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Some further thoughts.

The difference between "Abstract" art and "modern" art is that people like me often mislabel "Abstract" art as "modern". While all abstract art is modern art, not all modern art is abstract. So there.


Last Wednesday I went to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and saw some of their new "Americas" wing. I, for one, was really excited that they at last had some abstract art in the museum. It fascinates me, frustrates me, and always provokes me to thought. I dislike the distain people can have for abstract art in saying it's just "stupid!" or "I could have done that!", partly because I can see it in myself but mostly because I know it's an unthinking and careless response to someone else's deep thought and care. Alas, the exhibit was packed, so I visited the near empty courtyard before leaving. Then I got to thinking . . .

Representational art is to Longfellow as Abstract art is to cummings. I always disliked Longfellow. While I haven't always liked cummings, he was the poet I had brought with me and I was (am) really enjoying his poetry. While all (or at least most) painting styles are trying to say something, abstract art seems to be screaming it the loudest. Still, it is a thousand times more difficult to apprehend abstract art's meaning. I'm not sure I have much else to say about the subject. I have been unable to understand most abstract art that I've experienced and examined . . . but I think I should continue to try hard to understand it. I plan on making another visit to my museum on a more quiet day.

That trip to Boston, on the whole, was incredibly full and interesting. I have stories to tell both interesting and amusing, but those will have to wait for a time when I am not trying to write half a nanowrimo novel in the last week.

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And this is all so different than I could have imagined,

a great adventure into the unknown of Gods vastness
armed to the teeth with hope and joy, and faith and trust.
And surrender.

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Today (from my notebook)

I am a restless spirit, and a reckless man. Foolish to the core. Lighted in fire.

---

I have said all that is needed
to be said . . .
I wish ever to speak
when silence is golden.
patience is so hard.

---

Cleaning out the corners
and tossing the long-forgotten socks
into the hamper,
snapping the old hanger
I'm turning on the light
and having a long look 'round.
Pulling up the roots I've wrapped
about the other trees
and re-turning to my Ground.

and I am renewed . . .

---

This is me trying.
I feel life in my face again.

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(Responsibility)

Let me carry it for awhile,

Let me take on both halves,
or at best the lion's share
Let me be cautious,
trust in me in my trust in God
Rest in him as I wrestle in him,
sleep while I remain watchful

But - keep thy love as a matter of conscience,
Blessedly independent, joined to eternity.
Only through movements of infinite individuality
(who is more alone than one alone with God?)
can people really be together.

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Forgiveness. It better be real, because I'm really counting on it. :) I feel the weight of my own failure over and over again. The sense of desperation and sadness. I feel how I fail to meet the standards of righteousness. I feel my emptiness and my self-centeredness and my self righteousness. I need, oh I need so terribly to be reminded of Grace. This morning I was finding it hard to feel the meaning (or have the passion) for Grace. Now I see it again clear. He has covered over a multitude of blunders. He hides the multiplicity of sin and embraces me, loving me into holiness. By love He builds love up in me. And He abides. Oh! He abides! I am united with eternity, and by His loving He is near to my soul. And I need Him now.

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NaNoWriMo has begun. I feel overwhelmed. There is so much that I have to do, and so much I wish I had the time to sit and think about. For the first time in my life I have no time to reflect or think, and I don't think I like it.

I'm procrastinating from writing. I don't know how to write what I want to say. What do I want to say? How can I "say" something with characters when I really just want to care about the characters?

I feel so . . . silent. So inexpressive. I wished I blogged more, or got into the habit of sharing my thoughts with you people. I feel like so much of my thinking has been in "doing". I hate the thoughtlessness that comes with being busy. I should get back to writing. I'm not sure how to tell a story . . . I'm not sure I'm a good story-teller at all. I have ideas, and I have characters . . . but I don't know if I know how to do both. humph.

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