“Creativity: The Soul’s Footprint”

January 30, 2023

Creativity, like an ethereal dance upon shifting sands, leaves behind the footprints of the soul. Without the presence of a soul, those footprints fade, dissolving into glitter and fleeting flashes of light. It is within the realm of art that these footprints find their true expression, manifesting as a testament to the depths of human existence.

True art emerges when the drive to create is fueled by an inner necessity—a relentless longing to give form to the intangible, to weave meaning from the threads of emotion and experience. It is this inherent compulsion that sets art apart, for it transcends mere aesthetics and becomes a profound reflection of the artist’s innermost being.

Poetics, the study of soul graphics, unravels the intricacies of this creative journey. It delves beyond the surface, exploring the vast depths of meaning that lie beneath the scribbles and strokes. The significance of art does not end with its immediate interpretation; instead, it invites us to embark on a poetic voyage, where each line and curve unravels a story yet to be fully grasped.

In a world obsessed with quantifiable measures, why should a reality defined by liters and meters be deemed more real than one measured in sighs and tears? The richness of human experience defies numerical constraints, extending far beyond the boundaries of empirical observation. Art, in all its forms, offers a sanctuary where the immeasurable finds a voice, and emotions are given shape and color.

Just as a bouncer at a nightclub selects who enters, words possess a similar power. They can choose their own context, finding resonance in specific realms of expression. Yet, it is not the grandiosity of vocabulary that defines true creativity. Rather, it is the sincere interplay of thoughts, emotions, and words that grants depth and meaning to artistic endeavors.

Creativity, at its core, is a testament to the intricate workings of the human spirit. It defies conventions and boundaries, unveiling new perspectives and possibilities. In the realm of art, the footprints of the soul take shape, leaving an indelible mark upon the tapestry of existence.

So let us celebrate creativity in all its forms, for it breathes life into our world, sparking inspiration and igniting the flames of imagination. May we embrace the study of soul graphics, venturing beyond the confines of the mundane. And in doing so, may we recognize the profound truth that lies within each stroke, each word, and each creation—an eternal testament to the beauty and depth of the human experience.

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A Question of Me, Myself and I

January 11, 2023

You speak to me, I answer from I. You see a shape that is bone, muscle, skin and hair. I see through a fish eye lens this global tissue ‘man’. I see rags and leathers, suits and socks, bags and sacks that you carry.

I see me changing his tie.

I answer from the beach head I. I watch the light house flash across distant boats. I feed gulls knife gliding over grass hills. I feel Hellenic curves in the open air. I stretch my bow, my ancestor voice and call it I.

I answer from within and without which was, is and will be. My tongue is fire coursing through veins. My hands were taught by Sophie the Cleaner. Look carefully and you may see my thumb. It appears like a man. Ignore the smirk swerving at the thumbnail bottom. Doubly ignore it when it appears like me smiling.

I gently part the folds of grey matter. My instinct leads to pulsing points that lie between synaptic arcs deep within the brain. Neither here nor there, neither in nor out. Just between all and everything.

I answer from I. I walk through corridors of mortality and eavesdrop on midnight conversations behind closed doors. I seek a passage through flesh and blood, marrow and bone. From the heel of God to tumbleweed desires my longing cries out. I clap my hands in rhythm to the stars. I play solar tunes careful not to disturb the wispy boundary of lace spider webs.

I answer from I. I watch lone smudge cloud scuff across sunrise. The quickened spindly net stretches over the skin horizon. I flick a twig of humanity’s tree. Is it I or is it me?

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