diaphane, exploring the translucidity of existence. artist represented by Silverlens Galleries

Toronto, Ontario
Joined February 2009
chatishine retweeted
Replying to @ClaireSilver
Why I Create- Couple Collab with myself and my wife @chati - VFX done with AI with SORA and Kling 1.6/ Music made with Suno based on live Cello samples played by me as well as shot and edited/ Poetry, Voice and Painting by @chati
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We have chosen the the frequency of love. We are now being called upon to master it. Hold the line.
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Here's how our solar system travelling through space looks like
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when I get very very quiet I can feel love start to fill my veins & arteries it's not for any use, I didn't ask for it, I'm not going to be a better person because of it but it's stubbornly there, an inevitable side effect & byproduct of freedom
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Week of 7/30 in Virgo: A layer of sparkling night will go over what is real. It could be this way again and why not. There is a green place where you can feel the good ways. You can take this with you.
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chatishine retweeted
PLAY IT BY TRUST (1966) Play it for as long as you can remember who is your opponent and who is your own self.
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chatishine retweeted
I have perfected my silence nothing disturbs it not even my own voice.
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it is a wolf only when you demarcate it by that word-concept-boundary. remove your boundary and the wolf has already shapeshifted, careful now
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chatishine retweeted
A bicycle is an eldritch machine—don't argue, you know it to be true—your body twisted, hunched into a flesh sigil, hurtling along an invisible tightrope
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Wise words from Philip.K.Dick, who died 41 years ago, yesterday.
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I enter this day as a stream more than a fixed object, to nourish organic growth more than mechanical conformity, to renew the world more than repeat it.
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Stand far enough and I look like a star. Up close, I am a regular, extinguishable fire.
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She spoke of the first hidden within the last
chatishine retweeted
This meeting could have been a sword fight.
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On the surface, it is a story, and then when it ends, it leaves a bird sitting on your shoulder, who you name truth, until it flies.
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The arrogance of thinking you have time.
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The moment, well-adorned, passed as if no hurry, shoulder to shoulder with a throng of people in search of it.
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This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish.
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All collected magnificence stored in the eyes drains into spirit. The sadness remains unsunk for birds and butterflies to gather and leave as dew on leaves.
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