I just went online to learn the name of this painting by Pablo Amaringo (couldn’t find it), and when I saw the extent of his work, including portals like I used to see as a child, and these spaceships outside his home, snakes in every painting, and the natural world bursting with life, multi-dimensional life of every sort, I thought, “His artwork could tell my life story.”

He could tell the same story I tell, and attract people, whereas my story, in words, scares people away.  I think it’s the color, bursting into life on a background of black, that encourages us that we’ll survive.

That’s the blessing of the fanciful right brain.  Words of the left brain, black on white, rational, strung along one after another, a two-dimensional world trying to describe the ineffable multi-dimensional world.  No wonder they fail.  What a tragedy for a writer, or any artist in the wrong medium.