Auburn Mortality

The browns of Autumn are always outshined by other vivid hues. Scarlets, oranges, yellows, and violets with a prettier tune. Burnt auburn left to wither, unappreciated until the greens of spring return. Some things die and we marvel at them, other’s pass away with a passing glance. Auburn left to fill the space until there’s something worth staring at. Value assigned, Drab Vs. Chiché, yet the trees expire the same, slumber over their leaves.

“I don’t wanna talk about death, I don’t want to focus on the Macabre.”

“Pearly gates and golden streets, I’m building my treasures up in Heaven. Rust and decay will never touch me.”

“Live in the moment, life flits around like a canary, all yellow and exuberant. Death is still, lazy; don’t waste away pondering such things.”

I think it’s fear of death that drives faith. I’ll do anything to feel like I’ll live forever. I’ll tithe my last cent, grind my teeth to dust just to keep moving.

“Oh busy, busy bee, walking to and fro. What if we close our eyes? What if we don’t wake up?”

What if we don’t wake up? I tried to cling to hope, tried to swallow fear, hoping that there’s an afterlife with every tear. So many stories, so much lore, always ending in some deity conquering death through resurrection or reincarnation. I used to pray because I was afraid of what there might be after. Content with worshipping a god I didn’t fully believe in. I used to cry into my mother’s arms, pleading with her to save me from rot and decay. 3 years old is early to worry about death. So I put my faith in a story, written by someone many years ago, just like I used to put my faith in Grover when he told me “There’s a Monster at the End of this Book”.

There’s a monster at the end of every book, and it’s weird to think that Sesame Street taught me just as much about humanity and death as Christ or Buddha did. I used to believe that monster was death, that that monster was sin, but the monster is humanity, and death is Van Helsing, coming to put a stake in our hearts as we crumble to ash. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”, made of the earth, buried there too.

I think the Greeks worshiped so many to distract themselves, a nation constantly at war in their adolescence. Aphrodite, Eros, Apollo, Athena, making any concept transcend it’s form. I think the Christians and the Jews wanted the same distraction, but focused it into one super-being. No respect for death, no dignity in decay.

Samhain is around the bend, and winter there after. They’d slaughter their cattle, harvest their grains, and offer up a bit to death to ensure they made it through the frigid, white doom. We’ll wear masks to hide from malignant spirits, going from door to door, begging for treats. Feasting for the solstice, avoiding any tomb.

Scarlets, oranges, yellows, and violets wither just as Auburn does. Auburn has the hardest task of all: ensuring all the other hues burn out bright, while she just burns out.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to get at, other than death is an inevitability. We won’t escape. Maybe I just don’t want to be afraid anymore? Maybe I’m tired of putting my faith in possibilities and probabilities? Maybe I want to stop alloting life’s value to extraplanar beings and just let life’s value stand on it’s own? I don’t want the harvest to come to anyone or anything but mine own. I want to bask and revel in the responsibility for the things that I have sown.

Inspired by:

Claude Monet’s color palate

Bahamut of the Platinum Cadre

The Chariot’s “Your”

Grover of “Sesame Street”‘s, “There’s a Monster at the End of this Book”

Greek mythos

The Gaelic festival of Samhain

The autumn foliage


Impressions on Impressionism: Giverny/Entomology/Trap Music

Floue mais intelligible, nous sommes tous des impressions.

Oil greens laced through lavender sheens, views from a turf-laden shore. Vines waltz through railings, coalescing with their man-made supports. Water and sky, an amalgam for the eye, what is reflection and what is atmosphere? Nymphaeceae circlets, fractal florets, delicate mid-afternoon rays caught in tranquil pools. Nonsense colors at an inch’s glimpse. Odd splotches, ridges and valleys of violet and cyan. Craters of cremé with rivulets of mustard. Separate and clashing. Chaos at the tip of a brush. Polished maple, lanced with horse hair, bound in nickel.

Days spent reading “Order of the Phoenix” under pointed leaves. Vacationing in the north, roaming fields of daisies, mounted Clydesdale. Scrounging for silvered change, Coinstar nickel and diming for a quarter tank. Lavender outside of my workplace, calming aroma in the night over rooftop crises. Clear Caribbean, enveloped, intruding on a coral biome. Spoonfuls of Cool-Whip out of the container, no other food in the fridge. The cover of “Flower Boy“, driving through Dallas, “take me back to November“.

November must have been glorious: Paris, circa 1840. New eyes born to an unimaginative planet, born to a race fixed on defined lines. “Je n’aime pas, Oscar“, they must have touted. Maybe it’s because you created something beautiful out of the ordinary. Maybe it was because it forces us to identify with nature. Maybe it was that you meticulously globbed, dotted, and lacquered chaos into blurred beauty. Maybe your recordings of the seasons reminded them that their time was passing too quickly as they sat under their parasols drinking Cabernet. Maybe it struck them with fear and concern when they subconsciously realized you painted empathy, that you painted humanity through nature and oil. Hazy, colors bleeding into each other, I know that I’m Giverny, France 1906. A bunch of splotches, independent from the next, caressing their neighbor, solid and fluid. Sometimes memories run into the next, sometimes a smell, sometimes a color, all evoking specific emotion. A gorgeous fog clinging to a set point of existence.

I’m fighting to keep my existence this undefined. Like the scales of a Lepidopteran, fine, iridescent, each one important and part of a whole. Consistently reminded that bold lines are even bolder when they’re trying to draw you into a silhouette, and eventually a mold. Categorizing, organizing, ranking, assigning value, regardless of if the value is understood or not. Consistently fighting my hypocrisy of “I want to be more than one thing, but you have to be one thing to me“, pushing through life creating my own heartbreak and disappointment. Loyalty with no strings attached.

Let colors bleed into others. Stay confused and changing and be honest about it. Humans only act like they’re defined because it’s easier to get comfortable in a cage than in the open. We only define because we’re selfish, we only organize because we’re scared, we’re only tied to time because we’re lazy. We only lack direction because we try to only experience one.

Water Lilies float under a Japanese bridge and so do I.

Inspired by:

Oscar-Claude Monet’s “Water Lilies” 1914-1926

Tyler, the Creator’s “Flower Boy” 2017

The Mexican Bluewing: Myscelia ethusa

Existential conversations with my siblings

Santa Monica beach: 10:57 pm