Morning Glory

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Spring has arrived in the southern hemisphere in a symphonic flourish of birdsong. Our days warm quite nicely pushing up against the edges of summer, but the nights are yet cool, wearing winter’s chill like damp boots. “Good sleeping weather,” we would say back in Pennsylvania, with bedroom sashes lifted, tucked under a blanket.

Quite often, I awaken to the call of the earliest bird of morn’, a soloist cantering before the first flicks of dawn’s light. As I lie in my room in the dark comfort of my still sleep-dreamy head, I begin to imagine this troubadour perched in a tree beyond my bed to be a sort of avian alarm clock, pulpiteering to the others that the new day approaches, “We must ready ourselves!” Or maybe he is just a friend of the nightowl, awake and alive way into the wee hours like artists and writers and nightclub singers, who will sleep until noon while the others build nests and gather food. Or perhaps this prepunctual riser is merely telling the stories that need to be told, singing the long songs of origin and myth, reminding us all again the way of the world.

For me, this time in-between the days is weightless, no longer saddled with the bags of yesterday’s worries and not yet responsible for the hopeful prospects of tomorrow. I slip easily back into my pillow for a second, deeper sleep, knowing that in due time the sun will peek over the distant horizon line and filter through my bedroom curtain in a hazy veil of slate-blue, fine and eternal. And as it does, beyond my open window in the dewy forest garden, an entire orchestra of birds will begin tweetering in full-throated chorus, as though to will the gray mist of night cede to deep rich greens and violaceous blues, and the sky to lighten — ever so slowly it goes, beyond the perception of human eyes, so that the formless shadows of night become the flowering vines and leafy bushes of dawn.

Sometimes I slide from undercover out into this magical space to witness the fullness of its glory, catching myself in extended moments of grace that defy conventional time and that adhere to my soul like wetness on my bare skin. The chill of night is pushed against by the golden winds of dawn, where the lines between subtlety and boldness converge and coalesce. In this Morning Glory, light and dark, day and night, beast and plant and man are one in the same; the impermeable borders of distinction dissolve to porous membrane, as concepts of self transform into a streaming universal experience.

Yes, spring has finally arrived.

by Jason Weaver
Original Painting, A Glória da Manhã (2015), acrylic on canvas, 70x100cm, by Jason Weaver.

For more information on this painting and others in my studio, please check out my artist blog, JasonWeaverArtist

The Light Shines from Within

Although I hesitate to write about the events of the day and evening prior— not wanting to define them, to confine them, to reduce them into linear representation and interpretation, the very process by which might somehow reveal a frailty and break their spell– I cannot NOT. And really, there were no such distinct and nameable events that occurred that mid-day that became late day that became night, merely one grand cohesive experience, with the passing of the sun and the arrival of the chilling damp as much an integral part of the story as the actors are to a play. The impromptu stage at Casa das Letras morphed in synchronicity with these elements as the actors, themselves painters, poets, photographers, writers, and indeed actual actors, came and went, ebbed and flowed as groupings formed and then released of their own accord, creating many scenes within a scene, writing individual stories with their own unique characters and plots, timelines and morals; knotted threads interwoven within the contextual tapestry of the living present moment.

It was in the bright and warm of noontime that the seeds of conversation rooted and grew their many branches. Later, as the sun ceded to cloud, the “chuvisquinho” that had descended upon us added a palpable weight to our words, words that adhered to our skins and like the misted drizzle itself would eventually collect to form droplets of consciousness that wet our souls. Later still to shake the evening damp, a small fire was lit in the stone fireplace casting an amber glow, a fire of initiation and idea, of ambition and creativity, a fire of mental, emotional, physical and spiritual connection bound in tendrils of the smoke and of the fog that had descended from the mountains to ensconce us. Indeed, I cannot say for certain that the fog had NOT swallowed us entirely that night, cocooning us from the other fires, those destructive fires that blazed beyond our walls. We became a womb within the fog, protected by it as the hours slipped past without notice or care. A magic coursed within the paneled walls of this womb, tall and all-knowing, quick yet silent as it skimmed about the room, intangible as the shadows of the wind-blown candles.

Casadasartes

Eventually, the fog let loose its embrace, and one by one the players emptied from the stage and went their ways unable to recall for certain if any of it had actually occurred at all. But certain they were, we were, of one thing. That what we had found that day that turned to night, in those dreamy hours of mist and fog and fire and smoke, was not so much each other but parts of our own selves, pieces that had once been scattered and now had reunited, fragile pieces, lonely pieces drawn together by the forces of good will to become whole again.

Words by Jason Weaver, 2014
Image by Marc Claussen, 2014

The Storyteller

Storyteller

In the natural wild,
as my untethered mind traces
the fiery curves of bounding clouds above,
a primal spirit races past the blackening heavens
and laces my thoughts with memory,
an idea from the earliest of human time,
formed in the rumbling thunder of an approaching storm
as darkness had obscured the blazen sun
wherein our ancestral story of a god was born.

***

Ages ago, on one moonlit eve,
once we had hunted and we had gathered
and all labor for the day complete,
we assembled round a great crackling fire to feast
and told the stories of gods and beasts that we’d imagined
to satisfy our curiosities and pacify the uncertainties
of our early world.

We told of a provisional god
who wept the rains for life,
and of a punishing god
who howled and scowled with winds and thunder and flash;
and of a compassionate god
who filled the sky with warmth and light,
and so on and so on the stories went
until sense could be made of the natural wild.

And year upon year, after every hunt and gather,
the Storyteller who had inspired us best
was asked by all, to tell it all again,
to entertain us in those late hours before sleep,
where our heavy eyes would see shadows leap behind dancing flames,
with the story of a god who made the thunder and the sun
who made the earth and the moon and man,
and soon these words became the dreams and the memories
of a people.

***

As I peer today across the mountain tops
and into the blackening heavens,
as darkness obscures the blazen sun
and thunder rumbles of an approaching storm,
I see what we saw then, and feel what we felt when
the first tales of god were dreamed
and I remember .

by Jason Weaver

Author’s Note: This photo-poem was submitted as part of an open link poetry exposition at D‘verse Poet’s Pub. Come check it out!
Note: After publication, I changed the word “They [told]” to “We [told]”  ~Jason

Truth and Love

Despite the arduous attention (and oft worst intention) of those among him, whom I will not mention, and most resolutely by the virtue (and its very lacking) of such said invention, he became to know, that is, to witness, to discern and to inhabit, that which had previously been unattained, the unfeigned Truth. Oh, tried mightely, they did, and many time persuasively in their impudent abscondence.  But what those unversed in truth unrehearsed fail to grasp is that Honesty is not wrested from pools of contemtion, No! any more than it is so fabricated from bits and parts of fractured falsehoods. Truth is not a mere word rolled from a tickle-tricked tongue, a forehead creased twixt eyes fixed in faked expression, or a some superflous contrivance of calculated means, not one bit! Rather, Truth is the grand manifestation derived by one’s alignment and habitation with the universe in time and space infinitum. Or in other words, you cannot lie a truth.

Well, as you can no doubt imagine (for no doubt is being cast!), upon having been first availed to the Truth unassailed, he greatly resented all of the lies and as well as those who dared to lie them. And as time progressed, the malice digressed into a sort of  sorrowful and pithy pity. How terribly saddening it is to never know the beauty of Truth, and trust, and all that is just! And sooner than later, as space amplified about him in pulses and pushes,  he verily found himself unbound in Truth and Love, Love being inseparable from Truth and Truth from Love. In a moment of pure clarity (and free of any piety), he saw of the charity which brought him to this epiphanic apex, and knew, yes knew through the connected universe, that he must love those responsible, those who had lied, who cheated, who stole repeated, for they showed him the Truth.