unsecured prospects
land in the sand
bulbous
jellyfish
tissue
tangles
transparent
my foamy sea
washes against
the cast off
debris
crashed
sunken
maybe
even
tossed
but lost
until
tide
drifts out
setting it down
right where
it is found
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sherlock Holmes
Simon in his little cape and hat I made him for halloween.
He wants to be a detective or Sherlock Holmes.
He wants to be a detective or Sherlock Holmes.
Monday, October 20, 2008
waiting for word
the mailbox
frozen
the lid agape
letting a scream
empty
inside
a blade
cuts
words
gone
missing
this void
has the density
and mass
of a supernova
it presses
down
on first rings
that blast
from its core
pinning back
unheard and
undiscovered
realities
in a vast
and universal sea
where
undertow
drags
deeper
death
hails
down
spiny stars
fall and float
starfish
spiny skinned
infinitely
repeating
like a shower
of points
to pierce
a filler
a filter
a distraction
in relief
the salt of life
stings
every wound
made
open
suffered
and given
as sacrifice
in hope
of a
delivery
if only
just
one
single
letter
frozen
the lid agape
letting a scream
empty
inside
a blade
cuts
words
gone
missing
this void
has the density
and mass
of a supernova
it presses
down
on first rings
that blast
from its core
pinning back
unheard and
undiscovered
realities
in a vast
and universal sea
where
undertow
drags
deeper
death
hails
down
spiny stars
fall and float
starfish
spiny skinned
infinitely
repeating
like a shower
of points
to pierce
a filler
a filter
a distraction
in relief
the salt of life
stings
every wound
made
open
suffered
and given
as sacrifice
in hope
of a
delivery
if only
just
one
single
letter
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Prelude to a kiss
click to see clip. at 6 minutes.
to when. and then. I decide to keep trying.
even though I'm not.
I still breathe.
But I've stopped reaching out.
because there is no one there
no other
to reach back
into the wind
place me in a bed somewhere
face up
with blankets
softly numbing
the chill
of a reality
a rite
I must
not be given
so I can do no harm
help me.
help
with
this
lonely.
oh please
lonely hurts
so much
to when. and then. I decide to keep trying.
even though I'm not.
I still breathe.
But I've stopped reaching out.
because there is no one there
no other
to reach back
into the wind
place me in a bed somewhere
face up
with blankets
softly numbing
the chill
of a reality
a rite
I must
not be given
so I can do no harm
help me.
help
with
this
lonely.
oh please
lonely hurts
so much
Sunday, October 12, 2008
the tallest building in town
Blasts of amber from the flashing traffic lights outside the diner wash across the pale blue-green walls of the booth where Gina sits, her coffee mug warming her petite hands. The din of plates clanking, the crunch of the ice scoop, the chime of ice cubes sliding into water glasses and the quiet mumbles of the other patrons in the restaurant accompany her thoughts.
It didn’t seem so long ago that she and Dan met every week at this diner for coffee and pie. They sat in that little booth over there, the one farthest from the door. Sensitive to the cold Dan got sick at the slightest hint of a draft. She never sits there anymore.
Gina added some milk to her coffee and watched the creamy clouds swirl in the darkness, until it blended to a dull brown. Dan never added milk, but he made up for it in sugar. A brief understatement of a man, he never quite lost his boyish looks, so it was quite hard to give him the deference you might an average man of thirty-seven.
Gina’s memories of those meetings brought warmth to her heart. The mornings in winter were cold and blustery, with delicate snowflakes gently falling around the diner. Then in spring the rain would drizzle down the big front windows, refracting the lights and objects outside into an abstract composition of bent and distorted forms, like brightly glowing worms wriggling up and down the glass.
Summer mornings were the best, especially when Dan rode in on his modified Vespa. His moped was painted lime green with fuchsia polka dots. Bungeed to the back fender, popping out of a blue plastic milk crate, rode the upper half of a mannequin, spray painted silver and tilted slightly toward the sky, arms posed in elegant gesture. There were always a few puzzled looks as he rode it around town, sometimes he got unbelieving headshakes, but mostly he got grins.
As long a Gina could remember, this diner was here, right in the heart of downtown, on Main Street across from J. C. Penney & Co. Every fall, she and her mom would complete their yearly school shopping ritual with a blue-plate lunch special.
Penney’s was long gone now, replaced about ten years ago by a nine-story building — the tallest building in town. It loomed to the east and its monolithic silhouette sent cold, blue, ominous shadows across the street and through the glass façade of the old diner pinched tightly between the other aging storefronts.
Sunlight usually didn’t make it through those windows until well past noon this time of year. Back when Gina was a girl, she remembered coming for breakfast after church with her whole family and sitting in the big booth up in the front window. The sun beat in beaming hard and bright, sparking off the silverware, and dazzling rainbows from her water glass. She remembers the glare from the sun exploding off the tabletop, making her brothers and sisters look like burnt match sticks as they bobbed around giggling and eating pancakes.
Everything in the diner was covered with a light caramel patina, the ceiling tiles, the fake green plastic plants, even the chords of the old swag lamps that hung over every booth with their elliptical shaped shades decorated in a mosaic of tiny multi-colored Lucite tiles. Layers of smoky skin laid down through decades of nicotine soaked atmospheres coated the room.
Just a few years ago you would come in here and the place would be enveloped in a swirling blue fog. Little black boomerang shaped ashtrays sat on every table, full of the white and gray powder of ashes and the crushed-up, discolored cotton remnants of filter cigarettes, sometimes the ends of which were decorated with the delicate imprints of pink or red lips. There was still a hint of stale smoke mingling in the air, along with the vinyl and the grease.
Gina likes it much better now since the smoking ban. She is perpetually trying to quit smoking and it is a lot easier to come here and sit without constantly having to quell the craving for a cigarette.
“How long has it been this time?” She wondered, and answered herself with a grin. “Almost nine months. [You go girl!]”
The smell of bacon and sausage cooking in the back made its way to Gina’s table and she could hear the sizzle of eggs as they splashed onto a hot griddle. Pretty soon the morning crowd would start filling up the stools at the counter and the long line of booths and the smell of fresh coffee brewing would grow as the demand rose and the morning progressed.
Gina opened a sugar packet and poured it into her half empty coffee mug. The spoon tinkled against the thick sides of the Buffalo China cup like a delicate little bell as she stirred the sugar in. She tipped her head, brushed her thin auburn bangs aside, squinted her eyes, and looked past the interior of the restaurant and out into the street where the traffic lights were now changing from flashing amber to red.
“What day is it today?” She thought to herself. “Is this the day? Oh my god, it might be. It was definitely the month. What’s the date today?”
Things had been a little weird that autumn, but it had been a great summer. Dan was producing more art than ever, building enough good work for a show. He had also been very active in starting an AA group in town, that met right here on Wednesday nights. Then as the evening air grew sharper and the trees began to blaze, Dan began to change too.
Gina saw it in his eyes, they became a darker, cooler blue, just like the shadow cast by that big building. She heard it in his words too. It was no longer easy to listen to him. What was once wonderful, whimsical banter bracketed within insightful and profound philosophy, became confused and paranoid ramblings.
Dan was a manic-depressive who experienced extreme mood swings typified by bouts of psychosis. When he was up he was a sensitive, creative, and funny guy who brought color into a black and white world. On the down swings he was a withdrawn and paranoid child who attempted suicide several times.
Dan had felt so good that summer he decided to go off his meds, he felt that they clouded his creativity and held him back from reaching his full potential as an artist. Gina found this confusing because she thought he was the most productive he had ever been. He claimed he felt muddled and dull, so in early August he started to phase himself off the drugs.
Gina met Dan in rehab about fifteen years ago, just after one of his earliest suicide attempts. He was living in his parent’s basement and his dad came home to find the walls, bookshelves, sofas — everything — upset and turned over. Giant messages about the end of the world were scrawled over everything in red spray paint. Dan was found in the bathroom with razor striations etched in the flesh of both wrists. The mirror reflected a pulse of crimson spray across the tile floor and up the shower curtain. They managed to save him, get him on meds, and send him off to rehab.
Gina entered the hospital of her own accord. She began experiencing blackouts during college parties and fearful of worse things to come sought out a counselor who recommended she sign herself up for the twenty-eight day program.
Aside from television, the puzzle table was the central form of recreation at rehab. Gina loved puzzles and sat down the first night there and started working away at it. It was late that first night when Dan pulled up a folding chair next to Gina and helped her find all kinds of missing pieces. As they worked, they laughed and talked about music, politics, and family. They quickly became like brother and sister.
Dan left the rehab center before Gina, promising to keep in touch with her. The day he left, a cold late-February drizzle glazed the sidewalks and sky. Parked outside the hospital, Dan started the car for heat, as they sang over the loud rock and roll on the tapes he played. They made promises to meet up and do art together when she got home. It was getting late and Gina had to get back inside the hospital, so Dan gave her one of his mix tapes and reluctantly started off on the four-hour drive home.
“Would you like a warm up?”
Gina surfaced from her thoughts to see her favorite waitress holding a full carafe of fresh coffee, with a cloud of steam funneling out of the neck, drifting and expanding around her face.
“Yes, I would, thanks Suzie.” Said Gina.
“Did you want a piece of pie or something?” Suzie asked.
“I’m good. I was just wondering… what’s the date today Suzie? She said.
“Well, it’s the ninth, Gina.” Said Suzie.
“Oh, yeah, I thought so. Doesn’t seem like five whole years does it?”
“Nope hon, it doesn’t. I still can’t quite believe it all, either. You sure you don’t want a nice piece of pie? It’s on the house!” Suzie said.
“I’ll just take the coffee if that’s OK. I just want to sit here for a while. Do you mind if I take up the booth?”
“No, I don’t mind. You take your time, hon. You sit there as long as you want. It’s a hard day.”
Gina looked down at the tabletop as Suzie continued her rounds with the coffee. She occupied her mind by taking inventory of everything on the tabletop; the damp and crinkled napkin, a dirty spoon, an empty sugar packet, a coffee cup centered on a saucer, the boomerang designs, her cell phone, her keychain…
…her keychain. She still had the keychain Dan had given her when they first met for coffee after she got home from rehab. It was a cold March day, a late snowstorm had dumped nine inches in four hours. They sat right over there, in that booth, farthest from the door.
When she first entered the diner that day, it was so bright from the snow that her eyes had to adjust for a few seconds. Once she could see again, she took off her hat and gloves, put them in the pockets of her coat and hung it on one of the giant chrome antlers of the coat rack near the door. As she turned and looked up, she saw him sitting there in a red, green, and yellow striped shirt and looking her way, his wispy blonde hair framed his smiling face.
The first thing he did after giving Gina a big hug and kiss, was to show off the key chain he designed. It was a hand making the shape of a peace sign, and between the two spread fingers was the outline shape of a heart.
“Peace and love!” Dan said. He smiled proudly, held the token up by his face and wiggled it back and forth. “What do you think? You want one?”
“Of course I do!” she said, as she gently reached over and took it from his hand.
“Peace and love.” She whispered as she shook her head slowly back and forth. “Peace and love.” Her chin lowered to her heaving chest as tears rolled out uncontrollably.
The bell on the door chimed as someone came into the restaurant. The noise of the traffic outside was pulled in like a vacuum. It was high pitched, fast, and angular, it was more extreme and severe, more like Dan.
The person coming in the restaurant held the door for some children, and suddenly the scream of car tires exploded into the diner, followed by the bleating sting of car horns. Gina’s eardrums burned. Her heart was pounding as she struggled to stop her tears, now soaking that little napkin, turning it to pulp.
Gina heard the news report that morning five years ago on her way to the diner to meet Dan for coffee. The report was that a block of the city near where Dan lived had been cordoned off. Seems a house there had been painted with red graffiti warning that the end of the world was coming. The police feared the house was wired with explosives, or that someone might be inside with a weapon, so they blocked off and evacuated the entire street and called in the SWAT team.
That dull morning as she sat waiting for Dan in their booth,the tallest building cast its long oppressive shadow across the street and through the front windows, chilling the entire diner, dulling every vintage tile. Gina felt the weight of each brick in that building settling down upon her.
Five years ago, just as today, a commotion arose outside the diner doors near the intersection, just as the traffic lights began to change, screams, and then sirens. Gina remained at the table that morning, adding the milk, stirring in the clouds, trying to stay steady, she didn't get up to see what was the matter. She didn't go to look, she already knew it was the end of the world.
It didn’t seem so long ago that she and Dan met every week at this diner for coffee and pie. They sat in that little booth over there, the one farthest from the door. Sensitive to the cold Dan got sick at the slightest hint of a draft. She never sits there anymore.
Gina added some milk to her coffee and watched the creamy clouds swirl in the darkness, until it blended to a dull brown. Dan never added milk, but he made up for it in sugar. A brief understatement of a man, he never quite lost his boyish looks, so it was quite hard to give him the deference you might an average man of thirty-seven.
Gina’s memories of those meetings brought warmth to her heart. The mornings in winter were cold and blustery, with delicate snowflakes gently falling around the diner. Then in spring the rain would drizzle down the big front windows, refracting the lights and objects outside into an abstract composition of bent and distorted forms, like brightly glowing worms wriggling up and down the glass.
Summer mornings were the best, especially when Dan rode in on his modified Vespa. His moped was painted lime green with fuchsia polka dots. Bungeed to the back fender, popping out of a blue plastic milk crate, rode the upper half of a mannequin, spray painted silver and tilted slightly toward the sky, arms posed in elegant gesture. There were always a few puzzled looks as he rode it around town, sometimes he got unbelieving headshakes, but mostly he got grins.
As long a Gina could remember, this diner was here, right in the heart of downtown, on Main Street across from J. C. Penney & Co. Every fall, she and her mom would complete their yearly school shopping ritual with a blue-plate lunch special.
Penney’s was long gone now, replaced about ten years ago by a nine-story building — the tallest building in town. It loomed to the east and its monolithic silhouette sent cold, blue, ominous shadows across the street and through the glass façade of the old diner pinched tightly between the other aging storefronts.
Sunlight usually didn’t make it through those windows until well past noon this time of year. Back when Gina was a girl, she remembered coming for breakfast after church with her whole family and sitting in the big booth up in the front window. The sun beat in beaming hard and bright, sparking off the silverware, and dazzling rainbows from her water glass. She remembers the glare from the sun exploding off the tabletop, making her brothers and sisters look like burnt match sticks as they bobbed around giggling and eating pancakes.
Everything in the diner was covered with a light caramel patina, the ceiling tiles, the fake green plastic plants, even the chords of the old swag lamps that hung over every booth with their elliptical shaped shades decorated in a mosaic of tiny multi-colored Lucite tiles. Layers of smoky skin laid down through decades of nicotine soaked atmospheres coated the room.
Just a few years ago you would come in here and the place would be enveloped in a swirling blue fog. Little black boomerang shaped ashtrays sat on every table, full of the white and gray powder of ashes and the crushed-up, discolored cotton remnants of filter cigarettes, sometimes the ends of which were decorated with the delicate imprints of pink or red lips. There was still a hint of stale smoke mingling in the air, along with the vinyl and the grease.
Gina likes it much better now since the smoking ban. She is perpetually trying to quit smoking and it is a lot easier to come here and sit without constantly having to quell the craving for a cigarette.
“How long has it been this time?” She wondered, and answered herself with a grin. “Almost nine months. [You go girl!]”
The smell of bacon and sausage cooking in the back made its way to Gina’s table and she could hear the sizzle of eggs as they splashed onto a hot griddle. Pretty soon the morning crowd would start filling up the stools at the counter and the long line of booths and the smell of fresh coffee brewing would grow as the demand rose and the morning progressed.
Gina opened a sugar packet and poured it into her half empty coffee mug. The spoon tinkled against the thick sides of the Buffalo China cup like a delicate little bell as she stirred the sugar in. She tipped her head, brushed her thin auburn bangs aside, squinted her eyes, and looked past the interior of the restaurant and out into the street where the traffic lights were now changing from flashing amber to red.
“What day is it today?” She thought to herself. “Is this the day? Oh my god, it might be. It was definitely the month. What’s the date today?”
Things had been a little weird that autumn, but it had been a great summer. Dan was producing more art than ever, building enough good work for a show. He had also been very active in starting an AA group in town, that met right here on Wednesday nights. Then as the evening air grew sharper and the trees began to blaze, Dan began to change too.
Gina saw it in his eyes, they became a darker, cooler blue, just like the shadow cast by that big building. She heard it in his words too. It was no longer easy to listen to him. What was once wonderful, whimsical banter bracketed within insightful and profound philosophy, became confused and paranoid ramblings.
Dan was a manic-depressive who experienced extreme mood swings typified by bouts of psychosis. When he was up he was a sensitive, creative, and funny guy who brought color into a black and white world. On the down swings he was a withdrawn and paranoid child who attempted suicide several times.
Dan had felt so good that summer he decided to go off his meds, he felt that they clouded his creativity and held him back from reaching his full potential as an artist. Gina found this confusing because she thought he was the most productive he had ever been. He claimed he felt muddled and dull, so in early August he started to phase himself off the drugs.
Gina met Dan in rehab about fifteen years ago, just after one of his earliest suicide attempts. He was living in his parent’s basement and his dad came home to find the walls, bookshelves, sofas — everything — upset and turned over. Giant messages about the end of the world were scrawled over everything in red spray paint. Dan was found in the bathroom with razor striations etched in the flesh of both wrists. The mirror reflected a pulse of crimson spray across the tile floor and up the shower curtain. They managed to save him, get him on meds, and send him off to rehab.
Gina entered the hospital of her own accord. She began experiencing blackouts during college parties and fearful of worse things to come sought out a counselor who recommended she sign herself up for the twenty-eight day program.
Aside from television, the puzzle table was the central form of recreation at rehab. Gina loved puzzles and sat down the first night there and started working away at it. It was late that first night when Dan pulled up a folding chair next to Gina and helped her find all kinds of missing pieces. As they worked, they laughed and talked about music, politics, and family. They quickly became like brother and sister.
Dan left the rehab center before Gina, promising to keep in touch with her. The day he left, a cold late-February drizzle glazed the sidewalks and sky. Parked outside the hospital, Dan started the car for heat, as they sang over the loud rock and roll on the tapes he played. They made promises to meet up and do art together when she got home. It was getting late and Gina had to get back inside the hospital, so Dan gave her one of his mix tapes and reluctantly started off on the four-hour drive home.
“Would you like a warm up?”
Gina surfaced from her thoughts to see her favorite waitress holding a full carafe of fresh coffee, with a cloud of steam funneling out of the neck, drifting and expanding around her face.
“Yes, I would, thanks Suzie.” Said Gina.
“Did you want a piece of pie or something?” Suzie asked.
“I’m good. I was just wondering… what’s the date today Suzie? She said.
“Well, it’s the ninth, Gina.” Said Suzie.
“Oh, yeah, I thought so. Doesn’t seem like five whole years does it?”
“Nope hon, it doesn’t. I still can’t quite believe it all, either. You sure you don’t want a nice piece of pie? It’s on the house!” Suzie said.
“I’ll just take the coffee if that’s OK. I just want to sit here for a while. Do you mind if I take up the booth?”
“No, I don’t mind. You take your time, hon. You sit there as long as you want. It’s a hard day.”
Gina looked down at the tabletop as Suzie continued her rounds with the coffee. She occupied her mind by taking inventory of everything on the tabletop; the damp and crinkled napkin, a dirty spoon, an empty sugar packet, a coffee cup centered on a saucer, the boomerang designs, her cell phone, her keychain…
…her keychain. She still had the keychain Dan had given her when they first met for coffee after she got home from rehab. It was a cold March day, a late snowstorm had dumped nine inches in four hours. They sat right over there, in that booth, farthest from the door.
When she first entered the diner that day, it was so bright from the snow that her eyes had to adjust for a few seconds. Once she could see again, she took off her hat and gloves, put them in the pockets of her coat and hung it on one of the giant chrome antlers of the coat rack near the door. As she turned and looked up, she saw him sitting there in a red, green, and yellow striped shirt and looking her way, his wispy blonde hair framed his smiling face.
The first thing he did after giving Gina a big hug and kiss, was to show off the key chain he designed. It was a hand making the shape of a peace sign, and between the two spread fingers was the outline shape of a heart.
“Peace and love!” Dan said. He smiled proudly, held the token up by his face and wiggled it back and forth. “What do you think? You want one?”
“Of course I do!” she said, as she gently reached over and took it from his hand.
“Peace and love.” She whispered as she shook her head slowly back and forth. “Peace and love.” Her chin lowered to her heaving chest as tears rolled out uncontrollably.
The bell on the door chimed as someone came into the restaurant. The noise of the traffic outside was pulled in like a vacuum. It was high pitched, fast, and angular, it was more extreme and severe, more like Dan.
The person coming in the restaurant held the door for some children, and suddenly the scream of car tires exploded into the diner, followed by the bleating sting of car horns. Gina’s eardrums burned. Her heart was pounding as she struggled to stop her tears, now soaking that little napkin, turning it to pulp.
Gina heard the news report that morning five years ago on her way to the diner to meet Dan for coffee. The report was that a block of the city near where Dan lived had been cordoned off. Seems a house there had been painted with red graffiti warning that the end of the world was coming. The police feared the house was wired with explosives, or that someone might be inside with a weapon, so they blocked off and evacuated the entire street and called in the SWAT team.
That dull morning as she sat waiting for Dan in their booth,the tallest building cast its long oppressive shadow across the street and through the front windows, chilling the entire diner, dulling every vintage tile. Gina felt the weight of each brick in that building settling down upon her.
Five years ago, just as today, a commotion arose outside the diner doors near the intersection, just as the traffic lights began to change, screams, and then sirens. Gina remained at the table that morning, adding the milk, stirring in the clouds, trying to stay steady, she didn't get up to see what was the matter. She didn't go to look, she already knew it was the end of the world.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
know my own
will I wilt to the offense
of the mourning?
will my vision
become blurred
by the fog of war?
will I bite
or nibble
on any vestige
of success?
will I know
my own power?
will I keep it
or will I give it away?
**
où êtes-vous ressort ?
vous êtes mon esprit !
Je vis en hiver
avec la mère
qui est l'origine.
Je suis venu vivant
dans les couleurs vives de l'automne
et je danse
dans le soleil chaud d'été !
**
of the mourning?
will my vision
become blurred
by the fog of war?
will I bite
or nibble
on any vestige
of success?
will I know
my own power?
will I keep it
or will I give it away?
**
où êtes-vous ressort ?
vous êtes mon esprit !
Je vis en hiver
avec la mère
qui est l'origine.
Je suis venu vivant
dans les couleurs vives de l'automne
et je danse
dans le soleil chaud d'été !
**
perfect day
my shocking
emerald day
the shimmering
shining leaves
lay upon the sky
like oily bathing beauties
floating in the sand
on moss-like
terry swatches
shining and soothed
by the warmth of a sun
so hot and clear
these eyes yearn
to look
but cannot
pause long enough
to observe
lest they're burnt
and the iris
contracts
tightly
forever
on that day
that emerald day,
the planet is my dream
I am not alone here
I am known
and I know others
they are all my sisters
my brothers
do I know the emerald day?
do I know the flower of a moment
when I pass away?
That knowledge
is permanently denied
unless I take it upon myself
and even then
the moment will be lost
in the constant decay
of that emerald day
emerald day
the shimmering
shining leaves
lay upon the sky
like oily bathing beauties
floating in the sand
on moss-like
terry swatches
shining and soothed
by the warmth of a sun
so hot and clear
these eyes yearn
to look
but cannot
pause long enough
to observe
lest they're burnt
and the iris
contracts
tightly
forever
on that day
that emerald day,
the planet is my dream
I am not alone here
I am known
and I know others
they are all my sisters
my brothers
do I know the emerald day?
do I know the flower of a moment
when I pass away?
That knowledge
is permanently denied
unless I take it upon myself
and even then
the moment will be lost
in the constant decay
of that emerald day
power box
another one, but silver this time. I'm so intrigued by the spraying over of the graffiti, it is a form of its own. On the bridges and the power boxes.
something echos here about the covering over of a message. A tentative embarking, or an anarchy of authority. Some kind of suppression of expression becoming its own form. The drips of the paint, the left over shape of the parameters of the graffiti. I just find these beautiful. And then when the artistic stencil graffiti artists put their images over it as the fish on the bridge, it is so wonderful.
It's also like the aesthetic norm that has infiltrated Madison and so many urban areas that are "planned" that personal expression is dismissed, as if "we" don't have a high enough aesthetic to work independently, or that there is ugliness in the cacophony of myriad physical and visual images. Clutter. But these boxes, with the paint dripping, covering the graffiti, are almost the apogee of the anti-aesthetic! They are done by some city worker, or maybe a volunteer! Who doesn't even bother to paint over it with matching paint, lets it drip all over the place! And in the end, they really don't cover the graffiti, they just append it! I love them so much!
(click on the image to see it larger)
something echos here about the covering over of a message. A tentative embarking, or an anarchy of authority. Some kind of suppression of expression becoming its own form. The drips of the paint, the left over shape of the parameters of the graffiti. I just find these beautiful. And then when the artistic stencil graffiti artists put their images over it as the fish on the bridge, it is so wonderful.
It's also like the aesthetic norm that has infiltrated Madison and so many urban areas that are "planned" that personal expression is dismissed, as if "we" don't have a high enough aesthetic to work independently, or that there is ugliness in the cacophony of myriad physical and visual images. Clutter. But these boxes, with the paint dripping, covering the graffiti, are almost the apogee of the anti-aesthetic! They are done by some city worker, or maybe a volunteer! Who doesn't even bother to paint over it with matching paint, lets it drip all over the place! And in the end, they really don't cover the graffiti, they just append it! I love them so much!
(click on the image to see it larger)
fragmented phrases
I will never
be more
than half-live
because I see
nothing complete
all is unfinished
partial
half-hearted
attempts
when the gusto comes
it is met with disdain
crumbling my sure resolve
into a mere mist
of whimsy
and adolescent fancy
dismissible
uncountable
lost
be more
than half-live
because I see
nothing complete
all is unfinished
partial
half-hearted
attempts
when the gusto comes
it is met with disdain
crumbling my sure resolve
into a mere mist
of whimsy
and adolescent fancy
dismissible
uncountable
lost
coming to understand
coming to understand
you may not have been
as real as I thought
though my heart
leapt high as the moon
now it's left to drop
in the understanding
that I am nothing
special to you
I understand
I am nothing
under everything
I do
you may not have been
as real as I thought
though my heart
leapt high as the moon
now it's left to drop
in the understanding
that I am nothing
special to you
I understand
I am nothing
under everything
I do
Rita in the Kitchen progress report
Here is how it looks now. Hard to get a good shot without the flash and the flash blows everything out.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
across
can i reach you
across the gap?
across a sea
of broken dreams
across a map
of heart attacks
under all the masks
we wear
can i reach you
under there?
can i see
through such a fog?
with so many
walls built high around
where so many woes
and fears abound.
So just who am I?
to breach that gap
to rustle the package
and tear off the wrap?
that gaps too wide
to reach across
across the years
I'll feel this loss
across the gap?
across a sea
of broken dreams
across a map
of heart attacks
under all the masks
we wear
can i reach you
under there?
can i see
through such a fog?
with so many
walls built high around
where so many woes
and fears abound.
So just who am I?
to breach that gap
to rustle the package
and tear off the wrap?
that gaps too wide
to reach across
across the years
I'll feel this loss
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