Isaac McCaslin

 After history, a mind is born and  in pursuit of a new place and condition it changes.  It is of flesh,  yet it is from the highest realm. 

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Between the lines of its culture is a collective soul. The fleshes of  its ancestors have unraveled into chaos to be transformed again through the forces of creation. They are gone yet still here within those remnants which have not been annihilated by  Nature, God, or War.

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Like a flame feeding itself kindling the mind and the collective creates and recreates, morphing through time.   

 

Then motion gives cause to an echo

 

​            "there is no meaning and no mind, only matter."

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Of, through, and from matter, a combustion of air within fleshy hollows spat toward this strange coincidence of sound and grammar. The combustion, received, became a pattern of logos, the echo of a will.

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           "What am I?  This feeling? This Will to seek and Create? Who created the process that gave way to me? Whether I know or not,  mustn't I contribute a creation of my own?  Are there more like me? Is there one that I or we are of or becoming? Thoughts. Words. Actions. Creations.. Didn't I become through creation!? The only thing I'm certain of is that this Mind is of  the Will to Meaning!"

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The initial strange sound was either a coincidence of grammar, an unfortunate  tool, or a devilish trickster.

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There is an addictive and intoxicating quiver of fear from the gut then the resolution to seek truth.

Using oil and pigment the artist marks his experience, to leave an imprint of his soul onto this new place that cradles it.  He calls those marks a painting. Sometimes they are scratching gasps for perpetual existence, a hopeful confirmation of life through the transmission of logos. Sometimes they are in pursuit of a new place and condition. However, in some truly rare moments they are beyond the highest realm, pure.  

 

             ‘Memento Mori’