|Photo taken at The Metropolitan Museum in NYC|
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Oh my muse, where have you gone? Sing to me. Dispel the depletion of spirit. Stop the flashing surrealness of events gone before. Sing my muse. Let me tell the story of brave souls who walk alone as if they were invisible, few seeing who they are and what they can do. Sing with honeyed lips so close to the ear, an erotic wind rushes like an electric current. Sing, for you are believed in by the multitude of Cassandra's standing in pantry lines. Who are they who disrespect us so, we who do not fit neatly into prefabricated slots? So much of their discourse is repetitious and dull. Save us from such persecution and affliction. Soothe the mind with aesthetic traces of capabilities that disappear in the night. The smell of ammonia spells darkness voiding itself into the molecular structure as your brother laughs at your vertigo. He, like others, took everything so you took back. It hurt the spirit but you continued, pain being good for the art, bad for the day. Announce your ailments; watch them scatter as if someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the street. Win the award, they all gather to congratulate. Anger seeps through veins that almost killed you. The relentlessness of it complicates nightmares. Who’s to know but combat veterans. You all sing the song of terror, violence, deceit, courage, survival. The fat boy puffs himself up like a bunting on a Louisiana road. Reruns of his blessed self, repeated endlessly. Halos sweep two anointed heads as if Cerberus, the multi-headed guard dog. Kudos burn with fast food gluttony. A little Dexedrine to slice off the pounds. Your harried thinness, though, fools the doctors and caretakers. When you are upright, all is well. When you fall, no one is there to see or believe the tortuous days and nights. You fall too often so they slide the knife into the most tender places. You portray the villain, the pointless person in the midst of righteous blindness. Only sparrows understand, fending for themselves in the wilderness next to lush creeks as receding hairlines demand gratitude for their barbs. And here is the sun. Here is the work. Here is the dowry paid for exuberance. No matter what the price, the cost does not matter. The longing breaches deadly spasms of lies you tell yourself when engulfed in madness. When it is over and you lived another day, the yardage makes sense, the blood-stained thoughts disappear. The room is filled with creation from the ashes of your discontent. You sing to the muse. She released you from forethought’s eagle. Your flesh stayed the course. You did go on.
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
You stopped. So many meanings to that phrase. Tales evolve from stopping. From being. Strip away the exterior of self to look closely. Be carried away from the waves of daily occurrences. Nothing in and of itself. Bubbling in the generation of thoughts. Emotions come and go. Supposed realities appear and disappear. In the stream of time, all shrink on the evolutionary scale as big as you think you are. Beliefs vanish in moonlight; alter with the break of day. Who you are is called into question. No one is carved in stone.
Our nature and world changes at the bat of an eye. Often staunchly denied by experts and fools alike. You distance yourself from what is since it is too hard to define. Many try such feats of courage. Search any library or set of circumstances. You say it begins here and ends there. Does it now? Interpretations all. You say you know. You say you have it. A jumble of words corner you in this effervescent thing known as truth. You have nothing. Impressions moving like clouds through an untouchable sky. Blue or gray, it does not matter. The air is as boundless as you are.
Pinpointing is a game – a fool’s errand. Happiness. Disappointment. A turning world. Pain. Elation. Delight in the incomprehensible, such as it is. Be sure when you can. Assumptions abound but deceive. Expectations pop up but don’t suffice. You walk miles to pass the time. Distractions line every life. Enjoy what is and what is not when possible. Now is the only bit you can hold as it flutters away like smoke or waves on the sand.
Tuesday, April 30, 2019
I am from the ocean. The waves pass through my veins as I wallow through the sludge of unending obstacles. Still I continue. Sick. Brave. Tired of that which I do not understand. I heave to the sky with a magnet on my sleeve to keep me where I must be. Not on this land, which I do not know, but back to the place that I know better because of this land. History comes alive with suffering. The pages of the west. Our greed, determination, thievery, intentions good and bad become much clearer through privation and lack of understanding. Hygiene, safety laws, legislation, money making, diversity, addressing of issues. They are there in a new light. The Atlantic and Pacific and all between beat in my heart. Imagine a land lit up by leaving. We learn through experience, observation. It’s all relative. Words do not cover it. Even the monster at the helm cannot tarnish the dream that is American democracy. It is a wisp of a thing in reality but mammothly present as ideology. Can we make our home free? We have been trying since its founding. Failing. Sometimes failing well, sometimes famously false. The school bell rings.
I am from the crowded room called humanity. My wings flap even though I have none. My vocal cords shake the earth like a lion. I sing like a nightingale; am treacherous and kind as a dedicated nun. Beware the turnstile of the human heart. It strives to be light but is often as heavy as the earth. I will knock on your door, knock about your garden, see the beauty and spit at the indifferent. There lays the matter of the big world turning. Unpredictable, genuine, unreliable, worthy. Can you pin it down? Never. Not now, not ever. It is an illusion to think so. It will flutter past your eyes without leaving a trail. It will drag you to the bottom, then pull you up to the heights. Jesters all, that thing called failure and success. A deluded populace searches for answers hoping to nail them down on the desert floor, sinking, sinking. Faster and faster only to face itself where it started. Yes. The journey, the journey. Angels whisper at the attempt. The devils laugh over their indigestion. Bleep. . Blob. A speck in the universe. So absurdly self-involved. Righteous. Raucous. Revealed. Rewound. There they go. Have after them. They will slip through your fingers faster than you can say JP Rocks.
I am the searched for air. Freedom of movement. Labored breath. Surly mouths sucking on the tap of life. Desperate. Elated. Lost in a dwindling wilderness dreaming of polished six shooters. Violence becomes a picture show. Flickers. Saturday night specials, three for a dollar if you’re under 12 years old. Oh, Loews of my youth. Where did you go? You stayed in the mind as reality. So hard to dispel. Please for it to be that way. But no, you had to be a brut, didn’t you? You had to bring a light to see with. You had to be too complex to figure out although many have tried. In the end, though, it’s entertainment for the mind. A star for the collar. A gentle reminder that we must amuse ourselves or go mad.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
|Walburga Retreat 2018|
Look you, from the inside of lesser happenings, she saw an abyss to be crossed, a triumphant return, long journeys unending in their particular homogeneity, cascading complexities of human love and hate, lost souls and worlds, new beginnings with exciting potential, the death of the mother much later than the father, dreaded in her undoing, beastly and not brave, the father as courageous as the mother cowardly. The spending of every penny.
Beggar boys with cups in hand dancing a jig on the edge of reality. A world groveling from screwed boxes of marketability; the end of everything, the beginning of something. Out of the grime of ghetto chaos, a heart stayed beating. The riffraff almost undid her; the west waning with not much to replace it, ill-gotten culture tucked under the arm with the wanting, the wanting, the wanting; burning with desire, squandering expectations of fleeting guilt; an idea of one’s own, bypassing death as legions of the privileged dropped before her, not unsung but hardly living up to potential, hyenas haggling over the stolen bits, the unwashed parts, the mistakes, the unknowing, the intoxicated babblings of a frightened girl in search of protection and identity, hard shelled but vulnerable.
Not thinking they were exclusive, difficult, lengthy in development through exterior harbingers of regret and longing, expulsion and sacrifice required, lost at sea for so long, belching the unspeakable, negotiating the unquenchable; hearing swan songs, death dives, suicides and ODs, forgotten boys and girls at midtown gay bars, spilling over the edge of ingratitude and indifference. Family with bribes to disappear, puffed up and uncaring, slithering into vaudeville, vulgarity surfacing freely; prayers at hand, division between step and stone.
Marble-eyed critics encased in glass structures – a lack of charity able to shrivel the heart; all about need, an arena of unexamined lives nipping like dogs at the heel, the bolstering of saviors, the help of the unasked with tidings of hope. In uncharted oceans where plans were devised in secret to know something, to do something, to be something, as the boot crushed her hand, making a mark before the show was over despite the relentless squandering of spirit, she stood on the ocean shore seeing how much bigger the world is than the tiny grumblings of the discontented, the fortunate, the bolter of doors where rocks remain unturned and the small voice of past grievances gnaw at her shallow grave where she refused to step before all that must be said is uttered, all ideas displayed; the parts mended, the esteem raised, the demons struck out with silver crosses and a good dose of healthy thinking, her eyesight failing but the determination intact, swirling in a foreign land with thin pockets and bold eyes, she walks to the precipice to shout down ghosts, grifters, gatekeepers and self-righteous asides to move past what is allowed to what is praised since force of character and a poetic sensibility gets attention despite hesitation, and if credentials won’t serve, indomitable potential can replace.
Monday, October 22, 2018
Rocky Coast of Unknowing. 2018. Topography of Safety.
In the beginning, where did you go, that person you were – the flowing, loving child in the prim clothes? Quiet, intelligent, dreaming of great things to be done. The gentle child who with much confidence in the world sat in deep regard for all that was possible. She wondered at all the colors to be arranged and made to work. She stared out the window in the twilight hours when no one was there, looking at snow as it circled and dipped and danced. She wrote stories and drew pictures and was happy. Where did she go, that creature of all possibilities?
Storms hovered betting on landfall. Sharp harpies lurked behind thin walls. There was some moment when grey tentacles of slander and restriction grabbed her arms and held her down, forcing grim ideas about selfhood. Voices blared nightly in the arena of degradation. The howling of family harsh, as torrential tides rained with thick pelts. The bruising was unbearable. The betrayal daunting. She let them snuff her out. She closed the curtains and hid in the body of another for decades. The other with anger so vast it wiped the slate clean. It made her into the amalgamation of all that was wrong. The suffering made her heartless, so she wasted all that was good about her person until very little could be done to retrieve a life.
What exactly happened, and why, can never be surmised but know this. With barely a heartbeat left, and with a broken compass, she sailed through every harrowing bastion of disgust and bad tidings to re-emerge on the shore of nothing. Far, far, far away from the sores of youth. Not completely away from the sins of men and women but distant enough to find a plain of comfort. She had no idea she would survive it all – the violence, the indifference, the cruelty, the judgments, the humiliations. She did though and when the others, long since dead were but vague ghosts, a little joy returned. She forgot happiness thinking the sky was always falling. Within the confines of such things she created beauty. How is this possible? She will never know but a piece of that child exists somewhere, the spirit almost intact. It is the child that triumphed, not those who think they know and beckon toward hell. It is the elementary person after being ripped from herself remained available to rebuild a life.
Here she stands near the end. Resurrected at last. Gambling on safety. Hoping for an even chance. Startled, afraid and often encouraged. After a war, after a baptism, after the worst of the worst took her tongue she stood up with fair warning and something to say. In the early morning silence, she can hear her heartbeat and trust in the approaching day after a lifetime of falling off every corner. In the cursory hours when nothing means anything, all can be endured and made to appear miraculous. Here is rebirth.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
|Resorting to Optimism. 2018. Topography of Safety.|
You began this morning so long ago. The milky sky thick with hot and cold fronts crossing. The dust storm exciting. Unknown regions of verisimilitude glowing like a brilliant mirage. You came to the end of the earth to answer questions, to explore the beginning of civilization–to understand why you, why the relentlessness monotony of misery. You found in the hidden cases of monstrous behavior this was not so uncommon. You were not so unique. Your private and public pain lower on the totem pole of extinguished lives than you imagined. The trafficked, the refugee, the imprisoned shrivel ahead of you in the line to orchestrated destruction.
You waited so long for this morning when you could feel as if the world became gentle. You could give up the ghost stalking your memory banks. The world stopped sucking the life out of you with unnecessary cruelty. You watch grinding poverty handled with care, the hollow eyes betraying its reality. You need to see this. You want to see this. There is purpose in the path most avoid. You can consider the uses of adversity. It puts power into your work, every brush stroke or word infused with the stark beauty of betrayal. The volume of assistance makes for a buoyant head rest, your survival depending on personal strength and the generosity of others. Strangers and near strangers along with friends and family, and now the American government, keeping you afloat.
This exotic location made its mark. Exiled without knowing what would happen next. The effervescence exists beneath the surface. The obedient child, the curious, well-behaved child expecting great things not completely extinguished, hiding, waiting for the moment to return, to come out from under the house you never had, to let go of the reigns of other’s opinions. To leave the past behind with the indelible mark of opinions of those who never bothered to know you, who never bothered to care. You walk from the fire like some embroiled goddess, fierce from the decades of abuse, molten brass in your blood, ready to storm the next chapter. Look for wings and you will find them. Forget about time and the millennium will appear. Stand tall in your oppression and the want of love will disappear. This is what you came for. This is what you want. To be yourself and make it work. For in the end, who is the originator of being? The universe is vast compared to sniveling idiots lurking in base corners, their own world microscopic. Who are the vampiric haters of the glorious day? They leave nothing behind but scarred flesh.
The day will come when freedom rings from sea to shining sea if you last long enough. Outliving the monsters brings you to a fairyland of the mind where all will be well. The strength of your existence separates from the harrows of destiny. The morning full of tea and rotis lifts the spirit. It connects with the morning of coffee and bacon in another land, in the beginning of time before fate and humans tried to take you down. This morning has pinks and blues dancing in the ever present. The ever present is always with us. It is always the voice of possibility standing next to destruction.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
Walburga, a residency of sorts. Ventnor, NJ
You may think you know your limitations. Tests of endurance may appear so extreme, you think you will never make it through. During these kinds of days and months, it is not how strong you are but how willing you are to go to the end of the road. The strength of your purpose carries you from the intolerable, the inexplicably disastrous situation, to a frame of mind where you can endure. If you are prone to such situations, you will develop the skills to pass from suffering to transcendence. You may be eager to share these periods that move beyond the ordinary. Many will have no interest. This thing of yours has no relevance to them. Your travels through hard space appear as a string of awful complaints, which often they are. There may be no interest whatsoever. It will be hard for those around you to comprehend since their lives do not include such things. They have other trials and tribulations to pass through. Different from yours and unwilling to share the intense human experience, unless, of course, they take the stage while ignoring the feverous brilliance of your own efforts. You must sigh and walk away since most of life is like this. The reverberation of your spirit so inflamed will seem like a dead spark. Your ardor is not their ardor. Vice versa, as well.
Do not shrink from this accomplishment, that you live still. You may fall off the face of the earth at the multitude of harpies left shrieking in your ears. You battle your way back to the world you now inhabit. You wonder, “Who are these people here? Surely I know them but also I do not.” A strange mood to place yourself in. There it is, though. You operate on the edge of their world, tottering into your own. You drink a cup of tea, looking at them with vast eyes, wanting to exchange beyond tawdry human interaction but you cannot. They do not ride that ship. Whaling men and frigates do not interest them. You are lost in a zone where your unconscious proclivities wrap around ordinary swells where you bob and weave eternally. Self-help books can only go so far. Motivational enthusiasm cannot solve your conundrum. You balance along an endless sea of misconceptions, failing to make your case for the moment. But there are others who will put forward those who write about the experience. The right poet can make the world well again. The waiting for resilience, for communion, may always pass you by but there are strings of finely wrought words out there that will comfort and keep you on the road to your true self, unencumbered by the way things are.