Where Does Your Self Expression Derive From? Is it Yours?

Portugese shipments came from West to East, left to right to Japan in the 1600's. Incidently I've come across old books that are able to dicipher, yet straining on the brain. Staying on thought, I turned to escape to the illustrations in one of the old books for creative expression. I noticed painted golden clouds. I thought cloud 9, whatever that is doesn't last long enough, and I investigated more into Japan and Portugese, the 1600's, and 'beyond the golden clouds'.

The Japanese used golden silk screens referred to as 'Beyond Golden Clouds.' The point was and is for the viewer to have their freedom of expression via the silk folding screens. It all makes sense to me now. I must say I feel foolish for turning to write about my experience, but it seems fate has its way of speaking out to the world to start talking about an expression not of their own but of moral obligation.

In the illustration I jotted a few notes on, I wondered if her jeweled hair, arched eyebrows, lighter skin, and depiction of safeness meant in the arms of a darker distracted man, that she was just a lover. Did he Jezebel her or was I reading the back of the book and she was the same girl who looks to be pouring a substance among the homeless into a jug of water. Now that I think of it maybe this last scene she's smiling because she poisoned him, and his 'beyond golden clouds' scene is starting to fade. I hope not.

There seem to be a lot of different woman illustrated in such a short book with such few drawings. How many stories could have been going on at once? I've decided to let the book go. Page 1 could be 22. How long can a person express themselves without leaving and entering scenes. Unless your an actor and that makes sense. The ultimate goal for many, to be rich and famous, how else unless your a celebrity or a lover. A lover gets 5 minutes of fame. It's like winning the fucking lottery.

I once told a woman the other day that I couldn't stop loving her. Then I had a moment where the oxygen popped out of a bottle, made a noise, and I jumped. I can't fucking stop loving her when I never did. It's like your car. Have you driven it ever never off the lot? Most likely, no. But I can see a few flamboyant exceptions. Never depreciates. Not for me at least with her, not with a lover. They get old or bore you, you don't owe them anything and hopefully you didn't lose too much on those mile high trips and expenses you would've spent on any hooker. You get the point. So did this book. Portuguese or not, I get it.

I just wonder what she'll do when her looks fade and we've seeped all her self expression away. Sold it in fact. Fuck it! It's one for all and all for one!

It dawns on me like when clouds disappear, but they never really do here, I'm in a fog layer on a Marina.

I look forward to analyzing the illustration with Helios. Stay tuned.

Could Blood of Lava be the Power Source of Global Burnings and Sheddings?

Near the true blue sea they tell me through lines I confess I could not read but letters backwards and ratios. My mind was in a state of obsession when I turned from trying to cypher the numeric code to seeing the illustrations. I don't think it mattered what the symbols of a language told, the book holds the mystic in its binder and through the vibrant and rich ambidextrous illustrations.

At this point I have no way of knowing what the pages read or even if they were in order. So I read a slender feminine person with long dark hair graced with leaves like the Greeks, balance a jug with one hand holding it between the neck and shoulder line down the back muscle.

It reminded me of Salsa, an African who used to present to our elementary school about life in Africa. Woman would walk down the gymnasium hall room with jugs on their head and wrapped babies to their sides and backs. Wow! Anyway, in the illustration the pretty brunettes other hand without ease and a Geisha's control, over pours wine into a white man's cup.

It looks like garden of Eden. The man is chubby and wears a turban and large fur coat. I couldn't help thinking how odd it is that he sits under a tree unversed by the mantle of wine from possibly the center of the earth's veins passed their way through our dirty banks into his large wine glass and onto his pants.

So under the tree of maybe Adam's or Newton's, one of several illustrations from, mine, a stupid guy's perception, wonders why is one nation under god global, and why does it seem our worlds 9 of hearts of chaos drips, possibly curdling as it infects another happy man, another worldly aficionado from another era or not.

Art is powerful. Propaganda is the freedom America promises. We need to start looking at things here. There were two points I believe, but time is lending at various rates more of them to see or again, not to.