Pencil noir #1
Blog Tour
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
~
I am revolution
Not a fabricated metaphor
outlined in black ink
A resilient cartoon in cry or bark.
~
I am revolution
Tender skin in every breath
every thought every feeling forming
Every single one
without turning
away
~
I am revolution
Arms stretching wide in virtual illusion
where beauty can find me
beyond
sightless eyes
observing life
~
I am revolution
I am chaos emergent in complexity
the memory of myself
becoming
change
~
~
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.
~
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
~
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
~
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
~
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
~
All around
the long bones of the trees
raise small green prayer flags
from their roots
of winter solace
~
Signals humming in the first spring wind
“There are so many lost in their own momentum”
~
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
Glass
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Again I woke earlier than you this morning.
Opening the blinds in the next room
I stood there watching the sun move closer
a lover traveling through glass spun from sand
~
The floor was still cold under my bare feet from the night I wanted to
lift myself into the air and dive back down
splashing into the ocean of our bed
making waves of spice and salt and substance
But for some reason I hesitated…
If I laid down next to you
I was struck with the thought that I’d witness your dreams fading
as you turned and opened your eyes.
I didn’t want to chance what I’d see.
And I knew
I’m growing too used to your rambling distances as you angle into a place
further and further away
But who am I to say you’re lost except to me
even intimacy closes certain doors
~
Too often though you prefer to face the wall
While I ? well
Standing here watching you sleep like this
I know now I’m turning towards the sun
~
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Practical religion
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I have a small shrine outside my bedroom doorway. Every time I pass the shrine I know I’m praying. Sometimes my eyes glance to the side as I pass. Most often I can keep moving. Then there are the times I stop and I bow my head. Or sometimes I have to raise my arms up high. It all depends on how much I have to say.
Also … I start the day with a really good breakfast and when I get down to the end, I always leave the last bite for the garbage gods.
I definitely give the neighborhood trees my allegiance … nothing overt … I just make sure I look up as I pass. And I’ve started to pick up any litter I find in the alley.
As you can see, I try to spread my religion throughout the whole week. When I pass people on the sidewalk, I look them in the eyes to see if they see me. If they do I’ll smile. Otherwise we can stay invisible. I show respect.
Sundays are different. It’s not because it’s religion. They’re looser. I admit, it’s a little hard if I’m lonely because then it would really be nice to have someone to tighten things up. But usually everything’s great. And I don’t need to pray on Sundays. It’s a free day.
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artist: Mitsi:b









