The Three Artistic Tenant Triangle:

In art, an artist and any concrete attempt to measure their skill can rest on basically three concepts: Creativity, Technique, and Composition.


Creativity: This is the element that scares most people away.  However, it tends to be the glimmer of hope that keeps even the most fledgling artist persevering through the hate. For if people saw they could hold fire and shape it to their will, they would be entranced, at least enough to continue even through the burn. They would yearn to live for and give their livers daily for such a gift.  Creativity is the skill to see life, replicate life, and imbue a representation of life into, through and from a media, telling a story and letting life be a little more. It is within creativity’s grasp, one realizes being crazy is not particularly a bad thing. For it can be the inspiration from which the mind looking forward with forethought, can hue all manner of things from the depths of their imagination to reveal beauty to the mortal lands of reality.

         So from the hidden celestial heights, close to his breast, an artist bears a hollowed reed holding an idea sparking. Hard the heart beats, for the artist runs, his purpose being pursued, haunted by a sense of the divine on his heels. For this spark, this possibility held dear, snatched from the clouds, has been occluded high, held there to limp, though epic, hidden low key. But astride mortal limbs, this idea freed, may burn, rage, incinerate all that would oppose, igniting the night with glories rising higher than pyre flaming into inferno. Such a power did not cost an arm and leg, just a liver, yet gave life such a luster worth living.

For creativity is the fire that still lights an artist’s imagination.


Technique: The objective one, the learned one, the most artificial because it can be artifaced, made and created in any heart willing to learn and put in the work, the hours to struggle and strive, to climb the mountain. For there is a mountain–yet you in your feebleness can ascend it. It will be hard but try, persevere and be. Technique is the artist’s knowledge of the media they are trying to work in–the media’s strengths and weaknesses, its limits and unique special abilities.

Here is where the jargon resides, abstract concepts congregate, and definitions categorize, trying to sterilely conceptualize life and the action of representing it, to a science known, words understood, themes analyzed, and life snapped and shot.

           See, hear the phoenix resting in ashes, never to rise again, yet we now know how it would have flapped its wings. We’ve dissected it, we know all its theory, how hypothetically it could fly, yet there it lays, technically known and totally dead.  Technique is the realm of academics, critics, haters and know it alls. But it remains a necessary utility, for a carver must know how to hold a chisel, the painter the brush, the photographer to point the lens, the tubist to understand the silence seen in noted rest,  the poet to enjamb elusive euphemisms, and digital artist to guide that mouse and ctrl-Z with speed and deftness.

So learn the techniques of media you want to use.


Composition: So how to put this–simply why modernity sucks, your toddler is not the next Picasso, and your Emperor is stark naked in the street though all the sensible adults are loving the lace, specifically how it blows in the breeze, long, fluttery and dangling. Get your mind out of the gutter and go see your priest. Notice the inlay in the confession booth–after all there is not much else to see. Observe how the patterns are intricately laid, how the pattern repeats itself rhythmically, and how there at least seems to be a sense of order.

       For anyone’s two year old can throw up over a canvas, burp and screech attention to their direction, and design a new adult fashion line using your scissors, your sharpies and your skirts, especially the really cute one, now cut one, the one that cost you some. God has blessed everybody with the skill to paint a canvas blue then mark it with a bold white line. Yes, the emperor does strut boldly and must, for a breeze threatens to blow blue his face. Composition transcends creativity for it is the question of narrative as it asks how does your choice of color, themes, and ideas tell a story. How does your work show a perspective on life, speak to the audience by the arrangement of the piece’s elements and decisions made to put together the image before the beholder’s eye. Composition ascends from the objectiveness of Technique because it lives and bares a soul, going beyond the textbook.

      Anyone can read words, memorize concepts, reflect ideas yet it is a different skill to string words into sentences, to conceive concepts beyond the parental chromosomes, and illustrate ideas concisely in a logical understandable way. You need to know when to add, when to subtract, and realize when it is just enough to lock in gold. Then you will actually command respect and not just appear to, you there buff in the wind. Go see the priest, be clothed in the composition of the creator’s care. For not one hair falls astray if He hath not deemed it to so quit throwing paint at the canvas and claiming to be inspired. Gravity and entropy paint with only one brush and it is highly synonymous to a grim reaper’s scythe.

So compose yourself, prepare, make, and be.              


Now this artistic triangle is more of a suggestion, a trove to be raided where some thoughts on life are held. So explorer esteemed, will you carry from under the grim bleakness of the mundane, this torch offered to the world beyond? For art is not just skill subtle, creativity is not craziness capriciously cute, technique is not just craft cunning as composition is not just arrangements appearing–no, art is life often held within, in the ground beneath mortal pedantry. However, it was not meant to just stay there. Such a glory essential to earth was meant to be shared, freed, displayed, explored and contemplated so people would answer more than “eh” when thinking about their existence.

    Creativity, Technique, Composition, these three tenants residing in art’s halls help. For as they commune as a triangle, they frame the artistic endeavor, structure our work with points graspable, and present an angle at which even the feeblest, faintest, finite spark of an idea can try to catch the wettest of wood, warm the coldest of hearts, and be a flame fighting, a fire inspiring, a star shining for others to perceive.  We are not all elegantly equipped equilateral nor were we meant to be. Some will stand tall on two legs while withering in width, others will awkwardly strut and jut out with rods of differing lengths, yet make all the points connect. Right, cute and obtuse we may seem–still let the haters relate and critics canter, but artists let us try, and if at first we don’t succeed, let us through all severances pursuing, bear the sparks close to our chest,

Run, learn our craft’s technical limits,

Roll, clothe our ideas in forms chosen,

Stroll, for even as earth surrenders to winter’s descent, the sun yet rises.


For brilliance however dim must not be hidden and the land must not be left to wither to weather’s whims. The sun still shines and we artists should imbue this living sphere beyond the mundaneness of “eh”    


Yet the fourth shadow concept exists and persist–the Artistic Angst:  



We have it still–we keep it in a box.

But beyond the box, does there lie any point?


For we are born, happy bouncy bright babies, infant in fabulous fantasy. We toddle through, kidding and laughing, children we caper, dancing in the delight of day, knowing not night or nothing. Then off we go to a garden kinder than the veggies we despise. And we learn but also daydreaming yearn for the simpler days that simply swayed when we played free and frivolent. But it is not all bad, we don’t need to be mad, we actually can be glad, for the stickers are stars for success, naptime and oh glorious recess where we can run and play at least for an hour a day before we crack into our lunchables, oh quite fun, and then we continue school and learn quite some, our letters, our a-b-c’s, our numbers, our 1,2 3’s, we love school, oh so we do. We did. Then taking steps first, walking a grade, our hearts ever so flutter, we are slightly dismayed, for now not only do we do letters at school, they also seem to follow us home too, where work was warded away, it now is with us all the day and some of the night too as worksheets lightly accrue.


But we get stickers, and are known as best in the class for having bested, having conquereth, having known the maths, facing that adversary addition with subtraction his sorcerer, staring down that demon division and the multiplication monster. Ah sigh the years do fly, for cursives rain heavy written slick and soon oh so very quick, we find ourselves emigrating on a rotation, for our homeroom is but a station, in our mission of education, we circulate through the school on bell set periods. Between we teem, age we become, and as years do run, we speed to, until through we find ourselves and peer amidst a medias res amiss, a youthful spring with all its fortune hits, and we notice the other side, which though always different from us, now less differ not of us, so begins the circling towards play, looking a glance all the day, wanting, wishing, hoping, seething, our lives the symphony for hormonic harmonies to be played and strewn through.


gloom screen blocksBut then poetry sighs, turning towards to fade, as prose amplifies and begins to compose itself, as we find ourselves back on the bottom. Welcome to the ninth circle, held in this dreer, like the seasons, you find yourself in the depths of winter, snowballs like spitballs assail you as you run from class to class in attempts to pass. Yet thick and dense, snow heavy hinders your passage, and you suddenly find that in this new realm, you know nothing. But it is just a season, and like the snow, it melts and fades away, leaving you the choice. To lie there and mope, or to elope and spring away toward possibilities. For you are fresh no longer, seasoned less soft, more soph, the grass shoots rise anew, there are buds on the branches, shrill the songs the birds sing.  Now you know everything, more than there is to know–and time, once a fiend, now is your cuddly crustacean conquered. Could such joy never end, could such happiness never fade, could the trees leafy forever green be? Somewhere, some time you may ponder that question but for now, as the sun high brightly glimmers down, you have signs to complete and assignments to remember–or was it the other way around? Ugh, outside it is bright and sunny yet I’m here inside, busy and bleak–what a week, eh, such some somber way life these days tends to sway. But the record replays reminding, it’s for your future, for over that bridge, there is a field, so here in this last altercation, battle hard with all will. Soon, before you can measure, it will end. How swiftly seasons seem to speed beyond us, only yesterday I saw snowflakes falling, now flakes brown descending. I should, I ought, um, maybe–where were those days when we laughed as we played, sung as we worked and slept, resting in the comfort of a life eased? Why so serious, younger ones snicker–they are so fortunate, blissfully unaware of Ragnarok impending, hear, beyond but not far, here a wolf howls–Fenrir now wants more than a hand though it’s Garmr’s teeth that will reclaim the rest of next Tuesday, with its test, papers, and college applications. Yep next Tues, it is due, because I’m going to college, at least I think so, I want to, do I though–Ugh I don’t know anymore but, I keep, I try, and attempt to go on. Just a few more bells, just a few. Then those few last appeals, those youthful bells, they ring out, signaling you are now on to your next step.

Welcome to the next tabula rasa, the space is empty but over the next couple years, you’ll assemble the pieces, the parts, the pictures for the collage you’re making. You will, right? Rite, just do it, you’re new here and everyone one before you has, it’s tradition, and those ruts through the long gone dead and dying years are deep chasms now. You really think you’re just going to Peter Pan leap, jump, and fly away. Ha, never, never man–you lost, boy? They ask, for they see you staring around. Yep, definitely there is a frosh, they really know nothing yet don’t those two first one fly fast, as you run, praying hoping to catch up, ahead. But barely above, the water for sure, you say. Climbing up onto the shores sandy, gravel clinging muddily to your limbs, you realize you are not fresh anymore. Such grit shows you to be more than soph–such wisdom a year  to you can cling, so all see wonder to ponder–there is the one is who knows all, so all to you call, the newly come and initiated, the tourist erring wondering lost, the junior jumbled and gaunt, all seek thee for the knowledge unknown or information uninteracted with. For now, you stand at centers, string thin ubiquity streaming from you, tightly held within your grasp–even if it moves on the periphery, you will perceive it, this world, this land is your dormain, and you make sure all know you rule it.  But time passes, swifter than your comprehension, and though you were shore on land, you’re swimming again and drowning momentarily, treading the struggle tired, uhh when does this trend towards end, ever? They say youth heals all needs as time fulfills all wounds–wait, was that what it was? I don’t know, I don’t know, at this juncture, idk, is all and everything you can muster, as it is conjunction that holds your vast and fleeing parts, somewhat, partially togethe–ah, who am I kidding, this is BS, all is BS and we all make it all up, just to tread, just above the waves ensuing, the papers vulturing above, the essay sharking, stark to stake out what will soon be left of us. If only, and only if, someone, somehow, something could reach down and–but idk, idk, I can’t believe this could ever end–now. But then flowing saged stubble, humble at first but luxurious arises. All around they chant mow your lawn, you look like you are from the street, stuck straight in desperate, but these fibers thing and haggard, are the proof, the locks of your soon to be victory. For seniored, such a status is the seat within which you sit, and you are now enjoying the view. Yes, getting here may have been miserable, but like shipwretched, now that you are kissing land, you understand, and they, the rest stand under, as this now is your moment.


vileplume focusYet ephemeral, you barely kiss it, fly swift, you barely miss it until, gown a flowing, your face a glowing, your tears–the wind a blowing, you walk your final stride and, and, and polysyndeton lost, you wonder if you could go back, to return you yearn, but reunions are simply just drunk regressions that hangover in the mourning, reminding you the bird has flown, and will never look back. Eurydice is dead, and write a song about it, but you can only charm Hades once to chill with the shades on fleek–you back in the real world, no more euphemisms–this is your fate. But it is not all that bad, write, rite, right?! I can find more stickers here, and stars, there have to be more stars, so you hold on and you start running, through the mazes in search of cheese. But watch with care, for cats be luring around every corner, willing to sell you something to buy you all. But, you say to yourself, if I run fast enough, like Pegasus I’ll sprout somethings, and escape this crate of a crete, watch and learn, Minos, I got brains, I’ll best you and become boss. But child Icarus, Phaeton high burning bright, though you dream vividly in the coldness of darkness night, warming yourself by the held heath of fired desires–the sun, watch on time, it rises, and will scorch you back down. But we still try, and strive to outpace the rat race, but wishing hoarse to be a stylin steed, yet such thoughts, neigh, do not change your bray–you’re still carting your burdens, mule. But I am getting a whole book of stickers, cynic, you’re just jealous that I’m special with the stars, see look hear, yeah up here at my chest, see I got that bright one–that’s for my job, that big circular one–that was for my wedding, and that one, my favorite, yeah the big one rectangle, that is for my place, yep, my place, my pad, thy be looking kind of thin on your assemblage, where are your pieces of flair–ain’t got flair, you’re not quite there, you know, that what they say. Do they though?–I wonder.


Yet when we began, bright, bounding, and beaming, was it for flair that we kept up the pace and had a wide smile plastered broadly across the face? Wasn’t it for something simpler than all this? Wasn’t it for–What was it for? Through all these years, striving through all these severes, crying through all these tears, what was it for? There will be some around who will say–it was for us, you did it in our stead, and looking around you’ll see your friends and family, smiling and nodding but while, yes they do keep us going often than not, one day they may not be–then what? Even now fainter their presence may appear, so what do you have to hold against the fear, that all you do and have done, the skirmishes faced and battles unwon, all your triumphs and failures achieved, from all this united host, what sustain you barely beyond the ghost? No piece of flair, however fair, could ever care, enough to hold you when you fall, would ever care to embrace you up when you are feeling small, should ever tare and stay to make sure as the dawn arises, you as well, awake swell in good stead, instead of your last arrangement being made from behind foggy eyes. But, but my trophies, my glory weighs heavy on my chest, their metallic allure catching brightly the sun, and you say it was all for naught?! Who-who-who do you think you are–Who—Ssshh, think and listen to your heart. You quite well know who I am–for we have had this conversation before, yet you failed to listen–there were too many things in the way, blocking your clear view. Yet now tragedy hard and fast has struck, for vultures wheeling compose circular strafes above your corpse soon to be, and crows cackling caw at such a fate fallen on you. Before you breathe what remains to past, here, and listen well, and remember, see who I am. For I am your assurance of devaluation, ha haha ha–all and everyone thinks they are a prodigy, they will dodge every would’ve, could’ve and should’ve shooting their way. Yet, hear, am I standing and you are the one who lays on the floor, with a pool forming, the ocean of disaster you will drown in. Once bubbly and young, you thought you would fly over any tsunami, float over the tremors of any earthquake, dodge the lightning thundering and reign of clouds hailing below–yet now what a sad sight you lie there now, barely a truth holding on, soon a fiction to be barely remembered. When you were young . .  . .  . . .

For a moment,

the taunts fade, for a second and you remember when you were young, and all the dreams, wishes and desires you held, you held, where were these things contained?  

. . .

Ah, not yet, for I have you still, and there is yet fun for me to have. Up above you, see the shadows encircling, soon they will feast at the delight of your destruction, in the celebration of your defeat.For, yes, this all ends, hear, remember and understand, you are nothing, your hands empty, your heart losing its grip on your life’s flow, you hold nothing in the end–though the spirit tends towards hope, the body deemed defeated, drags down all to dust

. . . . .

The words, those words, a word toward, afterword, what word did he say? It was something that I had had, held, contained. There was a box, did I still have it, after all these years? In this world, I had moved so much, that maybe I had lost it–yet, something, so methinks, a possibility, a chance, a desire, a way forward, a held opportunity possibly expected–


No, listen to me, while you breathe, you’ll mope, so in this homely hut small , let it all end, do not consider the questions antagonizing, at arm’s length, lies a lance, let all be not–

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

No, to be is not to not be, as such I stay for a moment longer, yes this world dreary dreadful can drag but yet, all those years ago, in a time before, when poetry rhymed, and such did lines soar, I had a box, and within I did keep, such a wonderful object golden, bellosomgreater worth than any metal heap, it was called hope, the first and the last of its kind, it represent a life held, liberty granted, for a pursuit, whole in this part, of things higher and above. But I got distracted, for I was young, and shinier things around did gleam, so to and towards them did my steps turn and my life seem. But I was not left, for I have the box still, for it is in my chest, though not opened as oft it should, it bears its contents, thus is filled. So to you, you assurance of devaluation, I, here, you there, for there you will stay. Yes, you may deem me not a prodigy, cover with dust all my success, send to the grave any glory I may have attained. But this hope, hear, I hold and will keep in my chest, because it is not yours to take, for it was not by you given. For one Who made and gave it, keeps it within me still.

I have it still–I have kept it in a box. But beyond the box, lies its point, so opening my chest, I will let its ardor, shine and be.

You will see it, I hope.  

vileplume and bellosom

Dear Writing . . .



Dear Writing,

      Sorry, So so sorry, it’s me, not you but lately, I’ve been busy, maybe too busy. Or lazy, yep that’s probably it. Lazy. But I’m back–I’m trying to, at least–hey give me some credit. It’s hard these days, you know–I got a job, adult responsibilities, articles to read, old writings to review, the past to reminisce about–like remember when we had so much time and I had so much energy, that I would just write everything and anything, the only thing stopping me was that I was tired, or really had to go to the bathroom, or there were way too many words with red jagged underlines?

Yep, those were the days, those were . . . But now, now dreary old now, I so live for the weekend, as the week, ugh don’t remind me! Yet the good thing is that it does fly fast–before you know it, it’s Friday, yay! Friday night is seriously the best because I can work on art–oh whoops, I forgot, yeah, how to say it . .  .so yeah  . . I’ve been hanging out with art a lot more these days, uh sorry. Art is so vibrant, with all the colors you can throw on the screen, and all those lines and curves I can manipulate into form. The stories I can tell are endless–not to say, I can’t tell stories with you as well, Writing.  But it is so hard sometimes to get started–your great blank white pages stare at me and I shiver, oh I shiver and sometimes  all I want to do is curl up into a ball and play my 3DS. Yeah, you’re right–art has white pages as well. But you see there, I can quickly change that with  a nice bland pastel rectangular background. With a couple odd shapes, though awkwardly arranged into a blocky form, already I can see in my creative eye the beginnings of a masterpiece.

But with you, Writing, 5 minutes in, and that measly sentence or two, lonely floating in a  sea of white, silently heckling me as in my head, a million thoughts racing are showing me all the things I could be doing now, and I just can’t think of the next thing I want to say. So 30 minutes, later when a teenager of a paragraph stares up at me, red lines like warts blinking everywhere, half-thought-out sentences with ands, other conjunctions streaming along a pile of miserably incoherent tangents meandering through a prose so magenta even Prince would be scared to wear it, I just simply don’t know–I don’t know it I care enough to wade through it , and clean up those sentences in bad need of liposuction, a diet (NOT A SEE FOOD DIET), and exercise–or even if I care enough to continue on with this train of thought, whose engine of an idea was so bright and friendly like Thomas until we started up that hill–many axles were more that scuffed in the climb. Yet at the top, all I could see was the upcoming mountain and, uh, uh I just couldn’t, just couldn’t anymore–Facebook break.

Whoops, that was a long time, a lot of cats, though. Anyway, where was I? Ah, the real reason why I wrote this. Um, erm, so, eh, last month October, the 10th month, even though in Latin it literally means the eighth month–but I digress, to save me more time, uh, please. So in October, there is this thing called Inktober you may have heard about. It is about drawing every single day in ink and posting it. So the good news–yay, good news–is that I was able to do that, even some of my post were kind of late, give a day/weeks or something like that. But, erm, the bad news. So this month is November, the 11th–okay, I’ll get to my point. In November, there is NaNoWriMo in which you are supposed to write 50,000 words. While not exactly doing that, in the vein of it I had hoped to write some stuff with you Writing this November but as they say, “Hopes are fickle things like butterflies who as they flit often fly in front of lit flamethrowers.” Naive butterflies fried. But anyways, I have a concession–letters. Together we can write letters to many different things–projects that need cheering up, poems that need to be written, art that is still struggling to get itself together. These letters could be fun  just like this one was. And with that, Writing, dear old friend, I am sorry about this month but don’t hold it against me, I’m a busy lazy man but I’ll make sure to hang with you more often.


Until the next  keystroke and cursive letter,

Lelantos Lynx        

Within Whose Waters We Swim


In the great sea of Culture, we fishies swim, breathe, and have our subsistence. We take from these watery depths, letting its waves inform  and influence our actions, our thoughts and our deeds. Yet when an individual does something that upsets other individuals, infringing on their sense of identity, hindering their freedom, denying another their rights, many blame culture. For someone must pay in blood, one must be tarred and feathered, life demands a sacrifice and life must be satiated. Someone must pay. Why not the void, unfeeling, unknowing, impersonal, a universal that stands above us, why not history, the deadened past with antique “backwardness”, why not culture, for we all know its pervasive lies creep into and seer our souls with its destructive acidity.

So we blame culture. Yet we are to blame. For culture is not just an impersonal force that exist above us, controlling us, and affecting us in a one way exchange, a monologue of decrepid instructions toward destruction. No, this is a two way street. For human beings, individuals are not alone in the universe, we do not exist separate like islands, free, autonomous and liberal. No, we individuals, we fishies swim in these waters and as much as we take, we also give, as much as we receive, we also instate, and as much as we are influenced, we influence this watery world. For this aqua is not sterile, these waters are not pure, for we individuals pour our hopes, our schemes, our ideals and our dreams to dissolve into this solution–we individuals flavor the waves that we taste whether the waters are sweet and clear or are bitter, burning and acrid. Whatever has been taken from culture was put in by another human being, thus whatever problems you would like to blame on culture, originates from another human being across the pond.

Now before you sharpen your steak knives, pull out your pitchforks, and light your torches, not always do these problems originate from one human being, not always is one individual to blame–however, these problems are human, thus humans are to blame, every and all, for we all have the potential and the inclination to strive towards strife and more importantly, we will . For we individuals are personalities, bent and driven to the pursuit of our own life, liberty and happiness, for which we sacrifice others in our pursuit. Yes we fishies our own devils in disguise, we are the sharks stark in snark that snip and snap at other existences to secure our own. For there will be blood in these waters as all must work by sweated blood of their brow–yet the blood will not be ours, for aren’t those minnows swimming this way. What an opportune sacrifice.

Yet, look and see, those minnows, small, sleek, swimming by, those minnows are you and me, those victims and perpetrators are one in the same–see the flesh you suck at is your own, Tantalus the thigh you chew is thine as the prey prey. This is not us vs them, they the dirty sick dying, we the saved, wholly, pharisicylical. Redeemed does not mean reassigned–it means recommissioned so all yall crabby hermits drop the shells, lose your shields, take off the gloves, swim within the waters yet be, remain yet transcend, stay yet assault–whoops, salt these waters, for we were not commissioned to pedestals to stand on and look down, but we were sent to the trenches, the caverns, the land where the Son fails to shine especially, we have been sent, so we should go.