There was a boy. Young and vibrant. He wares the smile of a young Keats, a straggler with gold within his pack. He not a sense of time. As the world makes it mission about him,he is solitary, save for the company of his own spirit, standing at the entrance to the hallowed realm of sacred imaginings. He is part vagabond, part knight, part harlequin part mystic-yet strong and aware. He eschews the superfluous world about him of noises and gimcrack stores, lifeless music and vacant energy. His is the world of the artist. Yet, he knows his truths all too well. He knows that when his brush meets his canvas, he is transported to a realm beyond obsession, beyond vanity-to the pastures of creation. In the scope of his journal he awakens the sublime truths. In the tip of his pen, he purges splendor from his limbs. His colors the world in his volwels,. Red for life. Blue for air. Green for magics. White for purity. Black for the night, mother of mystery. The marrow of the artist.

 Lifting stones and moving veils. He speaks of a time that was all but forgotten. In the magnificence of his iris, he glimpses the world as he sees it. Where lampposts become elegant branches and yew trees. Where stretchless highways move into lingering banks shrouded by hazy fog and mysterious lights. Where  the hooves of stallions are to be heard in the distance. Where the wild hunt is at its peak,and trumpants blare  from far off, heralding a fabulous repast, filled with the most magnificent minds. Where darkenend woods signal warning,and wild foxes roam. Amid this all, he stands amoung them. He parades, as he did, long before this world met his feet, amoung them -crowned in flowers and laurel branches. His limber arms bristle beneath his shirtsleeves. Like a young prince, he kneels down to the forest floor and honors it with all his heart. Moving his wrists upon the alter, he is conscious of the the ancient magic spell-a recipe of rhythems hewn from the throne of oberon to the far off flanks of the milky way. "You will be summoned", speak the branches. "Question not your gift-yet dance in its majesty".
A cerulean rhythm moves over his head. In his haste, he dropes his flute onto the soils below. The white light absorbes him and he now stands alone. In red shirtsleeves and jeans, he examines his work, nodding in approval. A singular rose in the center of an ancient wood , emerging illuminated beneath the canopy of the stars. "we are ourselves",he muses...as he titles it "portrait".

 

 

 

C. Chris Cipollini 2015