Have You Ever

Been inspired by a textbook?

Awoken Early One Dark Morning

To words flowing in seamless sentences through the mind,

Stream of between consciousness

Turned poetic gush when pencil

Is finally placed sleepily upon paper?

Dreamt of a shiny, lacquered Wooden Bench

Blinding in its bright design of peppercorn-sized colorful shapes in patterns 

like Polish Pottery

only more wildly colorful and supposedly from Egypt

but reminiscent of Russia?

How about this. 

Heard your name {in its nick form} drift from another room 

by adored friends, responded grudgingly from a desk

softly lit in mid-night shadow,

to their call:

Look at the snow.

Shrouding Seattle. 

This Morning's Night. 

a sense of place.

I only want to.

I see no problem with loosing 

oneself

often.

It builds humbleness 

and a stronger sense

of the power

of the personal narrative.

Freedom.

to meander down dusty roads

in thought and in body

turning eyes to the sun

and back to the dust.

to feel the beginnings of spring

forcing its wobbly, kinetic energy 

through layers of silent winter sun 

in spindly tendrils of molecules upon bare skinned faces. 

to let the place consume the Self

then realize it, murky thick air

through which the body moves

in the rush to orient the Self whilst separated into the Other. 

{first photo via ffound.

second and third photos via Joanna Goddard, by Linn Photography.} 

chills.

Loving The Gardner by The Tallest Man on Earth.

When I’m feeling under the weather. And the weather is all about a thin layer of entirely unexpected snow under bright blue skies.

Pull on an old thick sweater, brown and knobby, wrap up physically then mentally with plucky notes from a guitar somewhere is Sweden.

And feel the chills. 

a letter.

Sophie--of this aforementioned collection of musings--recognized me on her blog. And so I have this to say:  

Your words made my heart leap to my throat. Such recognition is akin to being spied by another while looking through the keyhole oneself—thrilling, in a word. I can’t express the evocation of charm in my pleadingly optimistic being that our mutual understanding elicits.

In my final year at a small university in Seattle I am embedded in the heart of the city yet balancing on the precipice that separates comfortable academia from the thrill of boundless and unprotected Life. And in the middle of the extremely tactile and the extremely cognitive is this fissure we can fill any way we choose.

Andreas Huyssen wrote this:

“The past is not simply there in memory, but it must be articulated to become memory. The fissure that opens up between experiencing an event and remembering it in representation is unavoidable. Rather than remembering or ignoring it, this split should be understood as a powerful stimulant for cultural and artistic creativity.”

It is odd to be surrounded by friends who have those tactile goals, easily definable in society’s structure. Most of the time it’s grounding to be surrounded by people possessing such certainty of profession. But what about the kind of goal that doesn’t slide so easily into an already carved out cavern?

My ideal is to be in a collaborative and creative relationship with similarly oriented people, where we produce work that is at once meaningful to ourselves and the larger collective community. Thus, our personal fulfillment—this powerful force of life and love and questioning but foundational curiosity—can be transferred to a larger audience, to humanity, enriching other’s lives as well. Inspiration by ideal, by living a life of creative and dynamic exploration.

And so, this is why your press and your words buoy my own soul with renewed concentration... and hope of creative fulfillment.

Thanks! 

 

Love.

It has been a few Tuesdays now, that there ran, in the Science Times section of the NY Times, an article about love. More specifically, an article about avoiding love--at least that's what the writer suggested. 

What ensued in my mind were absurd and tragic comedies of a Sleeper-esque machine in which love {well, in the literal case of Sleeper, physical love} is relegated to the flip of a switch. Where cognitive significance has disappeared, been forgotten and if remembered, thought of as silly.

Why would you bother to go through all of that time and effort when you can neatly take care of a craving in less than 30 seconds, then peacefully return to "regular life?" Why would you want to experience all of that distracting emotion when you have a particularly demanding week at work? Or, to use the writer's example, if you are in the midst of a mid-life crisis and become attracted to someone other than your significant other, why not just medicate oneself against desire? Instead of recognizing the situation, identifying the underlying issues and attempting to reach a common ground of understanding, why not just take the quick and smooth route in the form of a pill or elixir to stifle any unwanted {or wanted} urge? 

Yes, perhaps it could stop someone from doing something they may later regret. But it could also stop them from recognizing and addressing any deeper problems. Oh, and then there is very minor obstruction, just that human propensity to fall into something all-consuming and earth-moving... right, love. 

Here is the article, Anti-Love Drug May Be Ticket to Bliss written by John Tierney. 

Photo by the always lovely Danske. 

resounding.

It is a unique occurrence {as of late, at least} when I find myself unable to surface from an eloquent and elegant spill of words. More unique--and if my memory serves me correctly, never before come upon--is when that voice is of today and blinding me from the digital glow of the computer screen. 

Sophie Ward is the 23-year-old woman behind such incredible initiative. Paper Castle Press is the publishing company she has created to push new ideas forth in whatever form best fits its dialogue. 

Ward touches many realms of thought in her wanderings, yet what strikes me {so far} as particularly exact are her ideas on identity:

"Identities are spend-thrift in today’s culture. We devour and denounce identity, and our sense of self as rapid as the food we consume, the videos we watch, the paths we go down. With internet and digital media so prolific and easy to use, expression is everywhere, and possible everywhere. So, where is our voice? Where have all the deep, hearing and speaking voices gone?"

It took me a long time to begin blogging and even longer to join online social networks like Facebook. Still, I continue to question the legitimacy of so many isolated voices in a digital landscape not populated by any breathing, blood-filled being; so many people forcing their ideas and their bodies into a seemingly limitless realm, an odd boundless cloud, invisible and difficult to define. The possibility to reveal oneself in this space--the internet--has been around for such a length of time that it seems people have become comfortable entering into this bleak terrain. Many have their own blogs {recently, a majority show of students' hands in a communications course measuring those who have blogs left me floored}, yet I'm ever curious about whether or not the urgency of what they have to say deserves a special place in the current conversation. I  readily apply the same censorship to myself, oftentimes wondering if what I have to say is worth the space, however obscure internet space may seem. What cathartic purpose do explicit and oftentimes fiercely personal confessions and narratives have for the blogger? And where was this outlet before the internet provided unedited and uncensored immediate publication? 

"In the 21st century, identity seems to overthrow what we as people think, feel and experience. Why, one might ask, should I divulge that part of my human existence? Why speak louder from an internal place than act in defense of my external self? Because space is becoming available for what works for humans, as intelligent beings living on a great and now connected planet of continents and cultures, to shine through the lattices of those externally crumbling structures."

Elevated and dreamy, her writing is rooted in a deep philosophy which supports a painterly and poetic landscape with validity and meaning. I strive to create similar worlds, escapist and luminous, but founded upon strong ideals and infused with a passion for truthful dialogue about difficult  questions, oftentimes  unanswerable with one definitive statement. 

Sophie Ward's Blog is here.

Paper Castle Press is here. 

constant, i hope

and inescapably inspiring

what ever the recipient

or whom ever

and only defined

by the lover. 

Photo from The Selby.