Lost Night Time Connections

I went to the monthly Lost Artists Colony show in Chicago tonight (last Saturday, as I rewrite this) by myself, running late (perhaps I should have driven). I wanted to get down in time to sign up for the poetry reading slots, as there is a limited amount of time available. I got down there almost two hours after the readings began, and the door to the reading room was closed while someone was reciting. So I socialized for a bit, saying hi to people and enjoying the atmosphere, as there was a good crowd. J. said I could get into the poetry at the end, so when the door was (finally) opened (maybe letting some of the depth of sound ease out) to show a young man kneeling out his verse to a solo trumpet accompaniment. I scooted in, stood (chairs all taken) against the back wall of the small room and listened to them, and then the last six readers. Right after the last reader, the organizer went up and stated that there wasn’t any time for other people as there was to be live music played next. I was out of luck. I’d spent all evening last night and all day today working on my new poem, finishing, polishing and finalizing it so I could recite it at the reading. Ah well. K. later said I could read it in his room/studio, and I thought that was a good idea. More socializing and wandering from studio to studio, engaging in conversation and relaxed refreshment as the crowd gradually thinned out. Although I’d only brought my Ornamental Bounce balls and did not have anything to hang, I was able to garner attention and appreciation of them, selling one of the mushroom village designs. Most excellent. A few new artists were exhibiting, and I enjoyed their work. One had a couple of absolutely amazing paintings which pulled me in and wrung me high and fly. Wonderful depth, motion, detail and balance in a white on black, and another of blues on black. I liked them. I spoke with the artist, B., for a while, and he eventually asked if I had any work there. I took him back to K.’s, where I had my balls (so to speak) and he thought they were really cool. I showed him the ABC Coloring Book and he thought that it was cool enough to buy one. Most cool, indeed!
People meandered in and out, here and there, with the party atmosphere increasing. I had placed my Camel and Duck (plush toy animal props for the poem) on the small folding table I’d brought to use to hold them when I would recite the poem. There were five other people in the room, drinking and chatting, when H. pointed at the stuffed animals and said something about them being kinky strange, so I said they were props for my poem. I asked if she wanted to hear it and she said sure. (Ah ha!) I pulled out the writing, picked up my buddies and started reciting. A couple snickers at first, but I was smooth and sincere in my delivery, letting the words carry to them. By the time I got into the third stanza they were quiet and listening. More people started coming around the door and into the room until there were a good dozen or so. A few chuckles at appropriate times, offset by the rapt attention in the faces I could see, as I knew there were people in the corridor outside listening. At the end of the five-or-so minute recitation, I almost choked up (again) during the last stanza, even though the emotion I evinced was moderately contrived. But I made it though okay. Grand applause and cheering filled that end of the building, and I was thrilled! I had a good delivery and I knew it was a good poem, so I was really glad that I was able to perform it for a group of other creative people. A wonderful experience. K. couldn’t stop telling me how cool, how fitting, how amazing and how perfect it was. He was quite humorous in his massive appreciation! The crowd thinned more and as K., B., J. and I were enjoying stimulating conversation about different creative endeavors, when another guy I’d seen earlier came in and joined us. He wore a coat and tie, which was unusual but not at all strange, and looked quite a bit like my brother, and I told him so. He humorously asked if I liked my brother, and I said yes, very much, and he said good, because then we could get off on a positive note. We introduced ourselves and fired off good vibes as the turn of talk kept spinning creative. He said he had come from listening to opera singers and Symphony Hall downtown. Culture. His name was A. and he began describing how he was creating a Tree of Life sculpture out of carved animals and insects, somehow affixing them around a sphere made from a basketball molded shell. As he was speaking, another, older (around my age, if you measure such things) gentleman I had seen with A. earlier, came in, who. He joined out group, and spoke at great length with K. about K.’s paintings, showing great appreciation and consideration. A. had earlier enthusiastically commented on the single piece K. had on the back wall, stating that, as an architect, he really liked the perception of depth that the piece projected. We all sort of gathered in the middle of the room and the newcomer, R., showed us (from an i-pad) some of his work. Beautiful, interesting and colorful creations. He related that he has had commissions for many places and has been a part of the Chicago art scene for many years, with many connections and much knowledge concerning it. I thought that he would be a wonderful contact and I wanted to give him a business card, but I didn’t’ want to interrupt his talking, so I thought I’d wait and see if an opportunity arose.
We mingled and conversed a bit more, then, as almost everyone else had gone. I was speaking with R. about something or other and he asked if I was an artist. I responded affirmatively, and he asked if I had anything to show. I pulled out my 5×7 mini-portfolio and he began paging through it, immediately liking and commenting on what he saw. He blew by the sports art, and the portraits, but he really liked the abstract work represented. He gave me several suggestions for making a better portfolio, and told me I should submit to an Illinois Cultural art group, of which I now can’t recall their actual name. He said they would probably like my work. Nice. He then asked if I had a card and I gave him one (yeah!), scoring big on my ego-meter. A. came over and requested one as well, doubling my pleasure. He read, “Writer in the Sand” out loud from across the top of the card, and I took that as a cue to pull out Endless Shifting Sand and show it to him. He opened and randomly read a bit, then read some more and then quoted some and thought it interesting enough to quote to R., who made the observation that it was stream of conscious and was very Joycian. Finally! Someone who SEES that! They inquired about publishing and I informed them that we had our own company and that ESS was printed through a subsidiary. They were impressed, and A. encouraged R. that this might be good for a project of his.
We all shook hands and expressed mutual appreciation of our meeting, then they left, and I picked up my two bags and small table (humping to duck the animals into a bag) and followed them down the hall. They turned left and continued on out, while I stopped at the ‘T’ intersection of hallways and chatted with the remaining few folks of the evening, who were all situated there. Mutual cheers and salutations, then off I plodded to make my late night way home. A good night. A good crowd and a great connection for the Lost Artist’s Colony in A. and R.
I was so inspired that I came home and put on ‘The Naked Piano’ by R. A. …Play. I made it to bed by 4am.
The energy I garnered from that evening, and from the wrest of the creatively active weekend, carried me on a positive level of energy (keeping me going Sunday night until midnight), which lasted well into Monday at work, even without a caffeine boost. Maybe this is the tipping of the iceberg toward finding my recognition as an artist. Shivers up my back. This coming Saturday is the Art Walk show in Waukegan, and I’m aiming for a similar kind of evening. I’ll be showing small art pieces (limited space), signing books (ESS and the ABC Coloring Book… and HOPEFULLY my two new book that the printer hasn’t gotten to us yet), and reciting poetry, including another flight with Duck and Camel. Several of the Lost Artists will be up and showing at that particular venue as well. See you there?

Swerve Random Specifics

Swerve Random Specifics

Interrupted Journey

Momentum diverted to left lane clearing from flashing tales of unknown distress. Momentum carried on and mirrored view lessened, then dwindled among the compressed vision of gathered space I’d passed. Conscient inspiration maintained inner perspectator view of potential need to cause considered vehicle to pause in such location, such that a reason for immediate succor and/or assistance may have been engendered. My imagination ran rampant through the open fields of maybe. I thought, as I continued on, that someone will stop and … maybe the police will …perhaps a cell phone call from … but, as the divided roadway merged back to the contiguous, two-lane-each-way coziness, I left a line meant to carry my original intentions to direct completion, reworked to where I left alignment to port side indication and wheeled a crisp cross around to return back the way I’d just come. The headlights of the van remained at rest, still dangerously parked, with the rear driver’s side edged into the right lane of the road. I drove past, looked across the median and verified continued non-activity (beyond the seductive batting of the tail eye-lights as they flashed anyone who looked), continued a few hundred yards to the next posted light of motionless authority, pulled another u-turn (you turn with me on these, okay?) out of my fundamentally redirected intentions and pulled up behind the object of my concerns. I parked, disembarked, and stepped toward this mystery conveyance. The van slowly pulled away from me (“oh great,” I thought, expecting them to just drive away), straightened out and lined up along the road, fully on the shoulder, taking a worry off my own. They stopped, I continued. I approached the driver’s door with caution and, as I neared, it rolled down to reveal an older, gray haired woman. I look in and saw a younger, dark haired woman in the passenger seat, and, as I spoke to the driver, I had a peripheral sense of two more women in the back.
“Are you okay?” was my opening line.
“Yes, we’re just debating the matter of where we are going.”
“Where is that?” (I take my cues well.)
“That’s what we don’t know.” Oh. Okay. I felt somewhat akin to a straight man wishing he was rock steady. Uhhmmm…
“Do you know the address?”
The younger passenger softly said something and the drive relayed, “Laurel Road?”
I thought for a second, perusing the (always iffy) memory files, and could only come up with, “There’s a Laurel in town… but I can’t think of one out here. Sorry.”
The older woman pursed her lips in a sort of resigned smile, and replied with a sigh, “That’s okay. I think we’ll just call it a night.” And the young girl silently turned her head away toward her window, putting her cheek in the sliver of streetlamp light just as a tear trailed down into the shadows of the night. My heart went out to her unknown sorrow.
“Okay,” I responded, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Thank you. Good night…” and her window slid up, the van pulled slowly out on to the street and I turned to walk back to my car. I got to the car as the van reached the stoplight just ahead and performed a reverse directional maneuver (are you turn dizzy?) then headed back from whence they’d come. I got in and continued on my own interrupted journey, feeling sorry for the young girl with the tear, but glad that her locationary disappointment was the only issue in their stopping. It was a nice change from my previous such encounter with a stopped vehicle, many years ago.

Now, as I write, I am arrived at my original destination, barred in by noise and locomotion, with plenty of refreshments for both. The five rectangular monitors of commercial entertainment, in staggered array across the length of the room behind the bar I am patronizing, are chilling the crowd with a hockey game. I have never been very interested in the sport, and have not watched a game since I was young. I drink my wine, I write in my book and I am finding myself watching the screen, caught up in the quick skill and athleticism of the players and interested in the action on the ice. I find that interesting.
Time to gather my Duck and hop on the Camel. There may be sand, but I won’t desert you.
(Tap you fingers and wait here. I’m writing poetry.)
Pardon the interrupted contemplation of your empty space, but I have finally completed a single stanza of my poem. Sorry it took so long, but the game is exciting, the wine is pretty good and my muse has been distracted. I think I’m on track now, but, just for fun, here’s what I have accomplished (in the continuation of a lengthy, literary effort begun two years ago):
Past clouded interstellar gas
In rainbowed cosmic spin
To fiery building blocks in which
The lives of stars begin.
Nice, but rough and tumbled are the creative connections. I have since (two days later, as I type this into the computer) edited this specific effort (and the whole of what eventually followed) and altered it, but that is not our concern at this (back to your future now) time. I have projected the direction and intentions I consider for continued poetic discourse, and am offering myself two varied options toward action. To end or not to end, that is the quotation-variation which applies to my choice. I opt for the middle road and plod slowly on toward winding down and landing, safe at home, Duck, Camel, hockey game and myself. The sports figures which vie against each other’s skills and energies are like mortal gods in the eyes of the believers who worship at the altar of professional competition.
So, while you were busy playing on the ice, I finished my poem, and a good thing, too, for the bar activity is cleaning down and winding up for the evening. A well spent evening, even at the cost of money I can’t afford to spend but did anyway. The bill for four glasses of wine (two over my usual limit, but spread out over three hours… and you hardly noticed) has yet to be addressed, but I’m sure I’ve got enough to scrape by (I have the advantage of writing about it afterward and know I do) and will chalk it up to the price of inspiration. So, everything is just ducky and I can call it a night. I will post the entire poem on one of my blogs. Here, or, if I can recall the password, over there. Quack me up. Time to go home.
Can my Camel give you a lift?

Duck, The Camels Got You Cornered

Duck, The Camels Got You Cornered

Focus On Distractions

This is an impromptu creation inspired by a post on a WordPress blog I enjoy (a tip of my tin hat to Joe, with thanks) (http://www.writewithwarnimont.com/limit-distractions-a-writers-guide-to-minimize-multitasking) regarding ways to avoid distractions when writing. I see it in a variant aspect.

Otherwise. Then, shifting gleans upon the fence, moonlight is nowhere to be seen and the time I have spent, like changing the clocks for dinner, is well to be, or not to be, depending on the flow, y’know? Charge it to the light brigand, high jacking fixtures right out of the sky, leading us astride, riding into the sense hut of tropical island clouds across the darkly sharpened edge of sun lost horizon. Deep, see green, under your curving visual awareness toward infinity, holding the pink-edged clouds at distant reach as they diminish to violet, purple, gray and then gone into the black of the sparkled, nighttime sky. Time to wake up.
Learn. Pay attention its weight in hold, acquire a set space done in assets paced unintentionally, but firm. Carry that load until it aches. Pain is free for the masses, but take no more than your fair share or we’ll hurt you; sign here. Writers cramp another way to avoid the commonplace and hold your breath in a jar, then leave it to prop the door open, letting the window catch the wind to feed you in the meantime. Many other situations do not require water-wings, but we know better than to presuppose the next step isn’t off the plank of our mid-ship shape schooner of liquid adventure, and into the drink. I’ll take it from there. Cheers.
Focus on distractions, unless something else catches your eye and swerves your inattentions out here with me, energetically remaining inert. After a lengthy interned (successfully competed) mission, I am finding myself (before I even got lost) surrounded by visual, aural and (as soon as my chips shoulder free) oral multiplicity within this knew (in advance, but it is still a surprise) establishment from within where I will mark my observational efforts in parlay to your future now. Tap the brew of entertainment on a Friday night sing to the cosmos, as we know them here at home. Song.
More cheer is imbibed and the music picks up pace one step at a time, like a home sliding double play called out on the carpet. Rugged terrain, that. What you believe is up to you according to your perceptions of memory and situation, within the ambience of your personality and, believe it or knot, the looping ropes of fate. Insight outlook: look out, sight in and watch for the lumpy bits. Music, anyone?
Talented yield fingerplucks the heart strings of my mood as it listens to the waves rustling the shoreline sand traps (swinging as if they mean it) like blowing leaves in a colorful painting heard to look sharp against the tropical night sky. There was a hole in one, so we opted for the other, quite missing anything to aim at that warm, old fashioned rhythm heir. With spontaneous dance, young minds bring heart to their close observations of the action, theirs a different view than our own (mine=yours) of the extenuationed circumstances, and experiencing an alternative, over-all perspective. This is partly the result of facing a first time life-experience, partly due to the effervescent energy that froths within them, but mostly because they are so short. I have always looked up to musicians in childish awe, so we must be related in the story line I’m feeding, but I don’t recognize you. Band together and make your own music down on the words you read along here with me, both of us wondering what next said will be, and how to mean it. About average, I’d say. Par: don my field of dreams.
Are you over there yet? I’ve been here waiting for you, biting my time reading myself and making comments as I go. A notion breezes by, as pretty as a smile, and I am rewarded with another round to cycle the wag on strain of this written trail handled missive, hitting you square in the seat of your panacea considerations. I consider, then, that perhaps, if I ask you nicely, you might read this particular sentence, please and thankful. If not, then I won’t mind, but you will never know what your missing finds lost and unknown… it can’t see you anywhere. There?
Wait. Time is not a quick thing to come by, but it can hold its own in a tight squeeze. Barely able to breathe between the lines, I write the left over sighed right on schedule, opposite the other, outside those pesky lines and into the music climbing down the walls of my margins. The live energy is breaking down their fast following evening, repairing themselves to bar up and bare forth to whet their proversatile whistle, tilling the fields of wistful dream. They’ll be back front at the turn. Hear these silent words.
My search for true distraction is off track betting on a sure thing losing trace of the direction I seek to avoid, right over there in front of you. The altar native preys up on the cross referenced deal lemma tagging along like a hop, skip and jump start sack race. You go first. Then, while we pause for you to prepare, the sun passes gas flare ions to rain bow tie, neck and neck at the finish line up down the way, and you come in at last, last. It’s in the bag (with your feet) and looking good. I keep my eye on the light at the end of the funnel channeling me toward oblivion, like the Tin Man doffing his hat to rust ahead of his thoughtless heart. Ashes to ashes and dust to the vacuum cleaner of Life: Time. Are you ready for a mirror? I reflect on this last question and see that my glass is looking full of wonder, and potent shell miss defying aim from singing silver bells and cackled shills will cluck me up. You’re egging me on: yawn gone.
Am I to know Public Confirmation or is this a private party for your ayes own lea to sea and sail? Belabor that, Matey, and shimmy your timbres to overt note a wry, yet ease among the hollowed crowns. Head for the hills, the plane truth (geometry 101) is bucking the trend, and for more or lease the same as it gives. Have you had yours? What gestures are you offering that you encourage return of the same? Give and go, go and give. Back atcha.
Is your hand writing the same as mine is reading? That would be a wrought write writ, right? (Rot.) The end is near (so don’t fall asleep now), thus you might want to back off a bit, just in case the thundered dance rolls too close to the edge of intention and cohesion, falling in to set a sit down strike up the band can’t lip sink from the guttural aisles that swallow our efforts. ( Be a good sport and enjoy the momentumary lane change.) Pinned. Perhaps I could shift and drive a different direction to ward off losing distraction traction, or sit and just let it all fall apart on your own. Don’t worry, be snappy, I’ve got you covered on the downbeat. Reach for the sky in confidence that I’ll rob you of your precious time and give you change in return. Go forth and tee up to strike.
Pot luck, but only if you can bring the desert and leave the driving to the wind. Rocks blow soft and light against the pour saline crystal of my window voice to you. Pardon me… (I’ve got a gravelly throat) while I drift. Help is a quick call away, but the line is bumpy and the operator doesn’t have anyone else to dance with. A quick look yields the floor to the crowding memories of dearly departed years of daze gone to the only recall you know. Remember? Share and shear (all I can image), for tomorrow we may die cast the same stones of opportunity upon the waters of augury to drill press our face to the view in time to see, as luck would have it, fate looking the other way. The results vary. If there were a different inevitability , we’d take it and make it our own. No tag backs.
Someone else’s dream has come to shine on the abjects of my search (have you been looking?), taking them far away from my story and leaving me a loan of this emptied space. If you were here with me, I would set and write about it, but you’re late and I’ve got to fend my owned weigh into the heavy night. Have we reached an accord, is the goal what we found, is there elsewhere to go from where we are bound when we get there? I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been here yet and you are just now catching up. The lack of compatriots thickens down to clear and disappear, as even the band has carried off the wrest of relaxation. I am down to one in this crowded narrative, yet reservations abound and keep my apprehension company, letting lay the land I need to lead (my lined lien) fallow and shorn. That is what comes from looking the other way when you seek distraction, and find it has led you in a rise to the finish, starting under standing rules and recollections. Maybe later, for we have time doubt.
Over there.

Viewpoint

Viewpoint

Nighttime Food For Thought

Outlook.
An experiment in daylight, and the wind keeps cold the clouds of my dreams. My mind is a sky that opens to the outward view but is held from the inward gaze by the large sphere of planet that the sky of my eye surrounds. Oh wait. That’s me, spaced again.
What is the nature of desire (I re-ask myself) that its sway directs the coursings of Humanity’s rise and continuing development? To attain that which has a pleasing affect upon our perceptions and considerations is second only to the reverse aspect of denying and avoiding unpleasant aspects of awareness, pain. Basic stuff. But following this thought further, what is the nature of pleasure itself? Pain is easy: it hurts. Pleasure is a tenuously ephemeral sensation, for it feels good, but what is that? How do our ambitions and goals correlate to the pursuit of feeling good? Pain can be sharply (pardon the cut of my wit) defined and experienced, while pleasure has less tangible substance, with softer definition. How pleasurable can an experience become compared to how painful one can become?
Anyway, the day is on the sunny side of noon and there is a party mood in the air, so let’s go bowling!
But first, I dial the sights and aim high for the low down on honest equivocation, as it lies straight and true in line with the lay of the land. Barred by the (still) sharp points of cold delineation, I draw out the ice from my vain coursings and take the pulse of my stone hard head of steam, marking where I kill time and fill this notebook like the graven image of a champagne brunch memory. The drinks are on the hearse, dead to writes. The quarry I would dig and delve to mind, is, to all appearances, full of potential rewards (a gold star, a purple ribbon, a will-o-the-wist and a cloud), but my abilities to actually implement this desire is at the core of my original question, and now brings me to another such thought: how involved can one become in attaining what feels good, and how is that measured?
I sit and watch to write, to reach out with ink and paper to touch your eyes (in whatever translated form you employ) with the perceptions I scribe regarding the moment I contain, never truly held yet never letting go. My life is, thus, quite similar to yours, except that I’m silently writing about it here and you are reading about it there, from your own focus of the hear and know. See?
Regards.
Plans awry themselves on a regular basis of random predictability, giving option no other choice but to choose something else. This usually leads my attentive direction down the ambled path of inertia, letting motivation lapse and lull along the sway of wayward wiles wending their way away along the sway of wayward wiles until, like a stutter of surprise, I realize I’m lost. Looking around for some familiar landmarks, I continue walking down the lovely garden trail, lush greenery accenting the bright colored blooms of your eyes. Ah yes, here we are. The energies of my youth (gone wandering down the primrose path of wistful memory) are held in the works I have created, in the things I have done. I struggle to maintain creative efforts, still realizing new directions of insight which inspire offshoot ideas and applications that evolve into other perception stimulating endeavors for cohesive application, up to and including daydreams. But my interest in effort toward such creativity has waned, my energies run low. Life grows forward and the years weigh in inverse balance to abilities. Of course, this is not to say that my output is kaput (did that shot put your field off track?) for the stuff keeps coming on, just not as readily as in years passed.
Input.
The view is still new and well read for the writing, and I read to (in)deed seed the prospects as they lay claim to potential that eyes the light of well mined thoughts in the carverns of written communication. Still actively static at the motionless movement of written words. That is okay, as it (this wherewithal of time/space relationshapes) remains a bright chilly day. The warmth of success touches my outward senses, but does not reach closer than knowing it is there.
Desire.
My camel, my duck and I are enjoying rollicking adventure in the outer space realms of poetry (where else?), but I can’t locate my notes from earlier attempts to tale the telling … and I know I had some worthy lines. My small notebooks have proliferated such that I don’t have an accurate count or location, and that’s where I thought I would find the goods. However, I have (since writing the original obstenatations) found a collection of the little buggers, pored over each of them several times and finally gleaned the location of my memory’s goal. Notes on the trip we three had (you, me and them) are sound. But the sought after voice of my intended recollections are not therein located, and I am deafen by their silent absence. I have finally recalled them being written on a random sheet of unlined paper that I carried in my pocket in lieu of a notebook. So that’s where I’ll look next… wherever that might be. Everything has got to be somewhere, so I’ll apply myself to perspicacious luck and hope for the best. Meanwhile, the story has grown and becomes viable unto itself, as is, without the ungained goods. . Good. Pleasure, following that which is desired because the sensation attracts my extended considerations toward continued application.
Observation.
I am considered by the curiosity of a young boy seated in the next booth I face. I think he sees my plated cookie, while wondering what I am doing writing. I offer fun-filled flights through make-believe space with best companions, duck and camel. Ride, young one, and enjoy the view. (And while you are thus occupied looking, can you let me know if you see where those earlier notes are?)
Consider.

Tangled Chill

Tangled Chill