Working the Wonders of the World

Clock in. Huddle time. Rolling out. Again? Damn...
Polished floors. Constructed enclosure. Metal contraptions? Sigh...
Cotton. Polyester. Racks of thread. Static shock? Ow...
Pompous attitudes. Motion blur. Faint perfume? Ughh...
Resistant mass. Bewildered idiot. Lost parent? Come on...
Bright lights. Orange walls. Churning stomach? Yuck.
Room spinning. Sinking feeling. Train derailed?

Home time.

Oh the wonders we suffer for the sake of paper greens.

Incoherently yours,
~Chiko...

Believe, For Planet Earth Turns Slowly

What does it mean to truly know a person? For all I know, as planet earth turns slowly, and with those rotations of - perceive it as such if you will - a "heavenly body", I am permitted the time to fathom the sustainability of human social constitutions and the conditions of human frailty.

Live with a man in his house for 40 years, speak on every subject.
Then on the last day hold him over a volcano.
Only then will you know what they truly are.

In recent months past, I found myself either tricked or pushed to cease the drawing lines (or discarding all hesitations and limitations), for it prevents access of a person into your true self. As trivial of a habit it presents itself to overcome, the relief in doing so is fathomless. To let loose all stone walls and to open all doors presents opportunities of infinite possibilities. My current state of bliss has also seen itself arise from a particular sequence of events, which one may conclude began with some others' contemplation. I have replaced chaos with unexpected spontaneity and excitement by committing myself to giving my all, all the time.

Pull back all bared teeth, drop all rigid guards, disregard all perceived grudges and return the pencil to it's case. To draw lines is to withhold yourself. Seek to know all, everyone and thing, equally and to the fullest of potential.

Devotedly yours,
~Chiko.

Daylight, My Guide Gone

I envisioned an old attic. I cannot tell you the location of this attic or which house it is apart of. I cannot fathom which street that house is located or where in this world that street could possibly be. But, I can tell you the look and feel of this particular attic. Old wooden planks make up the floor, from the looks I would guess it to date back to the late 50's or early 60s. Sparse, silvery cobwebs hang from rafters and crossbeams in the ceiling. Oh, and the footprints in the fine layer of dust coating those rickety floorboards! Those are my favorite part, like the rising action of a good novel. Say you just walked up the stairs into attic, you notice these footprints first. So naturally, your eyes follow them; right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, etc. You'll discover that at the end of the imprinted trail rests a collection of studio utilities. An aged art easel sits furthest back holding a relatively large, blank white canvas. In front of that sits two, four-legged wooden bar stools, one slightly higher than the other. The stools are tucked fairly close to the easel and even closer to each other, like an oddly matching pair. There are brushes in a paint-crusted jar of water sitting on a slender, make-shift end table to the left of the canvas. Beside the jar, partially-used tubes of oil paints piled amongst two disheveled painting pallets can be seen, as if still in use mid-session by whatever artists occupied those particular stools.

Within this scene, there is nothing but two souls. The tools are the means by which they express their happiness towards each other. There is no stress, no pain, no chaos. There exists no world outside that attic. Time has no meaning in a space where it cannot be monitored. Every individual stroke of their paintbrushes exemplifies passion and intensity. The colors used are vivid and exciting. Regardless of the amount of paint applied or the size of the canvas, there is always space to continue painting; for they paint over the old work with fresh colors more vibrant and expressive than the last. They share a love for art; a love for life; a love for each other.

I will not write you a love song, but perhaps I shall paint a work of art with you.

Questionably yours,
~Chiko?