Notes Of Progression If You Don’t Read This

A couple things to note:
1) B-sharp
2) C-sharp

Okay, now that I’ve dispensed with those recommendations (you will sound them out and apply them, won’t you?), I want to mention that I have changed the appearance of this particular blog, in case you were wondering (and are reading it blind… like I usually write it). I posted my most recent entry last evening, before going into this alteration explanation (what you are reading here), so that last night’s entry would directly follow the most recent entry before that. They are paired and connected in action and referent substance.
So then, I did enjoy the close, dark overtones of the original WordPress setting for this blog, ‘piano black’, but the font was small, and difficult to read, and isn’t being read/seen the basic purpose of a blog? I know my intentions are to write and be read. It may look good, but if it can’t be seen, what’s the point? I had one delightful follower ‘like’ every single entry on this blog, and then, in one of her few comments, she mentioned that she was unable to read the small font. This was a bit confusing, for isn’t the purpose of ‘liking’ something referring to the worded efforts? Any positive attention is wonderful and reinforces itself and is thus appreciated, however, I do think this a humorous example of many interactions at WordPress.
Is the point to choose a scenic tableau, an eye-pleasing appearance so that people will view it, enjoy the color, layout, setting or whatever visual aspects touch their perceptions in a pleasing way, so they will then gift the entry with a ‘like’? Is that what YOU do? Do YOU read the entry before bestowing a ‘like’ to it? If you don’t read them, how are you going to know what they don’t say?
I would think that actually reading the entries would be the point.
I do realize that the presentation is quite important to the process, so I’ve taken the thoughts of this delightful young (I do not know her age, but I can sense her spirit is fresh, clean, positive and perpetually young in substance) lady into consideration and chosen a new, LARGER fonted style. I like it (see my icon?). And even I can read it much more easily. I never did care for the font or its size that the ‘piano black’ played, and unsuccessfully tried to alter it several times. Perhaps the ‘piano black’ appearance is held in illegible zip and style, and must garner followers for its users solely on the merits of its sleek looks and sharp contrasts, with no consideration of content or substance within. Like some people we might know.
I give thanks and smiles to my ‘likable’ follower for the inspiration to move forward with this, and I hope this change of readability view will inspire her and others to actually peruse, engage, assimilate and consider what I have written for their enjoyment, for isn’t that the bottom lien of all our blogging efforts?

My word plays are one of my strengths in writing, utilizing the English language beyond any ‘normal’ (what is normal, aside from what people are used to?) context, application and/or expediencies. I seek to broaden your (you are a reader aren’t you?) scope of perception and perspective, to give new and interesting experience, to tweak (expand) your comfort zone and make you think. (Sorry about that.)
I want to illustrate an extreme effort, through example of one of my more laterally contrived creative bents. In my last post, which were transcribed notes from an evening spent in an extremely noise filled bar, I made a use of a particular, unique (try and find it ANY where else… even Finnegan couldn’t wake to the maneuvers of this) aspect of a style I refer to as ‘epient’ and/or ‘translocution.’ One of the abilities of this style is to write words that say one thing, yet, if spoken out loud and carefully listened to, will provide an alternative selection of cohesive wording combined from the sounds of the actual written words. Both written and heard variations relate to the subject at hand, even if surreptitiously. I have no idea how I come up with these things, but I find them great fun and enjoy teasing the reader to find them. I have a particular example I will use to illustrate this effect. In that previous post, about halfway through the jumble of imaged noise and sufferance I was relating, in the paragraph beginning with, “Video chase, violence, drama…” I have a strange and convoluted sentence near the end of that paragraph, following the word, “Moo.” It reads, ‘Moo vacuum you late edge airy at trick, sin sigh lent attrition’ If you carefully reread these, and pronounce them out loud, you will hear (really!) ‘move accumulated geriatrics in silent attrition’ with only the last word being read as is. Then the rest of the sentence refers to both written and sounded interpretations, for we grow old even as we dally herewith. There are a few more such ‘double ploys’ within the overall posting, but that is the most convoluted and involved.
As I said, I find it fun and amusingly interesting to be able to create these word puzzles, and I employ them when I can in many creative writing situations.

Have I posted the word poem puzzle picture yet? Here, read the new dell, not sand terns that gull you into flying astray, but found within the noodle knots and turns that read you as you go, from one back to the next.
Cheers.

Wrought Write Read Puzzle

Wrought Write Read Puzzle

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Silence Beyond The Noise

This is the created effort from what I wrote when I finally arrived at the end of my most previous routed post. Listen well, but cover your ears.

Saturday night and the venue is so different that a matter of fact description would be confused as if translocution dream. The hard-clacking rap rhythm expletes occasionally discernable words in sound encompassing throb, the lone dancer flails and shrugs to the beat, his sleeveless t-shirt tucked in the tight jeans his balding, 50-ish body slimly wears as he prances around the floor. Light and dark thrust pointed jibes at electronic bass sass and seduction of the senses, while a solitary shadowed star shines cool and quiet among all the smothering, driving music. You have to see it to believe its lack of overt visual presence. The message of motion and servitude leads ayes astray and keeps to the heart of the matter, thumping from the over-worked speaker system. The dancer has acquired a leather jacket to accent his ensemble as he cavorts against the backdrop of televisual foci in attention’s inadvertent view. Other gathered clientele circumnavigate various levels of presence and/or interest to be banked upon in the loudly half-empty bar, saved for later telling.
The light and dark have come to a draw and are sketched out of this canvassed, tolerant moment. I bid a dew in the gray fog remnants and get all wet in the dawn of realization’s limitations to the pulverization my eardrums snare from the noise which is beginning to rework my audio receptor tolerances in an adverse manner. I observe an interesting tesseract construct comprised by my sensory locators, placing angles and light at intersectional orientation vectors from each, while squaring off against the effrontery of the back drop vibration front and centered outward rather than in, all sixteen aspected sides of this surreal room. Picasso never had it so loud.
The ratio of male to female is off kiltered, in a normal situational way, for these kinds of places, but that is just an observational note. The music is also off kilter, off-setting, off-putting, off the walls and off the charts of volume. I just now realize it is comprised from two separate sound systems, one rapping out in this room and the other directly behind me driving a techno beat, dancing straight through the small partition separating the rooms in all but fact. Individual clarity of either is fleeting and random, with the beat heavy rap absorbed into the motion driven Latin techno in a strangely compelling blend that emphasizes neither while touching sympathetic resonance in both. I wonder if this is a regular weekend battle of the blandishments, or if I just happened to drop by (on my long way to nowhere fast) and land in a cultural battle zone between the established norm and an invading Hispanic reception of some sort. There seems to be no hesitation for the occupants of either room to mingle with the other, so it is up in the solid (in)different air that flows through the jumbled, rocky stream of my consciousness, and washes away out of context.
I grabbed a few bites of sound to chew on later, when my ears aren’t so busy going deaf. (I have no idea what these notes refer to, but they read well, so chew them carefully and swallow them quietly.)
Where is my dusty ride into the embracing, holy light of postulant, creative recognition? Will it finally materialize, or is it to remain just over the horizon that ever on extends out of my plodding reach? My purpose in writing is to create a pleasant effect on someone’s (read that as you) attentions, to put pleasure, interest and, perhaps, a new perspective within their appreciative grasp. I strive to present a view of communication that is different than that which they (you) are accustomed to experiencing. I (personally) am not accustomed to this manic, driving impetus of electronic, ethnic noise that penetrates the floor, up the bar and juxtaposed, planted stools (spread like fertilizer, with a few topped by lumps of organic beings, getting wasted and flushed toward inebriation, bar flies notwithstanding, I’m sure), through the entire bartop into my leaning arms into shoulders to meet the chair vectored vibration up my spine in its direct route to the head games my ears can’t hear for all the sound they are drowning within. The lines of pulse mingle and diverge back into my hands, through the pen, onto the paper to give sight to your prodding eyes that look to see that all that they can see is the other side of the mountain from the one we want to be on. It’s a long way down but we’re still going up in the hypernation inebriation festivation of noise. What a bear.
The silk of given moments ply and play sweet femininity into the surrounding room from their tee off location, a veritable sand trap island of drink and refreshmentalities, helping to keep people on the proverbial ball and off the wagon training. The dance floor is across the top of this ‘T’ shaped bar, as I sit in observational score-keeping (won two, nothing in favor of the moment) with you. The dancer has passed from view, having cavorted on and off during that last while or so, with interruptions consumed upon the opposite seating at the bar from (us), and has since given final cast off on to another dance in his own, personal life’s music. Behind my action relation station on this side of the (mountain) bar, the semi-open room of Hispanic dance energies drives on in over-amplified insistence against the ever forward pushing, steady gripe of offsetting (up setting, if you ask me) voices in wrap around synch rhythm beat rise. Each crescends in adjoinment with the other, peaking, dual mountaintops of head rapping, salsamatic fusion that con the very senses of my mind to hear beyond the music into the perfect pitch silence of surfeit sensory absorption. What a space out trip.
Surreal ride me as I would describe it in truth. Pitch.
Sound is a thumping pulse in my chest from the force of the noise which, as I just said (in case you didn’t hear me) peaks to loud to actually hear it. I’m just in awe of this musical competition, like it is some kind of scene from a strange, dark comedy movie filmed beyond rational expectations of human behavior and observance, demonstrating the irrational lengths self-righteous social interactions can carry: your music may be loud, but mine is louder (back to back and back again). And under the calm guise of normalcy. At least, everyone (else) appears normal. These others gathered, five around the bar and maybe ten around the room at offshoot island tables, all seem unaffected by the intense interaction of these ear-suffering sound systems. People speak (their mouths move) but there is no voice heard from my vantage pointlessness. I am painfully entertained just watching this silent visual of people which seems to have a musical sound track that is put forth in non-synchronized blend of two opposing forces fighting for sound supremacy, and both winning. I exit sanity to absorb this mesh of pound thrusting rhythm and lost vocal insistence, lost in a visual dysfunction that appears to be where I am, yet I am almost convinced it is an optical fraud. Are you dreaming this with the television left on too loud? Wake me up and go back to sleep!
I’m deaf to what I see and cannot bear to look much closer in the never easing tumult that layers cacophony in between among itself so interestingly well, but I sure can feel it. There seems to be an exodus of patrons, leaving a few who appear to converse without my sound receptors able to verify it. I imagine that this is the opposite of deaf, where there is so much to aurally process that there is no differentiation of viable structure, other than the a-rhythmic syncopations of heart-beat deep vibrations, pounding the blood of the night into the maddened few. This is a war zone. Zombies, anyone?
I batter my hatches and head (taking the carrier of my ears) for shelter that cannot be provided unless I leave, and that would leave you alone here to deal with this crush of sound collect, so virtuality (from MY perspective, yours is right on it) strikes (out in) a reposed pose, and we shall suffer this moment as one, but I will let you borrow a heavy breath in sigh lent comport. Listen up: get down.
Video chase, violence, drama and stylized action cry out (soundlessly, of course) in rectangled light against the far wall and become graffiti offerings to those whose gaze strays upon them. Visual competition from the random patrons cross patterns in referent meander of purpose and keeps the eyes from getting a cross scowled noisome sound to nose into further overladen attentions, just like snow on a malfunctioning television. We can chill together and continue to monitor the view I pan and (you beg to) handle. And thus I survive with your appreciated help (you are still reading, aren’t you?), each of us enfolded, grasped, pulled in, bitten and chewed like cud by the bovine steadiness of the thundering heard of musical onslaughter. Moo. (I was going to write ‘Moo vacuum you late edge airy at trick sin sigh lent attrition’ … but I thought that might be a bit much, considering we are getting old listening to my soundless rant regarding all the other noise going on.) Can you hear that?
Let us move on.
It’s almost midnight. Do pumkins explode at the pounding stroke of head steady beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat upon the door drums (brain panned entrywaywardness) of communicative bibbety-clobberty boogie? Raise your fragile fist of determination against the exigencies of survival and carve my face in the skin that time shells out to our cindered, subjected cleansing of the fire placed heat from this night. I look for a fairly good other in the need to push and promote personal interests, which is sometimes atavistic in its aggressive application. Burn and squirm.
The crowd seems to have moved on, some to pastures less interesting in sound, but easier to hear, I’m sure. Several others kept with the herd and are grazing in the dark light of the supernova sound exploding in the adjoining room, to gyrate in the strokes that touch like hammers on anvils waiting in the nervous vestibule, while ossicles chime like shattered icicles hung off the lobes of din. Still chilling hot. When I was on the long and winding road (as the beat dulls), looking for a suitable place to write this evening (and I could write a night’s worth of adventure about that effort {20/20 augury, regard the immediately previous post}) I didn’t think I would find it to see that there is nothing to hear within any audible availabilities, as they are all filled beyond capacity and operating in overload mode. I spoke (yelled forth and back) with the barmaid who has been servicing my willing wine glass (I enjoy it for the vicarious thrill) and learned that this Galactic Armageddon of the Bandwidths is a regular, weekend occurrence. Quaint. She did mention that where one was located within the barroom would favor which of the prevailing winds of speakerdom over-rode the other, with my location being fairly well juxtaposed between. She also said she gets headaches (“Not tonight, dear, I have an earache,”) every Friday and Saturday night. Who would have guessed? But still, she caters to the needs of the liquid consumption offerings I place at the disposal of your quiet eyes, and we carry on from there.
I fear the rise of tomorrow’s overload after effects upon my already (age)deficient aural comprehension and assimilation abilities. The only rise to shine on this situation would be the increased degree of suffering my senses attest to from this dance hardened air. Remaining here is a continued challenge, but if the others can survive (and return) in this enclosed rectangular overloaded tube of sound tsunamis, I think I can, too. I feel I am caught in a contradictory you stay/shun tube nightmare. I need to breathe a more balanced substance for my ears to watch what you are looking to see in these words. Do you hear me? (Read my lips from the tongue of my pen.)
I give attempt to steer my poetic, rudderless, floating umbrella (like a poem), but the encompassing bumber shoots me down thump by solid thump, in a driving reign of royal pain in the aspect of my seating arrangement. (Have you ever tried to float in an umbrella?) The absent breeze (just because there is a great, dizzying wind of spin and punch in the air doesn’t mean it moves) holds me firm in its absolute static relativity. No current electrifies the depths of night upon which surface I float my message of discomfiture in the bottle (by the glassful) of my written plea for succor (play me like a lollipopped gag on my endless shifting word ploys) against the mouthful of sweet-sound-on-a-stick, stuck choking my ears. I would say I’m a voiceless sucker for martyrdumb, but you wouldn’t be able to hear me (and probably wouldn’t want to). Absolute hold. Like my life, no flow ebbs directed pull, no power beyond random chance brings impetus to my daily struggles, no immediate goal is within reality’s view and no means of salvation lies (honestly!) within my grasp beyond the pen I clutch in desperate straights, curving my scrawl to the life lien held taught by your pedant eyes. I throw my words upon the endless see that floats my boat (of sorts), to land like raindrops upon the reflected surfeits between the (hot) air I cast and the water which holds it at horizoned bay. If I write that down I’ll probably lose it in the blend of pitter-pat sounds that splashy-splash around me like a gentle avalanche of rock hard boulders and scree. Dig for meaning and shovel the waters of confusion away before I drown. These thoughts you inherit when they come up for heir.
Be wary and don’t list end to these weirds I right to loud a gain strew and regret, they are daft in their moil, deft in their foil and deaf to your sensitivities. Anon (and on and on….)
Like a hurricane of irresistible force scours the fragile texture of low lying shore, I am washed away in the crush of vibration and swept out beyond redemption. I cannot struggle, I cannot react, I am swept completely into the waive that doesn’t even slow in its terminal drive to make the naked, barely breathable air thicker. At least my writings will possibly survive and float to be discovered on a deserted aisle (in the tongue-in-cheek section) next to the pain remedies: I’ve got to hand it to you: (read)
Time, like science fiction, has brought us to the future, and I am thus transported into a reality where I am the only one left seated right at the bar, perimeter tables hold onto a single foursome, and the dance floor of the other room has plenty of space for others to join the few still in motion, all joined in the pleasure of the music that watches over us all. But does it really have to have such loud eyes?
Comradeship holds evidence of mutual appreciation and consideration, traits that need more practice from humanity as a whole. Maybe later, right now we’re just trying to survive the speaker system and odor of disinfectant (always room for more sensory overload) that the barmaids are utilizing in cleansing the counters of any remnant viable organic wasted materials, including me. Closing time is a vulture at my shoulder (don’t worry, it’s the other from where you’re looking over), and I’m on my last swallow of swooping, soaring, high-flying wine whine. Managerial authoritarianship sweeps in (like a bird broom searching for Ouroboros to swallow its tale) and encounters the light (remember, this is strictly visual with no perceived dialogue), which ends the sentence and gives me no clue as to what I was talking about. Nothing new there. An encounter behind the counter sets a counterpoint (over there, by the birdcage) to alight upon the flame and maintains terminal services preparation, while the higher-archy has lowered his profile back under the archway to the kitchen, situation resolved and dispensed with, taken like a memo random action. (That’s MY job.) Resumption of clean up and up rails the stakes and increases the effluation of aerosol anti-septic(-and-breath) efforts. At least the noxious cleansing gives a variant to my toxic, sensory (surfeit is too much, plethora is too many and I have a plethora of surfeits going on here) stuffings.
Dreams of a more balanced life pass the window of my sleeping mind and are lost unseen in the travel I must wrest from my tired eyes; my ears are dead in resurrected hopes for the sound of a dream come through up against the (other side of the) wall. But I’m used to it.
Another dancer fences the music and brings his rapier-like inebriation to riposte and parry against the flow of beat (like a conductor leading the symphony in trained ticket collection and punching) in the battery of sustained attack. En garde… punch, punch… here’s your stub. Perhaps he should try ballet. I speak to the (whirl)wind as it swirls a damp cloth by my perch in the corner (I hold my breath as if it were performing a swan lake song), but my words are lost below the depths of the liquid waves upon which I continue to float face down. (I wouldn’t be able to see to write if I was face up, silly.) My breath is (still) held, but losing grip, my cover from the night teeters in the laxity while the rain still thunders over all. My drowning carries the charms of light and fire (still haven’t figured that one out. I think there were candles, lit and set in the windows of the latter night to help lost souls find their way back home and out of the bar so they could close up), giving me vision beyond the overwhelming force (how many ways can I describe the noise and still keep it as fresh as the pain it gives?) of sound and sets my ease at comfort for the dreams this evening may yet hold. (I dream of some piece of quiet.) Sleep well.
The party is over, it’s time to haul it away.
Winter is releasing its hold and summer warms to the chance it has to give credence to our offered days. Would that a mediator would spring forth and fall upon the transitional environmental susceptibilities in keeping time with the conditionally regulated music of nature. But we take what we get, choice or not, and we take what we can with us as we grow on into the sounds of our lives, heard in the fields and forests (and barrooms) of our hearts.
On beyond.
What’s that funny sensation? Oh… the silence beyond the noise…

Icicle Ossicles

Icicle Ossicles

The Backyard Version (cheap and easy) Of Swan Lake

The Backyard Version (cheap and easy) Of Swan Lake

Long Distance Proximity

Every story has a lead in, an introduction to set where the tale travels, in whatever vehicle the storyteller employs to carry his message.
I set off just before eight in the evening, the sky darkening and the weather mild. I had a specific destination in mind, the Lime Lounge (‘Eat.Drink.Mingle.’ on their website) in Waukegan (IL), about 7 or 8 miles away, so I had plenty of time left in the evening to administer to my need to write among the stimulation of a busy lounge on a Saturday night. I directed my motorized motion toward that end and drove north the mile and a half to Rt. 137, turned east, quickly reached the main north/south freeway, Rt. 41, which runs just a couple blocks east of my home, and aimed north again for a quick jaunt further up, before hopping east once more in a zigzag effort toward the destination lounge. My mood was chilled in the cool tunes of Johannes Linstead, an upbeat Latin-flavored disc. Reaching the specific street I wanted, and knowing that the establishment, which I had never been to before, was still east of my location, I turned right toward town, and cruised with an eye out for the happening place that the on-line website inferred it to be.
As I travelled down the street, I came to an area lined with parked cars. This was in the vicinity of my intended goal, so, after making sure there was nothing of interest for several blocks past there, I found an empty parking lot, pulled in and turned around, then drove back for a second view. I still didn’t see the specific place as I passed by, but there were two or three bars that had people gathered in their respective entrances. I parked at the first open space along the street, a block away, locked up and strolled back, enjoying the pleasant evening and anticipating a high-energy, head-banging, heart-pounding, creatively involved night. The area is Hispanic, and populated by several restaurants and stores with specific Latin offerings, which lent a dash of cultural spice to the night. Johannes was good, and I enjoy Latin music, but I hoped the lounge would have a variety of less culturally specific offerings.
I approached a one story building that had an opened front door from which loud Hispanic music rolled out. There were a couple male Latinos conversing on the sidewalk as I walked by and glanced in the building, but we ignored each other. My glance inside perceived a large dance floor and verified the action advertised by the ‘Come-N-Dance/Zumba’ signs painted brightly on the entryway. The crowd was overtly Hispanic, and the music washing over those inside was festively serenading the sidewalk as well. I still wasn’t looking for Latin rhythms and beats, so I continued on without stopping. A few doors down I passed a bar that was culturally similar, but quieter, then a biker bar, and then another biker bar and then came to the intersection. Stoplight. No refreshing Limes to be had for the plucking or dancing. Having just driven several blocks past this point, I knew that there were no other open businesses in the continuation of the Hispanic neighborhood. I turned and walked back toward my parked car, looking carefully to visually pluck the names of each open place, yet still not finding the particular fruit I desired. I was confused, disappointed and lost as to what course of action to take. As I passed the loud, Latin dance music building once again, I got a bit caught up in the head-bobbing beat, so I took it with me as I got back to the car and climbed in. I started up, pulled out and headed back west, the direction I’d come from, away from the area where I knew the place was supposed to be. After driving about a mile, debating with myself about my actions, I (took a vote and) decided (1-0 in my favor) I should do a more thorough investigation for the missing, fruited link of the evening’s evolutionary progression. So I pulled into a parking lot, turned around and drove back the way I’d just come (again), passing the same busy block still without seeing any kind of Lime at all. I continued until I got to the middle of downtown. Nothing. I turned left and headed north, thinking I could stop by to visit a friend who lived nearby, but opted to steer west again in search of the actively elusive nightlife I desired.
I tried to remember where there might be a place that would be open late, with enough energy to tempt my patronization and spark my creative efforts, and I knew there was potential in various areas within reasonable driving distance, but I couldn’t place them in my mind. I came to Grand Avenue, knowing it continued west for quite a ways, and so turned left, heading that way once more. A couple miles on, I passed Rt. 41 again, thought of the potential connections to my desires in this roadway link to both Chicago (south) and Milwaukee (north), but decided against the intriguing pull of either. I knew that both cities would have what I sought, but the respective 40+ mileage was a daunting deterrent. I eventually sped right by the street which I had intended to turn onto, Milwaukee Avenue, Rt. 21, and then inertia drove a bit more as I rethought my intentions (making them up as I went along). As I passed the Great America Theme Park entrance, I knew that the Gurnee Mills shopping sprawl was just over the tollway I was approaching, and since I couldn’t think of anyplace interesting out there, decided that I didn’t want to go in that direction any longer. Luckily there was a parking lot that I could turn around in and head back the other way. I was starting to get dizzy, but carried on as if I knew what I was doing.
About this time I recalled another place I had been to, years before, and was tempted by the touch of its inspired, ambient memory, but it was still 20 miles further north, just past the Wisconsin border, and seemed too far. I drove back to turn onto Milwaukee Avenue (which ends a few miles north, and does not continue to the city of the same name) going south, as I had intended before blithely driving by, lost in space. A couple blocks down I passed a place I had heard about, which looked like what I wanted, but (of course) missed its entryway. So I continued on around the right-bearing curve, where an offshoot road split from the one I was on, and kept going until I got to an open parking lot, where I turned around (are you getting the feel for the evening’s efforts yet?) to go back. Milwaukee Avenue veered left, and coming from the reverse direction to the ‘V’ intersection offshoot gave me the option to travel straight onto the alternative street, which I did, then quickly came to the entryway for the place I wanted. I easily pulled into the parking lot (I’ve been practicing), drove slowly passed the front door while noticing some older people leaving and returning to their car. That gave me pause for thought. I parked and looked more closely at the advertised amenities of the place, saw that it was a family restaurant, with a bar attached, which did not really fit the qualifications for my inspirations. So I backed out of the parking space, turned around (no surprise there) and drove past the front of the building again, missing the exit on the left as I looked to the restaurant’s entryway on my right. I internally shrugged and drove around to the other side of the building, at the apex of the two converging streets. Lots of parking, but no exit. Great, now I was actually getting lost in parking lots. Since I didn’t need to look any further for a place to turn around, I managed to do so with minimal fuss, and then exited where I had come in. I opted to turn right, then right again at the ‘V’ to continue back north on Milwaukee Avenue, the way I had been going before. (I had actually just driven both ways, but don’t want to confuse myself here.) Two blocks further up I turned right, back onto Grand Avenue heading east. I may not have known where I was going, but I was certainly putting forth a lot of effort to get there. I continued to work my mind in tapping memories and knowledge, looking for the missing goodbar life of Saturday night inspiration.
Rolling on with no specific destination in mind, I drove past Rt. 41, and was inspired to turn on to the next larger north/south thoroughfare, Green Bay Road. (And yes, it goes all the way north to Green Bay.) I recalled a bar on this road, across from where we’d stopped last summer to take photos of a building. A couple patrons had come out and inquired as to our intentions, so we apprised them of the scenic interest of their neighboring structure, as well as the antique car parked in front. They were appreciatively friendly, and invited us to come in to the bar and socialize. We deferred, but the memory of that invitation sits comfortably within my recollections, so I thought to try there. I believed that this place was south of Milwaukee Avenue, so I turned right and continued my drive. I was still trying to think of more lively venues and quickly decided that this place was probably a quiet, neighborhood bar that would not generate the energies I sought. I again considered going to Chicago, but still did not want to deal with the lengthy drive, and the time was getting on after 9 o’clock. I knew that places downtown (Chicago) closed at 4am, but I prefer to start early and watch the night develop and build its energy. However, if that’s where the action was, that’s where I needed to go. The Wisconsin night spot I’d been to still tugged attentions and, as I turned right onto a main street back west, I realized that Rt. 41 still offered opposing choices to Chicago or toward Milwaukee.
I approached the highway and, at the last minute, decided to carry on to Chicago and entered onto the southbound lanes. As I pulled into flow of sparse traffic, I suddenly thought of a particular place in Waukegan that we’d been to with a friend just a couple months ago. Loud music, people dancing, dim but not too dark, it would be the perfect setting; but it was north and I was heading south at 60 mph, with no parking lots in sight. Well, Chicago it was. Except, wait, how about just a few miles down the road, then east to Highwood? Lots of night life there, just waiting for me to plug into it, and much closer than the big city. The music in the car looped back to the beginning of the disc, so I put in a subdued, mellower selection to match the gathering mood, getting away from the Latin influence. Still cruising along, and now under the calming manifestations of new age music, I calmly drove right by the first exit for Highwood. Hey, no problem. I made the second exit, and so would arrive at the south end of town. On the corner where I needed to turn back north to get to the downtown area, I knew there was a night spot that I thought had good potential. I eventually came to the intersection, turned left and looked in through the windows as I rolled by. I then pulled up, over and parked along the right side of the street at the first empty spot, a couple cars away. I sat with the car still running, and reviewed what I had seen of the scene the place had happening within. There was a large open, brightly lit bar, and a few people scattered about. It didn’t look like the kind of energetic place I sought. So I pulled out and continued into town.
Lots of great restaurants on this side of the downtown area of Highwood, bisected by RR tracks, but I wasn’t hungry for that kind of nourishment, so I turned right, crossed over the tracks, then turned left on to the east side main drag. Another night spot was cornered in passing, and just as readily discarded as an option, due to similar low activity factors. And so on up the street, on the prowl for busy-ness and gather. Not a thing. Nada. There were several Hispanic restaurants, which makes me kind of hungry as I type this the next day. But, we have moved beyond Latin influences and we had our chance to find a restaurant on the other side of the tracks, so I must persevere in this growing odyssey: on with the no-Show.
I drove north on Sheridan Road and thought I may as well double back (quadruple back, by now) to take the highway south to Chicago after all. I turned west again, back toward Highway 41. In the drive to get back to that route, I continued attempting to recall any other possible, closer destinations. By the time I got to the highway, I’d decided on a place where I had played volleyball in summer leagues, and knew that it was a noisy busy bar. It is north (opposite my latest intentions, of course), right on Rt. 41, where the aforementioned Milwaukee Avenue meets it in an acute ending (would that be considered a good looking derriere?) for the Avenue. The bar sits on the other side where the road would go if didn’t end. And it was only about half way to Wisconsin. Doable.
I turned onto the highway again again, and drove back north, having come all that much further south in my fruitless (I’d given up on Lime, and was hoping for any kind of tasty selection, but all I seemed to come up with were lemons) search through Highwood. But I had a destination once more. Progress in things is not always a direct route, so to speak. The miles rolled by while I enjoyed the continued musical, electronic flow of ‘Ammerland’, soothing my ears and driving my mind down the high weigh considerations of my intended writing desires. I mulled some thoughts which interested me enough to want to put pen to paper and describe/follow. I had touched upon other ideas all evening, in between trying to figure out just where I was going, and I was once again pleased to be heading to a place where I could write about them. My mood was reflective and subdued, the adventure of where-am-I-going had somewhat dulled the excitement of my original intentions, but holding true to course all the same. My need to communicate in a creative form, in whatever medium I happen to utilize (I haven’t put much activity toward etching, in fact only taking a single etching class of a few weeks duration, in the local community center many years ago. I had fun with it, and created a printing plate of an open-clawed owl, swooping down past clouds against a moonlit sky. It is a delightful little work, and the only copper plate I’ve ever made for that particular medium. It’s a rare medium well done. So: now that I got that out of my system, let’s drive on, shall we?), brings me a sense of accomplishment in knowing that I have produced something by which others may find pleasure. I certainly like all my own art, and I am quite pleased and gratified when others appreciate it as well. My need to produce creative things, and the positive feedback I receive, drive my heart to belief that I can and will find that elusive state of ‘success’ I have been striving toward all my adult life. My need to reach out and touch the sensibilities of others carried me to this driving situation of unresolved action to produce written art. I wanted to find a place where I could scribe and carve the images that words write across the eyes of your reading mind. I wanted to offer you, as you are the one on one here with me now, what inspires me, what stimulates my passion to be an artist, what pushes my need to create, what drives me on down the long, winding highway of Life.
I neared the exit for my house, but decided that, even at 10pm, I still had a chance of finding someplace lively for a few creative hours, so I passed (over there, to the left, just a couple blocks away) on by. I aimed for the (further) north country (once more again) with my destination recharged, clearly defined and in the direction I was actually headed. I approached Rt. 137, from which I had originally turned on to Rt. 41 after I started from home. There is a restaurant/bar at this corner that caters to the (Great Lakes) Navy base across the highway, just east of there. I’d been to it before on a weeknight and had found it to be bright, quiet and mostly empty, so I hadn’t really considered it an option in any of my search parameters. I had heard that it does get noisy on the weekend, so I suddenly thought I’d give it a shot, pulling into the left turn lane and committing my actions. Of course, I’d driven past it two hours ago, when I was on my way to the Lime that didn’t exist, when I had had no need for an alternative destination. I felt somewhat adventurous in the spontaneity of my (latest) re-altered plan, wondering if shouldn’t have just continued on to the other bar, but I knew for a fact that the one I was now committed to had a parking lot big enough to turn around in, so I wasn’t worried about be able to get back.
I pulled off the highway, turned left onto the access road, then a quick right into the inviting confines of the establishment’s mostly full parking area. I parked, got out, made sure I had my journal book, locked the car and strode on in through the door to the lounge entryway. It was loud and there seemed to be motion inside as I entered, making eye contact with a large gentleman in an enclosed booth on the left. He had some money in front of him, so I thought he might be collecting it from those who wanted admittance. I stepped up to his window and spoke to him under the abbreviated pane of glass, “Is there a cover charge?”
He reacted in a slightly startled manner, and somewhat apologetically shook his head, “No…”
I smiled and went on in.
Loud was most assuredly dancing a beat as I stepped through to the left into the bar area. The bar itself was a ‘T’ shaped island in the rectangular room, set so the base of the ‘T’ was to my right, passing into the kitchen, against the far wall. I faced the top left of the crossbar of the ‘T’, with a dance floor and access to the restaurant across on the other, dimmer side. There was an overhanging faux roof above the bar below the actual ceiling, adding to the separation of the two sides. Video monitors flickered without accompanying audio, as the sound system music held aural sway in all regards. I stepped up to an empty corner chair on the corner of the ‘T’, looked around, saw a few people sitting at the bar itself, and a few occupied tables scattered on the other side, with an entryway leading to another room in which people were playing pool. One older, mid-40ish, t-shirt and jean appareled gentleman (admittedly a loose term, to fit his evident state of inebriety) was dancing by himself on the dance floor to the structure of the rap music pouring down from the powerful speakers. There was another room directly behind me, with a partial wall maintaining separation from the bar, yet leaving easy, open access between the two rooms. Inside that area was darker than the general bar area, although the music coming from there danced hard and bright, giving the gyrating folks therein something to move to, and fiercely competing with the bar’s rap music. Bright, to a certain degree, was what I wanted to help my eyes see where my pen would go, and the corner of the bar in front of me was the brightest area in the room. I glanced around once more, felt the positive, energetic, if crowdless, atmosphere, perceived the bartenders to be pleasant in action, accepted that the insistent noise of the music was inviting and made my decision: Good enough. I had (finally) arrived. I took out my notebook and put it on the counter, pulled off my coat and hung it on the back of the chair, sat down and pulled out my pen, then watched to see what I would write.
And that’s why it took me 48 miles of driving to get less than 2 miles from where I’d started. At least my ride home was short.

The wrest of the story is now prepared by this introduction, this lead in effort, wrought from the miles I traveled. So grasp well your eyes and follow after me as we are led astray astride the forthcoming handwritten ride I had taken this preceding descriptioned journey to find source for. My notion to touch creative insights was singing in the ears of my thoughts, and my mood of expectation was finally fulfilled. What will follow is the tale I played from my motionless seat, as the motion of my drive to arrive there passed the torch of creativity into the sounds of my pen as it touched and danced on the paper of my book. It will be posted once I’ve translated and edited the scrivened impressions. This entry took a week, so don’t hold your breath, but do hold on to your place in line. Stay toned and hear what my say had to play.
Oh. Did I mention that the music blasting from the dance room right behind me at the bar, blending and complementing to the Rap offerings, was Techno Latin?
Ride on.

A Rare Medium Well Done

A Rare Medium Well Done

Delusion Allusion

Delusion. Diffusion of ideas to realities that control option parameters and impetus for resolution and resolvement, as more of the same continues to pile up ditto marks like grains of wheat colored sand. My immediate pile is enabling this translocutionary effort in to the ditto marks of your eyes. I spread the night before me as the reflection of a dream I live from moment to momentum pulled decisions that arise from the debris of the previous reflected dream and pursuit of its tantalizing looks, knowing smile and come hither touch of time. The future never looked so good. Buckle up and drive, I’m just the chauffer in this font, and I go where your eyes lead you, so follow on ahead of me.
My itchy trigger finger poking, prodding, digging into the sphere of my sensory touch with the physical plane, is most randomly insistent, and I’m getting tired of it. I fight the good fight and put forth no aggression or assault upon the affliction, but bathe and salve its needy spirit with the unguents of stoic determination and knowledge of the damage such actions would, in truth, inflict. Carry on, my wayward sun, and feed life into the planet, although I could do without the poisoned ivy, even leafless in the spring. Life in the no passing zone (as opposed to the fast lane) plants me right here (at any given moment) just quickly enough to try and figure out where I am and what should I do, although options are, indeed, limited. I’ve got to hand it to you, don’t drop it, no matter how much it itches to have your own finger scratch it.

As for the show, make your choice according to what I’ve seen, but the best I can do is it offer you the winner. Thank you for your vote of confidence and continuation to the actual display, following herewith, hitherto fore, subsequently and soon to be displayed in a visual context near you. With slate of hand, I write across the chalk my evening presents , (con)currently duping a look to action upon multiple endeavors within the parameters of simultaneity, and then back before you know it, to end this sentence here. I’m adjusting the presentation of visual selection, recently scanned from out of the frames they have been in for thirty years or so, and I carry back to carry on with you. It’s the least I can do for your agreeing to actually read these words by, in (f)act, doing so. Your guess is, as usual, is better than mine as to where all this will end up, as you have the option and ability to glance on ahead while I am forced to type as quickly as I can think to action just to keep up. Here, have a bite of chocolate to help me through.
Drawn and quartered, my chosen creation acquires a new interpretation in perceptive configuration, one fourth at a (double)time. Nip and tuck the view into the bedrock stable of your own aspective resonance of the situation. The goods are in and the silence is deafening, but we shall continue on as if you can’t hear it anyway. Perspective anomalies maintain respective considerations, each in its turn and all for the best (we can hope for). I attend the echoed remnant and double the fun, hypotenuse to its mirrored point, right on down the line, square by square, and behold the tangible vision in the flowered array it now assumes. Elegant simplicity, but nothing to sniff at.
Time to do something else. Do carry on and I will catch up (you well know) later on before you started. Pardoned me.
You’ve waited quite patiently for my return and I just came on to let you know I’m not back yet. Spoon that from your flower and make the fabric of the night look marketable.
Okay, you can open your eyes now. Do four halves make a whole lot of interesting pictures? Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t bother. I hope your evening was as passable as mine, otherwise I’d still have to wait for you. And, while I’m passing space biding for the time to dilate, I’ll just keep writing. You can adjust by looking at the pretty pictures. A win-win situation from the get go illusion. Now.

Linear Fission

Linear Fission

From this I wrote about making:

Linear Fission Quad 1a

Linear Fission Quad 1a