Posts Tagged ‘stream of conciousness’

ramblingIntent

Thursday, August 26th, 2010

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…

man with a gut

Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009

I’m not poetic lately
don’t really know why

Maybe its just life spreading out
in a thin layer in time and place

or is it the drone of daily activities
stretched out by inadequate systems

and wonderful distractions like walking
or bicycling or just hanging out

Nothing to write home about as its said
but who’s writing home anyway?

All I can see is these words
are making a shape

like a headless
man with a gut

just standing
here on this

page for
who knows what.

what …

Sunday, June 28th, 2009

what is a man to do when his world is treating him so well
when he sees untimely death met with calm and dignity
and love taking all sorts of shapes in encounters sought

when feeling like a prophet comes nearly as often as feeling
like a persistent misfit in everything that surrounds
and wanderings produce nothing but more insights

and frustrations with physical glitches and mental chaos
which occasionally congeals into wonderful and lyrical
expressions that melt hearts and spark minds into ecstasy

when joy and inspiration is found in foreign tongues
and ancient music that in their abstraction strike a chord
harmonious with some eternally structured inner energy

that we all feel from time-to-time but mostly ignore
or deny in our frenetic flashing between future and past
while successfully missing the fine point of the present

so as you are reading this feel your breath calmly moving
to an ancient rhythm without your effort or intention in
and out in symphony with your heartbeat in your own song

of life and love as it sings along punctuated with your thoughts
and actions without ceasing over and over as it bends your days
and nights will it crescendo or nova or just hum along …

morning noise

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

The morning News should be called the morning Noise
it bangs away at the pane of my brain nearly shattering
my delicate thoughts that are wistfully floating in my waking
revery so essential to communing with the inner voice.

Do I really need to know what atrocities are going on
at this very moment as they are all part of a blanket woven
from strands of enmity since antiquity and shouted in all
languages the same and can only be countered by bliss

and balance through pain and anguish as we slowly evolve
knowing our path is upward is of utmost importance and
therefor the input of Noise should be limited to what is required
to maintain a background for wonder and love. Shhhhhh.

flash in the trash a rash of stash

Tuesday, April 28th, 2009

and nothing else that’s new
a glimmer in the night precludes
a run on the food-bank instead

of milestones placed by runners
of sleds bearing gifts bartering
for smooth faces and wet loins

in the entries of clubs and bats
are leaving the confines of misery
to enjoy the bliss of ravens

when mockingbirds are parroting
the real estate magnates in the sand
for carrying out someone else’s trash

and why not says the ferret
who is a symbol of the ever-seeking
minds of tarot readers and shaman

alike in their quest for rhythmic
balance of power and might beside
the seven-eleven of their souls delight

only to find a carcass instead
of the bonfire inside that glowing
shell of mercy beside the walls

of brick and murder just above
the sealing wax which is funneling
into a bright new flower

back-and-forth in its repetitious
swings as this rhythm plays itself
right out of existence — for now anyway

sniff, slurp, cough-cough
and more mundane thoughts
in a random spewing decorate pages

with nonsense that may divine
some meaning somehow, somewhere
for anyone who will look deeply enough

without allowing the dense filter
of academic analysis to cloud further
the already vague images set forth

while the writer is in a fog
of illness and weary of sitting motionless
feeling the flash of time missed

out of synch with the environs and inhabitants
of the whole tableau set before the eyes
that wince with stiffness above the running

nose and dangling throat of raspy snot
and gooey slime that weighs down a mind
that’s better suited for racing and speed

rather than the confines of sluggish
non-thought, non-action, non-non and non-anon
so its time to quit and leave the rest for rest

…but I digress.

snot & phlegm

Tuesday, April 28th, 2009

i long for a flow of nonsense
that can awaken me from a lethargy
brought on by my body playing
with some cold germs

from an airplane through my partner
because of the past taxing season
at H&R Block ® – go figure
and remember to wear a mask

of amontillado when approaching
a distant relative of the writer of Zoro
especially if there is salmon involved
and catching a virus is not scheduled

on anyone’s itinerary and certainly
not a sought after condition
when weather is turning warmer
and the full heat of desert summer looms

is it any easier to paint than write
when the body is in a funk through no fault
of its owning anything resembling a
good haircut or decent clothing

or even a mind that can think clearly
but then that’s never held me back before
so I should launch into writing from
mucus and phlegm constricted depths

from the post mental drip of old ideas
may sprout some neti fueled clearness
and perhaps a few lucid words but
i want more, much more from this pit

of snot than most would expect because
that’s me, the great expector of miracles
and good from bad and all that stuff so
i’m really disappointed that this is all

i could come up with when i was just
beginning to see something through that
foggy golden glass that separates me
from the figures and their shadows

within that warm and inviting room
where there appears to be a lively discussion
of things immortal and yet so much
of the flesh and i want to engage it

ambling rambling on why

Sunday, April 12th, 2009

Why have I got so many good images stored in my mind and why do I always feel compelled to get them out?

I see streams of light radiating from floating spheres that approach and recede with wispy tendrils wrapping themselves around the orbs creating a fluctuating emanation of a groove that feels like the blues transfigured into verbal realities and shades of continually varying colors.

I want to just flow like honey onto the surface of the medium and softly emerge in your mind as a glowing warmth with just a hint of a sharp cool edge that sparkles with the dew from the poignant analogies and ideations, where numbers and colors mix in a frenetic dance through the rainbow-hued fog and smoke of distant fires.

Non-thematic ramblings into the throat of the horn that protrudes from the skull and serves as a funnel for sucking up all the nectar that is so abundant yet out of sight for most who are stuck in the plane of material numbness waiting to be delivered to the doorstep of freedom in some anarchic new order that maintains a balance of bliss and stiletto rasps of anguish to the tune of bent steel and sinew.

Spiking pins of light pierce my lethargy and spark new icing and fewer ringlets of fear with the wind in palm fronds mirroring the nascent seeds of nescience that lead to the illumination beyond the ordinary levels of preconscious thought and imagination and it just keeps going on and on and on.

There is no answer to the why’s and there is no end to the images and compulsions that drive me onward every day toward I know not where, why or what since that is the way of creation, not knowing but being in the evolving continuum that rings with a rhythm of colors and scents that signal the arrival of the state sponsored high that is the essence of life in these parts.

easter island 2009

Sunday, April 12th, 2009

What do we do when left totally alone and unencumbered,
are plants growing and fruiting allowed to be mechanics for motive force?
When the wind blows and candles are strewn along with scented soap
in the alleys of sporting entertainment for the honey vendors to scoop
the venue will close for the duration of natures delight and whimsy.

Forget those committed days and enjoy the freedom of thinking without
colors being proscribed nor audiences needing to be satiated in their bliss.
When words fail and the images of remaindered hooters are all that surface
there can be more relaxation required to get the river gurgling to the sea.
Curl your western straw hat with tipped brim and belt the blues any way you can.

If all the parts are a little rough, they can be made to work probably better
than being all perfect and lifeless like day-old hotdogs with bricks of red.
Its amazing how the flow of our hearts goes through the systemic pulses
of our strange indoor plumbing and emerges scattered and seemingly unconnected
only to amaze us with clarity and insight that surpasses our conditioned vista.

As a parabiosphericalastroplasmologist intuits, so shall the direction of data
and somnambulant revelations get to the position of kicking some ass
serious or not when it meets the receptors of mass deadness and scrim.
Roll on into the gathering asphalt and run to the flight line for reconnection
to the other half of a great equation that is pleasingly unstructured.

Time to wash the grime and sweat from the backs of shirts and shorts and socks
of white stained with the desert’s silica and spores from mutant bushes of gray.
Let the drying air bring exhilaration and peace to the dried up moss that arcs
through inner passages filtering thoughts and images into sprinkled sand.
On this day of rising, reflect and proclaim bliss and transmuted pain, again. Smile.

reflections on finishing to rockin’ metal

Monday, February 9th, 2009

The hard-toothed comb of the slamming metal
brings home the deep rhythm of millennial in-the-dirt fun.

The hard pounding beat and the flanged metallic strings resound
This is america, this is the pulse, this is the deep rooted anger
turned into sexual energy and transmuted into soaring bliss.

My body moves — surfing on the meniscus of a song
bringing out the subtle finish, the glistening surface.
Beneath my strokes new worlds emerge into the light
of three-dimensional sound reverberating with the scents
of long passed organisms fermented into a translucent luster.

A Trans-Am with Free Bird blaring slams into the brick wall
while a glistening and cackling big-block jerks to life
inside a vibrant enamel shell,
a sputtering and barking Alfa breaks the sound barrier
and flies through its own blinding skipper blue flash.
All borne on the loft of a southern fried howl.

This music has driven the birth of a multitude of mechanical wonders,
works of art in steel, rubber, lacquer and wax,
fantastic realizations of visceral dreams
and blasts of primordial urgency.

Rock on — to the place where it all blends in a roaring fusion
of love, light and fire; of sweat, grit and funk.
Sit back and revel in the beauty wrought —
the ultra-smooth panel, the glistening highlights
of the honed and polished passages.
My soul flies over the expanding plain, the rush of pride
in the finished work, the budding thoughts
of the next exciting venture that will take me
back to the beginning — again. Rock on.

pruning day

Friday, January 9th, 2009

Green against light blue and white.

Branches reaching skyward soon to be topped. Seeking the view, the control over nature.

Shaping content, bending the branch, making a difference, leaving a mark. Is it worthwhile or just a passing breeze. Being, doing.

“If you are what you do, when you don’t, you aren’t” — William J. Byron

Orange and yellow, tan and lines of darker brown. Warming the cool, lighting the ground.

Good morning world.