Needing more than human strength. I am strong but also
destructive. The God must come to me since I haven’t gone to Him. Let the God
come: please. Though I don’t deserve it. Come. Or perhaps those who least
deserve Him need Him most. I’m restless and harsh and hopeless. Though I have
love inside myself. It’s just that I don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it
scratches like barbs. If I received so much love inside me and nonetheless am
restless it’s because I need the God to come. Come before it’s too late. I’m in
danger like every person who lives. And the only thing I can expect is precisely
the unexpected. But I know that I shall have peace before death and that one day
I shall taste the delicateness of life. I shall notice—as we eat and live the
taste of food. My voice falls into the abyss of your silence. You read me in
silence. But in this unlimited silent field I unfurl my wings, free to live. So
I accept the worst and enter the core of death and that is why I’m alive. The
feeling core. And that
it
makes me quiver.
Now I shall speak of the sadness of flowers so as to feel
more of the order of whatever exists. Before I do, I’ll give you the nectar with
pleasure, sweet juice that many flowers contain and that insects seek with
greed. The pistil is the flower’s female organ that generally occupies the
centre and contains the beginnings of the seed. Pollen is fertilizing powder
produced in the stamens and contained in the anthers. The stamen is the flower’s
masculine organ. It’s composed of the filament and the anther in the lower
section surrounding the pistil. Fertilization is the union of the two elements
of reproduction—masculine and feminine—from which comes the fertilized
fruit. “And Yahweh God planted a garden in Eden which is in the East, and there
he put the man whom He had formed” (Gen. II-8).
I want to paint a rose.
Rose is the feminine flower that gives herself wholly and
such that the only thing left to her is the joy of having given herself. Her
perfume is a crazy mystery. When inhaled deeply it touches the intimate depth of
the heart and leaves the inside of the entire body perfumed. The way she opens
herself into a woman is so beautiful. The petals have a good taste in the mouth
—all you have to do is try. Yet rose is not
it
but
she
. The
scarlet ones are of great sensuality. The white ones are the peace of the God.
It’s very rare to find white ones at the florists’. The yellow ones are of a
happy alarm. The pink ones are in general fleshier and have the perfect color.
The orange ones are produced by grafting and are sexually attractive.
Pay attention and as a favour: I’m inviting you to move
to a new kingdom.
Now the carnation has an aggressiveness that comes from a
certain irritation. The ends of its petals are rough and impudent. The
carnation’s perfume is somehow mortal. Red carnations bellow in violent beauty.
The white ones recall the little coffin of a dead child—that’s when the scent
becomes pungent and we turn our heads away in horror. How to transplant the
carnation onto canvas?
The sunflower is the great child of the sun. So much so
that it knows how to turn its enormous corolla toward the one who made it. It
doesn’t matter if it’s father or mother. I don’t know. I wonder if the sunflower
is a feminine or masculine flower? I think masculine.
The violet is introverted and its introspection is
profound. They say it hides away out of modesty. Not true. It hides away in
order to capture its own secret. Its almost-not-perfume is a smothered glory but
demands that people seek it. It never shouts its perfume. Violet says frivolous
things that cannot be said.
The golden everlasting is always dead. Its dryness
aspires to eternity. Its name in Greek means: sun of gold. The daisy is a happy
little flower. It is simple and on the surface of the skin. It has but a single
layer of petals. Its centre is a child’s game.
The beautiful orchid is
destructive. The God must come to me since I haven’t gone to Him. Let the God
come: please. Though I don’t deserve it. Come. Or perhaps those who least
deserve Him need Him most. I’m restless and harsh and hopeless. Though I have
love inside myself. It’s just that I don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it
scratches like barbs. If I received so much love inside me and nonetheless am
restless it’s because I need the God to come. Come before it’s too late. I’m in
danger like every person who lives. And the only thing I can expect is precisely
the unexpected. But I know that I shall have peace before death and that one day
I shall taste the delicateness of life. I shall notice—as we eat and live the
taste of food. My voice falls into the abyss of your silence. You read me in
silence. But in this unlimited silent field I unfurl my wings, free to live. So
I accept the worst and enter the core of death and that is why I’m alive. The
feeling core. And that
it
makes me quiver.
Now I shall speak of the sadness of flowers so as to feel
more of the order of whatever exists. Before I do, I’ll give you the nectar with
pleasure, sweet juice that many flowers contain and that insects seek with
greed. The pistil is the flower’s female organ that generally occupies the
centre and contains the beginnings of the seed. Pollen is fertilizing powder
produced in the stamens and contained in the anthers. The stamen is the flower’s
masculine organ. It’s composed of the filament and the anther in the lower
section surrounding the pistil. Fertilization is the union of the two elements
of reproduction—masculine and feminine—from which comes the fertilized
fruit. “And Yahweh God planted a garden in Eden which is in the East, and there
he put the man whom He had formed” (Gen. II-8).
I want to paint a rose.
Rose is the feminine flower that gives herself wholly and
such that the only thing left to her is the joy of having given herself. Her
perfume is a crazy mystery. When inhaled deeply it touches the intimate depth of
the heart and leaves the inside of the entire body perfumed. The way she opens
herself into a woman is so beautiful. The petals have a good taste in the mouth
—all you have to do is try. Yet rose is not
it
but
she
. The
scarlet ones are of great sensuality. The white ones are the peace of the God.
It’s very rare to find white ones at the florists’. The yellow ones are of a
happy alarm. The pink ones are in general fleshier and have the perfect color.
The orange ones are produced by grafting and are sexually attractive.
Pay attention and as a favour: I’m inviting you to move
to a new kingdom.
Now the carnation has an aggressiveness that comes from a
certain irritation. The ends of its petals are rough and impudent. The
carnation’s perfume is somehow mortal. Red carnations bellow in violent beauty.
The white ones recall the little coffin of a dead child—that’s when the scent
becomes pungent and we turn our heads away in horror. How to transplant the
carnation onto canvas?
The sunflower is the great child of the sun. So much so
that it knows how to turn its enormous corolla toward the one who made it. It
doesn’t matter if it’s father or mother. I don’t know. I wonder if the sunflower
is a feminine or masculine flower? I think masculine.
The violet is introverted and its introspection is
profound. They say it hides away out of modesty. Not true. It hides away in
order to capture its own secret. Its almost-not-perfume is a smothered glory but
demands that people seek it. It never shouts its perfume. Violet says frivolous
things that cannot be said.
The golden everlasting is always dead. Its dryness
aspires to eternity. Its name in Greek means: sun of gold. The daisy is a happy
little flower. It is simple and on the surface of the skin. It has but a single
layer of petals. Its centre is a child’s game.
The beautiful orchid is
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