water. At night, alone, an Algerian man try to seduce me with butterfly kisses that lacked the passion that could only be answered by a familiar mouth. An imposter's heated heady stare was extinguished by my icey blue eyes. I was not for the plundering of such feeble seductions. A hunter that seemed to approach with sophomoric fumblings. Not even the power of the Eiffel could spare this man's humilation as I rolled into laughter...a woman with a closed heart..and a deadly kiss of a black widow. I winked and watched the lovers and visitors pay homage to the iron maiden. The modern goddess of love.

It was in this secluded square where I fell in love with the brilliant finger of this classical guitarist...and I swooned. There was no audience to speak of, and I stood there, out of his view to listen to him play as he would close his eyes and be enraptured by his own melodies. I wanted to dance and feel the music in my blood. I thought to myself of how so much comes through Paris. Who was I to knock on her gates and proclaim my dreams? I came to write about my search and quests along the way. In a city, a life, foreign to me, who challenges the world...a city of cities, of revolutions, of art, of intellectualism...I hungered to taste Paris.

Across from Notre Dame is Shakespeare and company. The library, the bookstore, the flop house for wayward cash strapped travellers...so close to the center of Paris. I fell in love again...with the smell of books, stacks upon stacks that I would wrap my arms around. My eyes fell upon a piano that begged for Chopin, and up the stairs I went to a writer's area, cramped, with an impossible typewriter with torn and worn ribbon, a writer's lamp...and an invitation to leave my mark...a dare to proclaim my dreams...

So I did. I return to Paris, I promised her I would return, as lovers do...and I will go and see the real streets and feel the real earth, and look at her with a full heart...to walk the streets of artists, of writers, and I realize as long as I breathe...I will write with every bit of passion within me.

For my dream has been realized, and now it is time to build bigger ones. J'adore Paris. I will see you again in 10 days darling.

Just Being

I sat outside with  Monte this afternoon ... and yeah we just ...sat.


We are all staying at my parents at the mo' (house reno's nearly finished) and as a result Monte has a fair bit of stimulation all week.

He has had his fair whack of "No, don't touch that" "Look at this!" and " Come here!" .

He has been grabbed for cuddles,  hands held to try and urge him to learn to walk, pulled away suddenly from the sausage dog and rescued often from the jaws of the dishwasher.

The little sod just wants to make sense of the world around him - but he has giants coming at him from every angle and telling him to "Be Careful!"

 I feel for him!

He is curious about stuff , and so he should be.

So today I took him outside, which is where it is at - as far as he is concerned.

  I said and did nothing.

I didn't pick him up or urge him to look at things I thought he should look at.

I didn't talk to him or give names to the things he was looking at.

I just sat and watched him and let him be.

Let him soak in what he wanted to soak in.

I didn't know just how fascinating a gumnut was until today!

 He looked at gumnuts and leaves in great length and tried clapping a couple together, as he does.

Everything is clappable.

He watched the little butterflies weave around him in fascination.

Every now and then almost hyperventilating from the excitement of it all.

After a little bit  he would look back at me to see if I was looking , give me a smile- and  go back to what he was doing.

I just sat there and watched.

I actually fell into a really tranquil state just trying to see the world through the eyes of an almost 1 year old.

 I really conjured up the power of now.

Ekhart would be proud.

For a few moments I detached myself from my head and just listened to the thoughts going around:

"He should have a hat on, I hope he doesn't eat that gumnut, it's probably too hot...." 

I just let them swirl by without giving them any heed.

I could smell eucalyptus, I could hear buzzing of flies and insects - the hum of the air-conditioner on the roof - birds chattering, I was lying on the grass and above me were great big trees overlooking the river - it was beautiful.

When Monte tried to crawl the gumnuts weren't so pleasant on the knees so he got up on his feet and crawled in the funniest style I have ever seen!

He then gave up.

He looked over at me with the most massive grin.

He crawed over and flopped on me and nuzzled up to me.

I'm pretty sure he was saying "Thanks Mum for just letting me be"

Saturday Afternoon Crawl

It's boiling hot in the car. She swings into a parking bay,switches off the engine and looks around. Her eyes are drawn to a young 'hip' couple. He, pale dreadlocks, cool sunglasses and tattoos, unpacking a mountain bike from the back of his truck. She, already strapped into rollerblades, tanned, also tattooed and wearing a short tight skirt with flat tanned midriff proudly on show. She notices that they are not a couple but rather a trio and smiles at the pink tongue hanging out of their friendly dog's face. The dog is tethered and ready for a race around the lake.

She groans out loud at the thought of moving that fast. She flips the lid on the center console and digs around for her Walkman radio. She untangles the cord of her 20 year old walking companion and anxiously flicks the "ON" button. She fumbles the ear phone into her ear and smiles for the second time. It works! Well it's battered, but it works and she's hanging on to it because it picks up AM radio stations.

There is no delaying it now. It's time to get out of the car and get walking. Another groan escapes as she ambles to the path. The couple with the dog whizz by in a whirl. She watches them speed further and further away until they are just specks. They disappear out of sight and are replaced by a steady stream of speedsters on bikes, running, jogging and rollerblading.

A young woman shouts "Bike!" loudly in her ear and whizzes by. She mentally flips the bird in the direction of the rapidly disappearing girl. That makes her feel better and she smiles her third smile.

She thinks "I am so slow. I can feel my blood cells sticking together lazily, as they oozily bump into each other".

But then she notices the wind in the trees, the Willy Wag-Tails on the wire fence and the cool avenue of shady trees stretching out before her. She leaves her weary slow methodical walking body and is transported.

An old favorite song comes on the radio. She picks up the pace. She smiles and nods to passersby. There are too many smiles to count now. She is in the zone. She notices the water, the swans and the ducks and the pleasant change in temperature that the branches overhanging the path bring. She looks forward to the next shade zone and the next.

Up ahead is the ramp that leads to the bridge that spans the Freeway. Her legs take her up there. She has never been off the path before, so this is unexpected. She admires the sky blue sky and the tall bright white arches of the bridge.

Traffic streams underneath her and she is unnerved. At the other side she sees a wide expanse of lawn and a cricket pitch. To the side is a large shady tree with a bench underneath it. She makes a "B" line for it. Nearby she spies a rather large lizard lying quietly on the grass. She creeps up only to find a torn shred of leopard skin patterned polyester. A shiver runs through her as she imagines how it came to be there. What violent or lustful action has taken place on that bench she wonders? She turns on her heel and makes her way back over the bridge and back to her car. The couple with their friendly dog has long gone. She eases herself into the driver's seat, turns off the Walkman, and flings it into the console ready for next time. No small wonder it's battered she thinks.

The Temple as Cage

I don't know why in this white sunlit hour, a tiny bird

flies in the temple I'm visiting
flits ledge to ledge in circles in the ceiling
confused by green paint, wondering where it is.
High electric lamps flood the altar with white light.
Sensing daylight, the bird darts toward them
then quickly back to ceiling time and again.

As I look on and wonder, a monk enters, bows three times,

begins striking a moktak, chanting sacred sound,
the blessed names of Arhat and Buddha.
People come, leave money, fruit, rice and go.
The bird flies ledge to lamp and though now frantic
for the freedom of mountain air, 'til it knows all light
is not sun or sky, the temple is a cage.

I want to tell you I am like the bird or you are: blinded by

false illuminations, but I won't bore you with parables,
we have so many, for what reason I cannot say, nor tell
for what good: they barely dent the surface of the sorry world.
I could tell you the bird is your soul, but that isn't so.
I could risk a metaphor and say the bird is your mind,

but you are already resting on that limb too, no, the bird is

a winged thing that turned on hollow-boned dinosaur wings
into a temple, by accident, cause and effect, maybe both
or maybe it has come to guide all winged creatures
to a day when they too will find peace and liberation--
It appears more imprisoned by its own ignorance
much as I am, making long flights over water and land
The lazy Bodhisattva, blinded by wanderlust and poems

False light and illusions one can never call home.

Rayn Roberts. Korea, 2005
The Poem first appeared in "Of One and Many Worlds", Poetic Matrix Press, 2006.