PLANET ZOOTOPIA
The Art of PATRICK PIERSON
What is Planet Zootopia?
Obviously, it’s not so much a place as it is a paradigm of the human condition. Better to think of it as a series of allegories: A body of work filled with scenes from pensively penciled parables illuminated by none other than that reluctant if not heroic everyman, the ordinary dodo, among others.
In the showing-and-telling, I trust these vignettes to unwrapilate our minds to wild possibilities and teach us to appreciate the wondrous strange experiences we often share with one another: Ultimately, to take off the purpose-colored spectacles and cognisize our true place in the ‘verse - a place into which we’ve only recently awakened.
This humble little flock of dodos and their diversigent coterie of mermaliens stands as a testament to our embrace of many of life’s trials and tribulations, while striving to live the life we've imagined.
Quoth the dodo: "To have lived at all is a dream come true; to live in awe of the dream is cause to celebrate and revel in the wonder of Life and all its delicious bedlammy; from lovers spurned and fortunes lost to plots unbound and rivals crushed, let us bask in the splendifery and wallow in the mayhemble - be it good or bad, we celebrate life!"
Now, set sail in your own dreamboat and live the life you've imagined!
E-mail contact: patrick@planetzootopia.com
Mobile phone: 561.707.3526
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NEW ORIGINAL ARTWORK
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Princess Dejah Thoris of Helium: WINNER
Princess Dejah Thoris of Helium: WINNERof the Malachite Quills Publishing book cover contest!
A Selfish Pair of Jeans
I can’t help it; the desire to win is in my Jeans. For my money, there’s nothing so satisfyingly life-affirming, so pedal-to-the-metal invigorating as a well-tailored pair of Jeans, but don’t tell them that; their needs usually come before my own. Yes, fool for my Jeans though I may be - and much wiser for it, I might add - sooner would I risk my own life in a race to the finish than allow my Jeans to be judged by those who would hold my achievements in low esteem. Certainly, it can be argued that those who know how to win the race often outnumber those who know how to make proper use of their victories, but most have no idea of the hidden potential that lies within the creases and folds of a smooth, well-worn pair of Jeans. As everyone knows, we Andromedarians are veritable racing machines created by our Jeans, drivers whose next win depends solely on the efficiency of the body for which the existence of a good pair of Jeans is even justified, a body that they helped to build, no less. . .and a good fit will always come in handy on those tight hairpins. Yet, though the fundamental unit of a qualifying run can inevitably be found in my Jeans, I’d still venture to say they were born selfish. Alas, we racers are not very stable, but our Jeans are the fleeting denizens of the cosmological gauntlet. May the Devil take the hindmost - racing is in my Jeans, and Jeans are forever!
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No need to 'Know Limit' when there are...No Limits!
I am clay in my own hands, a pillar of marble at my feet, free to sculpt and mold, chisel and hew, carve and smooth the person I have become, my hand guided by my belief in myself and the vision of who I want to be, and as such, I am my own Creator; free to know that my actions determine what’s in store for me, that my imagination knows no bounds; free to impose my will upon the future, to make myself an historical link in the causal chain and to know that the difference between choosing a path for myself and having one laid out for me matters because there are no limits.
I am clay in my own hands, a pillar of marble at my feet, free to sculpt and mold, chisel and hew, carve and smooth the person I have become, my hand guided by my belief in myself and the vision of who I want to be, and as such, I am my own Creator; free to know that my actions determine what’s in store for me, that my imagination knows no bounds; free to impose my will upon the future, to make myself an historical link in the causal chain and to know that the difference between choosing a path for myself and having one laid out for me matters because there are no limits.
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Of Thee I Sing the Body Electric
It is of thee that I sing,
when I sing the body electric,
your temple crowned with radiant nimbus thus,
a filament so bright it lays siege,
to mine own storm cloud, ever dark and dreary.
Upon the softest touch,
the circuit’s white-blow flashes,
circumnavigating flesh and bone and mortal sinew,
till it pierces our heart of hearts.
And should mine animus commingle with thy anima,
would the confluence of our charged currents merge,
at the nexus of a single thought? Perhaps.
Much the same, methinks,
as that twinkling when I consider thee,
and simultaneously see,
a reflection of mine own spirit,
one charge harmoniously mirroring the other,
the two on the block as one.
To have conjoined with thee,
in this electric dance;
to have skirted your ancient tide pools
and their rocky outposts past;
to have been drawn to your sweet breath,
and surrendered myself to your words,
as thus a candle may singe the moth:
All this, yet we only met . . . today.
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A Clockwerk Moone is a Harsh Mistress (Work In Progress)
As I wade into the wind,
the eventide eddying at the edge of my senses,
I fancy the glory of the secret heart of love,
the goddess Rosa Mundi,
red-hot, dripping from my hand
and pooling at my feet,
the petals of her fragile flesh
shimmering in the arcane radiance
of a clockwork moone. Up there,
beaming down from the ark
of a cold and deserted outpost on high,
Mezza Luna’s sentinel mentality washes over me,
quelling the simmering ache in my heart,
her ticktocking watchfulness sheltering me
and steeling me against the night.
I bend an ear,
thinking I can hear
Erudition’s grinding gears
going round and round. She’s like a machine,
reaping and then threshing the brain-grain
from eons of waxing and waning vigilance,
forever cloaked in a bleak and barren silence.
I’ve learned never to cross her though,
for she is jealous mistress and harsh,
with her suffocating presence
eclipsing the light of my day,
purloining my love like some blimpish blighter.
And therein lies the irony,
for it is Mezza Luna who now shelters
my one true love,
my rocket gal.
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THE DANSE MACABRE
If the willow could weep, it would choose to cradle the sleeping infant in its Golden Boughs;
If the Man in the Moon could laugh, he’d tumble and roll ‘round this Ship of Fools and boldly dream of leaping cows;
If the wall could wail, it would dream of scolding those credulous souls who’ve sacrificed their intellect on the altars of Faith;
If Planet Zootopia could speak, she’d tell me from whence we came and where we’re going, then dream once more the nightmare of the human wraith;
But we are the stuff stars dream of as they sing the music of the spheres and dance the Danse Macabre.
