Pencil noir #4

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She’s asking me if I’d do something a little weird for her….saying she needs someone to pose for her…some project she’s working on. All I have to do is look up. “You’re kidding, right?”

But I follow her up the back steps from the kitchen into the side alley. It’s a slice of sky. Blue. No clouds. Some festival music, piped in, drifting over from the Square.

She’s saying, ” OK Joey… relax. You’re really helping me out … just move around, slow like … and then look up.” I look at her instead. She’s animated, laughing, messing with her camera but I can tell she’s concentrating on getting her shots.

It isn’t easy…her looking at me this way. My shoulders tense and I notice my hands are balling into loose fists.

Between shots I look over and catch a glimpse of my car in the parking lot next to the alley. Mat black, it’s stripped down. Everything is in the engine.

I see some kids walking into the parking lot. The music from the Square is getting louder … not piped in anymore … charging the air.  One of the kid stops, leaning on my car to light a cigarette.  It ticks me off but then I can see it. I mean… look what else is in the lot. It makes him feel cool.

“OK … just one more. This is great.” She turns her head to see what has caught my attention. I look back at her and give her a nod.  Her back is to the kids now as she angles to get her shot. I lift my chest, suck in, and look up one more time.

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Pencil drawing ….j.h. white

Blog Tour

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I was double dared to join in the Blog Tour by my friend, and fellow blogger, John Clinock over at Art Rat Cafe.  If you haven’t been over there, make haste and partake in some of John’s artful, sublimely  intimate and open armed hospitality.

The rules of the Blog Tour are to cite the person who asked you to join, answer a few questions about your own creative process, and to invite three (or so) bloggers to the tour.

Why do I write what I write?

I began writing seriously about a year and a half ago.  I needed to explain, also to myself,  an experience I had that changed the way I view my life and the world.

I started this blog, knowing that I didn’t want to work in a vacuum. At the time, my identity, that I considered once stable and solid, shimmed across the surface intangible as a heat wave. Uprooted from everything I’d known for decades, I was gravel in a hot dryer. It was a perfect time to begin something new. So I intuitively jumped in with enthusiasm if not vigor.

Within a few posts my word count distilled into a poetic language. I abandoned prose, for the most part, and embraced poetry encouraged by the fact I could say exactly what I meant without having to use so many words.

I’ve gone through many phases as they lead me along. Words are both holy and often an aphrodisiac. They are alive in me, as well as surrounding me. They provoke and prod, undermining my resistance and enlivening my humanness. They continue to puzzle me. Always intimate.

What is my writing process?

Poetry gave me the confidence, and the community, to consider tackling prose again. I prefer the way my life feels when I’m in the space for poetry though.

Writing poetry is always spontaneous and intuitive. The words just arrive … sometimes like a sneeze… short, succinct and full bodied. I know exactly what I want to say, understand it perfectly and then the words flicker and I lose it. These are the puzzles to unravel.

Some well up from the ground of my being … and release into a chest gripping harmony… old wounds healing.

In some I feel I’m treading water … way over my head. I put my swim fins on and dream through them for meaning.

Some are just romps through my day.

Prose on the other hand demands a method. I’m very disciplined in this regard. I usually start working straight out of sleep and begin writing the first draft, having a general idea. I continue to intuitively wade my way through all my thoughts on the subject. At this point I cannot attend to sequence or order. I arrive at a more cohesive sense of the subject by writing freely.

Then for however long it takes, I search for the rhythm. Now I can jump in at any time to work and I am able to work for long hours at a time. I write on scraps of paper, in various size notebooks but primarily on the screen and I quit when my eyes give out. When I have a reasonable draft, I used to read what I’d written out loud, but now I’ve switched to recording … over and over, listening for a genuine voice, possible repetition, awkward sentencing, lazy language and for sequence. This is generally how I find the ending of the post I’m working on and often times the beginning of the next one.

How does my work differ from other genres?

I haven’t a clue but I know each demands commitment. I’ve witnessed here on Word Press how combining different art forms compliment each other, giving a fuller experience. I’d like to have the momentum in writing to begin exploring a more visual language.

What am I working on at this moment?

I’m involved with an ongoing project attempting to artistically translate the work of a surreal, magic-realism flavored three-year mystical tour through the collective unconscious. In order to clarify my own understanding, I wrote a six-page text. Everyone who has read it, however, unanimously finds my initial text unreadable and incoherent.

So I’m learning to communicate. At this point, I am about half way through the text.

Right now I prefer the immediacy of this virtual community. I’m continually inspired and it makes a difference that I know who I’m talking and sharing with. There’s energy in this that moves me forward and compliments the work, which is still very much in process…and maybe this is what it’s all about.

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Of all the luscious in word writers I have the great good fortune of following, and of being in community with here, I had to consider my leanings toward the storytellers.

Bonnie spins the most curiously mindful, quirky rhythm-ed, uncannily insightful stories….a master Mistress Spider.    Maxada Mandala

Stacy … oh Stacy. What it is to be woman.When I see Stacy has posted…I know we are getting down to it. Her poetry is simply food.   the language we speak

Mark doesn’t so much as weave his stories, as immerse you in each word of his short fiction. His stories are verbal film noir….  each nuance palpable in black and white. Chris is a quick, spontaneous eyed photographer.  Each of her photos are captioned and worlds open up. Together they have begun working out a collaborative comic ….Mark writing and Chris drawing.  The Brokedown Pamphlet  and Spartan Eye

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Sketch: Self-portrait     “Start at the beginning and work towards the end?” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am revolution

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I am revolution

Not a fabricated metaphor

outlined in black ink

 A resilient cartoon in cry or bark.

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I am revolution

Tender skin in every breath

every thought every feeling forming

Every single one

without turning

away

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I am revolution

Arms stretching wide in virtual illusion

where beauty can find me

beyond

 sightless eyes

 observing life

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I am revolution

I am chaos emergent in complexity

the memory of myself

becoming

 change

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photo credit: Unknown

Somewhere

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Balancing, not so delicately,

on the heads of seven pins

I wake in the middle of the night

dazed by the hurrying of the sun and the moon through the sky.

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Somewhere there is an open field

where the seeds of tall grasses live out their days

in dialogue with dew and stars,

Cicada legs thrumming the air

a stillness held in their cadence,

Where fire flies lace the leaves of trees in encircling forests

inscribing their delicate electrical tracings of desire,

a lit calligraphy of … hello, come see me

I am aflame with light

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Somewhere there is an open field within me

amidst the deep woods of words 

the impregnable tall trees of thought

a vast silence of living

wrapt entirely in wonder

 

Pilgrim

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Traveling solo … back,  forth, sideways across the country

coast to coast scouting but cautious I was

winding snakes with wheels

I carried only an old Post Office bag

empty but for a toothbrush, a sewing needle and some colored thread

preferring the company of an ocean front cave that leaked with morning  tides

a mountain stream in heat that slowly dried

Everywhere my tongue tasted the air, flavor there was

I grew a belly of  lightening and substance

pregnant with the road

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40 odd years and I’m still a pilgrim. I look left. I look right. There’s a cliff on both sides. One is seductive  … the other a freefall …. staying in the middle  promises promises but is cluttered and empty. The world is held in consensus agreement … each day … which side am I on?

When my grand daughter Bella tries to touch the moon and says ” jump Nana!”  ….   I smile … and jump

 

 

Emerging

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All around

  the long bones of the trees

raise small green prayer flags

from their roots

of  winter solace

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Signals humming in the first spring wind

“There are so many lost in their own momentum”

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There is an urgency

as the intrepid green shoots

attend to the living word

“With”

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As everything cycles new in the next few months, my activities surround the season. I’ll be lending my hands, my arms, my back, my muscles, my eyes and my ears where needed.  My softer parts and all my bones go along for the ride. …giddy with enthusiasm.

I’ll also be germinating the next set of audio broadcasts. The seeds have been planted. I am immeasurably grateful to everyone who listened and lent their own thoughts … such beauty….you have my heart….

I’m learning trust in so many ways

opening like a flower

in a field of wild light

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Artist: Paul Klee

Radioactive

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Wake me from the plunder

of being kissed

on the lips by unripened pears

A card board bird’s beak

smeared radioactive with soured honey

Held in molten silence        I’m feeling the raptor burn through

as I burst into pustules       fish scales       and flight

through mute voices

 ignoring

the dying of my light

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Artist: Dan Casado