10 glass houses + 20 stones / 10th daughter of memory muse

(another uncontrolled printing of a choka is 5/7, 5/7, 5/7... ending with another 7 syllables.)

choka #17

O me to be trapped

Forever on the outside

to circle trying

To understand a/way in

But glass is solid

To name a hard nothingness

Without a crack or

Muntin of a meeting place

And so to recoil

Into my own hush-hush prism

Of well defined space

Figuring the alien

Out there circling

The glass bowl of a sharp eye

W/in an/other eye 

Creepy but now contented

Strange but for contents

You’ll know when the light is on

Remember there’s no

Way hiding the obvious

Though safe from weather

Except from the winds of change

— Of normality

And the winds of cunning words  

Does all of this count?

Is this place indeed soundproof?

If i can’t hear them, 

Are they allowed to hear me?

And etcetera

i can see i can see through, 

i can see stones lined

Up like gray broken teeth.

Standing in a row

Announcing just quietly

That someone has gone

Down beneath to stain that spot

If you cant see me

You aren’t here you are there. 

Eyes clear and open

Though imbedded w/ mem/ries

Streaking the one good

Decent enjoyable view

Unless reminded

Why the need to think about

The day after now

And the yesterday prior?

The glass and stone meet + play,

Who will always win the game?

Vigilante

visual antics

individual acts

more into the grand gesture

than the blind hem

these days

choka #9

Contemplative mind

Moment in time is magic

Highlands are between

The yearning + the learning

This will conjure up

An episode of kinda

Full of excuses

W/ emphasis on humane     

Attentive devout

Life is an algorithm

Warrior cloud heads east

History of logic is  

Full of dramatic

Episodes of eureka

That will lend credence

Well this is nothing like that  

Gathering feathers

Needing somewhere to place them

Currently commune

Words are not my first language

Compassion near by

Obvious not yours either

Plateau in the clouds

Ends unexpectedly soon.

If we cant escape our fears,

What then, will they do to us?

(i'm positive this will not print correctly. It will be run-on. Which is okay w/ me. But know a choka is 5/7, 5/7, 5/7... ending with another 7 syllables. Just figure it out.)

Dropping her fetters in the wings, she walks into the straight jacket in the theater of the mind.   

She squints her eyes with childish solipsism making the eidolons mere whips in the dark space. The others had fallen into an echoing silence over the years, long ago. And just now.

Offstage in queue they sport costumes of heavy antique bullion and quilted brocade designed and built many years ago, mimicking a hundred years before that. A set of lovers coo, a pirate is selling buckets from a red corvette, another dangling a silver spoon, a child inside a feline, a drooling hunchback, a chorus in deep eggplant chiffon, each waiting a turn while the henchman fumbles with a noose.

Brushing by the understudy she hears break a leg whispered under a breath. The cliché rings in her ears until the deafening roar of the audience applauding becomes inescapable because of its absence. A queue is up. Closing eyes altogether, she gathers herself and charges out onto center stage expecting to be spell bound.

Settling into first position, centering, she glances up at the vacant right box. The big seat is empty. It is worn with wear, and has always been empty. He is not coming. Again. There is freedom in that seat being empty.

Her eyes travel to the pit where the conductor’s arm is paused midair. Once and again a bond with the stick is made. As it begins to flaunt and conjure, she easily steps into the slipstream following in the wake of a major chord.

The exalted feeling is somewhere amid earthbound limitation. That gift does not come from a butt in the seat. Habit dictates she play her part without hesitation, as there is a cycle to round every week, on this night about this time.

When there isn’t scenery one must chew the curtain. The deep crimson fabric pulled up into a sculptured form hovering and leering at the wraithlike audience. The newly replaced footlights again glare like skinned eyeballs staring down and daring a reaction. Her flow steps up the pace into the air and glides from stage left to right. This is when you can believe you are in the presence of a god. She knows sometimes it does not happen. Sometimes everything is in place and there is only disappointment. A spin turns staccato, as she becomes a marionette leaping and dragged down stage.

Rejected again. They aren’t coming. You think my dancing reeks? How about this move…

With a chaotic thrash of the body her leg shoots out and a foot ends in a severe punt to a footlight.

-bash

How does this one grab you?

- POP

Chaos takes the dance away from her.

One by one the lights erupt, flicker and die.

 …And this, they are foot-lights, yes?

- crash

She spins and hits with deft precision of practice until the only glow left is coming from her face.

The music ends in a deadly crescendo as her breath heaves and the lyrical stillness left behind brings her back to perennial dark Monday. Audition was again over for another week. She descended the stage steps into the house, making room for Next.

-30-

 A few choice endings;

But will I have the strength to joke at that moment?

Only one regret. I hate to leave while there's so much going on. It's like quitting in the middle of a serial. I doubt there was so much curiosity about the world after death in the past, since in those days the world didn't change quite so rapidly or so much. Frankly, despite my horror of the press, I'd love to rise from the grave every ten years or so and go buy a few newspapers. Ghostly pale, sliding silently along the walls, my papers under my arm, I'd return to the cemetery and read about all the disasters in the world before falling back to sleep, safe and secure in my tomb.

-L. Bruñel / My Last sigh

 The light off the one weak lamp in a rusty circle fell across the brickheaps and the broken wood and the dust that had been houses once, where the small and hardly known and never-to-be-forgotten people of the dirty town had lived and loved and died and, always, lost.

-D.Thomas / Portrait of the Artist as Young Dog

-J.Steinbeck / East of Eden

 M.Hurd/Goodnight Moon

 

 I’ll be satisfied with this, and leave it go. 

A loose knotted ending so the spirits can come sit for a spell, 

and then be on their way. -jahh / unfinished script

Love, Mercy, Fortitude, War, Peace, Poetry, Music, — these may be symbolized as any shall prefer: by figures of either sexing of any age; but a slender girl in her first young bloom, with the martyr's crown upon her head, and in her hand th esword that severed her country's bonds — shall not this, and no other, stand for PATRIOTISM through all the ages until time shall end?  -M.Twain / Joan of Arc

Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago. -Melville / Moby Dick

N. Gaiman/Mr. Punch

Then they went down together, and the King awoke, and the Queen, and the whole court, and looked at each other in great astonishment. And the horses in the court-yard stood up and shook themselves; the hounds jumped up and wagged their tails; the pigeons upon the roof pulled out their heads from under their wings, looked round, and flew into the open country; the flies on the wall crept again; the fire in the kitchen burned up and flickered and cooked the meat; the joint began to turn and frizzle again, and the cook gave the boy such a box on the ear that he screamed, and the maid plucked the fowl ready for the spit. And then the marriage of the King's son with Briar-rose was celebrated with all splendor, and they lived contented to the end of their days.  -Bros.Grimm / Briar rose

DRAGON + CIRCLES

He held the winged doll in his arms cradling it as he swayed back and forth imagining the life it represented.

Squinting into the sun he imagined the disadvantage of sword fighting against the light with the opponent silhouetted. He moved toward the surf and knelt down dragging the figure onto the sand. The silk brocade fabric wicked up the salt water splaying it in a meander following the jacquard pattern. The darkening of the form interested him and he studied it with intent, not hearing the small girl child come up and plop beside him with familiarity, the obvious question on her face.

He silently cursed his inability to defend and responded begrudgingly,

“Playing at magic.”

Her look remained unimpressed so he continued,

“This is a do-it-to-it doll. Somewhere it’s happening to another real live dragon. And I’M doing it.”  He made a jab to his chest with a thumb extended from a fist.

He realized having said so the idea relied on a leap of faith. Glancing at her sideways and seeing her charmed, he eased and had a try at being humble.

“And that makes me St. George. The magic dragon slayer. "

…….

A soft mist encircled the early morning moon as it rose from between the sugar trees. The reflective spotlight quickly embraced all that lay in its wake as if tardy and making up for the mistake.

“Merry we meet.”

She stepped into the circle, and lit a white candle on the stone altar.

It was then she felt a dragging motion as if water deadened her limbs and crawled to her neck, holding her firm as if the strangling would be slow over a period of days. At once she became aware of the necklace she had worn since her fifteen birthday. It had become a tight reminder of old songs and past chapters; all hard won to be neatly forgotten. 

……….

 This convincing had the young girl emptying her pockets of the tools and findings of the day. With the look of someone picking out retribution, and with great ceremony he moved his hand over the collection as if sensing energy. With disenchanted enthusiasm his hand hovered over the spilling of broken Coquina, an entire twirl of tangerine peel, a bit of string, a tangle of monofilament, a barbed fishhook and broken stick. He scooped up the fish line and held it out to her.

“Let out the knots and I’ll show you.”

She struggled with that task as he easily fashioned two spears from the twig and shell with the string. He pierced his finger in testing the weapon's worth and raised an eyebrow in expectation of her compliment. She gave up the de-knotting, noting it a ruse to keep her occupied.  She traced his glance to his bloody finger then back to his eyes.

 

“Yuck.”

She immediately regretted it. Having gained tribal trust, his smirk now seemed to show dissapointment in grossing her. He doubted this, priding himself on not discriminating upon a person’s gender, as that was to act in ignorance of a deeper truth. He ignored the retort and pushed ahead.

“This is how you kill a frog without really killing it.”

……….

She broke the necklace and tossed it toward the candle, hitting just so, making it sputter then reignite bolder. This became a sign, a chance to reunite the universe. She wanted to burn clean and begin again from the supernatural that is naturally potential.

Walking the perimeter of the circle, she made a safe countenance against the spears of invading authoritarian hierarchy.

……….

The young girl modestly withdrew her body, as she craned her neck toward the experiment for a better look.

Not wanting her help, he positioned the dragon between his feet and held fast as he readied the implements of despair. Ignoring rules of the blood-circle, he challenged the air between himself and the fire breathing foe of medieval legend. A spear in each hand, and with a burst of adrenalin he forced the makeshift arrows into the head of the doll meeting up through the center scale.

……….

She gazed up toward the moon and saw an apparition winging toward her. An ecstatic ride held her in a trance and whispered vaguely in a language she had yet to understand. Two eagles crashed inside her head, exploding in a light unbearably brilliant and the electrical resonance left sparks scattering throughout her being. She tore at her hair until the divine ecstasy eased. Centering herself as the ancient omphalos, she moved out and beyond not looking back.

……….

With a bend and a twist he released the victim from the spears.

The dragon lay disfigured, an interpretation of death.

-30-

Her imagination was trumped by anyone walking  into the room.
She took to wearing a hooded sweatshirt backward to avoid commotion.

That went as well as could be expected.

jahh / Some of My Best Friends

61/62

He mentally became a bird, flying overhead, envisioning where he would land on the street map.

He enjoyed using his eyes as a camera. He remembered the first time discovering he could art direct a film in his mind. He was a young boy sitting w/ friends in a one car garage in Santa Cruz. Six tidy folding chairs were arranged toward the Victorian theater. The modest host made final preparations to work the colorful paper stage, characters + props. He patiently waited for the lights to dim. Idly looking over to the shelves, he zeroed in on a heavy volume, cocked his head to silently read the title. A tome cataloguing Picasso’s work. His gaze widened to see another Pablo book just on either side. + another + another... Slowly, indulgently his mental camera pulled back to reveal that the entire wall beheld a multitude of books on the artist Pablo Picasso.

-jahh / Parallel Chances Tend to Neglect

The Medici sure knew a fine piece of land when they
saw it.

We had trekked all afternoon w/ the cypress twisting along the paths. Centenarian statues had few pieces left, so guessing the character became harder + harder to figure. Most were propped + suspended by awkward metal rebar + metal tubes, leaving empty space equivalent to what was missing. A few of them looked as though a game had not ended, as players took turns, rather slowly, fitting in a stone puzzle piece of the body each had been dealt.

We had visited Neptune in his abbreviated habitat. He stood rock on rock, threatening his trident at a menacing water thing, while sea deities hid beneath in the hollows crouched out of the way of him doing his business.

We had chalked the mosaics + taken the obligatory photo ops. Looking around there were literally masses of opportunities begging to be violated.

With all of the other amusements in the Baboli Gardens we were still disappointed that a high sharp wire wall had sealed off the Grotto of Buontalenti. The structure seemed to be in repair, but it didn’t look as though the maintenance man would show anytime soon. Yes, 423 years can be a very long time for fake molten rock to look rather slimy + rotten. i think they may have just got sick + tired of foreigners putting their hands all over it. The day had been planned around visiting Buonarroti’s Prisoners. Actually, the fakes, as the real works were in the Galleria dell'Academia. There, the trumpet in your head goes off for David, not the six prisoners lining the nave. Mickey thought himself a tool of god, + by reckoning god created free-hand, he did the same. W/ the fevered spirit upon him, + chisel in hand he hacked in a cloud of dust to expose the figure locked inside the stone. They call it religious frenzy. What the reality is + always will be — out of time + over budget. These restless men are claustrophobic, possessed, struggling to free themselves from the stone. The figures were abandoned just as they surfaced from a pool of water. Perhaps he was satisfied w/ the bellies emerged shiny + finished like a target.  There are no apologies in the grooves from the chisel. Emotionally charged work has always intrigued me far more than the perfection of David, who in his temple tomb is treated to reverent gazes + hushed voices.

Of course, on the flip side, Mickey may have simply been delighting in a practice of 3/D stone sketching by pulling out muscular, tanned, + sweating bodies of the workers from the Carrara marble quarries.

Oh, how we wanted to climb that dangerous looking barbed wire + walk into that chamber. It was the only way in, unless of course you crawled onto the dangerous looking apogee + dropped in through the ceiling cupola.

We never took these things personally.

After we had gained entrance, we reckoned we were obliged to stay until dark.

The bathing Venus was no longer alone. The painted mural to the back opened the view to the outside world, so you were 'looking out' from the shelter of the grotto. This was a pastoral setting of wild beasts that absently glazed over the landscape w/out threat. The play of faux, relief + dimensional made the grotto look expansive. There was a nice little kitten that had followed us in who apparently took an easier route. She was a bubbly little thing the color of whipped butter making herself at home by loitering w/ stone sheep, + curling up in a Shepard’s goblet.

Michelangelo’s men were impressive in this venue. Two of the prisoners were graced there but not imprisoned by the hardened merd that had been slug everywhere around. The well endowed bearded man + the see-no-evil figure were embedded, but stood out in white form from the other Mannerist sculpture that also inhabited the cave. The two were slumped over + forward, leaning into from opposite corners.

We camped in the back near Rossi’s Helen and Paris. Talking about the surreality of situations, thinking of past moments, + wondering if we would ever think of this one hence.

On our way out in the wee hours the cypress had grown eerie sparkle lights, glowing from the damp ground to the tiptops high above us. They lit up in time, in turn, in tune w/ each other. How thoughtful the lightening bugs had been to enchant the garden. i half expected to see Puck fall out from behind a bush, quote a snatch of Shakespeare + disappear again into the briar.

(kb'd do just about anything just to hear me laugh.)

Watershed.

Exhausting the possibilities is fun.

Every once in a while i put out a bit of the dictionary from the ongoing work Lonnie + I are building. Here i go again.

 

• ready-fire-aim; The ability to start before you are altogether ready in order to initiate a beginning.

• perfection; Something that needn’t be determined in a concrete way. Something met w/ that is distracting.

• orphan / widow;

A word left alone, set at the top of the page on a line by itself. Lonely, confused + about to jump off.  A typography term.

• dance; Code word for big argument about to happen over here. -e.g. I’m cutting in on this one. I will take this dance.

• mock-up; A quickly built idea in 3D to see if it is a feasible design.

• mustard & shrimp; A color story.

• working designer, a working artist – + in order to keep the working part of the title in the equation an artist must work. A lot. That means there is little time for the stars to align + the majestic creative muse to descend w/ gifts of glorious expressions of great art. No, it is more like hurling yourself into the creative flux at a moment’s notice. It is necessary to turn on creativity at almost anytime + produce work.

• sticks; A gimmick learned for the Hong Kong episode. This skit had been organized + rehearsed numerous times, but whenever we were called upon to perform the ditty it seemed always to be changed into something none of us had ever heard of. -e.g. An inner circle joke became to compose a bewildering look in a confusing situation and ask, Sticks?

• scope creep; What happens when a project grows in scope silently + uncontrollably.

• left field; A proverbial place that you end up preceded by either putting your foot in your mouth, failing to impress a peer, or not paying attention to what is going on at the board meeting. -e.g. It’s a hit! The idea ball is floating over into left field + everyone at the table is scrambling after, trying to figure it out.

-Lonnie falling during the 1535 days.

Who then is the father of time? The detritus mess from which we came from. He is the one who keeps everything from happening at once, twice. The problem of which there’s too little. He is past the age that he feels he is obliged to like something + for this reason carries a scythe.

Gone, gone beyond, gone beyond

The sister of mercy is obligation.  When she kicks in she will forever after have worry as a distraction. However, distraction is sometimes an inoculation against depression. 

Gone, gone beyond, gone beyond

The brother of love’s favorite tools are mental telepathy and leverage. A verbal taser gun is often useful, but not mandatory. He is the cartoon character looking both ways before crossing the street, seeing it safe, puts a foot out + immediately gets flattened by oncoming traffic.

Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond

The second cousin of scatology is creative disruptiveness. Involuntary, consistent, + memorable. Faithfully + continuously changing the scrip to a new genre between dark + iffy. Branded a grapheme because as a child he complained of fuchsia headaches + mentioned the letter A wanted to be red. He had been unaware his experiences were unusual until another pointed out others did not have them.

Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond

- heart sutra

The mother of reinvention states that what mother said at one time is destined to be said again. The biological function she offers speaks + has listeners, but not of the understanding sort. Like being served before you order; being forced to eat before you are hungry.

The voices spoke inside her head more clearly than she had heard when they were alive. The now disembodied words circle inside the mental haunted house. They wager + scold w/ a verbal finger-wag.

Light up the smudge stick and hand it over.

The human condition is such this.

Saying what we are trying to mean + answering what we don't want anyone to hear.

All the while hoping we won’t carry any regrets + others will read between the lines.

She has lived long enough to be moved into top place.

Now misunderstood gets its first-hand chance.

Food for thought only.

Walking in an art gallery today i crossed a mandala of sorts, a loosely painted target on a perforated board. There were holes left where arrows had flown in + shot through.

i froze for a moment too long, petrified, and was tossed back into the inexpressible. Akin to the overwhelming grief of not seeing someone ever again. The tug of dread unexplainable. The idea of always + consistently missing the mark. However, so perfectly deliberate in missing, that it seems by mere calculation one should recognize the pattern + surely catch on + achieve the point.

A ring tone blares behind me, from inside my pack, jolting me to reality. That’s what damn cell phones are good for. After the brief call, i look again at the artwork. The painting was simply a piece of cheap pegboard the painter had cleaned brushes off onto. 

i'll rest on that.