Its a misty late summer afternoon in Seattle,
some Howard Roberts style electric guitar jazz is riffing on the radio.
A mug of fake coffee with Hazelnut syrup is steaming away on the taberet
while the darkness of my barely lit studio wraps around me.
I’m wondering how I might write in the same way that I paint —
moving colors around on a new canvas seems easier than moving words around
on a new page.
A painting starts with a few colors chosen and spread around on a canvas with a brush or palette knife, then maybe a rag to smear light washes, starting to see something emerge is such a thrill.
Writing seems so clunky, words must be typed or handwritten in a pretty much linear form so as to be readable and have some meaning — or do they?
If I were to put down a random selection of words I would then have to either cut them apart and rearrange them physically or erase them and re-write or, cut and paste to get a new creation. Is it worth it?
I hate editing as much as I hate doing pre-ordained imagery in paint, preferring abstract expression to classical illustration.
I want to create written works that have the same ethereal yet engaging quality that my paintings have– to transport viewers/readers to a place where they take ownership of the words as they spark new images, ideas and words of their own in their minds and hearts.
So, let’s try something out here — throw down some words and move them around. Here goes:
saliva mountain mounting glancing abundance around throwing riffs drums cymbals driving lemons gout midday ringing signals whistling macaw juniper jungle rhythm jingling q-tips phoenix eraser needle-nosed broom sharpen pen boom heater wheel fundamental
OK, now let’s see what happens in various rearrangements, adding some connecting words and punctuation:
Whistling mountains foretell the ringing of the macaw
and the jungle rhythms throwing riffs into the mounting
midday abundance of lemons and needle-nosed drums
as you sharpen your pen over the glancing heater at your side
while the phoenix-like boom erases the q-tip’s subtle strokes
from the fundamental wheel angles that signal the beginning
of the driving cymbals in the juniper broom that sweeps
the fundamental glancing aside and leaves you inspired.
…or maybe taken in their original order:
A saliva mountain is mounting, glancing in its abundance
around the throwing riffs of drums and cymbals
driving lemons of gout in the midday ringing — signals
like a whistling macaw in a juniper jungle with its rhythm
jingling like a q-tip in Phoenix, an eraser of a needle-nosed broom —
so sharpen your pen, your boom heater wheel is fundamental.
… there are some possibilities there — maybe.
Or, what if I just take them as a starting point for a stream of consciousness ramble:
Thoughts of fresh lemons hanging in the midday sun
echo in my mind as the gloom of autumn settles in
to the rhythm of ringing cymbals and mounting drums
Rising like the Phoenix from the gout of the jungle
to the heater from which the macaw and juniper merge
into a whistling wheel of throwing song and saliva
Driving the broom wheel into its fundamental q-tip
as the needle-nosed eraser pulls on the strings
and the pen moves out into the night with a transcendent riff.
Nonsense making sense, that’s what its all about. Its the only way to inspire some original thought, some intrinsically unique experiences that can’t happen with words that have too much meaning as they are, common phrases. Telling a story is one thing, inspiring some original thought is yet another. I guess I’m going for the latter in a more direct way, trying to circumvent the redundancy of familiar situations and their influence on thought patterns.
Its a continuation of my initial forays into what I called “thought generation by exposure to non-objective media” back in the late 60’s in New York and later in Park Forest at Governors State University. Guess I haven’t changed much basically. I was inspired by Dada — Marcel Duchamp, Max Ernst, Man Ray, et al while a student and felt that my entire career as a graphic designer was a work of conceptual art or, merely a way to make some money masquerading as a design consultant.
So, as I transition into adding writing to my painting I want to bring that same approach to bear, hence these stabs.
I hate editing, re-writing so, you’ll just have to bear with my
unvarnished uttering and find what gems you can. Why?
The more I leave to you, the more of personal value you’ll find
as you let these words settle in to the fertile soil of your mind.
________________________________________________
meeting your muse
Horizontal folds of blue magic surround the twirling air currents that swirl around
the outer edges of this room and leave a soft pulsing light as if a cloud of energy had descended
from out of nowhere, leaving a scent of incense and fresh air mixed with the smell after
a rainstorm on the fresh grass of a summer field, now drenched in a warm orange glow.
Spikes of bright green wave in this gentle breeze, emanating the essence of liveliness
whispering of new beginnings and an unusual ability to sense the new in the familiar
as ever lightening clouds glide against the deep blue sky leaving nothing but nothing
in its path but the feeling that something new is being born in this most comport-able place.
The room and it’s contents begin to move about in their own independent ways, some in,
some out and others around as things now begin to take on the aura of another place entirely
and the energy is palpable as your very being seems to be experiencing the same dis-integration, in a nice way, floating pieces of your thoughts and feelings intertwine.
Contrasting thoughts and ideas meet in juxtaposition and affinity at once becoming friendly
as the obvious and the hidden, the sublime and the ridiculous dance in cozy confluence
and new insights begin to bubble up from within your own colored space to join in this
merry pirouette of consciousness and sensory pulsing you feel, this dizzying ambiance.
Listen then as the sound of the nostalgic clarinet hums with the piano and the flowers on it
and the unicorn and the gas station down the street flirt with the passing days of swimming light
into the forgone bidding of the old woman who wears the fresh rose in her hair, singing
old show tunes and holding forth with a chorus of air conditioners in the most beautiful concerto.
The sharpening stone makes its presence known to the crayon of red but not so as to blind
the frog in the old Sprite drinking the elixir from a paper cup and a plastic straw — hold on.
Fantastic blankets of pink and pale blue flit past in little pieces with furry bumps and satin edges
rubbing your cheek, touching only the lightest fuzz as the thumping trumpet explodes gently.
Fat orbs glistening with juice and fresh pulp of fruity tendrils, leaking an aroma of cinnamon
soft-edged in their pubescence and ripe in their maturity approaching a fermented sound
like a muted saxophone in a smoky club or darkened alleyway as cats howl and sirens hum
and the smells of musk softly fill your nostrils and turn into your own array of colored light.
Slowly a chant begins deep inside and you can hear it welling up just behind your lips
as your breathing falls into a deep, slow and soft rhythm — hnn — hmm — hnn — hmm
and now all is bathed in pastel light as the sounds of your primordial tissue reverberate
slowly taking you beyond consciousness into the light where you rest awhile, and Return…