Rise up and bloom again Through the pain We grow strong Through the pain We grow strong Through the pain We grow strong Bloom again Through the pain We grow strong Genre & style: Art, Visual Poetry, Contemporary Art, Spoken Word Art Core themes & common search terms: Art and Power, Historical Poetry, Experimental, creativity My YouTube Music Station: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCrxQKZRnAka3dliF7lp1-Ow Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art . To support my art, feel free to become a subscribed member via Patreon donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal Copyright This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws . Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the sponsor's written permission is prohibited.
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Vision 2 - The Unbearable Truth
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The Situation - Red Alert
JB, a middle-aged mail spaceship pilot. Starship piloting JB is held not by ropes, but by the cryo-unit's nanoweave swaddle—a tight, absolute embrace mimicking paranoiac wrappings. This material presses against him, preventing his shivering flesh from flying apart under the centrifugal force of his panic. He feels a cold burn and constant helplessness sinking in.
His anxiety is a crimson klaxon, a "relentless tempest" of warring thoughts. He is mentally back in the cockpit, but the instruments scream in an alien language; every light and warning signifies impending failure. His pure instinct screams ABORT, yet there is no escape route.
Confrontation Rising
JB is shown the war of impulses tearing him apart—the "lunge and the retreat". His existence is reduced to the strained gasp: "I live for fucks sake, I don't know.”
Full Assault a Violet Firestorm
JB responds with explosive, automatic violence, his lungs burning from the primal, desperate push against rising panic.
Vision 2 The Unbearable Truth - Red Alert
Story - Narration
The whisper starts low... curling around the base of my skull like smoke. Some minds... are like black holes.
It isn’t just a thought—it’s a gravitational collapse. I feel my own psyche imploding... a dense singularity sucking in light, logic, and hope—crushing them into nothingness.
Then... the alarm hits.
My anxiety manifests as a deafening... crimson... klaxon. It is a "relentless tempest" of warring thoughts. A hurricane trapped inside a skull.
Suddenly... I am back in the cockpit. But the reality is wrong. The instruments are screaming at me... but the readouts are in an alien language—jagged glyphs I cannot read. Every flashing light is an accusation! Every warning tone signifies a catastrophic failure I. Cannot. Fix.
My instinct—pure... animal... and terrified—screams ABORT! But the canopy is black. There is no vector. There is no escape route.
I am paralyzed by the war of impulses tearing me apart—the violent lunge to fight... and the desperate retreat to hide. I am caught in the friction... grinding my teeth until they threaten to shatter. My entire existence is reduced to a single... strained gasp... forced out through the crushing weight on my chest:
"I live... for fuck's sake... I don't know.”
The Violet Firestorm returns! Hotter this time. I respond with explosive, automatic violence—thrashing against the restraint of the cocoon!
My lungs are burning... scorched by the primal, desperate push against the panic... that is rising like a tide... to drown me.
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
AI ART and Meaning What role does an artist play when employing AI? Artist statement by JJFBbennett If we accept that AI can generate vast quantities of statistically “meaningful” content from data and algorithms, then meaningful art may lie not in the output itself, but in its selection and framing. AI functions as a kind of unconscious, producing raw material at scale. The artist’s role shifts from maker to curator: deciding what to extract from the data’s noise, what to present as art, the context in which it appears, and the conversation it enters. The artist as the muddler and meddler in the centre of it all. This shift has an art-historical precedent. In 1917, Marcel Duchamp’s *Fountain* made a decisive claim: the artist had not sculpted the urinal but selected it, titled it, and placed it in a gallery. Meaning arose from the gesture of choice rather than the act of making. Walter Benjamin, too, anticipated this logic in his reflections on montage and editing: meaning can e...
The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching The atmosphere over Pine Creek churns before it breaks. The sky stops being a distant ceiling, and tears open into a fevered, gestural vortex, churning in fierce ribbons of cadmium gold, raw ember, and bruised ink. Here, in the suffocating stillness of the build-up, the heat plays violent tricks on my inner eye. As the squall gathers, the twisting ironwoods and fractured ridges don't feel empty; they crawl with the uncanny belief of the Little People, low-slung, watchful phantoms spun from wire, red dust, and dry static, waiting out the road's fragility. Every jagged branch and swirling filament of cloud becomes a face, an arm, a sinister presence breathing inside the rising storm, drawing the traveller deeper into the delirium of the interior. Pine Creek Storm Front Torn black filaments of wind and shadow seemed to claw straight out of the atmosphere, dripping down like hot tar, twisting through the spindly ironwo...
Empire of the Primrose poem The city fell in a single night. Holding it would take longer. So the painters were summoned, and the saints on the walls were given his family's eyes. A bloodline was found for him, older than the walls, older than the kings who raised them. Now even the earth must forget it ever belonged to anyone else. The Empire of the Primrose - Station 1 Do you have recurring dreams? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The cycle always resets at dusk, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shad...
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