for art’s sake
in his solitude
he courses level and safe landscapes
undaunted by those burdened by cliché
in his solitude
told his is beset by visions chimerical
Boschian nightmares and Charon ferrying his souls
the gryphon and the phoenix vie for his regard
deserts and tempestuous seas speak to him
in voices he alone can understand
and …
in his solitude
he fashions his dreams onto canvas
at peace with the ghosts that haunt him
____________
Life
In school we diagramed sentences
Strait line subject to the right predicate in the center
Followed by object and by modifiers below
Sentences that ran on and on followed their own diagrams
Much as did their creators
Do things really change?
___________
Pools
In her eyes I see the vastness of deserts
Sands blown by breezes both gentle and strong
Mirage and Oasis offered in equal measure
I have walked here
And am walking still
2
In her eyes I see crystal chandeliers
Glass capturing and reflecting light
Prisms of pleasures and of truths
I have visited her too
3
Deserts and chandeliers
I am torn as to which way I shall go
___________
speculation
in the floe of ice
on fire with the coldness found in pain
we can see the healing rays of light
if we look hard enough
in the churning and embryonic sea
mourning over her future children
we can understand her promise
if we look hard enough
in the knowledge that waits
just below the surface of a dream
in the fires of discord
allowing truths to be born
in the possibilities of things
that are impossible
the friend of wonder and speculation understands
__________
Dear Edgar
It was a long and dreary night
You fell into the pit
And I kit upon your shoulder
Your heart told tales of horrors
That no man should ever know
And I lit upon your shoulder
Your house fell in shambles around you
Walls cried with living souls
And I was at you shoulder
You tried to drink away the masque of death
While your screaming died from within
And I was forever perched upon your shoulder
But I must leave you now
Dawn is swiftly approaching
I am not fond of these horrors
You cannot seem to escape from
You have forgotten many things
I shall leave you now
I am tired and I am weary
Do not ask me to stay with you till the morrow
Cold and dank are your nights
Dear Edgar
Your shoulder no longer affords comfort
I desire companionship of my own kind
Dear Edgar
Stick with your horrors
Stay with your tortuous fantasies
I shall depart
Because quoth this raven
Nevermore
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Saturday, June 04, 2005
The Doorway
The Doorway / flash
Rachael didn’t feel threatened by this thing, and this pleased and perplexed her in equal measure. The daylight hours that brought a dimming of her eyes led to their closing by nightfall. She felt it was a temporary closing, and perhaps this was why she felt a wonder as to the cause of such a thing. Or, more importantly, the lack of one. She tried, from time to time, to open them, and the effort was straining, but even this didn’t cause her worry. This was a curiosity, and she loved curiosities.
A good and honest word for her life, she thought. Her parents often called her a precocious child; she decided it fit, if not defined her, and she saw no reason to change as she grew in years. But now, on the eve of her twenty-eighth year, curiosity had become a strange thing. She spent time asking herself why this should be visited upon her, knowing that any possible answer wouldn’t matter. Everything told her her eyes would open in time, and then she would have something to talk about.
But this mystery that had come to her did not follow the rules she had defined. For as the time for simple curiosity passed and grew to one of concern and then to worry, she saw her wonder over this thing vanish. She usually didn’t get frightened, and tried hard not to this time, but she was in new territory now, the effort she employed in trying to open her eyes frustrating and painful. Why won’t my eyes open? She thought. And then the scariest thing, What if they never do?
With these questions serving to strengthen her efforts, Rachael’s eyes began to open, and fright started to leave her. Remarkable, she thought, how senses can dissipate from one minute to the next. Wonder returned to her, yes, but not completely. Perfectly agreeable. The happiness she felt was that of overcoming something, a thing that she may not easily, or ever, understand. But, this didn’t seem to matter.
Rachael didn’t feel threatened by this thing, and this pleased and perplexed her in equal measure. The daylight hours that brought a dimming of her eyes led to their closing by nightfall. She felt it was a temporary closing, and perhaps this was why she felt a wonder as to the cause of such a thing. Or, more importantly, the lack of one. She tried, from time to time, to open them, and the effort was straining, but even this didn’t cause her worry. This was a curiosity, and she loved curiosities.
A good and honest word for her life, she thought. Her parents often called her a precocious child; she decided it fit, if not defined her, and she saw no reason to change as she grew in years. But now, on the eve of her twenty-eighth year, curiosity had become a strange thing. She spent time asking herself why this should be visited upon her, knowing that any possible answer wouldn’t matter. Everything told her her eyes would open in time, and then she would have something to talk about.
But this mystery that had come to her did not follow the rules she had defined. For as the time for simple curiosity passed and grew to one of concern and then to worry, she saw her wonder over this thing vanish. She usually didn’t get frightened, and tried hard not to this time, but she was in new territory now, the effort she employed in trying to open her eyes frustrating and painful. Why won’t my eyes open? She thought. And then the scariest thing, What if they never do?
With these questions serving to strengthen her efforts, Rachael’s eyes began to open, and fright started to leave her. Remarkable, she thought, how senses can dissipate from one minute to the next. Wonder returned to her, yes, but not completely. Perfectly agreeable. The happiness she felt was that of overcoming something, a thing that she may not easily, or ever, understand. But, this didn’t seem to matter.
On Music and other things of interst to me
For a long time now, Jazz has been my favorite kind of music, followed closely by the Blues. Then again, they could be tied. But what does it matter, for me they out distance every other kind of music. This doesn't mean I only like those two, but I am more familiar with Jazz and Blues musicians. I think this goes a long way in my preferences. Besides, the two represent very good music, and have interesting histories.
I don't have any formal musical training, have never taken courses in music appreciation, but I have listened to enough of it over the years that I feel I can discuss it with a good amount of knowledge. So, I thought I would. Included will be lists of musicians in various musical categories that I particularly like. Of course such lists are subjective, but that's the fun of making them, on't you think?
Rock music has its definity appeal for me. It's my opinion that rock is more about the music than about the lyrics. Even so, there are some songs where the writing shines through. Macarthur Park (or is it McArthur Park?) is defintely one of these. So is American Pie. In both cases, the originals are preferred. And then there's tthe Eagle's Hotel California. I'm still debating exactly what the song means, a thing I think is a real pleasure. The combination of guitar, drum and keyboard -- this is what I like most in rock music.
Okay, I feel a list coming on now. Isn't that wonderful?
For guitarists, you have Hendrix, Clapton, Page, Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits, and a number of others, but for me it's Carlos Santana all the way. With songs like Jingo, Black Magic Woman, Europa, and Samba Pa Ti, his guitar sings like no other. So Carlos is my choice for guitarist, even though the talent, and the innovation, of Jimi Hendrix cannot be denied. The choice is less clear to me with every other instument in rock music, and it is interesting why that is. Mabe Carlos is enough of a musician that no one else comes close. So, I will shift gears, as the saying goes, and go back to Jazz, where the selections get much easier.
My comments on . . .
the other things of interest to me can cover wide ares. For instance, I have something to say on short stories I've read and enjoy. Here is what I have to say on --
The Middle Toe Of The Right Foot, Ambrose Bierce
One thing that appeals to me about Bierce's story, The Middle Toe of the Right Foot, is that it's written is first person. Another is the atmosphere he creates, heped along by strong attention to detail.
The Manton house is said to be haunted. Unlived in for some time, Mr. Manton, for reasons unknown, has cut the throats of his wife and two children, an act that's made important at the story's conclusion.
The first section of the story tells of a trip to the Manton house by four men in order to fight a duel. Section two speaks of the circumstances that led up to the duel, one of the men telling that he broke off a relationship because of the woman's amputation -- the middle toe of her right foot. She ends up marrying a Mr. Manton, who ends up cutting the troats of her and their children. Was it because of her amputation, a "deformity" he couldn't tolerate? The answer is not given, but I find it's an interesting speculation. The third section again takes place at the Manton house, where a figure is seen crouched in a corner, discovered to be dead. He is recognized as Mr. Manton. Not far from him are observed three sets of footprints -- of a woman, and two small children.
I don't have any formal musical training, have never taken courses in music appreciation, but I have listened to enough of it over the years that I feel I can discuss it with a good amount of knowledge. So, I thought I would. Included will be lists of musicians in various musical categories that I particularly like. Of course such lists are subjective, but that's the fun of making them, on't you think?
Rock music has its definity appeal for me. It's my opinion that rock is more about the music than about the lyrics. Even so, there are some songs where the writing shines through. Macarthur Park (or is it McArthur Park?) is defintely one of these. So is American Pie. In both cases, the originals are preferred. And then there's tthe Eagle's Hotel California. I'm still debating exactly what the song means, a thing I think is a real pleasure. The combination of guitar, drum and keyboard -- this is what I like most in rock music.
Okay, I feel a list coming on now. Isn't that wonderful?
For guitarists, you have Hendrix, Clapton, Page, Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits, and a number of others, but for me it's Carlos Santana all the way. With songs like Jingo, Black Magic Woman, Europa, and Samba Pa Ti, his guitar sings like no other. So Carlos is my choice for guitarist, even though the talent, and the innovation, of Jimi Hendrix cannot be denied. The choice is less clear to me with every other instument in rock music, and it is interesting why that is. Mabe Carlos is enough of a musician that no one else comes close. So, I will shift gears, as the saying goes, and go back to Jazz, where the selections get much easier.
My comments on . . .
the other things of interest to me can cover wide ares. For instance, I have something to say on short stories I've read and enjoy. Here is what I have to say on --
The Middle Toe Of The Right Foot, Ambrose Bierce
One thing that appeals to me about Bierce's story, The Middle Toe of the Right Foot, is that it's written is first person. Another is the atmosphere he creates, heped along by strong attention to detail.
The Manton house is said to be haunted. Unlived in for some time, Mr. Manton, for reasons unknown, has cut the throats of his wife and two children, an act that's made important at the story's conclusion.
The first section of the story tells of a trip to the Manton house by four men in order to fight a duel. Section two speaks of the circumstances that led up to the duel, one of the men telling that he broke off a relationship because of the woman's amputation -- the middle toe of her right foot. She ends up marrying a Mr. Manton, who ends up cutting the troats of her and their children. Was it because of her amputation, a "deformity" he couldn't tolerate? The answer is not given, but I find it's an interesting speculation. The third section again takes place at the Manton house, where a figure is seen crouched in a corner, discovered to be dead. He is recognized as Mr. Manton. Not far from him are observed three sets of footprints -- of a woman, and two small children.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Flash Fiction, or something like it
Image In Glass
There were oceans of possibilites in the skies above. But, oceans were deep, and far from merely stating the obvious, he did not like the prospect of falling.
Angelina was dressed in shadows, and came to him out of those depths. To love him, she said. To confuse him? He was almost certain of it.
"I came to you because you invited me. I will stay with you because you need me."
"Need you? I love my wife."
"You don't act like you do."
His admission that Angelina was right was a hard one to take, but he reminded himself that sometimes things were hard. It was because who Angelina was, a very beautiful character he was developing. And because Angelina, in a way he found disconcerting, was taking on his voice.
"I love both of you."
"I know you do. But I don't think you know why."
"Can you tell me?"
"What do you love about your wife?"
His wife - Nicole. They had met at the university. He admired and appreciated her candor, her ambition. He was a little awed by her beauty, her dark hair and eyes working strongly onn his emotions.
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