| The soul's promise? Where self comes, the flying things; the unraveling impulse, unseen, but known. Felt in a derivative sense; a punitive thing; the application, then, the sound of voices; the mirror-images; the alacrity of all pretenders; how the mood prevails; and, out of nothing, in the caricature of life; the lines are jagged; no easy accumulation; and the alien nature of the enclosed ego seeks its level; finding is only a temporary solution; there are many findings, but seldom a climax; the Denouement of each exercise is precise when it occurs, but it is blurred through constant repetition; the rising is the critical element; that instant, a streak in thought activates, leaping, apparently, from an unknown source. Think of self this way; never in the normal sense; normal is deficient; it is only in the beauty of insight that we are removed; sanctified, so to speak, the connotations without previous parallel; ready to ascend the universe, pointing, like a comet, and trailing its substance behind; the flakes, intense, finally subsiding, falling, dying embers into the vastness of the cosmic void; yet, they are not lost; and like other matter, they circle endlessly, ready, if, by chance, there is a place where they can fasten. To hold, even, if momentarily, and project themselves. It is an intermittent Revelation: that precious moment of truth. The winged angels are our metaphor; it is the voice within a voice; hear, hear, the bells ring; it is the coming of the immortal spirit: the bodiless, ageless, spirit.
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 Medium: oil on Masonite Title: La Sainte Chapelle, Paris Size: 36" x 24"
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