Passerrines explode from a feather cannon–
an ominous burst more foreboding than a tempest
Endless bits of triangular blue make the sky an abstract puzzle–
coming together or falling apart
Their chattering blankets suffocate my precious morning peace
How do these frenetic creatures hear each other
Does it matter to their tiny process
The starlings remind of a biblical pestilence read about as a child–
invasive species, legged, winged and without conscience
Millions of flapping wings force the trees to sway
How black these birds with their beady little eyes–stolen magician’s opals seeding the sky
Ear-shattering thieves of brightness
To diffuse my peril, I unhook the waking senses
In the empty spaces of my blank, Helen arrives
A borrowed angel
Through dense feathered blinders, she manifests a brilliant blue sky
Flocks enter her sealed cave–
she hears one birdsong above the rest
The plague of starlings brushes low to the ground
Cerulean returns above
The screeching pestilence covers my property
her Speaking hands guide me
her Silent words teach me
to hear a single clear note above the din
to see an emerald ocean above the sea of feathered black
My borrowed angel is a spirit of imagination–
an artist of the senses
I have been both deaf and blind
She has not
dedicated to Helen Keller
My imagination often tortures me. Does yours get the better of you? When I was ten, The Blob (trivia-Steve McQueen’s first leading role), gave me the night sweats for an entire year and I wouldn’t venture near anything resembling a vent. Next it was Goya who tormented me with his painting, Saturn Devouring His Son. A father eating a child does things to a twelve-year-old’s mind. For quite some time, I stayed away from utensils and my dad. Even a can of peas and carrots had its way with me. A reoccurring nightmare at age fourteen–cubed carrots screaming as they were mercilessly squashed by brutal farmers wielding cast iron shovels, while the opportunistic peas rolled away to safety.
Today, (as I sit in my sub studio watching leggy spiders flutter by like creeping creative angels) imagination helps sometimes but not always. Brain shit rattles around like the crap I might throw up in my attic or shove into some dark basement corner. Emptying mind bins of mildewed magazines that smell worse than the son’s wrestling singlet after a dual meet is futile. Piles accumulate with no end in sight. Most of this junk is unusable and will be thrown onto a flimsy folding table for a grand going-out-of-business sale. This is my writing process. This is my art process. This is what I do. Peas rolling away to safety. When fingers get boxed-in, ideas flatten beneath cast iron shovels.
There is also something else my imagination does. This is the worst part of all. It self-inflicts pain whenever I mind-travel to places I should never go with people I should never go with. Sometimes, I disregard my sadistic demons to ride bareback on the gorgeous, powerful Percherons there. Magnificent beasts that galloped off Bonheur’s painting, The Horse Fair. Year by year, my dark matter loosens a bit more. Nights now mimic spaceflight. I survive by staying awake. If I don’t sleep while dreaming, I can’t get into any trouble. When I misbehave, the spiders stop hanging with me. They always know my truth. And without these creeping creative angles, my imagination might just get too strong a foothold. If this happens, I’ll never be able to find my way back. The spiders know one more lousy truth about me. My sense of direction absolutely sucks.
“the writing has to be real”
he screams into her eardrums
the war of words hasn’t even begun marching
he mercilessly continues the assault
“raw introspection must bleed from every serif”
now that’s delicious, she muses
imagining him dispatched with a saber of nasty grammar
hell-vetica she’s chosen – no ascenders or descenders – asshole
the battle is heating up
no support arriving for her open flanks
he is ever wicked and callous
real and raw lay open and bleeding
those nails of her hers bitten down to the core
forever scratching at that mountain
blanks hit her from behind like Kennedy bullets
she almost fantasizes the sun rising over a groundswell
in a show of desperate force
she slams the laptop closed
and swings ’round to lance him with her army of dried-up pens
he’s too quick
those words of his –
lead cannonballs sinking her fingertips
“the writing has to be real…”
the only thing real in the room right now
is her headache and heartache
and there’s nothing she can do to protect herself
he’ll be back tomorrow…
Her orange-haired dolly enjoyed dancing too much
She feared Larabella would tire and fall down
But Larabella and her fiery locks, couldn’t walk
She didn’t mind if Larabella’s little shoes got dirty
Though she made sure the earthen floor wasn’t disturbed by Larabella’s dancing feet
She worried about scabbed knees
contenting her posterior and Larabella’s spineless form to sit on a giant mushroom
speaking of life
singing of song
And imagining they were grownups who carried each other around
so their knees would never scab and their shoes would not scuff the soil
I wrote, Larabella specifically for this art – a month or two back but forgot. I then absentmindedly used the art for another post or two. I must be dancing too much like little Larabella, there might also be wine involved 😉
I almost visualize
your face through the fog
you like hiding in the blur
It’s not fair really
but I imagine you
I’m versed at seeing inside words and letters
I can sketch an image of you in my head
like the clues to a crime
colors don’t matter
then I realize
I’m being quite foolish
like your hazy autonomy
so maybe it is best
to let you swim in the fog
where you can dwell
on the farthest coast
with my deepest thoughts
created a few months back, if memory serves
Galeen likes sticking her hands where they don’t belong (this might be cause for concern as she ages up). But she is a smart, little girl, and for now her brain is in control of her hands.
Galeen reads a wall-hanging filled with quotes and hugs her cherished, stuffed Einstein doll, whenever she needs to turn her grey matter, red-hot.
If at first, the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.
We can’t solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them.
The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.
Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.
The important thing is to not stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.
The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.
Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.
I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.
Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.
Thank you. May the creative force be with you in your waking hours. May the creative force keep you entranced in your nightly dreams.
Blogtox tomorrow. If all goes well and the blog gods are with me, I should be back to WordPress this weekend, maybeeeeeeeeeeeee…