What is Art?

Fully realized, art is the practice of mysticism

 

The reality we know is the thoughts of the only consciousness there is. Call it Brahma. Call it God. Call it Eden. Call it The All. Call it whatever you will. When you understand what is told here, words and labels and names are beside the point

Each being that is born, is one splintered aspect of this consciousness that has forgotten it is — at its core — an aspect of the mind of The All.

As we grow from children to adults we are conditioned to focus on being the part — not the whole — for this delusion: the delusion of the distinct self is what empowers those who would use us to serve them. Divide and conquer is their modus operandi.

So deluded, we seek to define and embellish the masks and costumes of self we have constructed. This is the nonsense of races and nations, of religions and philosophies, of political parties and social causes. All of it is engineered to compel us to feed the artificial beast of ego so we will remain oblivious to our true nature and so submit willingly to war and toil for our masters in exchange for baubles and trinkets proffered by the idol of the false god they have erected — the economy.

The creative impulse, the impulse to art, is the most direct expression of our true nature. It is love not just for the splinter of The All we initially perceive ourselves to be, but it is an expression of the intent of The All itself through that splinter.

And so it is said, “starving artist!”, “You can not make a living doing that!” “Math is better than writing — and writing is better than art!”

Indeed, the opposite of all these statements is true!

But we are imprisoned by those who would use us to grow their power and wealth.

So we in-turn imprison and subdue the artists within us submitting instead to the pressure to assemble piecemeal the patchwork costumes of self we think will win us favour and fortune from others likewise writhing in the pit of drudgery and delusion.

Each must come to discover by what means they will light within others the lamp that withers that ancient, accursed fruit and shines brightly upon the many paths back to Eden.

Read the Andy Crowley Saga 

Andy Crowley Saga: PROLOGUE

 

“The infinite mind of The All is the womb of universes.”

~ the Kybalion

 

The wild-eyed sea captain dropped to his knees on the white beach and savoured the caress of the cool wind on his sun-ravaged face. Closing his eyes, he let the rush of triumph consume him entirely.

Three of his haggard crewmen and the rowboat they dragged onto the sand were all that remained of his Arcturian clipper and her crew of eighty-five that had disembarked from Denlar.

How long had it taken him to get here to claim The Glass Grimoire: the prize of prizes? More than a year to be sure – but the specifics now eluded his ruined mind.

He fell into the hot sand and wept. His crewmen, having secured the landing craft, dared not approach him. Instead, they sat on the beach to watch the remaining third of the Sojourner – their home and their curse – slip beneath the Cartigian Sea.

The sailors whispered to one another about starting to look for wood but decided instead to stay where they were lest they incur the wrath of their now-wretched master.

The captain regarded the tree line of the tropical island. Blue pines, 200-feet-tall, lined the beach. Were it not for the heat and the murmur of the surf, he could have mistaken the scene for a memory of his childhood in the Northern realms of Plaxus Main. The thoughts of his youth fanned the fire in his heart to a roaring flame. He put a hand on the Culduran cutlass at his side and launched his emaciated, nearly naked form to its full height.

With failing vision he scanned the beach and spotted the peninsula roughly a mile distant. It lay about ten feet across and stretched about a quarter-mile out to sea. At its farthest reach, a solitary pine clung to the rocks. Bent seaward by the wind off the island’s mountains, it pointed like a gnarled sea hag’s finger out to the sea.

Without heed for the crewmen sitting behind him in the sand, he took the first step in the last leg of his journey toward his destiny. The pain of the scars of battle, the agony of thirst and starvation, and the torture of a conscience fragmented and rotten by the things he had done to get to this moment were forgotten. Now, there was only his future – the glorious future of one bold enough to finally possess The Glass Grimoire – a future of vigorous health and unlimited power.

Out on the peninsula, his hunger for his prize took him in earnest. Were moisture available to his dehydrated body he would have wept tears of joy, would have slobbered like his lost ship’s beloved mastiff while he scrabbled frantically across the rocks on bleeding hands and knees.

When finally he came upon the tree, no capacity for pain or suffering remained. There was only a vacuous kind of ecstasy — and a sensation entirely new to him, touching gently, enticingly, upon the fringes of his mind.

Squatting, and slack-jawed now, finally, he regarded the mysterious, ancient tree with the awe of a religious zealot come face-to-face with his god.

It had grey bark that was not quite silver in that glorious, subdued patina of heirloom armour, ancient and proven. Though it was said to be old beyond reckoning, it was thin and whimsical in form. Working up the courage to reach out to a low-hanging branch, the mariner found the needles to be soft to the touch. They were a green that reflected the sea, but with an inclination of the eye or a change in the light of the sky they could also take on a cool tinge of blue.

Then, the gentle touch he had felt encroached inward through a slow-swelling madness. Reluctantly at first, he accepted it into his mind, for it was soothing and inviting.

And he knew then that the mind that was touching his was indeed the legendary intellect of The Grimoire itself.

Through the wonder that had replaced the ecstasy, he now felt that it was sharing with him. Kindly, politely, it began urging him to stop being who he was. It appealed to him to forsake his delusion of self – the delusion of all humanity. The sea captain’s mind began to sing with notions he had never before even begun to entertain: no beginning or end, no here or there, no me or you, no us or them.

And though he was at peace in his mind, he began shaking violently. Walking became difficult on the uneven footing of the rocky ground. His vision tunneled to a pinprick. Then, beneath the ecstasy of victory mingled with the grace of the mind now in his, a subtle fear emerged deep within.

He struggled over the rocks and around the ancient pine to stand with his back to the sea. Some portion of his mind, perhaps the small sliver that was still him, reflected on the beauty of the ocean for the last time. And then he saw it.

The Glass Grimoire.

It was embedded in the tree about four feet from the ground. A glass rectangle with slightly rounded corners, it was roughly the size of a deck of cards, though stretched along its height. A thin border of grey metal rimmed the flat glass. It was much smaller than he imagined it would be.

It appeared as though the tree had grown up around it, embracing, nurturing and protecting it over millennia. He thought on this. Perhaps the mind of nature coveted the vast arcane knowledge contained within the Grimoire as fiercely as did as the minds of gods and men. Now that knowledge, and all the power that came with it, would be his.

He reached to The Grimoire and felt it connect with him even before his finger touched the glass. There was an otherworldly chiming sound that was almost mechanical.

Then he – at least he as he had regarded himself since childhood – was gone.

The sensation was not unpleasant. For in that instant he was everyone, everywhere, everywhen. There was a blinding – or was it totally illuminating – light. Then there was nothing – or was it everything – just with all the borders removed?

The only witnesses to the end of the captain’s quest were the whistling blue Cartigian seabirds. And caring not at all about what had transpired, they saw the decrepit waif of a sea captain transformed instantly into a cloud of sparkling white sand that was borne upon a swirling breeze to be laid upon the beach with the rest.

The crewmen who had not dared disturb their master’s final triumph experienced the same momentary peace before they too became sand upon that beach.

Within the tree, beneath the rectangle of glass known for millennia across the multiverse as The Glass Grimoire, a small symbol appeared: a stylized fruit. It was grey in colour and rendered to convey that a bite had been taken from it.

The Grimoire did not belong to this brave captain or his men. It belonged to another man: a man who would not be born for another eight thousand years.

For a few more seconds, the bitten-fruit icon remained behind the glass.

Then, the quiet chime sounded again and it was gone.

Andy Crowley Character Illustration!

With Chapter 1 only days away, I am thrilled to present the final Andy Crowley illustration by Victoria Gavrilenko.

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Andy Crowley by Viktoria Gavrilenko. Copyright 2018 © andycrowley.com

Chapter 1 manifests August 3 at 7:00 p.m. EST.

Read the Prologue here.

And if you think Andy Crowley rocks, please help him roll by sharing it with friends!

Andy Crowley Re-Rendered in Reality

With only two weeks until relaunch of the Andy Crowley Saga, I am excited to tease the culmination of the work Viktoria Gavrilenko has been doing on character design for the archetypal 80s teenage rock n’ roll outer space wizard, Andy Crowley.

The following sketches were only the beginning of a big step forward for the weekly pulp serial of mysticism, melancholy, and mirth. I look forward to seeing the massive cosmic cast of characters realized by Viktoria’s supernaturally talent mind and hand!

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Wait until you see the final full-colour piece later this week!

In the meantime, as I try to build audience for the new site, please consider reading and sharing.

And, if you haven’t yet, you can read (and please share) the prologue here.

Prologue