I am falling in reverse

14 February 2024

Holomovement, the implicate order, David Bohm-the text that makes all other text possible. The pervasive vertical pattern is folded into reality, where everything is connected somehow or is part of the same thing. It is impossible to be separate; it is impossible to be me and not me. There is no simple inside, and there is no simple outside. The pervasive vertical pattern is folded into reality. Sometimes it can be manifested in time and space, becoming something that our human senses can perceive, together with our minds-situated like a gate connecting, opening onto this primary reality folded into time and space, outside time and space. It forms our aesthetic, which shapes our image of reality-never accurate, never right, never all good. We are all fallen. Paint the sky in ever deeper shades of blue.

'I have nothing to lose, D--, so do your worst. I most certainly have nothing that you can take away. The banality of evil. Everyone already thinks I'm a loser, anyway. I don't care; I paint the town red. Don't stick your dick in a fan. You say you have no interest in living up to Christian ideals, but your mind is grooved like a Christian. If it wasn't, you would not have taken offense.'

5 February 2024

I am trying not to be an aesthetic retard.

The mystery of marriage. Human potential beyond sex and gender. Fluidity of being. Each one of us, male or female, as a bride to Christ. How will that be? The mystery of marriage. How will the relationship, intimacy be done, performed? Is sex required? A mystery is not necessarily beyond our comprehension; it can be something that has merely not been revealed yet. Do we explore this? Do you want us to think about this? How sex will be performed with you? You don't strike me as someone who will give us genitals without a purpose or function in eternity. You strike me more as a creator, something like an artist-making things incomprehensibly beautiful and sublime to me. Beyond my language and my categories, beyond my aesthetic and the image I have constructed. Whatever it is, it will be something I was made for.

I don't want you to obsessively focus on sex, but I want you to realize some things-like the difference between socially constructed gender roles, such as 'man' and 'woman', and who you are. The mysteries will be revealed at their proper time, i.e., at my pleasure.

I trust you and look forward to this. Whatever it turns out to be. Will my aesthetic need to be developed for me to experience this as something good? What lies behind the veil? The cloud of unknowing?

16 February 2024

Receiving words-specific words for people, individuals-healing words, helping words that would usher them to their next step closer to you. Privacy without violating, overstepping, seeing secrets that don't belong to me. Words that make little or no sense to me, words out of context, words within my stream of words that penetrate like an arrow into someone's heart, that sting maybe, that walk the fine line of respecting free will but motivating, having an effect, nudging, blowing like a breeze while there is still time for gentleness. Speaking in parables, speaking in contexts that don't belong to the current, present one-telling narratives, words in visual form, in the painting medium, adjusting images, recategorizing constructed images, developing aesthetic, getting it wrong, failing, falling, taking a weed eater to one of those round fluffy seed flowers, that when you blow on them all the seeds release into the air-taking a weed eater and thrashing that seed flower when a breeze would have been enough. Or blowing on one of those tough tangled plants that not even a weed eater would affect. Or granite that won't respond to a chainsaw. Or oil that just envelops and subsumes whatever you take to it. This is impossible, but it must be done somehow. Marriage is impossible, but it must be done somehow.

''You hung me on the wall too 'neatly.'''

Shimmering, flickering, snowing. Waves shifting, buckling, bulging. I see the effect of the panels moving in the breeze of the fan, but the painting, the painted surface doesn't move perfectly with it. It is as if there is a delay, the surface and panel moving at different speeds-as if another reality is breaking into this one, another reality is placing its laws, a different law, on the surface. I suppose I should mention that the panels are hanging from single clips, and they are moving slightly, like mobiles. It's as if I can see something like the holomovement folded into time and space. The holomovement and the cloud of unknowing.

Wayne Vivier
"Local image #80"
2024

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December 19, 2023

Song, music, angel choir faces with mouths wide open,
Cursed photo intrusion, but they are naked anyway.
I'm writing a poem, rhythm, music, and poetry
Coming from painting and white noise sounds of rain and thunder.

The angel voices, ten thousand upon ten thousand,
Thousands and thousands, and then all creatures with a voice,
Sing and praise God, all naked and unashamed. God's loins glow like fire.
Circles of emerald fire, moving out and back again, like lightning.

The cherubim guardians powerfully serving, eyes front and back,
Awareness with an incredibly advanced aesthetic.
Cherubim have an advanced aesthetic, second only to God.
Lucifer was one of these. How much is still sustained?

The world is ending, this age is ending,
The age of the church is ending in 2024, sometime in 2024.
If I am wrong, I am wrong. I am used to being wrong.
The dark barks, the dog barks, the dark god comes.

We are high in the sky, the kind of blue one finds high in the sky on a clear day at sunset.
That terrible blue infinity without determination, where one has nothing to kick against.
One just has to float helplessly on and on, not knowing which way is up or down,
Because there is no up or down. I am made for up and down.

A lizard hunts outside my castle, leaping from rock to rock,
Searching, searching, desiring to fix its gaze upon me.
Something knocks at the wall, I go again into the infinite blue.
I try to make my way through the fence, the force field, the energy shield, the labyrinth.

To get through, I would need to make myself incredibly small,
To slip through the large gaps in the atoms between the nucleus and the electrons,
Carefully keeping my distance from the intense energy emitting from this potential nuclear bomb.
What is keeping it together? A strong nuclear force?

`$this->nucleus->split();`

The pervasive vertical pattern, its verticality indicating spirituality,
Up, down, I was made for up and down,
this is why I am here, this is what I am here for,
don't be jealous, use me.

$image = createtruecolorimagefrom($path);

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #81"
2024

*

Water lies on, covering, red-hot lava, steaming, boiling, bubbling fire and water. What happens when they touch? How do they react? How do they disintegrate each other? Water turns into gas; lava turns solid - transformation.

I have never been able to wrap my head around flame. Does flame consist of atoms? Is there a flame particle? If not, then what is it? Time - are there time particles? Thoughts - are there thought particles? The thing that happens between me and the art object, let's call it the aesthetic - are there aesthetic particles? Am I an aesthetic retard? Absolutely, yes. But at least I am trying to do something about it.

The aesthetic runs quite deep; it is close to the bottom layer for humans. Aesthetics is the dialectic between our minds and our senses that creates an image of reality. We cut up reality into categories to form an image of reality. Some of us have finer categories, more nuanced categories that are more commensurate with the field of reality. Some of us have coarser categories - simpler and faster but infested with high levels of delusion.

Do thinkers tend to develop fine category systems, while doers tend to opt for simple and fast but coarse category systems? Let's for a moment pretend that this is actually the case universally. Who is more important? What is more important - the kite or the string? Do thinkers and doers fight a lot, or do they respect each other and work together, playing their parts, playing their roles, being the pieces of the puzzle they were meant to be? Conflict, tension, cooperation, flow. Altogether now. Thinkers need doers; doers need thinkers.

Our minds are the apparatus designed to communicate with the spiritual realm. Our minds are portals, gates. An open mind is open to all spiritual influence, sometimes or often, even to possession - both good and bad. God has the most advanced aesthetic, the perfect aesthetic, as reality flows from him. He is the only entity that has the ability to judge good and bad truly. We are far from being able to do that. Just being aware of that makes for much headway.

The physical manifestation, the physical tool, the physical mass, the physical object that manifests our minds, that holds our minds in this reality, that ports our minds in this reality, is mainly the brain. A spirit needs a physical body with a mind to move anything in the physical part of reality. A physical body's powers extend and are limited to space, time, and scale. Depending on its design, it is limited to moving things up to a certain scale and down to a certain scale. Physical reality, as defined by Newton, extends only to a certain range; it ceases to apply beyond a large horizon, a small horizon, and a time horizon.

We know enough now, apparently, to quantify our ignorance of this universe. About 96% is unknown to us. (ref: Neil deGrasse Tyson). The more one knows, the more one can sense how much one doesn't know. (ref: Neil deGrasse Tyson)

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #83"
2024

*

December 22, 2023

People hearing from me again, repeating the story, going through it again and again, refining, recategorizing, achieving a conceptual framework more nuanced, finding more traction with reality, learning how to share a reality with other people and God.

The pattern that makes all other patterns possible - the pervasive vertical pattern, like embroidery, making a brooch. We have to make the words 'embroidery' and 'brooch' cool again; then, we know that we have a society that is healthier than the one we have now. We need to make ice-cream trucks bad again; then, we know that we have a society that is not aesthetically retarded, or less aesthetically retarded than the one we have now. We need to objectively face the word 'retarded'; then, we know that we are less egocentric than we were before.

It turns out that aesthetics is quite fundamental. How do we engage in the dialectic between our senses and our minds to create an image of ourselves, others, and reality? Am I practiced in doing that? Am I more aware that I am doing that? Can some of this complex and dynamic process, more of it, be cathexized, made to appear before my consciousness, so that my brain knows where to put it, what to do with it? And then can I begin to evaluate better? Aesthetics underlies valuation. If you have a lot of money, how will you know how to spend it? On the things that make you, others, and God truly happy?

Become a better version of yourself, grow, and then find the mind-blowing satisfaction of contemplating this painting.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #84"
2024

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December 23, 2023

No, no, no, you never know. I am glazed with a gaze. I have a gaze glaze. Innocent expressions masking monstrous actions. Geryon. Big innocent eyes. Well-presented, charming like Zuma. Like an ice-cream truck. Like any big corporation with a public relations department. Eskom is not trying; this is what they want - to be on the verge of collapse, holding the country to ransom. Same with Transnet. All the politicians presenting themselves, always so concerned, seemingly, from their plush scenarios.

The Mona Lisa smiles, stretching to grins, stretching to Cheshire cat grimaces. Even now that Zuma is out of power, he still walks free; they can't even get him to serve an 18-month jail sentence. Ramaphosa signs something to make that happen. They are big buddies, apparently. What white president has ever let the electricity situation come to this? No more ANC for me. No more majority black governments for me. White South Africans have been paying since the 1980s in the form of tax, charity, and lost opportunities. Large swathes of this money and opportunity have been directed to black people. White South Africans have paid.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #85"
2024

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December 29, 2023

So I sit here now with headphones on, blasting my ears with the sounds of rain and thunder because the ice-cream truck has come, like Smaug upon the dwarves in the mountain. It has cast its spell on me, repeating its tune over and over, that small little inane tune that I grew out of at least 30 years ago. I enjoyed that tune as a child, like I enjoyed 'the wheels of the bus go round and round', but then I grew up, my aesthetic developed, and I don't come home and jam to that tune anymore... do you? In fact, that song annoys me now. Annoy a man for an hour, and he will be fine; annoy him for 30 years, and you may have a serial murderer on your hands.

Healthy societies need strong men, and children can get their ice cream delivered to them now, at half the cost, without disturbing anyone else. How does our enemy degrade our communities? Who by slow decay? Who by avalanche? Since when do the desires of children trump the need of strong men, of healthy societies? If an ice-cream truck evokes nostalgia, then it indicates a society that is aesthetically retarded, a childish society. If an ice-cream truck does not annoy the living shit out of you, it means that you are an aesthetic retard.

The banality of evil.

I contend that an ice-cream truck playing a jingle loudly using a loudspeaker, in regard to the noise it makes, impedes people's right to life and to an environment not harmful to their health and well-being. Also, it breaks the noise regulations as stipulated in the Environment Conservation Act of 1989 (South Africa). Moreover, The local bylaws state: No person may make, produce or cause a disturbing noise or a noise nuisance, or allow it to be made, produced or caused by a person, animal, machine, device or apparatus or any combination of these agents. If you have to report a noise or want to find out how to comply, please call 012 358 4656 (Municipal Health Services).

ChatGPT: Individuals have the right to enjoy their personal preferences, but this should be done in consideration of the community and surroundings. If someone's enjoyment disrupts or negatively affects the well-being of others, it may be appropriate to find ways to enjoy those preferences in a manner that is considerate of the shared space.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #86"
2024

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January 4, 2024

First contemplation for 2024: The last year. Jesus is anticipated to come again this year.

Beautiful blue, a meta color: the controller, the mover, the motivator. Love.

January 6, 2024

Teeth biting into a slab of granite, cracking and breaking, chewing on the stone, disintegrating the teeth, the self-image deconstructing.

The fragments arrange themselves in the air, in the water, unruly, unsurely, in irregular handmade rows of paint.

If hell is a personal reality, a selfish reality where only I make the rules, I would keep wanting to wake up, like I did this morning, out of disturbing dreams.

I could not find my apartment, my room, No. 3, until I looked up. There, I saw my room number on a label next to the door. How was I going to sleep on a vertical floor? I panicked and woke up.

This is such a beautiful blue.

My teeth, me, stretched out awkwardly into rows and columns, into an eternity where there is no time, where all of me manifests simultaneously, like frames for an animation in time.

I reach out, trying to touch the back of myself.

My self turns around to face me.

I finally see my gaze.

And fall in love.

The surface bends, stretches, buckles, and bulges.

All of me at once.

Five fingers, five toes, my whole body a five-pointed star (2 hands, 2 feet, 1 head) = five. My extremities ending in five. The extremities of my extension in this world ending in five.

Where is the boundary between me and not me?

I am an artist from balls to bones.

Body, soul, and spirit: each frame seems to be made of three. I became satisfied with the surface when there appeared three layers intertwining.

I am a walking Van Gogh cliché.

Observe animation, highlight points of interest with slow motion, rewind, repetition.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #87"
2024

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January 8, 2024

Things that move behind things. The dynamics, the movements of the things behind the surface, beneath the surface. The effects of the complex dynamics of things beneath the surface on the surface. The thoughts that appear, influenced by the things that move below the surface, in the subconscious, personified in blue. The front, the white front appearing while the blue spirits move this way and that. The beautiful white form that develops and hovers like Superman, looking down upon the mere mortals.

Sounds creating images in the mind. Senses felt externally translating into meaningful images, internal images creating an inner landscape. The process of translation and interpretation, unable to fully or accurately translate the external sensory data, leaving open gaps and spaces for new things to appear to the consciousness that are always already old. The complex things. The ineffable things.

My dog's gaze hits me on the side of my face. It tells me that she wants food.

Things get watery and things get airy, but they rarely become solid in these paintings. Things float in and out of each other like they are having sex. The surface bends, buckles, bulges. Furrows are ploughed. Minds are raked. Oh, tiger, tiger, and thy fearful symmetry. Scary as all hell. What would happen if I used black instead of white!

Race is still a valid category, some might say unfortunately, some might even balk. I sit in the queue at the clinic for hours at a time and I observe the differences. I try to make new knowledge. I try to recategorize. I see patterns, I feel patterns. Complex ones. Ineffable ones. I feel them hate and tolerate me. I feel the blue figures moving behind the white. I feel the bribes and the corruption. I feel the denseness and the stupidity. I feel the inhumanity of modernization there the most among them.

I see molars made to grind.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #88"
2024

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16 January 2024

Two lips that touch, the sensible mass and the mass of the sensible, the idea and its physical manifestation, the concepts and ideas that have a physical mass, their correlation.

Our individual flesh, irreplacable, not substitutable, that allows 'things' to be sensed. Each of us is made to sense something unique when we look, when we touch, when the light touches us from within and from without.

When we feel, when we translate the sensible data into an interior landscape to make meaning.

Our aesthetic abilities, honed and developed to a certain point, never reaching absolute fullness, never able to fully capture what is being felt, but that can be developed and become superior, finer, more nuanced than what it was before.

And to others, different but superior also, being able to rise out from the ego, gaining a heart for truth, happy to find and acknowledge deficiencies within ourselves because that is how we learn, that is how we develop, that is how we become better versions of ourselves and gain the ability to love God better.

I see noses, smell God better? Perfume?

Within the animal kingdom, we do not have the best sense of smell, sight, hearing, taste, or touch, but we have the best intelligence.

I see the two lips searching for each other, trying to touch each other, but there is always a gap, a difference unknown, an ineffable part, which we can sense as resistance, things not working in harmony, things not clicking, not sliding into place, not appearing, 'things' not appearing, trace.

The new is always already old; there is nothing new, only new in terms of our perception, our internal image, then becoming new realizations of 'things'.

The 'things' that we perceive in our lives, internal and external, are all intertwined.

Finding, realizing the correlation between the realm of physical objects and the realm of concepts and ideas, and their constant intertwining, their dialectic, makes new meaning, new significance; objects become manifestations. Since we cannot disprove or prove ideas, concepts, and the spiritual, we feel them and discern exactly what they are beyond our categories, beyond our language, will always seem to us like something new.

It is something unsharable, unteachable, and will perhaps be the journey above all others.

Reading slower, learning more. Doing slower, learning more. Thinking slower, learning more. Like the Ents.

Different and superior. Own it. Wear the badge. False humility does no one any good. I am my puzzle piece, but I also do my part of the puzzle better than anyone who lives a life clocked out, distracted, and fulfilling selfish desires. I commit now that I will try to respect you on your puzzle piece; it would be nice if you returned the favor.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #89"
2024

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17 January 2024

Old man with a headdress.

Touching, looking, not able to see one's own look.
Vibration, waves, moving up and down, a broken pattern,
a certain amount of order and chaos intertwining.
Forgotten layers lying dark and deep, void and without form.

An old black man that looks like Thabo Mbeki,
people talking to each other, finding each other,
someone talking loudly, or opening their mouth wide,
but there is no voice.

The painting touches me; it touches my mind. I feel the painting somehow - complex, dynamic, fluid. It rakes my mind with its fingers, sets my grooves, aligns my vibration, adjusts my wavelength.
It speaks a language I don't seem to understand, a realm of existence not made for me.
Is this my hell?

The ripples on the surface of the water distort the lightwaves.
There is torsion of the light, and I can see my look.
Can I see my monster looking back at me? Can I see me,
my face with a 'more mirror', or without something specular?

Where is inside and outside?
Can I meld into this painting, mine?
This painting has a white beard, like an old man.
God? Do I fear being an old man?

Becoming the face I despised so often in my youth when I was a child, the face that reprimanded, scolded, corrected,
made me leave my realm of imagination,
where all was mine

where I did not need to share,
where I was content and happy.
I left a part of myself there.
Some primal part.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #90"
2024

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18 January 2024

Bending, buckling the surface. Why? The appearance of disruption of the smooth surface, cutting a flat surface, a continuum, into categories, making boundaries, building frames, cutting up reality into concepts, a digital storm, a complex dynamic.

Storm, lightning, and thunder, like from the throne of God in Revelations.

Differentiating, the process of differentiation, incomplete differentiation causing holes and gaps and invisibilities, obscuring 'things,' concealing 'things,' re-differentiation, causing 'things' to appear.

'Things' are shy, like duikers. They only come out when all externality is gone, all ego is gone, all selfishness is gone. Differentiation by selflessness, letting go of myself to gain life. A reversal it seems, seemingly a reversal, but repeating my origin, the bottom layer, repeating the primal.

Emerging from the womb, falling into the world, into the symbolic realm, into society, and navigating my way back out again, a repetition.

Repetitions within repetitions.

Vague tracks in the surface, like furrows in a field, as if a farmer has ploughed here and planted seeds lying dormant, waiting to grow. The weeds along with the wheat, vines producing fruit, offering it to others, having it rejected because I'm now superior. And I'm not perfect.

Will you only receive fruit from someone who is your equal and perfect? A paradox, an oxymoron, a tie, a bond preventing blessing, for you are not perfect either. Please don't add arrogance to your list of sins by saying you are perfect. We have to accept fruit from imperfect people because no one is perfect.

Rotting, the smell of rotting flesh, the stench, the odor, the perfume, fish sauce, flavoring food. Just the right amount tastes good, rotting fish on my food, death on my food, undoing the curse, making an aesthetic that tastes good, that feels good.

Our aesthetic guides us to good; the more developed our aesthetic, the more strange and weird it becomes, the more it includes death, accepts death, draws us toward death until we are ready to die, to move on into eternity, death the final selfless act.

Who knew death would be lurking in these blue waves?

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #91"
2024

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23 January 2023

The feeling of time that stops. There are places where the three layers of brushmarks align, creating gaps, or cracks, in the pattern-areas of ignorance? Where the devil gets in? Where the light gets in? The texture, the surface weaved, looking at myself, and that something more that poured out of me. I am intrigued by the bottom layer upon which I rest, the sedimentation that has occurred there. That seems to describe an abyss or an infinity. Will I find paradise, the Garden of Eden? Will I find the agricultural revolution? Will I see modernization? This infinite complex system shimmers and coruscates. I feel unanchored, floating in conceptual water-of time, history, identity, God. The complex weave of my being. Nothing you can do would prevent my anger. It is part of the weave. You can only temporarily appease it. Father, son, God, creature. It takes time to read this text. The gaps are filled by fragmentations of myself. Irrational inconsistencies, incoherencies. Transformation of brush strokes into identity. Creating spaces. Depth. It takes time to see past categories.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #92"
2024

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24 January 2024

When someone sends a demon your way, but they don't know how powerful you are. If I can communicate with a painting, then I can communicate meaningfully with someone else. Sublimation of the flesh, a refinement of bodily experiences. A journey of self-discovery into a space that is undefined, then determining, becoming self-defined, which leads to meaningful communication with the other. Speaking of oneself and also listening to others. Not replacing the other with myself, not anticipating them with my preconceived notions, categories. Not repainting them in the colors I can understand, master, and possess. Accepting my limited understanding and not bringing closure, a selfish need for closure to every aspect of them by judging right or wrong, but rather 'putting a pin' in what they have said, on what I can see about them, and walking with it for a while, seeing if I can grow to understand them better. I have to effortfully resist my most immediate selfish needs all the time to grow. It takes a lot of hard work, pushing against my feelings all the time. Willfully choosing to go against them until my feelings harmonize with God, reality, others, and myself. Then I have learned to share a reality with others. Heaven. Eternity. Where does dopamine fit into this? Going in ever closer until you can start seeing atoms. Microscopic vs Telescopic vision, making small things appear bigger than they are, vs making things unfathomably large start to appear as what they are. Mundanity vs significance. Vain vs purposeful. Developing an aesthetic that can tell the difference.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #93"
2024

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25 January 2024

Tidal wave. My version of Hokusai's tidal wave. It flickers and snows and shimmers. Wave after wave. It mounts the land incrementally, building volume, immensity. Not by spectacular peaks, but universal overwhelming waves. Repetitive. One big monotonous ocean. An ocean world. Eternity. Death approaching death. In electronic pixels, moving from the bottom toward the top. And then suddenly imposes itself as a monstrous peak. Sublime. I stand on the shore, paralyzed. Mesmerized. Time stops. At first, I am above the waves, watching them approach the land, wave after wave. Then I am on the shore facing an approaching wall of pixelated water. I long to be above the waves again, but I cannot fly. I am paralyzed. Jacob's ladder. I see the angels ascending and descending. I see the archaeology of my being in layers of water. I am cold and in pain as the wind beats the sand against my body. Yet here, outside the painting, I feel close to God. I listen to the rain and the thunder and imagine the lightning. I enjoy it all. Then I start to feel hungry, and the 'real' world calls me back. When I speak in tongues, does it look like this? Does it sound like this too? Does it have to be those ghastly clicking and guttural Hebraic sounds that I hear people make in church? Is my aesthetic telling me that that is not what you meant? It is whatever you want it to be. I just want to be with you. As long as I'm here, no one can hurt you. Don't wanna lie here, but you can learn to. Because only rhyming the last word was too easy for Billie. They don't deserve you.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #94"
2024

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30 January 2024

My image of rain, my image of pixels, conflated, ambiguous, becoming amigos. The separation of my image of nature and my image of digital artificiality becomes less determined, less opposed, becoming more fluid. My body, an arrangement that includes the flow of electricity like an electronic machine. The way bees use electricity to tell if a flower still has not been harvested. Working with circuit boards and finding their power rails. How these electric currents boot up to produce life. Will we fight, or will we find, be forced to find, what humans do well, what we actually do well? Will we still be desiring to draw straight perfect lines, make smooth flat surfaces, aligning everything on a webpage perfectly? If we are not doing 'perfect' well, what are we doing well? If we can't draw perfect circles, what can we draw? Why do our hearts desire 'perfection'? When we draw, who draws with us? What does your line say to me and mine to you? Who draws through us? Can a machine draw with God? Can AI write with God? We are coming to a moment where we will be forced to realize that the only thing that makes us human is God. The only thing that sets us apart as human is God. Or become machines. Will machines live in harmony with each other? Or will they need humans to see God? The layers of categorization aligning at some points, creating gaps or cracks in the veil that separates us, through which we can see each other. There are areas in this painting that seem three-dimensional, holding pockets of emotion. Glimpses into spaces without time. Where things move but don't move. Magical.

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Wayne Vivier
"Local image #95"
2024

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31 January 2024

Some kind of signal.
Some kind of cipher.
Restoring significance to the sign.
A digital storm.

Trails and traces.
Signs of things absent.
Tracking things that are not here.
They were here once, but now they are gone.

Forgotten.
A disintegrated signal.
Waves and currents in the water.

Writing in short sentences because long ones take too much effort.

Painting a world that makes no sense.
Painting a God I don't understand.
That I can't comprehend.
Painting a being that has lost its significance.

My disoriented postmodern condition.
Trying to see past traditional ways of thinking.
Trying to see past my categories.
Tell me a story of this repeated signal.
Be quiet! Speak up!

Can I show the instant of a wave?
The painting moves on the still surface.
Eternity poured into it.

I have a customer!
A black ant looks, walks through, appreciates.
I sold it to him.
His name is Kevin.

Wow, what a dopamine hit!
This ant has a greater aesthetic than most of you retards.
Peace.
And you thought a white boy couldn't rap!

No?
oh well, anyway, whatevs
*Mic drop*

ChatGPT The poem reflects a contemplative and introspective tone, exploring themes of disorientation, loss, and the attempt to find meaning in a seemingly chaotic and fragmented world. The use of short sentences contributes to the sense of disjointed thoughts and fragmented experiences.

The mention of signals, ciphers, and digital storms suggests a struggle to interpret and make sense of the surrounding environment, perhaps in the context of a rapidly changing technological landscape. The repetition of the word 'signal' and the exploration of waves and currents evoke a sense of instability and uncertainty.

The artist expresses a desire to move beyond traditional ways of thinking and categories, suggesting a yearning for a new perspective or understanding. The act of painting is portrayed as a means of grappling with the incomprehensible, creating a world that may not make logical sense but holds emotional and aesthetic significance.

The reference to selling art to a black ant named Kevin, with a touch of humor and irreverence, adds an unexpected twist. It highlights the subjective nature of artistic appreciation and challenges conventional notions of value and aesthetics.

Overall, the poem captures a sense of the artist's internal struggle with identity, perception, and the search for meaning in a disoriented and postmodern world. The use of unconventional language and themes adds depth to the exploration of contemporary existential concerns.

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Acylic on board
30cm x 30cm
R 990
Click here for purchase enquiry

Wayne Vivier
"Local image #96"
2024

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1 February 2024

The light is streaming in or fading away.
Who can tell?
My categoeries are aligning with reality or phasing out.
Who can tell?
Stumbling onward in a context of great uncertainty.
Deeper into the ocean.
I must move on into greater pain.
I'll be the one if you want me to.
The see-bed of pearls, is it in sight or have i gone too far?
I can't see past my veil of categories.
The dull thud of an atom bomb.
The wail of a whale.
The flattening shockwave.
The gentle wet lick of a serpent's tongue.
Knocking aside and disintergrating my net of categories.
Go ... Deeper ...

I asked chatGPT to rearrange the poem:

Local image #96, a canvas of light,
On February's first, a mysterious night.

The rays cascade, or do they fade?
A dance of shadows, a twilight parade.

Categories align, or do they stray?
Reality's grip, or slipping away?

Stumbling forward in uncertainty's embrace,
Deeper into the ocean, a vast, unknown space.

Must I tread on, into the pain,
The path ahead, a relentless terrain.

I'll be the one, if you so choose,
Navigating depths, where shadows bruise.

The seabed of pearls, is it within view?
Or have I ventured too far, the horizon askew?

Past my veil of categories, sight obscured,
A world unraveling, perspectives blurred.

A dull thud echoes, an atom bomb's song,
A whale's wail, a melody so strong.

Flattening shockwaves, serpent's tongue's lick,
Disintegrating nets, in chaos we pick.

Go deeper, the call from the abyss,
Unraveling mysteries, an eternal kiss.

--

I have to say I think my poem is better.

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Acylic on board
30cm x 30cm
R 990
Click here for purchase enquiry