Translation of the Intuition

One of the most captivating stories about art for me has always been a short monologue from the television show Lost. In fact, it was after watching this show that I decided I wanted to become a writer myself. The story comes from Season 1, Episode 13:

In summary, the character of John Locke informs another character that the artist Michelangelo would regularly contemplate the art piece he was going to create before he ever began his work.

Now I cannot verify the authenticity of this story, but I can tell you I spent some time in my younger days reading the journals of Michelangelo and he regularly spoke about interpreting the intuition correctly. He used a different, beautiful word to describe it, but I can’t seem to find that specific word anywhere else today.

I once heard a phrase at a writers convention used to describe the most necessary asset of any writer. The phrase was “You must hear the music.” The speaker stated that if you cannot hear the music, you cannot write. This is to say that story is born from within, possibly a communication with the divine, and cannot be manufactured by the mere understanding of plot devices.

Furthermore, I believe the shared love of writing comes from this introspection and communication with the most innate part of our being. What is up for discussion is whether this communication is with a divine force or with the deepest parts of our subconscious.

I have previously written about the mathematics of writing, which I believe is a more logical and human way to interpret story. What I am writing about today deals more with the creative and spiritual side of the artistic process. Both are integral to the formation of any artistic composition, regardless of the medium. There are songs that are played perfectly that are soulless. There are books and movies that hit every conceivable plot point that fail to leave an emotional impact. The inability to recognize the role of intuition in art is why I believe so many incredible teachers fall short of creating a masterful artistic piece themselves.

The question has existed since the dawn of man, regardless of its external expression. It is a concept we grapple with on a daily basis during our interactions with other, with ourselves, and with the world around us:

“Do I look to the teachings of others to guide my life, or do I rely on the intuition within to direct my path?”

Of course the answer is a balance, but not in the way we typically understand balance. It is not 50/50 but a systemic process in of itself. It is the process of creation.

Before we begin work on our artistic composition, and sometimes before we even know how to work within that medium, we already have a dormant vision of the product we would like to produce.

It is naive to think we can ever ignore the realities of the physical realm.

The job of the artist is to perceive the intuitive vision with as much clarity as possible before applying human mechanics to bring it to the physical realm. A human being is more than it’s consciousness and spirituality. It has a skeleton, muscle, fat and hair. Each of these bodily systems is incredibly detailed and infinitely vast.

The more physical skills we accumulate that apply to our medium the more life we can bring to the existence of our vision.

If we are to take the clip posted above seriously and assume the story is true, we can also take the leap of assumption to interpret what gears were turning in Michelangelo’s head each day.

Not only do we seek to see the vision more clearly but we must prepare ourselves for how we can properly shape it into physical existence. It is one thing to see the curves of our future statue, it is another to know the tools and techniques required to shape those curves in accordance with its envisioned form.

Even with writing, we may start with an image in our minds along with a compelling emotion. It is the writer’s duty to find the words to describe that image precisely and build up the emotional stakes, tension, and payoff to fulfill the movement in the viewer we wish to produce.

The final movement in the viewer should be as close as possible to the movement that originally captivated and impassioned the artist themselves to reproduce that feeling. Our ability to translate the original vision for the impact of others will be the invisible measuring rod that defines the quality of our art.

The Groom’s Song

Hello my dear unselfish one please come right here you will be spun.

Under my hand you soon shall dance, my hand, your hip, a step or two.

See my eyes tell me the color I do not know your eyes are fuller.

Give me your cheek, take back your tongue and feel my heart transcend you love.

I see your lips the way they pout the way your sad the way you frown.

Not today my little lady just for once give up the heavy.

Just for once this world of sharks can fuck itself and disembark.

Take this dance, this dance with me, take both my hands and smile please.

I’ll smile too, at least I’ll try, I want to feel the joy inside.

I want to be the pair right here that dances fine that looks happy.

Take a whirl, not yet a bow, see my eyes and hear that sound.

Yes my darling this songs for you I know, I know, its not your tune.

You don’t like slow you like it fast, you like to move and speak with crass.

But not today my sweet sweet muse ’cause on this day slow is for you.

Why you ask? Why must this be? You’re not the type for romance things?

Hush hush my darling, my baby love, I know you claim you’d rather fuck.

I would too, at least I’d claim it, but not tonight this night’s been saving.

All your life you’ve been pushed down and told to quiet and to crouch down.

For much too long you’ve stood aside and laughed and clapped for other brides.

But on this night, this night my love, there is no other, you are the dove.

Please do see this songs for you, your beauty breathes out true love too.

Do not cry, not yet my darling, the song still plays please stop your running.

Step on closer, head to my chest, cry a tear but fuck the rest.

This is your night my baby doll. This is the time you are not small.

See it clear please look around. We all love you and love your gown.

We want you to just laugh for once, not at expense but at joy’s brush.

Baby will you please come here, will you please just flee from fear.

Try to see that once in a while it’s a-o-k to feel like a child.

Okay to dream and hope and love, it’s not so bad to just give up-

all your fears your terrors too, all your thoughts of end and gloom.

Baby how I love you now, how much I want you to feel found.

See this night the star is you, to love my wife I say I do.

– Thomas M. Watt

Before Comfort’s Bliss

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Thighs sliding, fingers cramped, sweaty pores, moving hands.

Rocking swiftly, moving gently, moaning sounds, hefty taking.

Hands caress, muscles push, breaths grow heavy, lamps are shook.

Moving swiftly side to side until a turn brings her to rise.

Rising up from up to down, pushing forth, pulling out.

Turning over, once again, breaths do mate, fingers blend.

Kissing, touching, quaking lots, moving down from neck to next spot.

Lips do squish, tongues they kiss, elbows bend , her pelvis kicks.

Eyes they meet from eye to eye at first they see but soon they fly.

Enter back into her body, watch her glisten, feel her naughty.

Twisting over to one side, slides to hip, leg twined is fine.

Hair grows wild in his hand, pulling hard, faster again.

Moving closer, dripping sweat, to her forehead, feel her breast.

Sheets all rustle, bed does break, blankets fall and moans do rage.

Raising volume hear the sounds from one man’s push till one girl’s found.

Voices quiet, thoughts they bleed, grips of holding pressing deep.

Heads come closer, heat it rises, slanted mattress provides for driving.

Springs they rattle, muscles ache, one limb stiffens, one girl shakes.

Hurrying on, fast again, lips they meet, breaths quicken.

All at once the sounds explode as does the load as does the show.

The two embrace for one small kiss before a rest and comfort’s bliss.

– Thomas M. Watt

Adam and James

Adam and James

This painting is of Adam and James. Adam is one of two main characters from my novel, “Way of the World.” James is the boatman, who transports people from East New Haven to Mr. Kingsley’s private island. Mysteriously, the island has never been recorded by any cartographer, and no other person knows how to navigate through the thick grey fog well enough to get there.

To find out more about my book, “Way of the World,” feel free to visit my website. There you can read excerpts and view more illustrations.

http://www.thomasmwatt.com

The Upscale Saloon

The Upscale Saloon

The Upscale Saloon is a popular place for Gnashing’s elite residents. It is frequented by Mayor Dunlap, who just so happens to be the angry man to Evelynn’s right in the scene. Adam, one of two main characters in my novel, “Way of the World,” is holding her hand in his. Undoubtedly, the young man is chasing after a new lover for the night.

To view more illustrations and read some excerpts from my novel, just take a look at my website at http://www.thomasmwatt.com

Angry Soul

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Angry bitter misfit meat,

Raging loner somber geek.

Crying loser feeling shame,

No-good doer knows his pain.

Out of type of both the classes,

Not a friend who asks what happened.

Lift your chin up little one, don’t turn your eyes down from their shun.

I know it hurts to be like you, I know it sucks to feel bad too.

Maybe there’s no one who’s true, maybe really the problem’s you.

Listen child ears on me, I promise you I won’t deceive.

When all hope’s lost and life is Hell, when all your thoughts just sound like yells,

Slow down child, slow a step, don’t try so hard to circumvent.

Take a breath and be at ease, give to God your problems please.

Confess to God your faith does break, and to speak with him makes your heart quake.

Don’t have to tuck your shirt to pants, don’t need to act like your advanced.

These days His name is divided, between believers and good liars.

The reason I push these words on you, is because God’s son was hated too.

– Thomas M. Watt

(Photo courtesy of Dan Watt, freelance astronomer. Visit his website @ http://www.pocketrubbish.com/ap/ for more amazing photos)

Tragic Heart of the True Believer

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True believer how I fear,

The current trend of worldly tears.

True believer know I know,

The pain of heart few others know.

True believer know I see too,

The sights you see and things you do.

True believer be not afraid, the God of yours is not decayed.

He is there, speaking with you, He is the one whom I know too.

He is the one who answers prayers, fixes problems and always cares.

Don’t be saddened by worldly loss, the pain that comes with natural thoughts.

When your eyes open they might state, this path of yours is too much too take.

I know it’s hard and it’s not fair, when no one sees the cross you bear.

Other laugh and feel joy too, and yet you hurt to do God’s will.

Am I an idiot, is God true, am I simply out of tune?

Am I crazy, am I misled, is faith the way of just pretend?

Do not worry, do not cry. Trust the Lord, He will provide.

– Thomas M. Watt

(Photo courtesy of freelance astronomer Dan Watt. See more of his amazing photos at http://www.pocketrubbish.com)

Don’t said it wrong!

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Vision is dim eyes are blurred, where do I go, where had I were.

Grammar school lesson easily taught – the writers who make it don’t give a fauk.

What do we say, what do we do, what do we know, what’s new with you.

Laughing, happy, crappy, cough.

I hate all those people who constantly scoff.

Stand up my friend let’s hear your joke then,

Let’s see how it goes when the critic stands in.

Shitty dippy, dippity-doo. Find me a snack and I will bark for you.

Oh boy he’s crazy, shit now I know, I shouldn’t have read this, wait shit I wrote.

It.

What’s with this poem and all these strange rhymes? Did he really just add only one word to that line?

And who does he speak to, for whom is this written, why does he breakdown his voice intermitten?

God oh that’s painful, ‘nother word misspelled, dammit to heck the writer can’t seem to tell,

The difference ‘tween ramblings, spellings and his, ability to place commas within sentences.

And why does he talk with his voice like it’s mine, why does this guy pull this shit all the time?

Somebody tell him, please somebody say – We are all just waiting for your style to decay.

You will soon fall, dwell with the rest, you will shortly collapse and see our way is best.

No sir I’m sorry, really I do, the problem with me is, I just don’t care about you.

I am a bit crazy, hazy with words. See them like colors, splash on my verbs.

My work is of art, a mixture of paint. A strange tendency to love what most people hate.

Well fuck me I said it, I did what I do, scramble your brain, and be like mine too.

– Thomas M. Watt

(Painting courtesy of Ayse Juaneda, the greatest painter in the modern world. You can view more of her artwork at http://aysejuaneda.wordpress.com)

The Game is Love

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Beautiful girl who always laughs, likes to smile, quick to dash.

Beautiful girl who flirts for free, invites the suitors, tells them to leave.

Beautiful girl who plays pretend, finds some friends, invites them in.

Beautiful girl who likes to see, how many want her, how many need.

Beautiful girl who knows she’s got it, walks around, not scared to flaunt it.

Beautiful girl whom all the men love, points her finger, off they go.

Beautiful girl who has this power, tells them no, and they all cower.

Beautiful girl who loves to say, “All love me, but I only love fame,”

Beautiful girl who claims she’ll stray, I think I just beat you at your very own game.

– Thomas M. Watt