Visionary Park

Dystopian Playland on Harmony

In a yet to be published part of Whispers I wrote “Where do the others live, the ones who sent us here? The ones who exiled us to the earth?”


One restless night, I dreamed about a dystopian planet named Harmony. All the poets, writers, artists, and seers of Harmony had been banished. Eventually they all died out and nobody grew up to replace them.

After a very short time, that alien world with a desperate name withered and almost died.

After a very long time Harmony’s dominant species finally realized their terrible error so they tried to manufacture new artists and poets. Sadly, nobody could find any books on “How to Make an Artist” or “How to Make a Poet,” and definitely not “How to Make a Prophet.” Their people flew from Harmony out to the faraway stars but they found no thinkers they could understand. Too long ago Harmony’s rulers had exiled their visionaries to alien worlds that were long forgotten and out of their reach. At the time nobody thought much about it.

Harmony built effigies and habitats. Harmony made studio replicas. Harmony put desks covered with pens and notebook computers in a place of memory and reverence. It was a theme park complete with carousels, a roller coaster, and ice cream stands.

They named it Visionary Park.

People thronged to see the effigies of the long-gone creative souls but all they saw were wax statues. The walls were all bare. There was no art, no poetry, and there were no books. Nobody remembered what books were, what purpose they had, or what might have been in them. Nobody knew how to make new ones anymore.

So, it was too late. And not long thereafter everyone was gone. The planet Harmony became a desert. It was dead.

The End

Is this poetry or is it history? Remember the Stalinist Purges, the Maoist Cultural Revolution, the Cambodian Killing Fields, the Nazi book burnings, the Holocaust, the Inquisition, endless Jihads still raging today, the exiles of every Prophet and the martyrdoms of many, the persecutions of the Baha’is in Iran, and oh, so many more on a smaller scale, all in the name of maintaining the status quo and social harmony.

“Art at its most significant is a distant early warning system that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen.” (Marshall McLuhan)

Walking into Paintings

Walking into Paintings

Last week, I showed Moonlight how to walk into paintings.

It’s such a simple detachment once someone shows you how. When you’re inside you can reach out to anyone looking at the work. You can reach them and speak to them. They won’t hear you with their senses but they will get your message. You can do that because works of art create their own psychic space, no more or less real than any other space. Some paintings do it better than others. For excursions, I don’t think that I’d recommend The Scream. Not to Moon anyway.

You immerse yourself in the landscape, in the world of the painting, in its sounds, in its life.

Moonlight learned where I go when I crave peace. I took her hand. We opened a book and stepped into a Monet. Dressed in white cotton. We wore straw hats tied with silk scarves. We carried parasols with Oriental patterns on them. In high-button shoes. We stepped softly through an infinite Monet. We crossed a footbridge. We paused to languidly gaze at waterlilies. We watched the fishing boats go out at sunrise. The light played through radiant clouds on haystacks and sparkling cathedrals. How wonderfully it changed throughout the day. We floated on the clouds reflected in lily ponds. We were pink and blue reflections on ripples of water.

We laughed. Moonlight was radiant with joy. I showed her that the place she often saw in her visions was real. It was tactile. It was aural. We felt the breezes and we became breezes. We felt the dew. We became the sparkling droplets on dark green leaves. We felt the warmth of the sun. We became pure lights. We radiated warmth. We gave life to flowers. To the pond. To each other. All of it was real. We wore long dresses of white cotton. We were flowers of every possible color. We held hands. We carried parasols. We flew kites. We walked across the meadow. In white cotton. In high button shoes. With silk scarves. We danced. We laughed. I shared the secret of the Muses with Moonlight. With love.

Moon Light in Starry Night

Moon rearranged some stars but when we left, we tidied up

Last night we walked into Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Moon rearranged some stars but when we left, we tidied up. Everything was just as we found it.

Floating on music is another acquired skill. I wanted to show Moon how to float on Baroque music. On Enya’s music. On Sarah McLachlan’s music. On Loreena McKennitt’s music. Finally, I believe that some humans may be capable of Soul Ballooning. Back home Soul Ballooning is a team sport.

Let the viewer stroll around within the picture, to force him to forget himself and so to become a part of the picture. (Vassily Kandinsky)

When you start a painting, it is somewhat outside you. At the conclusion you seem to move inside the painting. (Fernando Botero)

 

Visionary Park

Anaconda_roller_Coaster-fromwikicommons

In Whispers we read: “Where do the others live, the ones who sent us here? The ones who exiled us to the earth?”

One restless night, I dreamed about a dystopian planet where all the poets, writers, artists, and seers had been banished. Eventually they all died out and nobody grew up to replace them.

After a very short time, that world with the ironic name of Harmony withered and almost died.

It took a very long time but Harmony’s dominant species finally realized their terrible error so they tried to nurture new artists and poets. But nobody could find any books on “How to Make an Artist” or “How to Make a Poet” and definitely not “How to Make a Prophet.” They flew from Harmony out to the stars but found no thinkers that they could understand. Too long ago they had exiled their visionaries to alien worlds that were now long forgotten and out of their reach.

They built effigies and habitats. They made studio replicas. They put desks covered with pens and notebook computers in a place of memory and reverence. It was a theme park complete with carousels and a roller coaster.

They named it Visionary Park.

People thronged to see the effigies of the long-gone creative souls. Sadly all they saw were wax statues. The walls were bare. There was no art, no poetry, no books. Nobody remembered what was in them. Nobody knew how to make new ones any more.

So it was too late. And not long thereafter everyone was gone. The planet became a desert. It was dead.

The End


bloggershandbook Is this poetry or is it history? Remember the Stalinist Purges, the Maoist Cultural Revolution, the Cambodian Killing Fields, the Nazi book burnings, the persecution of the Iranian Baha’is, or farther back to the Christian Inquisition, and oh so many more on a smaller scale, all in the name of maintaining social harmony.

“Art at its most significant is a distant early warning system that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen.”
– Marshall McLuhan