Author: John Otter

Her eyes detect the slightest of motion
the most subtle of gesture
No words are allowed to slip past her
without the understanding of the reasoning
being gained.
Her fine silken skin, sensitive to every motive
every pore in her voluptuous body
an infinitely small antenna
tuning into every concept and ripple in the
lucid pools of space
Her words echo throughout time like a
breeze encompassing the meadows.
Movements as swift and agile as the
waters of a brook caressing the earth
and tickling the rocks who boldly stand
their ground in order to meet her rushing
energies.
Slowly and ever so delicately she wears
away from the rocks their rough and abrasive
outermost hides
to reveal the smooth inner nature
of each stone without bias nor regret.
She illumines even the darkest recesses of mind
with the prismatic splendor and radiance
of a thousand Sun’s light refracted through her
beating heart of pure love.
To gaze into her eyes is to see the reflection
of the stars as the nuclei of each sub-atomic microcosm.
To know her is to merge with her soul in the
ecstatic union of bliss.
And when tears fall from her liquid blue eyes
it is only to reinforce the joy which the universe
sheds upon itself.
(dreamscape of divine love in translucent blue)

John Otter
1995

Inside the glistening spheres of consciousness
when the sun shines down, altering the various
jumps. Splashes and a hand-woven face mask. 34.
You must decide where to place your honor, the
clock slows to a stop. There are messages being
fed to you on many levels, many of which are
unapparent. Look closely at what you hold, the
scattered things you clutch, material or other-
wise. Nectar offered in
substitution of gravy.
one without a night.
Silent mind-frame…
Far fetched beliefs
about the nature of
anything. Escape the
broken loops of
stagnation, infinite
atrophy. Noun verb noun.
Verb adverb. Adverbize.
Overbite, hell-fire? Foe.
Organization with crisp
extremities, like an
orange duckling.
Or paste.

John Otter
1-3-1997

the end of the harvest season is here, in one form or another. I have no live stock to slaughter, but I do have old thoughts and concepts which are good and ready for the kill.
The boundaries between the worlds are apparently as open as they’ll be right now (according to some). Thoughts are fusing, slowly.
Last night I had the strange fortune of selling a drawing as I was trying to complete it. Strange in that I had a specific deadline (which increased as the night went on, due to drinking). The deadline was much shorter than any project I’ve worked on before – namely having the drawing completed within an hour (or something like that). In general, the drawings take roughly 4 or 5 hours until I feel satisfied with the results, but this “quick & dirty” drawing was one of exceptional quality considering the speed at which it was drawn. More interesting was the stimulus around the drawing, the banter and words needing something to stick to. Desperation in a voice, that perhaps I wasn’t aware of something that was very important. This combined with the speed of drawing made for something akin to a “cartoon” of a painting – a sketch or study of a complete work. There will be no complete work, and in that way the sketch, study or “cartoon” takes on the role of the complete work. Each items role changes dynamically with what comes before or after itself, like us humans in a way.
I’m not wearing a costume today, instead I’m dressing in all black. Its time to go to work now, later (at about 11:30am) I think I’ll post something I wrote back in 1997.

Trees bend low, uproot
and swan dive gracefully
into the earth’s
warm embrace.
Birds build eggs
around themselves.
Eyeballs turn inward
for introspection.
People sound asleep
are startled
by alarm clocks
and wake up into dreams.
Suddenly the slippery stones
in the sand at the sea
seem not so slippery.
The stars and the galaxies
the planets and nebulae
black holes and supernovas
reach their furthest-most
limit
beyond which they will not travel
they stand suspended in space for
less than a second,
and then retreat
to their inward journey
to end with the
universal implosion.
a butterfly flaps its wings
against a gentle breeze.

John Otter
1995

separate chambers of the mind slowly come together again,
as the sun begins to steal the nights reign.
A locked door with a broken doorbell.
A small window, just large enough to climb through
and a handful of pennies.
Leaping from stone to stone
as the mist from a waterfall
moistens the skin.
A fallen tree becomes
the site of a picnic,
or a throne.
Recycled words and concepts
dance around a haystack
in an old unknown tradition.
The changing of the time has changed,
leaving my computer with a stupid grin
and excuses as to why it would sleep in.

* * *

black tea is just not the same as coffee.