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Monday, March 24, 2014

The Whole Shard




I  have this obsession with shards.

You can take a pot and break it, purposely or accidentally, and you end up with pieces.

Breakage is truth because it records stress.  It records an event, the object has a historical reference point that is after the moment of initial creation!

People don't break shards down into smaller bits. Hey! They're broken already. You throw away the pieces. They end up in a landfill.

A 'potter's yard' was the place where makers of pottery thew away their sub-standard stuff. Archaeologists love them. They're treasure troves of pots, that can be painstakingly put back together. Museums slowly match up piles of shards, glue them up, fill in the areas they can't find. . . and they have these reconstructed pots that are beautiful.

What if the shard was the whole work, a complete creation, that asked and answered more QUESTIONS than a pot could ever. If it is not a piece of something else, it is guaranteed survival!

So runs my logic.  Take a piece of bisque, break it, then glaze the pieces. then fire it. Any archeologist will know, hey this guy's working on just the shards . . . . it's not part of a larger pot. They'll press the no fair button!

Such a shard . . . is complete.

My Printer became a Scanner




I've owned the same device that prints on paper, for at least six years. It's a Canon, has performed admirably, though albeit at quite a cost for the cartridges and ink. It's one of those printer/scanners, except it was entirely impossible for us to get the scanner working.

With it I'd print stuff for my accountant, my resume, etc. Twenty years ago if you wrote something, you printed it. There weren't those nice places on the web where you can tuck things like a daily diary entry (a blog), or photos from some part of your life with Instagram, or remember someone's birthday on Facebook..

All of a sudden today, for some incredibly intelligent reason, my printer died as a printer, but was reborn as the scanner it was always meant to be.

These days printing documents is such an undesirable chore. But drawings! Drawings done with pen and ink can be scanned, made digital, combined with text, flow towards film!

But less and less are we printing. I no longer print car directions or maps. I scan them mentally, commit them to memory, or if too complicated to remember in detail . . I use MapQuest  with my iPhone.

So the printer of this machine died . . . but his head is up . . . he scans the world around him. . .

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Song of 81 Poems - XXXV




Dark Velvet, an enemy seen hereafter.
Yes, our party died,
   Gnosis was upon her, behind every mountain.
To pass it all on, today we cared,
   as you and I together lived.

Did we make figure art better?
A borderline community of ideas,
   This is why I follow progress.

Daze rediscover, give. You never understood beauty.
The Muse sees all.
I tried, she wasted me, sculpted hot and dirty.
   my queen's sculpture envied my music.
Bad aesthetic competitions had such freedom then.

Some original experimentation there . . .
   tried in your art, a nude-mind metaphor.
Insanity could buy you trust.
I assume you're very curious,
   a vile fellow around pure life.

Canvases might live create and write,
   if balanced bold and soft.
Catch a child, straight, feeling nerved,
   free to imagine a woman's curiosity.

The hard and soft sculpture
which glitter girls buy
   the full opportunity,
   calms the crazy leader.
Tell us, do you delight in discovery?
Heal deep Death and show up fast,
   Write draw, use this to progress.

My greatest curse would be to hedge my bets, on beggars!
Confront passion you and her,
   denial followed every laugh.
Solutions written on empty shards.
My daughter progresses, her mind will crush life.

Come, you need caution.
   Will her father love, a jealous boy?
Our pet spider won't offend dormant wasted metal.
If my mind writes this crass choice,
   Learn fellow, isn't your Mom around?

Quiet! I'd rather be recording in Russian,
    Rozhdestvensky, Shalamov,
 The man says this picture rocks water unity like a rose,
   makes a new banal music,
      in a surreal film.
Drunk killers still have wants . . .
   for love.
Every laugh is thrown on positive water.
   Smoke no grass.

Stop to see guilt, only whose is it?
When will we make deep sky?
   See, Laurie has an experiment.
Bright energy . . . is an awful hidden,
   and daunting, reserve.
Know patience . . . we see heaven as silent.

Our many companions see you on Crete,
   scratching our empty noses, nude.
   We can buy the tinker a hollow piece.

She waits away some despair.
   Scream Partner, later you just might score,
      Be obsessed, make mental quick
         drawings, about romances only you will model.
You are part childhood, so sleep.
   I feel your Mama's song could impulse soft perfect drugs.
She sings with spirit, captures unity.
   Sponge-faced Madman, compose questions.

It's in Myanmar!
    A verbose model has class,
    Sober Miss. My goodness, you took him to bed..
Beauty forms a thought silhouette.
   When liars are at process, capture me Babe,
      we take praise, killers of life.
Brother we compose harmony by deep dance.
   It's why she comes,
   We need this to feel free.

So patiently respect nude play,
   I’m pressing,
'Chant!' she would say.
   Feel that on her languished sleep.

Scream subject to an edge,
Your senses esteem,
their fine dance.


Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


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