Tramplers beware

Blogs are nothing new; I realise that. I even have a young poet in my book pretending not to know what a blog is, so convinced is he of their omnipresent triteness. But, let's be honest, life's blood can run through them just about forever. It's not like the factory lights get killed and the printers all go home. Words still spin from the ethereal presses, continents still chatter, 24-10, as somebody said. A friend across the ocean for example responded today by wanting to mention this articulated search for a show for my wife to a gallerist. Even though far-fetched, could, I wondered, through some kind of keyed-in fate, a show after time be offered? Is this what you call a garden? Are seeds at this moment - as I write, as you read - being planted? Or just by saying it am I doing the planting? Or, as sometimes I fear, are we all as a people just tramplers, the world's best tramplers, as we flatten our way through a field of bulbs and continue our march to nowhere? My eyes flash right now from the intregrity of the artist's work to the mangled debris in Iraq and the two somehow understand each other. One may be peaceful, the other in deepest despair, but humanity and devotion in great art will never do injustice to suffering. And this, I believe, is one of this particular artist's great strengths. It is not politics. It is not religion. It is not bristling muscle. It is simply one person's response to that unexplained world within, that undiscovered realm, whose very lack of dogma says it all.