Where the Quiet Dust Is Quieter Still…

At this time of memorials, on a weekend dedicated specifically for the purpose, I remembered the photograph I took upon exiting West Cemetery in Amherst Massachusetts.  My specific purpose of the recent visit was to leave an amethyst remembrance at the grave of Emily Dickinson on the anniversary of her May death.

Emily’s poems impact much of my writing and in homage to her as a female writing ancestor, I wanted to pay my respects to her and visit her where all journey’s end – in “this quiet dust.”  As I left Emily’s gravesite,  I circled around the more grassy driveway to the less visited area of West Cemetery – the quieter still part.

I was struck by the way the morning sun struck the slanted, multi-colored stones. In this part of the cemetery, jonquils sprouted randomly, disconnected from any particular grave.  Their flecks of white punctuated the stones they stood in front of.  The headstones colored in earthy tones of bronze, and brown and gray, could have been lifted from an Andrew Wyeth palette.  Dust permeated every particle of this somber stilled scene, from the pollen-filled air to barnacled crevices on carved stones.

This was that finite infinity that Emily often spoke of–the receding progression of names obliterated by centuries of rain and wind and sun and snow.  This was the dust of the dust-to-dust that the eons had produced—the embodiment of what we are perceived to come from and what we will return to again.

As I contemplated this scene, a bit of bright color caught my eye and another bit and another.  Sprinkled throughout this overgrown, seemingly forgotten space,  bits of red and white and blue started to pop out.  Reminders that someone still remembers our veterans, those who heeded the call to service, those who may have given their all.  Someone remembers still.

Someone plants a flag and livens up this quiet dust.  Someone remembers an unnamed veteran who served in an almost forgotten battle.  Even in this remote realm, someone remembers.  And to us, as a nation, that has made all the difference.

Have a color-filled holiday full of life and hold dear the remembrance of things now past.  My wish is that we all enjoy peace.  Peace.

 

P.S.  I think there are four flags showing in this photograph but there were many more scattered amongst the stones.

Striking it Hot – National Poetry Month 2012

Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.

William B. Sprague

 Yeah! It’s National Poetry Month.  For 2012, I’ll write and post a draft poem each day during April based upon a poetic inspirational source.  

To make it easy for followers I’m posting in various places.  In Twitter, I posted many of the sources.  Poetry drafts and notes on creative process will be included on my Facebook writer’s page, Taylor Collins.  You can like me there so updates will appear in your feed.

This blog post has been updated with all available links that I’m using for my work for National Poetry Month - April 2012.  Please share your favorite links, a poem or two, or comments.   I look forward to hearing from you. 

1. April 1, 2012 – Linda Pastan “April”
2. April 2, 2012 – George Bilgere “Desire“
3. April 3, 2012  -  Don Chiasson “Tree”
4. April 4, 2012 -  Rita Dove ”Insomnia Etiquette”
5. April 5, 2012 -  Simon Armitage’s “Sold to the Lady in the Sunglasses and the Green Shoes”
6. April 6, 2012 – Garrett Hongo’s “Something Whispered in the Shakuhaski”
7. April 7, 2012 -  Lucille Clifton’s “Homage to My Hips”
8. April 8, 2012 – - Emily Dickinson collage in response to George Bilgere’s “Robert Frost”  
9. April 9, 2012 — Fleda Brown’s “Translation”
10. April 10, 2012 — Linda Blaskey’s “Rest Stop, Eighty-Seven Miles from Asheville”
11. April 11, 2012–Kay Ryan’s  “Thin”
12. April 12, 2012 – -Jane Kenyon’s “Thinking of Madame Bovary”
13. April 13, 2012 – Narrative Magazine’s Prize & Mathew Dickman’s “Slow Dance”
14. April 14, 2012 – Gerald Stern’s “Another Insane Devotion” 
15. April 15, 2012 – NYT’s “Tax Break”
16. April 16, 2012 – @dreamersteve_99 -  Twitter poem
17. April 17, 2012 – Michael “Flathead” Blanchard’s Obituary
18. April 18, 2012 - They found me via google with what?
19. April 19, 2012 – Suan Swager Johnston’s painting
20. April 20, 2012 -  My photograph – Stone Hand
21. April 21, 2012 -  B&N’s newletter
22. April 22, 2012 – Kevin Young “Serenade”
23. April 23, 2012 – Kristen Gillibrand’s email “Senseless” & Twitter #TMMPoetry
24. April 24, 2012 – Sheila Bender’s Literature in Letters
25. April 25, 2012 – Marie Howe’s “After the Movie”
26. April 26, 2012 – Tony Hoagland “How It Adds Up”
27. April 27, 2012 – A Reunion of Poets – Object Poetry – Ekphrastic Views
28. April 28, 2012 – Greg Watson’s “Now”
29. April 29,  2012 –   Stephan DeDakis’s  - “Metro Girl”  shared by John DeDakis
30. April 30, 2012 – Robert Bly & Wislawa Szymborska - Two favorite love poems.

Enjoy the month of April  – of renewal where poetry, like pollen, clings to everything.  My poems will be the basis of a chapbook and used in my workshop, “Finding Yourself in Time.”  Details available soon.  Please consider subscribing to my blog so you will be sent all updates.

These Sixties Aren’t Those Sixties

Wendy (of Peter Pan) : He has no unhappy thoughts.

Ok – I admit it.  I guess I sort of kind of thought I might make it off this planet alive.  Not really – but there seemed a glimmer of hope, at least, that children of the sixties were somehow ageless.  We really weren’t getting old.  But Davy Jones died.  He was 66.

Maybe it’s because Davy didn’t become overexposed in later life.  He popped up every once in a while on a show or special – usually in some sort of spoof of himself.  And Mickey Dolenz was always my favorite Monkee so I’m not sure why the death of Davy is of such impact.  I had a thing for drummers as Ringo is and was my heart-throb Beatle.  And Mickey was Circus Boy.  Circus Boy.  How I loved that tyke when I was a tyke.

We didn’t watch Davy become a canyon-wrinkled Jagger, a Sinatra-Rod Stewart, a face-lifted-beyond-description Wayne Newton.  And sadly, even those born a little later, like Jon Bon Jovi, we see him advertise a pain reliever as if we are to believe, we will rock on forever with the help of a pill.

Davy was out of view of  late.  Davy wasn’t a great talent – in acting or in singing.  He was just plain cute.  God, how we loved cute in the sixties!  In our coming of age, cute always caught our attention.

But one minute we were slow dancing under crepe-paper streamers in a gym and the next we were dying in Vietnam.  We wanted to make love all day in the sunshine as we watched Mission Impossible and Ed Sullivan at night.  We had records of the Kingston Trio beside the Stones next to The Supremes and hated Dylan for losing his roots but wrapped his words around us like a flag no matter the cause.  We fought for equal pay and handicap accessibility.  We owned Underdog – would fight to the death for him.  We protested and became anti-materialistic.  We burned things like bras and draft cards. We were taught every value and tried to live by the golden rule.

And somewhere along the way we rejected almost every value and almost every rule – so many values, so many traditions, so many rules.  And as someone says -  we became more aware of the cost of everything and less aware of what was truly valuable.  We were smart and we knew it.  Nothing was impossible.

And during this time, we aged.  There’s been a gradual dying down of us.  This, my generation that would not take no for an answer – we who conquered everything put in its path — we started to fall away.

And somehow, with the passing of one of the seemingly most innocent from those days – those youthful days that are cherished in our collective memory as “way back when” – somehow in the passing of Davy Jones–with the death of this one person – there’s a sense of a tolling of the bells – a sort of death knell for our time.

I am suddenly aware, acutely aware, that I’m in my sixties.  This child of the sixties is fully aware of these sixties., and these sixties are not those sixties!  And I think Peter Pan IS dead.

Davy Jones was 66.    I ask you – How is that possible?

And I tell you – These sixties suck!

It’s About the Width of It…

Sources of Inspiration

How Many Years Has It Been?

“I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the  length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well.” – Diane Ackerman

Today I was interviewed by TV reporter, Charlie Paparella of WBOC.  It wasn’t one of those live on-air sessions where you get one chance to fall on your face. Even though I did have ample opportunities as he visited me in my studio, I’m hopeful that in his capable hands any falters will be dumped into the recycle bin.  I’ll let you know when the segment airs.

Charlie took photos of various things in my working space and two photographs that he commented on got me to thinking how lucky I have been to have painted with some wonderfully talented people.

The first photo above is of my dear mentor, Jack Lewis.  He’s a WPA artist and will be 100 this year.  He taught me everything I know about the artist spirit.  I never learned to paint in watercolors even though I tried for many years under his tutelage.  He instilled in me a love of plein air painting (that’s painting outside for those who might not be familiar with the term.)  He taught me how to ”see” as an artist which is a lot different than just plain old looking.

I took this photo in black and white in the late eighties during a class at Rehoboth Art League.  It’s hand-colored with Marshall pencils.   I think there’s an inch of crud on the glass but this photo hangs close by my easel.   I still look to Jack for inspiration even though he’s hundreds of miles away in York, Maine.

The last time I saw him, Dorothy was still alive.  I plan to drop by in May to see him as I’m heading to the Portland area then.  Jack always dressed the part of a bohemian artist, with his beard and beret being the crowning touches.  He has lived a wide and deep and long life. Without his initial guidance and wisdom, I would still be painting bowls of fruit and National Geographic photos.

In the second photo are stalwart painting friends.  Left to right lower level, Helen Duff Thompson, Michele Green, Maria Liberto Bessette, and moi (NTCollins) and in the back Dianne Bauer.   For those who follow in Facebook or Twitter, I’m sure you recognize Maria and Dianne.  We’re still out there painting together after all these years –living wide.  I think this photo was taken in 1998.  Neither one of us have aged!   Helen lives in Pennsylvania now.  Michele is out there all the time somewhere on the Delmarva Peninsula paint brush in hand.  Dianne, Maria and I are still out there somewhere as well, having picked up a few additional friends along the way which I will be writing about more on my Taylor page in Facebook. .

There are others I’m indebted to.  Their photos are not framed in my studio so Charlie and you won’t get to meet them at the moment.  But thanks to Charlie and his inquisitiveness, I had a chance today to reflect on the role of artist.  I’m glad for the reminder that my journey has not been a lonely one.  I’ve been living the width, the breadth and the depth of it here on marvelous Delmarva.

Art in Five-Parts: The “BE” of Me & Other Idiosyncrasies

• Art consumes about a third of my day, gobbles up most of my life in a rather chaotic way. 

   Paint It – Live It

To help readers and followers avoid being swept into the overall  idiosyncratic vortex of my creative and all-encompassing life, I’m simplifying  where you can find things pertaining to my art and art-related endeavors.    I’m developing a separate Facebook page and there you will find these five primary areas of focus :

• Paintings
  • In these postings you will view current works in various stages of progress as well as finished works.  I will discuss such things as the history of the piece or the development of the idea and possibly what works and doesn’t.  Here I will discuss the general inception of the work as well as the provenance of completed works.
• Artistic process and Journey
  • Postings of this nature will be more related to craft.  How the composition is developed.  What challenges were faced and overcome or not.  It will include tips on color, what palette was used, the medium, best practices.  In general anything that may help someone understand about the process that I used.
• Philosophy
  • In these postings I’ll mainly discuss tips on why I paint, what compels me to create.  You’ll find quotes that I like.  Information on artists that I draw inspiration from.  Artists that drive me to distraction will pop up as well.  How I “AM” as an artist – the “be” of me as I like to refer to it.
• Art Calendar
  • This sort of posting will list shows and events of interest.  I’ll list anything that I find exciting that I plan to attend as a participant or as a visitor.  I’ll list plein air dates and places.  interesting workshops and retreats.  You can expect to find information about anything up-coming that helps in either artistic awareness or development.
• Art Collecting for Experienced and Novice Collectors
  • These posts will be of most interest to anyone who is already a collector of art or who wants to learn how to start.  These postings will also be addressed to those who may want to start with limited editions works before they progress to paintings.  My goal here is to take away the fear of buying original art.  Regardless of budget, anyone can start to build an impressive art collection with little time or effort.  As with many things, if you know the basics you can begin.   I’ll discuss my collection in detail and why I’ve collected various artists over the years.  And I’ll share stories of the ones “who got away” – way out of my price range before I acted.
• Friends and Foes
  • Here you’ll meet my friends – some of my best friends.  Some may just be acquaintances.  Some may be deceased.  Some I might not even like that much.  But you will be introduced to some wonderful artists who I’ve run across during my career.

My goal is to not just make you a more educated consumer of art but to help you grow in your appreciation of all that art represents.  The struggles that artists face to bring art into the world and how much your appreciation or lack thereof can impact them is part of what I hope to convey.  You deserve to live in a world filled with exciting, thought-provoking creative expression and part of that experience comes from knowing a little about the artist and the process.  And if you’re an artist, you will see what I’m working on and maybe that will inspire you.  You can also learn valuable tips on how to talk about your work and learn about artists who may be working in the same medium or have the same philosophy that you do.

I urge you to “LIKE” me, Taylor,  on Facebook and to subscribe to my updates there.  I will still  blog here and keep you posted with shorter posts.  I plan to use lots of photos and videos on Facebook and YouTube so you can read, see , or just listen to my two-minutes of not-quite zen.  I hope you will join me on this journey in one venue or another that  I’m hoping to provide.

Your comments and questions are always welcome. It’s so much fun to be both an artist and a writer.  All of you can teach me so much.

In case the hyper-link fails, here’s the link for you to cut and paste:  http://tinyurl.com/7s96ul7

What’s Sex Over Sixty Got to Do, Got to Do With It?

I’m annoyed – mostly at myself.    I’ve been so tied up with sex-related issues lately—in mainly a literary sense.  And before anyone gets excited, this is not going to be about what you may be thinking.  This post is closest to a Public Service Announcement.   I should explain.

As most who know me know, I write.  As I started to write this essay, Tina, the ageless diva,  wails about love–this after I had just finished up some journal writing about an exceptionally passionate evening spent with my friend a few days ago.  For the past several weeks, I’ve been working on poems for the Emily Dickinson contest sponsored by the Poetry Foundation and  also an erotica poetry project from Tupelo press.  I’m also finishing up a review of Mary Tabor’s book, (Re)Making Love: A Sex After Sixty Story.  All these things compounded …well…I’m just plain on overload in matters pertaining to anything even remotely relating to sex or sexuality.

So much so that I wrote some rather catty remarks in Twitter about writer Jodi who wrote the book,  The Obamas.  She was being interviewed on BookTV and I began to increasingly take offense to her comments.   I take offense with a lot that I hear on there as their slant is mostly political viewpoints so half the time I’m irritated.  My ire, while initially directed at her commentary, soon began to focus on her white bra strap which showed beneath her little black dress, sleeveless no less.

Frankly, I’ve never quite forgiven Michelle Obama for the disservice she did to women “of a certain age” by having such wonderful upper arms and the audacity to bare them on every conceivable occasion.  Since my late  great-grandmother became a body snatcher and started to reclaim my upper arms a couple of years back, I’m leery of all women who bare their upper arms.  “Show-offs” I usually mutter as much as I hope not to.

In any event, I found it increasingly impossible to find any credibility in this author who didn’t seem to know that you dress from the inside out, i.e. – if you’re going to wear the little black sleeveless dress, then you sure as heck better be wearing black lingerie or an appropriate color that doesn’t reek of provinciality.

I then found myself asking the question - Why am I so critical of this woman?  What does her un-sexy strap have to do with anything?  She’s written a book.  I’m usually thrilled to learn that a woman has published and is selling.  Normally, I wouldn’t give a hoot what any woman is wearing on BookTV,  but the more this woman seemed to become a caricature of herself, the more annoyed I became that she was bringing shame to the Little Black Dress–the embodiment of sophistication, of elegant understatement.  Some things are, after all, sacred.

I thought of Mary Tabor.  She sorted out the issues of her marriage and separation on her blog and subsequent book– exposed her very soul in her writings.  Would Mary wear unsexy underwear with womankind’s most basic piece of power clothing?  If she were on BookTV, would she be fiddling with a white bra strap showing beneath her little black dress?  I think not!

Come to think of it  I know Mary would not.  In her Frying Pan chapter, Mary discusses in very frank terms underwear.  And she recants how easy it was to spend $1,500 on La Perla lingerie in Neiman Marcus.  Yes, I am certain.  Mary would not be fiddling with a white strap under her little black dress.

There is no other piece of outer clothing that is as slimming, as attractive, as appropriate in almost any setting as the little black dress.  I began to wonder as I watched Jodi fumbling in a public venue–Who failed her?

She obviously got the memo that the little black dress is the most powerful statement any woman can make – the epitome of elegant understatement.   It drips sexuality, strength.  How could she have not read the part that sexuality is from the inside out?  And it’s not about sexy as in sexy-in-a-lingerie sense.

What is it really about?  It’s about confidence.  Allure.  It certainly costs no more to buy black or red or blue underwear.  It’s not even about anyone knowing what color your underwear is.  It’s about YOU knowing. It’s about being a woman.  Beauty is from the inside out.  Sexuality is from the inside out.  All I’m saying is that it only matters that you know what’s on the inside, what’s underneath. And in this case, what it’s really about is the stark fact that you can’t do something half-way – you have to commit wholly to whatever position you’re taking.   You cannot afford a half-hearted effort in anything you attempt nor a stumble.

Maybe that’s what annoyed me the most about Jodi and her strap.  Her guard was down.  Her failure to give in to the totality of her statement by daring to don the sleeveless little black dress was exposed.  With each slip of that white strap her unwillingness to commit to fully becoming a successful, sensual woman was revealed.  She appeared, dare I say it, vulnerable.  To me, this is the equivalent of man rushing out on the football field, jock-strapless.   It just isn’t done unless you’re willing to suffer some dire consequences.

So, to any women reading this  here is my memo to the world and to each of you in case, like Jodi,  some did not get or read the official I-Am-Woman one sent earlier:

Ladies:  In the simplest of terms, when you reach a point where you feel that you have arrived – truly arrived – have come into your own -  are woman – dispose of your white underwear.  This isn’t about sex, it’s about womanhood – the feminine spirit unleashed.  If you’re to the place of wearing the black dress as a power statement, then you must accept that your body will be adorned in matching black or lush-colored underwear as well.  And I will add further for my older friends a cautionary note.  Just as your mother used to tell you to always wear clean underwear in case you were in an accident, I’m advising you in a much graver matter.  I’m asking all of you (and especially those over 60) – Do you really want to die with white underwear on? 

Think about that for a moment.  Visualize this.  Dead.  As in door-nail.  In white grandma-style underwear, drawers as it were.   If you still dye your hair, wear make-up, engage in civil society, and possibly like me – refuse to take out the trash unless you have jewelry, eye make-up and perfume on - take heed.  You do not want to be caught dead in white underwear. 

I used to be afraid of dying young.  Since that’s no longer possible, my last vestige of  womanly allure will be to die in black underwear if possible.  I think it’s part of the cougar code or something.   Life is too short to begin with so there’s little time left for dowdy.  If you want to start with buff or beige or taupe then do that.  I implore you:  Do not become Jodi fiddling with a white piece of spandex in a moment of glory or in your final moment.  Jodi’s misstep cannot have been in vain.  All must learn from this and move forward. 

Women of the world – dump your “drawers” from your drawers.  Rid yourself of any vestige of old-fashioned granny-ism.  If for no other reason, do it for Jodi.  Her BookTV appearance is part of history now.  We can’t un-ring that bell for her.  There’s TiVo.  Permalinks.   The most we can do is insure this doesn’t happen to another one of us.  Help spread this message.  Remember Jodi.  Support DDD (Dump Drawer Day).

Now, go out there and do what women do best – shop!   You know it’s ultimately up to us to fix this economy so get out there right away!  Load up on silk, the microfiber, the spandex.  This is serious.

Note:    If you’re looking for an affordable everyday black sleeveless dress, I love J Jill’s and this is long-sleeved link.  And I’ll tell you more about Frying Pans and underwear when I post my book review of (Re)Making Love unless you buy it right now.   Just shop.  Now go.

All rights reserved.  ©2012 ntcollins

Still Life – Star, Sea

Journal Focus

I’m never certain what attracts my creative eye.

This morning I first noticed an itinerant star ornament, reminding me of a starfish– the way it seems to have washed up on the beach of my pie safe – temporarily connected to blue – the sky, the sea – yet permanently now a part of the semi-permanent photograph I snap.

Maybe it was the cooler shades of blue that drew me in first — their promise to stifle some of the heat that never seems to leave in sync with his departure. These blues so close to the sparkling depth of blues in his eyes in cool moonlight, in warm sunshine.

Or maybe I’m caught by how steamy hot the waiting water for my morning brew seems. The economy of design – this little teapot snuggly fitted to its cup and saucer, juxtaposing of heat – cold. A reminder of my preference for mellow warmth. Yet temperance by the coolness of blue not to be ignored–an awareness that contrast brings about a greater appreciation, a clearer perception of all things.

Or could it be the stack of journals – some of THE journals, gave me momentary pause. Those leather-bound books full of creamy pages, marbled edges,  passionate scripts handwritten in shades of blue now bound in the neatly trimmed signatures.  So many words overflowing in boundless waves.

What exactly drew me in this morning to still for a moment this life to reflect upon material things – and him as he departs? What fascinated me enough that I was compelled to snap this quick snippet?

And will  this fragment shine brightly,  inspire? Will metaphors unfold into a cohesive poem, an intimate painting, a portrait of my life — stilled in this reflective moment?  What will remain of this captured twinkling in the quiet stillness after he leaves?

Or better yet, dear reader, what captures you?

Helen Was a Poet – Perhaps I Never Will Be

I’ve been working on several blog posts – none of which seemed to be working.  I looked for some notes on Emily Dickinson for one of the posts from a pile of  saved notes and papers where  I stumbled upon Helen’s handwritten words on a note card.  I was caught off guard by her beautiful, readable handwriting.   Helen was a dear friend and poet who died recently.   I was also struck by her use of em dashes, a signature trademark of Emily.

And where did she learn to make her ampersands?  I wondered.   A lazy spiral form is how they appear–an overused slinky, all coiled out.  “And” in ampersand mode dangles, falls away from the rest of the orderly script.

Thoughts begin to take shape and I take the following notes:

Her handwriting clings to page

Neat rows like precisely hung laundry,

perfectly pinned

Except those penned ampersand “and’s”

Hung between thoughts,

a stunning array of spiraling, loopy figure eights

As if tossed by an unseen wind—a shift—

perhaps this momentary pause—

With a dash she punctuates each line

And knows that everything dries in the sun

absorbs into a secret language—

I can see her as she puts her finger to lips

Shhhhh – she whispers

“It was fun & exciting & scary & all the rest!!”

She ends with hope — that all is well—

And I can see the pen has fallen—fallen away.

This is the draft that came to me as I held the note card from Helen, read her words, penned in her own now-stilled hand.   Of course, like most writing at this stage, I don’t even know what I’m writing about.  I really have sparse clues as to what anything means or what it may become.  My job as writer in this particular moment is to write down what thoughts arrive – the thoughts that seem to want to be a poem.  The metaphor seems to be clothes drying on a line.  But who knows where this will lead.  Who knows where any writing will lead?

And I think this helps explain the writing process.  You’re writing about one thing or several things & get distracted by looking for something else & in a moment of reflection (when you’re not even expecting it) something starts to develop & you write it down.  I guess this is why I’ve always felt that I’m a note-taker more than a writer.  Over the past 25 years or so, I’ve gotten good at writing things down that come to me.  My problem was, and still is and always will be, how to finish something into a publishable form.  To get to the end of being led – that is my ultimate goal.

So for now – other posts in draft form await.  This came to me today in this moment and I thought I’d share.

I’d love to hear about your experiences.  We can all learn from each other so any insight you have to offer would be wonderful.

Hope all are having a creative holiday season between all the merry – merrying.  Cheers.

PS – Hope you get a chance to check my Etsy shop for the art part of my life.  And don’t forget, the Peace Santa is only available until the end of the year.  My hand-signed poems are available there as well.

Some thoughts on my journaling process are available here.  I retreived Helen’s card from a stack of other cards and thought I’d share the process with you.  You just never know what will trigger your thoughts.  Just be prepared to write them down when they arrive.  Happy journaling.

Astute Insight Into Deep Artistic Thoughts…

Some days painting is just what you want to really, really do.  You don’t want to cry or pull out your hair.  You just want to paint.  So I finished this small plein air painting that I started a couple of weeks ago down on The Green.   It was too cold to paint that day.  I don’t do well in cold.  I don’t do well in heat.   Come to think of it, in weather, I expect perfection and don’t do well otherwise.  In painting…perfection…not so much.   I will have this with me at Delaware Made for First Friday Art Night (Decembber 2) . 12″ x 6″ acrylic

Elvis is always a hunka hunka cat to try and capture.  Everyone has a black and white cat.  It’s a law or something.  I started this last spring.  I, like cats, cannot be rushed.  I will have the painting with me tomorrow.  Not Elvis, though, as he’s always tired and prefers to sleep all day and if he’s up to it, he sleeps all night as well.  Note to self – come back as a cat.    6″ x 6″ acrylic

Woodland Beach, Delaware, is one of those cute looking waterside places that has a fishing pier.  This would be Woodland Beach on some sort of drug.  I got a little carried away with the colors but it’s the cutest little row of houses ever.  I started this about four, maybe five years ago.  I cannot be rushed.  I’m still not sure this is finished, but for now it is.  12″ x 4″ acrylic

So If you’re in Delaware this evening (December 2) stop by Delaware Made in Dover on Loockerman.    I’ll have some other things available and Tom has promised to pull all the corks on the wine!  Cheers.

May You Shadow Dance Even When No One’s Looking…

I like shadows.  Perhaps the substance in their nothingness attracts me. 

Perhaps this is why I shadow-danced the other day in a local state park, Trap Pond, on my way home from Thanksgiving weekend.  It was one of those beautiful late fall days–not even chilly enough to require wearing a jacket.

        Having spent several summers camping at Trap Pond when I was a teenager is one of the reasons I’m so drawn to this place.  It’s changed drastically but somehow, not really.  The basic pond remains and the bald-cypress trees still grasp their soggy-footed hold near the banks of the shoreline.  These trees defy logic in their steadfastness to anchor just slightly offshore.

        But today is about shadows.

 

Birds join me there – I see them flit across the ground.  Their perches high above me cast tiny, barely perceivable shadows on the leaf-cluttered floor of the forest.  And so it is I danced to music only I could hear.

  And It’s almost as if I listened hard enough I might hear sounds of youth trickling across the pond — far-off laughter and chatter.  Memories, another form of shadow, reaffirm that existence, remind me now of loves gained and lost — that long ago flutter of two hearts beating in rhythm in another dance…across another floor.

Wishing everyone a happy holiday season filled with lots of fond memories as you dance your way to plenty of new ones.   Cheers,  Taylor

PS – And for those who read my blog, you can use coupon code Blog20 if you wish to purchase anything from my Etsy shop.  This code will give you a 20% discount until January 31 of 2012.  My best to all of you.

The Thrill of Rejection–Write-on!

an original painting

Failure is not an option I strive for – not a lofty goal – but just recently, I was thrilled by the validation of the rejection of my poetry. 

     At first, I thought it was probably a generic letter of some sort that they send to everyone.  The rather un-imposing looking email had a personal salutation, and here’s what it said:

Thank you for entering “Reflection in Cinquain” in the Poetry Contest. We were grateful for the opportunity to read and consider your work, and we regret that your entry was not one of our winners or finalists this time.

An announcement of the winning poets will soon go out to the magazine’s readership, and in late October, we will publish the winning poems, which include works by notable new and emerging poets.

We continue to look for engaging new poets to publish, and we hope you will keep [XXXXXXXMagazine] in mind for your work in the future.

Again, thank you for your entry, and please accept our kind wishes. Sincerely, The Editors

     I’m not including the name of the magazine and bracketed the change.  But belive me, it’s one that’s highly regarded and ranks third in my list of publications I want to be accepted in.  My first choice would be Poetry followed by The Writer’s Almanac.   I’m one of those “aim-for-the-stars” people, in case you didn’t know, so you can imagine how ecstatic this rejection made me.

Skeptic that I am, though, I immediately checked my online submission’s account with them to confirm if it had the familiar word PASS.  Their email included the title of my poem that was being rejected so I just knew it would be passed on in their database.   But no – it still had the note “Under Consideration.”   This had to be a real honest-to-goodness rejection – not a computerized rejection.

To share my elation at rejection, I started to write a blog post.   Since I’ve been remiss in checking my blog stats and in writing updates - I immediately noticed there was a large influx of visits on the Friday before the date of my personal email rejection.  Since I had not posted recently and had done nothing to direct anyone to my blog, this seemed to further validate that the email was truly a personal rejection.   They must have checked out my blog

My work – personally rejected.

I’m thrilled at this point.  It’s like I’ve almost arrived!   Who knew the thrill of rejection could be so sweet?

And to top it off an article arrived right after my rejection 6 Signs You’re Getting Closer to Publication which now gives me a list to check off.   And I had a non-fiction piece accepted in a smaller publication The Write Place at the Write Time   And a few days later the database was updated-and “Reflection In Cinquain” fell into the unnotable, darkened PASS category with my other rejections.  But for a few moments,  a glint of light named “almost” gave me hope, keeps me writing!

A Library Full of Original Books…

What a concept…

It’s exciting to learn that your work is available for review as part of an international project.  I received the notification just today that Your Name Here, my ArtHouse Co-Op book project, is now part of their digital library.   My original book, as well as hundreds of others, have been traveling around the country this year.

The co-op projects are ongoing and include an international line-up of participants.  This post serves as my primary link to my initial project.  I wanted subscribers to be the first to know about it.

More updates will follow on the process of creating this original book in a Moleskin journal and what was involved.  I encourage all artists and writers to consider the unique projects that Art House Co-Op offers.  I’m putting together a larger manuscript concerning this topic and this project helped me focus some of my thoughts in a creative way.

I will do an official call for additional materials when I get to the next stage in my larger manuscript.  I included a few friends work in this project who were gracious enough to participate.  It’s a lot of fun and I’m hopeful to have the manuscript done by the first of the next year.  Please feel free to contact me directly or comment.

Books Without Borders

It’s not just about a bookstore –although the closing of Borders causes concern on many levels.  It’s about deprivation.  How will those of us who don’t know exactly what we want to read discover what we want to read and what we want to know about that we didn’t know we needed to know about?   Will we rely on libraries to fill this void?  Internet surf till we drop?  Must we all subscribe to trade publications to know who’s who and what’s what?

Maybe it will be up to libraries to take up the slack.  Maybe it’s high time that we realize that as a people – many of us like to congregate around books –searching for a cure to whatever ilks or ills worry us.  Maybe the role of libraries of the future will be to also become booksellers.  We all seem to congregate in both places anyway.  Why don’t libraries open bookstores with free wi-fi and coffee?

     Independent bookstores are still my favorite shops as they have such quirky selections and decor.  But not everyone can be Kramer’s or Tattered Cover to name a couple of my favorites.   B&N cannot take up all the slack in this area.    And in my opinion, there is just not the same ambiance there as in most Borders.  It’s probably the lighting.   And Books a Million never seems to have a welcoming feel for some reason.  Of course these are just personal preferences but Borders always seemed the most comfortable to me of the big box type stores.  Barnes and Noble, though, has the best selection of journals of anyone.  They have all the leather ones with the creamy richest feeling papers.

     I’m not coherent in writing about this today as I just received the official notice in my email that Borders will cease to be.   I bought my last purchases a couple of days ago on Churchman’s Road.

     I will always remember racing over to the DC Borders on 18th & L (I think that’s the right street – I’m a landmark person so I’m never sure of numbers) when the first book that I was in was published.  Water Cooler Diaries  is a compilation of 35 day diaries kept by about 535 women on a certain day.  I was one of the ones selected for the book.

     As soon as I received word it was released, I literally ran all the way from 17th & N where I was living.   I used the computer by the front desk and quickly raced to the section where the book was.  What a thrill to see it lined up on the shelf with all the other books.  I read my chapter while standing in a long check-out line.  I’m sure I was smiling the whole time.  “I’m in a book!  See!  My name is right here!” I wanted to shout – but since it was DC I decided against that.  Instead I only told the checkout person of my great accomplishment upon which he congratulated me- not gushingly but he seemed happy for me.

     That branch of Borders was always filled with shoppers.  I never remember not having to stand in line.  There was always a line – a rather lengthy one each time I went which as those who know me will attest – I buy way too many books all the time so I’m an expert at knowing how busy they always were.   They sent a 40% off coupon almost everyday so I had plenty of excuses to go.

     I guess this is why I’m feeling like a third-world country a little bit.  No Borders.  No quick fix for what ails me.  How can I help fix the economy now without this outlet?  Yes, there’s still Barnes and Noble, but I got bonus bucks with Borders and a lot of free books because of that and all those coupons and wonderful discounts on all sorts of things.

     Here’s hoping that someone can convince libraries that they need to help fill the void.  It will make it much easier for people like me as I often check books out from the library before I decide whether I want - NEED – to buy the book.  Of course, I’m sort of weird as I pay my over-due fines by check as they’re usually rather large  – which I would pay by credit card but libraries don’t take plastic.  They have just got to get with the program!

     In any event,  I think libraries need to set up shop.   It’s time that local government’s realize that there’s money in those books!  And maybe, the wonderful Borders’ employees can find new employment there.

Some Days Just Go to the Dogs

Dolly The Dog

      Wednesday is my usual day to paint plein air but today I spent almost all day painting gifts for a trip out west.  I just started painting dogs recently as, for some reason, I never found them to be a subject I was interested in.  But they’re fun to paint!

      The process of creation is what art is actually about – well that and capturing the light.  All art is about capturing the light.  I guess I get a fairly good likeness.

     I paint fairly passible people portraits sometimes, but usually I don’t get any likeness at all.  I’ll never forget the time I painted a pastel portrait of a local resident named Tom for a fund-raiser and someone purchased it at an auction because they thought it was a person named Becky.  At least I pleased 50 percent of the people that time.  Usually my percentage is much lower in the pleasing department.

     Regardless of what you attempt, do the best you can.  At least Dolly won’t complain if I didn’t get her likeness.  I’ve also posted a painting of Bambi below.  He’s fluffy.  I don’t do fluffy well  in acrylic.  Fluffy works well in pastel – maybe watercolor.  Acrylic?   Oil?  –not so much.

     Pastel works the best for fluffy – the absolute best for hair.  The person I see on a fairly regular basis has wonderful auburn hair.  I’m constantly painting him in my head – outlining the negative spaces when he raises his arm to push his hair back – it’s rather long – sort of Tom Brady length – measuring the distance mentally when his hair falls across his eyes.

     Maybe one of these days, I’ll paint his portrait.   It probably won’t look like him, but it’s about the process.  Picking up those sticks of pastel and smearing them around on the paper.   And I can fill volumes about how light falls across his body.  But that has little to do with painting dogs.

     And I’ve completely forgotten what any of this has to do with anything.   I think I’m finished here.  Cheers.

Bambi belongs to Polly & Dolly belongs to Virginia and Vern

Pen the Dream Along with Me (Part Eight)

Enhanced photo of cypress trees in Sussex County

          I just found the line “she awakes in the dawn and remembers.”    I wish I had written that. Noyes did.

 

      My poem for National Poetry Month grinds along.  I decided to make a little chapbook using my twitter poem as the key piece.  I’ve worked out the form using a template in Lulu, one of those POD companies.  And then,  I found a wonderful poem by Alfred Noyes – a poet I’ve never read – well let’s say I don’t remember reading him before.  And I guess, it’s more accurate to state that the poem found me.  And contained in that poem the line above magically spoke to me.  Things became much clearer.

 

     The Poetry Foundation will send you a poem a day so be sure to check their complete revised site out if you haven’t already done so.  Noyes’s poem, “At Dawn,” showed up the other day.  I wish I had read it sooner as it utilizes the mythology of Hesper-Phosphor – explores the “oneness” of our brightest star, Venus.  Which led me further to Tennyson’s use of Hesper-Phosphor  “In Memoriam.” 

 

     Well, before I knew it I was lost for hours deciphering myths and poems from all over the net.   Even reading some Ovid again.   Why does so much get back to him?  I try to like him, but I still just can’t.  And then I opened the complete cummings and well, things became much clearer. 

 

     I think writers have a tendency to make this a lot harder than it needs to be.  Reading is often the spark of creativity that our  imagination needs.  The universe, as I keep learning, works with us when we aren’t so insistent on trying to always do things our way. 

 

     So with the help of my new-found friend, Alfred and a sprinkling of e e cummings, I’ve worked out a concept for my chapbook.  The book will have four poems total.  The chapter titles (which it really doesn’t need but I love the template design) is based on four lines of cummings.

• Chapter 1 – speaking of love
• Chapter 2 – (of which
• Chapter 3 – Who knows the meaning;
• Chapter 4 – or how dreaming becomes

The longest poem is the thirty parts of the Twitter poem and is Chapter 4.  The tweets are being reworked into seven line stanzas and each numbered with roman numerals.  If you recall,  tweets can be no longer than 140 characters, but I’m not restricted now.  The different parts are grouped on pages according to a sort of predetermined template design supplied by Lulu.  The subtitles of each section of “or how dreaming becomes“ is based on a few lines in Noyes’s poem.  Those titles are tentatively:

• Awakes in the Dawn
• and remembers
• Old Loves
• Old Lovers
• Wonderful
• and unnumbered
• as waves on
• a wine-darkened sea

Last month I was working on the art/poetry project and had a lot of fun putting together a story book in an altered art sort of way – literally cutting and pasting the old-fashioned way.  It’s not been scanned onto the site yet, but you can check it out and follow me if you want so you can click on the link.  It was lots of fun pulling together all the bits and pieces.   Doing this chapbook is similar except all the cutting and pasting has to be done on the computer template.  This is not as much fun I can assure you, but I’ll share more as I work this out. 

Right now, I have to finish two paintings and pack for a trip to the southwest plus a million other details.  Hope you’re writing, creating.  Remember, it’s up to each of us to make sure it matters that we were born.  No one else can make that contribution for you.   Cheers.  

       

“I Started Early–Took My Dog”

     This poem by Emily Dickinson was featured in The Writer’s Almanac last December.  Emily rarely disappoints no matter which poem you choose and hearing Garrison read it aloud resonated.   As I listened to this poem, I saw a truck carrying our town’s Christmas trees to Silver Lake where each year one floats on each side of the bridge that crosses this small lake.  

     I’d never seen the trees actually being set afloat so decided to follow the truck over to check out what the process was.  I doubted if there would be any “Mermaids in the Basement” of this unmythical lake, but maybe I would do as an observer.

     Much to my delight, the “floating of the trees” was a major production.  Two city workers were in a little boat while a crane lowered the dangling trees down to a bobbing  mini-platform.  There were road workers blocking traffic and a Dover policeman with his flashing partrol-car lights as one lane was shut down and traffic was merged into one lane.  I tried to capture the early morning scene with my iPhone but my vantage was not the best from a nearby parking lot. Quite the production was underway for this flotation especially since we were experiencing a cold Yankee clipper wind storm and the temperature was in the twenties.   The date was December 7 which also coincides with the same day in 1787  that Delaware signed the U.S. Constitution, the first state of the original 13 to ratify it. 

     At that point, I started to create a little poem (free verse format) about the tree’s arrival on the lake as a story for my grandson. I had hoped to have it ready for him to give to his classmates as a present for the Christmas holiday that we observe.  But that didn’t work out as the holiday season became overwhelming with the usual overcommittments of time.     So now, I’m trying to finish this poem/story and get it put together into a little booklet format.  Since he draws a lot and fairly well, maybe I’ll have him illustrate it.  That should be something fun to do as respite from the summer heat.  

     As soon as I get our book finished, I’ll let you know about the progress.  Maybe you will find inspitation in reading a poem and expand the idea to create a story for children.  Or maybe you’ll help a child create one.  Tis the season, after all, even though it’s like 80 today and winter’s blast, forgotten like “…Dew / Upon a Dandelion’s Sleeve.”    Cheers.

PS – I found this interpretation of  “I Started Early–Took My Dog”  that I particularly liked.  Emily witnessed much from her small world, traveled so far with no match.

Floating of the Tree

Those Who Write…Those Who Write Clearly

Myrtle's Gift

Those who write clearly have readers – Albert Camus

     Well maybe Camus did clearly have readers or wrote clearly to ensure that the readers he had understood.  For a lot of us,  we’re not sure who’s reading our writing whether we write clearly or not.  One way to make certain that you have readers is to write letters to dear friends or relatives.  

     For the last few weeks I worked on a project about names, (your name here), and found the following quote by an unnamed eight-year-old:  “When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different.  You know that your name is safe in their mouth.”    The same holds true for readers of letters.  You sense as they read words sent to them alone that they may view you differently.  You feel that your words are safe with them. 

     I’m really trying to write to several dear friends on a regular basis.  I’ve set a goal that each month I will directly communicate to those I know who are in their nineties by sending handwritten words.  If I keep at that, I will then start writing to those in their eighties.  My friend Jill wrote to her mother all the time for decades even though they lived close by and saw each other fairly regularly.   And by writing, I mean writing a letter (by hand) and posting it with a stamp.  A legacy of handwritten letters will soon emerge if this habit begins.  

     I keep telling myself that being a regular blogger, posting in Twitter each day, and keeping up with other social media will get my work out “there” and someone will be reading it.  But when I write to a friend like Myrtle who’s just turned 93 and is still freelancing, it is sheer joy.  And that’s what I sent her for her birthday.  Joy.  Trying to return the favor with a simple hand-stamped wall hanging of how much joy knowing her brings to me.  

    Earlier in this blog is a draft poem to a couple of friends who are ninety-six.  It needs some work and I have worked on it a couple of times, but I hope to get it finished by August when one of them has another birthday.  If you’re lucky enough to have older friends or relatives, you might consider writing to them the old-fashioned way.  If you’re lucky, maybe they will write you back, and you can enjoy the fact that someone dear is reading you and saying your name–in a different way. 

     Happy writing – Cheers.   Taylor

Article quotes

Prospect the K9 Road Tripper- One Reason Why I Paint

Prospect Checks Out Old State House

  

      One reason I like painting plein air (painting outside for those who may not be familiar with that term) is that you never know what or who you may run into.   In April, the good fortune to paint ran the gamut.      

 

     The first outing this year I painted over by Mirror Lake.  The view of the Delaware state capitol building is unique from that viewpoint and one of my favorite sites.  My equipment minimal as I little idea where things are as I haven’t painted that much in the past few years.  My palette — a dinner plate, my paints–acrylic – various squished tubes from different makers, and my brushes–crew-cut beauties from every manufacturer known to mankind.  The easel was a light-weight aluminum water-color easel – not exactly the first choice for plein air or acrylics which handle much like oils–only not as pliable.  Well they don’t mix that well for glazing and acrylics are more opaque and stiff.  They aren’t that much like oils, OK.      

 

     While there a visitor or two stopped by.  A bird of prey – some sort of hawk or something – caught a fish and circled overhead for a long period of time to show us his catch.  There was the usual amount of Canada goose poop to walk around and not slip on and there was a breeze that was a little too breezy and it was a little too chilly and my nose wanted to run and my coffee got cold.   And Maria and Dianne and Donna all did better paintings than I did.  But–was this ever fun!         

 

    I managed a colorful spring painting which subsequently sold to a serious art collector, Troy.  This painting hung in an art show sponsored by the Board of Trustees of Wesley College, is featured on my Etsy site and here as well, and now resides with its new owner.  It’s a well-traveled painting at this point.      

 

      The next plein air outing was on The Green – the central area of Delaware’s original government was centered around the Old State House, shown in the first photograph above.  Excitement rules here as the courthouse is located here as well and there are many characters coming and going the whole time.   Passerby’s can certainly ask a lot of interesting questions.   This time it was just Donna and Maria painting &  I employed the same set-up as earlier. 

 

      But this day, I met Prospect and his companion.  They’re on a K9 Road Trip and let me take their photograph in front of the Old State House.  If you need tips on dog friendly places when you travel, be sure to bookmark this site.  You can Like Prospect on Facebook and follow him on Twitter as well.  I’ll post my painting of him one of these days.        

 

     What the heck – I might start a PleinAir Road Trip.  I guess I’ll need to find some more of my gear before I attempt that but I think Prospect is on the right path!  Hope our trails cross again soon.  So far on my plein air trek, I waved farewell to a flying fish and met a dog who’s traveled over 20,000 miles.   I wonder what will be next.  Maybe a charming frog who will turn into a Prince?  I’ll keep you posted.   

Everything I Know About…

One of my original intents in writing a blog is to develop certain thematic arcs that I can expand and explore as deep concepts along the creative pathway of my life.  Some posts might cover the creative process, others might comment on living this dream (sometimes known by its other name–nightmare), while other posts might delve into what I’ve learned from experience on any given topic.

Today I feel compelled to move away from the creative strain of thought I’d been following during poetry month.  With the stresses of too many projects, I felt I should take a few moments and go out onto a different tangent. 

With Mercury still in retrograde, it seems like a perfect time to list everything I’ve learned about men, having garnered much wisdom and insight during the past few decades.  

Everything I Know About Men

Well, let’s see…

› 

 ›

›

›

›

That’s pretty much it.  If you’d like to share what you’ve learned, please do so.  As @Queen_UK, the unreal Queen who tweets would say, it’s #ginoclock.  Cheers.

PS – I do think I can unequivocally confirm that perfect calves are hereditary, and I do agree with poet, Dorothea Grossman, that there is something quite vulernable about men in shorts.

Pen the Dream Along With Me (Part Seven)

SeaColors

 ” My life as I had lived it had often seemed to me like a story that has no beginning and no end.  I had the feeling that I was a historical fragment, an excerpt for which the preceding and succeeding text was missing.  My life  seemed to have been snipped out of a long chain of events, and many questions had remained unanswered.”

Carl Gustav Jung

 

 

I must confess, I’ve confused myself totally.   In the process I set out to do initially to record my process on writing this poem, I realized I have fallen behind.  

 

That being said, in this post I’ll just include my thoughts on these last six parts of the poem that I completed in the past six days.  As stated in an earlier post, it’s rather difficult constructing a poem backwards.  While I have been working with notes collected from various journals and jottings collected along the way, it’s difficult to have already written the end of the poem without knowing exactly where the launch began. 

 

Since I’ve also been working on an art/fiction project, I rediscovered Jung again a few days ago and that connection seems to clarify the beginning of this poem for me which in this case will be simultaneously the ending.  You’ll just have to trust me that I think I’ve worked this out. 

 

Some of my thoughts on the poem thoughts:

• In dreams,upon this darkened, shadowed stage,our characters murmur/ speak in unscripted dialogue. We clutch at passing words. Part 12

The dream state finds you oftentimes in unfamiliar territory where many characters appear in shadow or in voices only.  An image remains in shadow, fades.  Sometimes it’s as if you’re an observer while at other times you participate or try to participate actively.  I like the word “unscripted” and “clutch.”  I’m not sure if murmur is the correct choice as it seems too weak.    Clutch, in fact, is one of my favorite words as I use it often.

• From what sequel are we lifted? What incomplete epic etched by hand/ illegible now? What fragments of unposted letters remain? Part 11

This alludes to past life possibilities.  Haven’t we been here before, done that?  Often dreams have a deja vu feel to them.  Or do we get that deja vu feeling because we’ve had a dream that we don’t remember? The uposted letter is linked to the last line - which was the first line I posted at the beginning of April.   I liked reading Jung’s account which I included above.  I seemed to have forgotten what little I recall of Jung.   What would we do without google?  

• Something afire? Eyes? A metaphor you cannot forget.Those eyes.What disquiet haunts you now?/Mayflies rise from an untold deep P10

I really have little clue what afire/eyes would mean.  Trying to tie something into the mayflies which I really want to do as the metaphor they represent is unique.  Those mayflies really know how to accomplish something in a short amount of time!  And they trust so much in the fluidity of water for the next generation.  I just love things that happen in nature that make little sense to man.   And I like that mayflies  don’t even take time to eat.  Those little mayflies are quite something.  I like the words disquiet and haunts.  I like cicadas, too, even though I don’t use that word anymore, of course, except when I need to use it as in explaining that I don’t use it. 

• No one lolls there-the door faintly agape-no footsteps fell. And yet there was some thing/A flare? An orb? A re- kindled star? P9

I like “lolls,” “agape,” “orb,” and “star.”  The star is in reference to Wordsworth’s:

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; /The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,/ Hath had elsewhere its setting./ And cometh from afar.”

Some poetry lines just get imbedded in your psyche so deeply, they show up whether you invited them or not.  It’s amazing what grey matter clasps on to.  Why I cannot remember anyone’s birthday is beyond me, but this line, I know.  I like words like “Hath” and “cometh.”  I hath never used them, but there may cometh a time when I shall.

• Awake. He huddles in bluest light where slumber and finite shadows fade. But it is a dream, you re-assure yourself. Wake me Part 8

In Part 8, I’m really emphasizing blue as I’ve stated earlier.  There must be something to this blueness because even Jung refers to it.   I don’t want any he/she pronouns in this poem when I finish and meant to catch ”he.”   Twitter is difficult to squeeze the line into sometimes as I handwrite first and then type.  I just didn’t catch this “he” reference.  In the finished poem it will probably be – Awake, huddles in…  Of course, I like “finite shadows fade,” the best as that seems like it’s not quite possible as shadows cannot be that finite as they are not substantive; and if they were finite, they shouldn’t fade. 

• A face a name you no longer recall/As if a stranger expectant long ago fled,stands now just outside the mirrored door. Shudders Part 7

Reference again to dream state where you just can’t recall everything.   Could it be that this was really someone you knew from a previous time?   I need to work on the transistion between 7 and 8 as Shudders  Awake makes little sense.  I like the word “expectant” and “mirrored door.”   I’m always fascinated by any reference to a doppelganger effect even if it just a mirrored image. 

I’m posting two tweets today in Twitter as yesterday was just one of those days!  I hope to finish up by Saturday without skipping another day.  Hope you’re writing. 

Pen the Dream Along With Me (Part Six)

Light - Between the Dawn and the Dream

 e e cummings —”perdreamhapsing”

   I’m so excited once again this month–I just discovered that people have subscribed to my blog!    Thank you so much, subscribers.  I just found out about you.   One, a friend, Sandra, who’s listed in my blogroll, shares the most insightful thoughts, and her photographs are terrific. Sandra,  you were my first subscriber (from like months ago).   I  ♥ and thank you.  

     And to make this month even better, I’m actually learning how to use some of the features in the blog which all writers should know how to do these days.  I choose wordpress because…well, I honestly don’t recall why except I’m certain someone must have told me about it.  It has a lot of features and helpful screens about how to set things up.  The important thing is.  Writers need to write and a blog is the perfect venue.

   By now, I hope those of you who don’t consider yourself writers are writing.  Maybe you’re trying your hand at a poem.   Maybe you’re starting to think about what you have to say.  I’m hopeful that by gaining some insight into my thought processes you will try to write some of your thoughts down.

     Working on this poem this month is proving to be rather challenging especially since I’m tying it into Twitter and posting to my blog.   National Poetry Month, only one month out of the year, seemed to demand something more of me this cycle.  I am focused on having some finished pieces in place this year.  So for now, call me Telescope Taylor.  I am zeroing in on some distant star.   

     I’m drawn to the narrative style as this poem is weaving a story and is longer than anything I’ve attempted before.   It deals with the challenges faced in waking up from a dream when you seem to be bombarded by facts and images and know that you want to be able to recall them.   In dreams, you become other people, interact in strange and ethereal ways.  Thoughts, often vibrant and succinct, mesmerize you.  Often you have the sense of trying to talk to yourself as if through another character.

Of course, there are many other themes in the poem which I don’t fully understand at this point.   From a craft standpoint, my goal is to get the words down and hope that they’ll stick.    I’ll be free to work and re-work them and during that process will decide on the final form.   The evolution of this poem carries with it a degree of the unknown  as I’m working at it from the ending and trying to get to the beginning.  I don’t know the title yet either.  I hope my process isn’t too confusing to observe.

Reading and Writing – National Poetry Month

In All Those Words

 

I am a lake,

with boats of books

crossing over me. 

Namah McKay, written as a third grader

    

      I’ve stockpiles of books on shelves, on tables, AS tables, behind closed doors.  Yesterday, I uncrated Ron Padgett’s “Creative Reading, ” which included an untitled poem about reading by Namah, quoted above.  Of one thing I’m certain.  I have never left reading.  I  don’t recall learning to read, but my lake is crammed full with boatloads of books. 

     I do remember learning to write, scribbling lines across the page as I desperately wanted to write cursive.   I knew I had not even learned to print the basic block letters yet, but in swooping strokes I pretended to write.  I vaguely recall wanting to write books.  I’m not sure when I left writing.  

     And I’m not sure when I came to poetry the first time–probably nursery rhymes–maybe the King James Version of the bible–perhaps something in first year English lit class struck some melodic chord.  Maybe it was memorizing The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales :

WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich  licour

     I’m not sure when I left poetry.   I don’t recall exactly when I came back again.  But I think in my late 30′s, maybe early 40′s, I began to think I had something to say.  I began to wonder who I was.   I returned to writing.  I came back to poetry again, or, more accurately, poetry came back to me.  My ears needed to hear what was in those poems.  I needed to see what was written down by the others who were speaking. 

     As young Namah speaks so metaphorically of  the reading experience, I began to read boatloads of poets. I discovered them once again in anthologies and slim, often brittle volumes.  In the works of somewhat familiar sounding names like Anne Bradstreet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, Emily Dickinson,  and many countless others I re-entered the murky waters of poetry.  On this journey I was seeking a woman’s perspective.   Out of the boatloads of books that floated above me, women’s voices were rising.  I couldn’t always understand their message, but I felt empowered.  

     Sandra Martz, one of the persons I admire so much, did a lot to bring attention to women’s voices when she re-introduced the world to Jenny Joseph’s ”Warning” – more familiar for its first line:  ”When I’m an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple.”  She did so much to bring Joseph’s voice and the other voices she selected for all the anthologies she edited to the forefront.  Her contribution seemed enormous especially to women like me–far removed from the world of academia where poetry seemed to reside, guarded in sacred halls written by mostly older men.  I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to see that Sandra was the first person to subscribe to my blog.  What an honor and thrill that gave me.  I hope you read her blog which is linked in the sidebar.

     Today while driving home from a plein air painting session, I heard Michel Martin speak my name on NPR’s “Tell Me More” radio program.  I heard her say my home town’s name.  I heard my voice read a tweet as part of  #TMMPoetry on Twitter.  I became part of the Muses and Metaphor of  ”Tell Me More’s”  National Poetry Month selection. 

     Michel, along with the curator of the series, Holly Bass, gave my tweet a new little boat to cross over your lake because you don’t have to read it on Twitter.  You can listen to me read it to you.  The boats that deliver the written words are changing.   But it’s still about the words being put down in some sort of form one after the other.  None of my words would have happened upon a page if a child long ago had not learned to read, had not learned to write, had not memorized poetry–the demands of  insightful teachers in a world where critical thinking relied, in part, upon the knowledge held in those poems. 

     I could not be having as much joy writing if I had not continued to delve into the poetic world, overflowing with wonderful, plentiful words.  And it would not be such a special moment for me right now if you were not out there,  dear readers, dear listeners.  Without you, my words would had have no special place to be today.  I’m not sure who reads any of these words, but thank you.  You make all the difference.

Pen the Dream Along With Me (Part Five)

Which Tweet Did "Tell Me More" NPR Select?

 During April, 2011, National Poetry Month provides an abundance of opportunities to connect or reconnect with words through the poetic form.  I have been posting a draft poem on Twitter  from snippets of dreams,  from journals and notes, hashtagging through the #TMMpoetry monitored by @TellMeMoreNPR site.  I’ve beem tweeting three poem parts for three days.   Then I tweet as normal if time permits, and then link to this blog.  Then I hope to repeat 10 times so I’ll have a 30 part poem at the end of the month.  That’s the plan.  For full details see Pen the Dream Along With Me.  

 

Why it pays to keep sitting in that chair and keep pushing that thought.

I’ve been writing for about 25 or 30 years.  I consider myself a beginner as I’ve only studied in mostly non-academic ways, devouring books, magazines, and journals on every subject imaginable in my quest to comment on life.  Taking a few workshops with professionals I’ve admired and being accepted in a couple of publications and judged workshops is all the incentive I’ve seem to need to plow even deeper into this often infertile field.  

For poetry month, picking a poetry project to work on took a little work.  I had considered doing the NaNo Poetry month.  Since I still have to work on the NaNoWriMo novel-writing book that I started November, 2010, I nixed that idea.  A poem a day would be an impossibility to me as poetry evolves much slower for me.  The “ Tell Me More”  idea intrigued me.  A poetic tweet a day. 

You can imagine my surprise when I got the tweet that asked me to contact them as NPR, the NPR, was interested in my poetic tweet.  And now I wait anxiously for when it airs as they recorded me one day last week.  One of my bucket-list goals has always been to be a featured guest on an NPR show. On my you-have-got-to-be-kidding list (a slightly higher-aiming one) I want to host a featured show on NPR.   For now, getting to record a tweet of poetry for Tell Me More is exciting enough and was bucket-listable if I had known about it sooner.

But ”Tell Me More” on NPR would not have contacted me  if I had not set a mini goal of some sort for national poetry month.  NPR would not have contacted the other selected writers if they didn’t write often and fairly well.  For me, none of this would have been possible if I did not tweet on a regular basis.  None of this could have happened if I had not been stoking the kiln with a burning passion for writing that has been with me for my whole life. 

I am not writing a book in my head.  I am writing a book, albeit many varied projects at this point.  I’m writing as often and as much as I can putting down one word after the other as I try to understand me and my place in the universe.  

I won’t tell you which poem Tell Me More selected until after it airs.  

Draft Poem (Untitled)

• How often before have you given me this leather-bound journal, scrawled script of anguished love?Again,this third body secure Part 16
• Our story evanescent bound ephemera/ a palimpsest at best. Like mayflies, overlapped fingers hover over recurrent penned notes Part 17
• Serendipity no player here.  Motionless /the self-same image appears/separate but still part of the greater whole.Transfixed Part 18

 A Few Notes on My Writing

Part 16 - This line actually refers to the journal in the photograph.  It’s a very long story which you can read about someday if I ever get my manuscript together.  For now, suffice to say that journaling plays a vital role in my existence.  The third body?  I cannot begin to tell you how many wonderful works there are about this.  I guess my all-time favorite is Robert Bly’s, aptly named, ”The Third Body.”  I’ll do a post on this one of these days and list all my third-body favorites. 

Part 17 – One of my followers on Twitter (I’ll call him Henry) wrote me the following:

“Had to go to a search engine to understand the meaning. “evanescent bound ephemera”  At 76 such magic with words still brings a tear.”

This is what writing should be about.  Henry had to look up the meaning of some words.  I love Henry who’s 76 and still interested and vital and on Twitter.  He knows how to party in this new social world!  He knows what magic is.  He believes in it, and I believe in Henry.  He’s one of those people who offer me just enough encouragement to go public with my writing.   He brought me a tear and I reciprocated.  

From a craft standpoint – you should use the word “palimpsest” every single day.  I adore that word as it describes everything about me.  And I use only mayflies now since Billy Collins has decreed the use of “cicadas” as unacceptable.   So you should make a note – Never use the word “cicadas” if Billy Collins is a judge.  But the sound those 17-year cycle cicadas make for a few weeks are the closest you will ever be in real life to being part of a black and white movie where space ships are landing.  Their whirring sound is mind-boggling and so loud that you literally hear them in your head for hours after you leave an area where they are.  Mayflies with their little-short, sex-filled lives just scream poetical interpretation. 

Part 18 – This is where it gets way complicated and way too deep for these shallow waters.  You’ll just have to read the book when it comes out if I ever get it finished to get to the bottom of this line. 

Happy writing.  You had better pick up that pen and start writing.   You’re younger today than you ever will be again, and you might not be here when you get old.   Excuse my Yogism…but I think you know what I mean.

Pen the Dream Along with Me (Part Four)

Atlantic Surf

During April, 2011, National Poetry Month provides an abundance of opportunities to connect or reconnect with words through the poetic form.  I plan to Twitter a draft poem from snippets of dreams,  from journals and notes, hashtagging through the #TMMpoetry monitored by @TellMeMoreNPR site.  I’ll tweet three poem parts for three days.   Tweet as normal if time permits, and then link to this blog.  Then repeat 10 times so I’ll have a 30 part poem at the end of the month.  That’s the plan.  For full details see Pen the Dream Along With Me.  

 

Become a Better Writer – Check Terrific Sites Celebrating  Poetry & Poetry Month 

1. The Writer’s Almanac.   Subscribe to this site if you write.  It’s not just for poets.  The daily recap of historical events related to both writing and non-writing events provides a wealth of inspiration to readers.  Springboard from the recaps on various topics into free-writes of your own.  You’ll discover writers you’ve forgotten, some you’ve never heard of, and each day you can hear and read some of the best poetry available today as well as selected classical works. 
2. Poetry Daily  This site features everything you need to know about contemporary poetry.  And during poetry month, if you subscribe to their special newsletter, you will learn much about classical poetry as well.  New releases, obits, relevant news articles, highlights from literary magazines and journals—you’ll find much here.  In addition to the regular daily poem, a weekly prose feature offers further fodder.
3. The Poetry Foundation  Totally revamped this month, this site offers poets everything.  There are links now the Poetry Magazine, RSS feeds. Social connections, a poem a day delivered to your reader or you can still subscribe the old-fashioned way by email.  This is a must-connect-with site if you are serious about your poetry.
4. NPR Tell Me More During poetry month, Holly Bass is the curator of the #TMMPoetry link in Twitter which looks for 140-character tweets of poetry to feature on Tell Me More, hosted by Michel Martin.  My project for the month was to tweet a part of a poem every day in April.  By the end of the month, the poem will be complete if all goes well.  It’s not too late to join Twitter and participate.  If you’re already on Twitter, then write something and hashtag it #TMMPoetry. 
5. Knopf’s annual Poem-A-Day features great poetry as well as wonderful printable broadsides. The selections are always terrific.  You can still sign up to receive these poems daily during April. 
6. This just in – I’ve been contacted by NPR Tell Me More.  They like my Tweet!  More details in my next post. 

 Draft Poem (Untitled)

• Rhythms swell/ the threshold of slumber nears. Heaves. We breathe one breath, sweet, melodic mélange / Who enters here?                  Part 19
• You take my breath, a faint vibration pulses your lips. I cannot close my eyes.Blue revenant roused from this imagined state.                        Part 20
• In shadows, I mind a watchful eye as dawn looms/I will not undo you, will not peel back the layers that shroud you, shroud us.                              Part 21

A Few Thoughts on My Writing Process

In Part 21, I think I’m trying to convey the feeling that you have when you’re about to awake from a dream and you’re aware vaguely that you’re dreaming. Often I feel as if I will not think too much and get analytical by trying to figure out everything.  This is a time to let metaphors just be and just try to make yourself remember the dream you’re both watching and are a part of.

Part 20 and 19 overlap each other.  Twitter is not an ideal forum for a narrative piece so some of the tweets make little sense I’m finding.  I am drawn to the words “swell,” “heaves,”  “mélange,” “vibration,” and of course the old favorite, “revenant.”  And blue appears once again.  If I were Picasso, I would definitely be in my blue period right now.  So many shades of blue and such a soulful word as it applies to music. I love that sadness has this beautiful edge to it.  I also love that blue gobbles up things in the distance.  Do you ever notice how birds seems to disappear into the blueness?

My primary goal in this month’s exercise is to get words down.  After I’ve gotten a draft, I can start trying to craft it into some shape or other that will flow down the page.  I think when poetry is the form that the writing is taking, it’s important to try to finish it while you’re in the moment of that poem.  I find that going back much later to try to work on something is difficult as you’re not in that “place” any longer. 

Of course, a creative person never wants to stop tweaking – nor tweeting so it seems now.   You need to get writing.  Follow me to Twitter if you haven’t already done so.  Tweet.   Tweet.

Pen the Dream Along With Me (part 3)

I will be listing the links to my favorite poetry sites but this has been a very busy art week.  The gala event last evening was fun as it was  the first time my major pieces have been displayed in quite a while. 

To continue with the narrative Twitter poem, this poem is quite different from what I usually write and the dream fragments as well as other lines are getting unwieldy at best.  I’ve included the nine parts at the end of this post for anyone who wants to read a complete draft of what’s been written to this point.  Seeing where this poem is leading and trying to develop it backwards is proving to be a real challenge.  I have to admit it is great fun except I keep getting side-tracked in the meanings of so many of the words which is what writing is all about. 

Draft Poem (Untitled)

• As frosted glints mesmerize / songs from the ethered hush, familiar whispered words, / lure us, maroon us on given strands?  P22
• New scripts written as we fly/ alter us. We mire in flux. Twist. Tangle.  Re-write into the lateness of this languishing hour.   P23
• Float in dreamstance/ search / suspended on the cusp of dawn the portal ajar / dive again into deepest blue  P24

A Few Thoughts on My Writing Process

Part 24 seems to be focused on that early morning dream state, seconds before you awake as you struggle to remember the dream, remember whatever it is that you’re lost in.   You feel you’re on the verge of something, the synapses are starting to fire but you go back to sleep for a few seconds and then struggle to wake but retain what it is you know.   I like the word “suspend” and “ajar.”   Dreamstance is a concept I need to think about more.  I’ve been fascinated by blue for quite a while as it pertains to occurrences in the brain.   Gilbert spoke of  the blue pearl effect in her  recount of being at the ashram.   There’s the whole blue circles of light in the brain during deep connection with the spiritual self that fascinates me.

Part 23 – As from other lives, we are given new “scripts” to follow, written as we live each day.  No matter how confused we remain, we keep trying to alter things in life until the end of either our dreams or our lives.  I like the phrase “languishing hour.”   The whole Gestalt-psychophysical-isomorphic thing, if you know what I mean,  isn’t the least bit poetical.   Goggle leads one down some very strange paths indeed.

In Part 22, I love the words mesmerize and ethered which technically isn’t a word.  The sound of maroon resonates with how the suspended state feels to me and is also a color of early morning or late evening, shadows and shades.  Given – what a marvelous word that is.  It has so many meanings I don’t know what to do with it.   Strands as well has several shades of meaning.   This line has potential. I like “frosted glints.” 

The Narrative – Nine Parts In

As frosted glints mesmerize / songs from the ethered hush, familiar whispered words, / lure us, maroon us on given strands?  P22

New scripts written as we fly/ alter us. We mire in flux. Twist. Tangle.  Re-write into the lateness of this languishing hour.   P23

Float in dreamstance/ search / suspended on the cusp of dawn the portal ajar / dive again into deepest blue  P24

Will our presence change/the script under study as we learn by heart, if not by rote, how not to forget this time…next time  P25

Adrift in wordlessness, woven netted snares–I unravel threads of matted auburn hair-commit to memory each glistening strand  P26

You—we—our return endless / like waves gallant in relentless revival. The recap echoes ever again…yet again…again    P 27

We edge closer, fixed in finite infinity / Unscripted answers to wordless questions / Who will speak? Dare I ask? Write?     Part28

From where do I know this lock of auburn hair? This one / I loosely twist round and around. Untangled. Tangled. Retangled.   Part29

And scrawled upon what page is that written letter the one unsent/ one summer / a lifetime ago     Part 30

Pen the Dream Along With Me (Part Two)

 

Did I write "gallant?"

During April, 2011, National Poetry Month provides an abundance of opportunities to connect or reconnect with words through the poetic form.  I plan to Twitter a draft poem from snippets of dreams,  from journals and notes, hashtagging through the #TMMpoetry monitored by @TellMeMoreNPR site.  I’ll tweet three poem parts for three days.   Tweet as normal if time permits, and then link to this blog.  Then repeat 10 times so I’ll have a 30 part poem at the end of the month.  That’s the plan.  For full details see Pen the Dream Along With Me.  

Celebrate Poetry Month – Fun Things to Do to Become a Better Writer

1. Read a newly released poetry book.  Start with Billy Collins’s latest – Horoscopes for the Dead  I got my copy yesterday.  It’s already dog-eared. 
2. Pick up Patricia Fargnoli at Tupelo Press 
3. Discover Greg Watson’s newest release  What Music Remains at Nodin Press. He’s an inspiration for all who would aspire to poetry.  
4. Join a social network.  Write some words on Twitter and hashtag it #TMMPoetry  
5. Twitter is great practice for writing tight – rid yourself of redundancy.
6. Subscribe to poetry month links.  I’ll post my favorites next time, but start googling and let me know what you discover.

 Draft Poem (Untitled)

•Will our presence change/the script under study as we learn by heart, if not by rote, how not to forget this time..next time                      Part 25

•Adrift in wordlessness, woven netted snares–I unravel threads of matted auburn hair-commit to memory each glistening strand  Part 26 

• You—we—our return endless / like waves gallant in relentless revival. The recap echoes ever again…yet again…again                   Part 27



A Few Thoughts on My Writing Process

Good Grief! Why did I post Part 27?   A lot of this draft poem is based on dream snippets.  Honestly, I have no idea why I posted this part, these words.  It needs work.  Make that no work probably–just a good old — Let’s start this concept over, shall we?   I think “revival” is worth keeping. 

In Part 26, I’m tied to the sea with a special affinity/aversion towards oysters.  It’s a long story which I won’t go into here, but I tumble and stumble around in the sea over and over again.  It’s my major digression in life.  I just can’t help it.  But you know how it is in that pre-awakening state–that moment when everything comes to you whole – novels, poems, epics — and there you are – No pen.  Floating between the then and now as if you’re suspended between real and imagined. 

Of course, there are no individual readable words in these moments –everything is there there.  You can see it all–except that aforementioned pen because the cat has managed to bat it so far under the bed that you could never reach it even if you crawled fully under.  Wordless – the whole absorbing all the individual parts.  Sometimes it as if a net has captured all the words, and I’m to sort it all out by hand.

I actually bookmark dictionaries in an attempt to have a ready supply of words and find that there still are not enough words.  An underlying theme in this part, of course, is an exploration of  previous lives in those deja vu moments.  Each time that happens, I try to examine every aspect of what I know I don’t know or can’t recall.  “Next time I’ll remember!”  I tell myself, but the synapses lapse, fail to fire.

Part 25.  Now this line has some poetry in it.  Well, actually, any line with the word “change” in it has poetry in it.  If you don’t believe me, read Wilbur’s “The Beautiful Changes” and wait until it dawns on you that parts of speech play a vital, critical roll in our use of language.   Even Billy Collins had an “aha” moment at Wilbur’s genius on those three words a few years ago at the Key West Literary Festival.   The line breaks in Part 25 can be in several interesting places and under study could be understudy.  Well, I just can’t go into all the potential in this line, but I think it’s got a lot of good words in it.  “This time” – another example of double meanings.  Do I mean as in this particular time, or am I suggesting time spent together?  I’m not sure what the heck I’m trying to say exactly, but this Part 25  has a flow. 

Have I convinced you yet to join in the fun? Are you feeling more and more like words matter; poetry matters?  Please create some poetry this month.  Grab a few words and throw them out there.   I approach my writing from the Whitman/Dickinson school.  Just write.  Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to keep writing for as long as you can.  As long as you have a thought, keep putting down one word after another.   I promise I won’t tell anyone what you’re up to.

And please try not to spend another day, another year writing that book in your head.  It took me a long time to figure out that’s actually called ”thinking.”   Writing is only writing if one actually “writes.”    I hope you’ll grab a pen and start today.

Pen the Dream Along With Me

—— 

Marbled Wave Highlights

During April, 2011, National Poetry Month provides an abundance of opportunities to connect or reconnect with words through the poetic form.  I plan to Twitter a draft poem from snippets of dreams,  from journals and notes, hashtagging through the #TMMpoetry site.  I’ll tweet three poem parts for three days.   Tweet as normal if time permits, and then link to this blog.  Then repeat 10 times so I’ll have a 30 part poem at the end of the month.  That’s the plan.

Constructing a work in reverse seemed like a good idea at the time.  Already this month I’m distracted by the wonderful sites dedicated to poetry month as well as so many new books being released–Billy Collins is in the mail, and I just can’t wait!  

I’ll share snippets in Facebook, Twitter and comment as I go along.    And Twitter, if you haven’t discovered yet, is poetry heaven.  I am certain  e e cummings  would have been King.

I chose to construct in the reverse format mainly  because Twitter is a reverse feed of your life.  Your life lunges forward as you ”post” your tweets, but your timeline appears “in the stream” in reverse.   One thing is sure: beginning a journey in reverse makes it more difficult to see where you’re headed.  Hopefully, I’ll be at the beginning of a poem when I arrive on April 30.    

You just have to love Twitter!  It’s sometimes so confusing that it actually makes sense that it makes no sense! 

The three fragments posted below and at the end of each poetry-month blog will be in the correct order which I’ve labeled as parts.  I’m not exactly sure where line breaks will be yet but I’ve indicated a few.   I encourage you to write a few tweets in the poetic mindset.  

Draft Poem (untitled)

•We edge closer, fixed in finite infinity / Unscripted answers to wordless questions / Who will speak? Dare I ask? Write? ( Part28)

•From where do I know this lock of auburn hair? This one / I loosely twist round and around. Untangled. Tangled. Retangled.   (Part29)

• And scrawled upon what page is that written letter the one unsent/ one summer / a lifetime ago?       ( Part 30) 

 

A Few Thoughts on My Writing Process

In my first tweet, part 30,  I forgot the question mark.  Twitter auto-corrects to put periods in. If you delete something in Twitter, it’s out of your timeline so, in a way, you don’t get a do-over – much like life.  Since I didn’t catch the error, until my second post,  it was too late to fix.  It was a relief to make a mistake early, getting the inevitable out-of-the-way.  

Of course, I made a typo in part 29.  Use spell-check every single time – a rule I ignore.   It’s not clear if I am twisting the lock of hair, or if I am to twist, physically, and become tangled.  I will need to clarify that.  And I know that re-tangle isn’t technically a word, but I’m planning to use entangle in other places. 

I like making up words.  See e e cummings if you want to see the genius-of-making-up-words master.  Oprah and I agree that his complete works is a must for everyone’s poetry bookshelf – I’ve tweeted about that previously.  And Gregory Orr had an interesting article about Oprah and poetry in The Times so you might check out that link as well for his insight. 

Once part 30 anchored the ending, it will hopefully be just a matter of threading snippets together to capture the dream-like state between consciousness and unconsciousness - the ebb and flow between light and dark – those fleeting dreams.  

In part 28, “in finite infinity”  cannot be a possibility.  I love similar words that play against each other.  I also plan to use infinite.   Try saying “infinite in finite infinity”  a few times.  Whether words are necessary at all is a notion I like to explore in writing as well.  

On this trek through life, unscripted without knowing what the questions are, let alone the answers, I’m reminded of many favorite  Gertrude Stein quotes,  especially –”When you get there, there isn’t any there there.”    And her famous last words spur me on as questions oftentimes hold more revelation than the answers.  At the end of April, I hope the “there there” will be a penned drafted draft.  One can only dream–come…take pen…dream along with me.

Minutia – Some Days That’s What It’s All About

 

 

 

Rings

 

This morning I was trying to find a particular photograph for a painting I’ve been working on.   I stumbled upon this one and was fascinated by the colors that were captured on a foggy morning a few weeks ago. 

 

 

The sun always has a way of washing out the colors.  I was taken by surprise by the vitality of the “color-grays” in the stumps of these two dead trees shrouded in fog.   The rings of a shortened life held so much interest which led me to think of my artist mentor/friend, Jack, who’s now 96 and living in an assisted-living home in Maine.  I immediately thought of my other oldest friend, Mildred, actually a relative (my great-grandmother’s niece which I’m not sure what that makes her to me relative-wise) who just turned 96 as well.    The last time I saw Dorothy and Jack they were standing in the yard by their fence, waving.  She died several years ago.  And Mildred and Russel, they were waving from their breeze-way the last time I saw them together at their house in Pennsylvania.  He died in 2004.

The next thing I knew, I was writing a poem about them – these two remaining spouses, and the first thoughts that I had about them today as these two tree stumps spoke to me.  This draft needs a lot of work, but there’s enough light here to speak to the universal themes of life, love, and the possibility of forever.  There’s enough here to revisit, to rework.

In the middle of everyday living, it’s fun to take a moment and go where your thoughts take you.  That’s the greatest thing about being an artist, I suppose.  There is no minutia. 

Or is it all minutia? 

 

My Oldest Friends at 96 (Draft 1) 

He prefers to watch blades of grass

Not the full impact of a rolling lawn up a hillside he can no longer climb

But the individual shafts

As light rolls across them with rainbows of color

Deep greens, mauve, purples, ocher,  and russets

These blades thrust from dust.

She prefers people, vibrant people

The ones vital still, who work and play and plan

She watches the news, keeps up with current events,

Cannot dwell in the past where those she remembers have faded

And not just from memory.

Each of them lived true-love stories,

Travelled parallel paths by marrying late in life

Joined by over 12 decades of marriage between them. 

I will always remember them as couples.  They stand

On a sunny morn, arms interlocked,

Waving.

First hello, and then goodbye. 

And I remember her telling me that this love was endless

Like the inscription inside her wedding band,

The infinity of a circle inscribed simply—Forever.

The long-timeness of it—forever. 

For Jack and Mildred.  ©ntaylorcollins 2011

A Book Review – I Remember Nothing

 

      Before I forget to tell you or before you forget if you don’t get to the end of this review, you must buy and read I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron.  The humorous/poignant mix enlightens and endears on nearly every page.   Whether she’s explaining the love/hate relationship of having alcoholic parents or reminding us that labor hurt – hurt like hell as a matter of fact – or exploring how familiarity  births new perspectives,  you know that she speaks from experience, and now that’s she’s almost REALLY old, from a sageness that only age could cultivate.  

I'm Writing, I Really Am, OK?

 

      If you’re a writer, you need this book if for no other reason than to assure yourself you could write a book similar to this as it’s not really that long, it’s full of easy-to-refer-to lists, and it’s a delightful, albeit bitter-sweet, reassurance that aging is something do-able.  For everyone else, you’ll fall in love with Nora Ephron all over again if you’ve forgotten how much you love her writing.  And it even has a recipe.  And if I ever learn to cook, I will try to make it. 

     Of course, I need to disclose that I just adore Nora Ephron and owe much to her.  I first realized I was a writer when I became Meg Ryan.  Well – in my head—Meg Ryan sort of moved in after I had watched “Sleepless in Seattle” for about the hundredth time. It’s sort of like I pictured everything I did and said as if Meg was playing the role of me. I felt as if I was scripting everything as I went along living my life as if I were somehow a writer while Meg was living the life I was writing.  

     I realize this concept is confusing to anyone trying to read what I just wrote, but I assure you, it is no more so confusing to anyone than to me, and I’ve been living this way for quite a while – but creative lives are complicated anyway so I’ve adjusted very well to this weird sort of arrangement.  Of course, it could have something to do with my incessant need to journal which is a script of one’s life—sort of—and since I became aware through writing that we all indeed seem to be actors upon a stage, Meg Ryan  sort of became my default alter-ego or something.

     But I think Meg must be playing the role of Nora, too, as I always hear Meg’s voice when I’m reading Ephron.   Watching “Morning Joe” the other morning when Nora Ephron was on promoting I Remember Nothing, I noticed that Nora doesn’t sound like Meg, and, for some reason, I kept wondering why.  I just kept feeling that something was wrong as this brunette person with possibly a few highlights but basically with the wrong hair color speaking in a voice I did not recognize, was just not Meg Ryan.  I also began to wonder if Meg, the real one who could be out there watching “Morning Joe”, was thinking the same thing.  

     I really want to check into this with Chris, a friend of mine, well an acquaintance actually – well never mind as I’m losing my point here—but Chris is the real life Eve –as in the three faces of—and I’ve been meaning to check with her to see if I should be worried that Meg Ryan is acting out my life in my head which I feel I am writing as if in the third person, but I can’t find Chris’s number and can’t remember her address.  But if anyone I know is an authority on other people living in you, it would be Chris. 

    But I’ve been involved in this NaNoWriMo novel writing project (National Novel Writing Month) for the past few days (it actually does run the whole month of November) and to tell you the truth, I haven’t had time to do or check into much of anything.  These days up is down, and down is sideways.  Writing has a tendancy to stretch (as in warp) perspective. 

     Except last night I took time out to read I Remember Nothing as I just plum needed a break from my life, especially my writing life, at the moment and all this fiction writing which I don’t really know anything about.  And I’m a fragment writer at best so even writing at all is a stretch.   In any event, I Remember Nothing will not disappoint.

Some classic lines are: 

• I feel bad about Teflon
• I chose journalism.  I have no idea why.
• But I don’t remember a thing about Eleanor Roosevelt herself.
• This might work better as a memoir.
• Really old is eighty

     And if anyone asks me, I remember nothing about anything these days except that I Remember Nothing kept me smiling and nodding in agreement for the most part.  You owe it to yourself to support one of our wittiest women writers, especially all you women writers out there.  There’s so much to learn about writing and life.  Ephron never fails to enlighten.

     But I must disagree/agree with her conclusion that really old is eighty.  Really old is anyone who’s 20 years older than you are at the moment.  I decided recently that I’m sixty for the duration so Nora is correct.  Eighty,  for me,  is really old.  But if you’re say, seventy-five, then really old is ninety-five.  I don’t remember all that much, but— I assure you —I remember you don’t need a lot of math to remember this formula:  Age + 20 = Really Old.    Cheers. 

PS - A friend,  Jan Marshall, is a wonderful writer and my emergency math consultant.  I plan to share her insight in some of these posts one of these days.  All I can say is if you ever need an emergency age adjustment, Jan is your woman.   She is especially helpful to cougars who are in constant need of adjustment.  Thanks Jan.

NaNo NaNo — What?

I’m sure this was a great idea…writing a novel in a month… 

Move Over Sparks...

But I’m not a novel writer.  The most I can handle is maybe a few essays, a poetic word here and there.  Fragments are what I do best.   So why is it that I felt I could write a whole novel—a relatively short one of 50,000 words?   Haven’t a clue at this point, but I’m diligently working away. 

I’m writing by hand which is how I usually compose and have done an estimated word count which I posted on the site.  At the rate I’m working, the calculator says I’ll be done by January 1.  To finish on time in this month of November, I need to write 2,017 words a day for the duration of the month.  That seems rather daunting.   Undeterred, I’m still plugging away.  Will do another word count probably tomorrow.

I’ve figured out how to use dialogue – albeit rather boring dialogue—sort of Nicholas Sparks variety—he said, she said sort of stuff.  I’m using bits of my journal entries as I don’t have time to make up everything.  I’ve worked out the basic premise – more or less.  One thing I’ve noticed is that I don’t write humorously in a novel format.  I don’t know what it is, but I certainly don’t seem to be able to offer any witty repartee.   This is probably because I’ve never written in this format in my life and feel like a stranger in a country where I forgot to bring along my language  immersion CD’s.  I have few bearings—make that none—so I’m floundering along like the proverbial fish out of water.  If I could think of a few more boring metaphors, I’ll be sure to  use them as right now I cannot focus.

Missing Twitter the most it seems followed by Facebook, emails, my friends, family, my life.  This novel-writing on a deadline is lonely work.  The hope that maybe I can finish something spurs me onward.  Maybe I’ll have enough of a manuscript that I can approach someone about publishing it.  My creative nonfiction manuscript is on hold for the moment so if I push myself enough, maybe I’ll have two manuscripts by year’s end.  Or maybe not . . .

I just had to take a break and write something other than my novel.  What a strange sentence that is!  I never thought I’d say something like that.  Write something other than my novel? Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words seem to haunt me though:  ”The way to write is to throw your body at the mark when your arrows are spent.”   Hmmmm… all I can say right now is , ” Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” 

Note:  I’m in such dire straits for outside contact I’m even publishing this post and for some reason I want to contact Mork, not Mindy so much, but Mork…definitely.

When Inspiration Comes…

 

In case you didn’t know, I’m a struggling writer, struggling artist, well, heck, I’m a struggling everything at this point!  This post started as a midnight post on Facebook and has been expanded here in a more craft-related manner.  

I begin each day (or try to at least) by reading  The Writer’s Almanac and ringing my little bell—an attempt to connect on some sort of spiritual level with the powers that be.  Deep connections with the muse or any other being aren’t  that easy as many of you know.    It’s comforting to get the day started with a little bit of zen as the challenges at 60 are not always fun-filled.  (OK, I’m lying about my age, but that’s the one I’ve chosen for the duration as I just can’t handle any number higher than that right now.)   

In any event, the poem chosen by Garrison or his staff  for the eighth of September was “Small Talk” by Eleanor Lerman.  

Since  ”Small Talk” was still open as I was getting ready to shut down my computer the other night, I reread it.  What a moving image Lerman captures.  I’m unfamiliar with her work and will make a point to buy and read her book The Sensual World Re-emerges by Sarabande Books.  As I looked out my window, the street light in back of my studio, usually totally obscured by the curly willow, was visible as shimmery dots of light due to the rather strong gale that we were having at the moment.  The following thoughts came out whole, which I chose to share.  Maybe this fragment will be worked into something or maybe not.  At that moment, though, I was grateful to have looked up when I did and to now hold a memory of hearing my Mom hum and sing ”Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” so long ago when my “mother was wearing sandals and a skirt.”   

Reality
through the small rectangle of windowpane,
the street lamp flickers in fireworks display
as wind blows the canopy of the lanky curly-willow tree
for some reason the effect is mirrored on the windowpane
the resulting display of miniature fireworks
deludes me for a moment
thinking perhaps it is the fourth of July
perhaps fireflies, flitting about in mating season–aflutter
twinkling, twinkling, twinkling
upon which I wish tonight
as there are no stars, no moon
only a twinkle of pretend
through a window that looks out on the now darkened world. 
   

Lerman created several lines that I enjoyed.  I especially liked the question and her answer that she posed—”What am I describing?/I am describing a dream/in which nobody has died.” 

She addresses the reader directly in the poem after that and in so doing one cannot help but think of their mother, pregnant, the expectation minimized by the passing of ordinary days.  Thoughts rush back – the picture of your expectant mother and what sort of mom she was and because of the twinkling (albeit sort of distracting) flickering light, I immediately remembered being lulled to sleep to the strains of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”    The darkened space we all emerge from and the passage of so many ordinary days, Lerman captures delightfully.   Pre-birth and after-life maybe share the same wind, the same darkness.   Who knows, but Lerman’s poetry – all poetry for that matter – helps us know what it is to be human, and I thank her— and all those who dare to write.  

 I re-drafted my original piece (even though I really don’t have any time to be working on poetry right now – that NY Times bestseller is just too pressing!).  I’m a beginning poet so I never seem to find a metaphor to carry through and all those words and all those meanings — so little time!  I rarely punctuate first-draft attempts.  There seems to be a little potential here but doubtful if I’ll stay interested in finishing this particular piece.   But I thought it might be OK to share this snippet to show one more step that I’m taking toward becoming a better writer.   And maybe, just maybe, someone will be inspired to finish or begin – and isn’t that what life is about anyway? 

Everyone who creates – regardless of the chosen field – finds inspiration from almost everything.  When inspiration comes…what truly makes the artist…is delving in..picking up a pen or brush..taking what is already there to the next level, birthing the next new thing, “such is the small talk before life begins.”     

 Draft 2 Reality  

 through the small rectangle of windowpane,
the street lamp flickers in fireworks display
as wind rustles the canopy
of the lanky curly-willow tree.
the effect created is twofold
mirrored on the windowpane
that selfsame display–
that miniature fireworks
cajoles me for a moment
into thinking perhaps it is July’s starburst
not this late summer’s eve
perhaps fireflies, flitting about in mating season
aflutter in the threatening gale
twinkling, twinkling, twinkling
upon whose light I wish tonight
as there are no stars, no moon
only a twinkle of this false light
through a window that looks out now
on the again newly darkened world 

 Cheers,    Taylor Collins

 

Quotes are from “Small Talk”

OK – A few details – Dateless – The Epic

As many of you know, my re-entry into the dating world gives new meaning to the word ” under-whelming.”   I know you know how I’ve ranted and raved about why I hate all those dating services, posting a few notes here and there on Twitter and on Facebook.  Real life attempts, almost as dire as the cyber ones, produced little results – make that no results.  And those close personal friends that impatiently listened to every hope, fear, complaint, and excuse — those saints among them – listened and listened until they just said “Enough!” or suddenly moved away and changed ALL their numbers.

I even started this serious blog space so that I could recount my innermost feelings and shed light upon my life, in general, and the dating world, in particular, from the perspective of a perfectly normal woman floundering in post-middle age. Afterall, a blog can’t sigh, or give terrible advice, roll it’s eyes, or change it’s existence to avoid me.   A blog would give this would-be-serious writer a place to – well – get serious.

But even this hasn’t helped (you may have caught the fact that my last posting was May) as I can’t seem to force myself to go public with what has always been my journaling outlet – my world eeked out in spare minutes here and there.  Filling countless journal pages with my rantings and thoughts consumes a few minutes of each day, but

Thinking About Writing is Not Writing

Thursday, November 5, 2009,  I went on an actual date – my first actual date since 1969. Forty years. That’s a long time – a lifetime it seems.  This milestone screams blogworthy for sure, right?

Somedays it often feels  like only 10 or 20 years ago  that I dolled myself up, slipped into one of my cutest outfits, skipped down the stairs, and sauntered off with the man of my dreams.  Suffice to say, dolled, slipped, skipped and sauntered are not the action verbs to describe my getting ready for this first date – which by the way, was to meet for drinks. Now, I know there are those cynics out there who wouldn’t count this as a “date” date, but it’s close enough for me.   The first two men I had serious contacts with on Match didn’t materialize into actual “date” dates so a lot was riding on this one.  Well, one never returned from the UK—honestly, some men will do anything not to show up.  The other one, my practice match as I like to refer to it, came over but we didn’t go “out” out so that didn’t technically count.  I’m not up on sports that much, but even I know that strike three means you’re out .  So if anyone asks,  I went on a “date” date, OK?  Number three had to be the charm.

He emailed me at 10:43 am which came via text message (I just love technology)— “hey there taylor – i am in dc this afternoon.  want to catch a drink?”    Sounded like date asking to me – more later.  Much later. . .

“Scribbled secret notebooks”

 Kerouac’s Spontaneous Prose

 Rule 1 Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy

    

       What is it about the word “secret” that immediately peaks one’s interest?  Kerouac’s first rule beckons all writers to write then to transcribe just for the sheer pleasure of the writer.  Kerouac masterfully links secrecy and pleasure as the place of origin for the writer, the place to begin.  To be first and foremost in that primal place where thoughts conceptualize -almost before they are thoughts – before the necessity of names,  before the grasp of meaning,  before the logic of reason – this is where those who would write must start – that place of un-being. 

     Obedience to this first rule of writing, this note taking stage, begins the formation of pools of pure extracted thought.   Any writer faithful to this first rule, will begin to see buckets full of words spill out and over onto barren beaches. Until one day, rather in awe, the writer stands before a pool or a pond or a sea, one of his own making, into which he can dive – a chance to go down into the depths of thoughts – those scribbled secret thoughts – delve deeper than he ever thought possible.

     And if that writer is adept, he might begin to know what the scribbling has been about. He might find the pattern of currents, the ebb and flow of meaning somewhere in the deep, the pull of the moon on the tides.  He just might uncover on a bit of sandy shore or find in the littoral a single grain of truth of what was long held secret.

   And if, by chance, that writer is lucky, extremely buoyant, he might not drown.

One site to check for the complete list of rules –

http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/464

To Blog or Not to Blog

It seems that Facebook notes could be construed as blogging sort of.  But everyone is ”really” blogging so, why not do that too, I asked myself?  My personal observation seems to be that no one’s reading most blogs as they’re too busy writing one of their own.  So–I guess that eliminates the fear factor that someone might actually be reading my blog.  

I’m not sure what I might have to say, but I’ve been a journal writer– fragment writer as I like to call it as that seems more trendy somehow–so I’ve been a fragment writer for about 20 or 25 years which is more than a little practice in observation.   I still use passive voice in my transcribing (another way that I describe my writing).  Passive voice drives me daffy, but by interspersing poetry or at least poetic phrases, I’m more metaphorically-minded even though my poetry basically sucks.   In a nutshell –by nature I’m a note taker.  Recording my life on the fly. 

Most people confess they can’t find the time to write.  Neither could I, but that didn’t seem to stop me as most of my writing time has been spent on interstate highways while driving about 65 miles per hour.   I find that if I can grab any spare time to write it helps prove that I’m still breathing – everyone needs that reality check every few days. 

Morning seems the best time to write.  I’m a night person so that fairly blows that theory, but there’s something about the early dawn – that hope that maybe there will truly be a new day.  Maybe today will be the day I write that New York Times Bestseller that I’ve written thousands of affirmations about.  Maybe there will be a double rainbow in a sunny sky after an afternoon shower.  Maybe there will be world peace or at least whirled peas.  Maybe today I will drop every passive verb from my vocabulary and concentrate on active verbs like clutch, or grab or sink as in not swim.  I will quit naming things and make up my own words – which by the way I often do in poetry as there just doesn’t seem to be enough adequate ones. 

Morning just screams–”Pick up that pen and write, right now.  Time’s a-wastin’ girl.  You sure aren’t getting any younger and you know that those statins you take just kill any chance that your memory will be there when you really need it.”  So today I choose to blog in a real blog.  I’ll still do FB notes as well, but I will not fear blogging.  After all, I am woman.  Time to roar!  Or at least time to dust off those journals and explore that inner space known as me as I crawl around here on the bottom of this aerial ocean where I live and breathe. 

Now, if only I can figure out what I’m supposed to do in this cyber venue. . .