a room with a view

 

the land tide

 

Dear Poet,

I thought I'd write you a poem about the land tide.  It'd go a little something like this:

How would it feel, to go so slow,                 

snail slow, superslow enough

to feel the land tide?  To feel the few inches

that the earth lunges towards, leans towards, the moon.

 

Leaning and lunging with the land tide,

you'd feel your own blood rising up

with it, tingling the top of your head,

you might jump up, at the peak of the land tide, and you'd go a little higher,

leaping imperceptibly further.

street view

 

Poetry weekend, continued!

 

Dear Weekend,

Here it is, as promised:  the lovely Joy Harjo reading For Anna Mae Pictou Aquash.

Poetry weekend!

 

Dear Weekend,

I've been reading all about reading poetry all aloud, and I am all for it.  Try this great, and hitherto unknown to me, poem by Anne Waldman, Uh-Oh Plutonium.  

Tomorrow, another fine poem!  Stay tuned!

they keep to themselves

 

Autumn

 

Dear Equinox,

Here we are again, celebrating another quarter, another equally divided day from night.  It's real perfection, and so I offer you a song for today, and some harvest bounty.

mail art

 

Dear Universe,

Keep on sending the mail art!  I promise to write back soon!  In the meantime, enjoy this song for today!

On second thought, let's listen to it again, shall we?  Until we know it, by heart.  

The Checking Stick!

 

Dear All,

Today, a brief lesson on painting.  Materials needed:  paint, surface, brush, time.  Step four is the most important step- do not skip step four!

Step One:  Get something to paint on.  Paper, cardboard, wood, canvas, aluminum.

Step Two: Put the fuzzy end of the stick into the paint.

Step Three:  Daub, swoop, or stroke the paint onto your surface from Step One.

Step Four:  Use your Checking Stick.  

Your painting is now done, and suitable for framing.  Or maybe heading towards done?  I love your painting, and I cannot wait to see your next one!

memories & feelings

 

Marilyn Levine, Waldo suitcase, ceramic, 1975

Dear Darlings,

Ooh, I found a lovely little pair of songs for you!  Well, no, that's not right, I discovered that a pair of great songs had a lot in common, an overlap of theme, and I couldn't wait to play them for you!  Enjoy!

Come and Get These Memories

Pick Up Your Feelings

PS

Dig trompe-l'œil clay?  Check out Richard Shaw.

summertime songs

 

Dear Fridays,

Don't worry, you can still dance!  The Summer is ending, but Fridays continue.  Here are some songs about summer for your dancing pleasure.

A Summer Song

Summertime Sadness

That Summer Feeling

Hot Fun in the Summertime

Summer Wine

Summer Babe

Cruel Summer

Summer Rain

Summer Wind

Summer Madness

All Summer Long

Summertime and the Living is Easy

Yes, I noticed it too; the summer is a very melancholy song subject.  I think it's because it's over so fast, and we only ever want what we do not have.  But, let me know what you think; send a message by paper airplane, and I will reply promptly.

a party

 

artwork by Ekaterina Panikanova

Dear All,

I was at a party (wait, what is that?  It's a thing people go to to have fun and celebrate together- the shadow side is that you might infect each other with viruses or ideas), and a old white guy was talking.  No, that isn't quite the whole story, but for now, this description, plus 'inebriated' will do.  

Anyway, it was funny, too, because it was a gathering of mostly women, of all kinds of ethnicities, ages, and gender orientations.  So, it was funny that this guy was filling, was being allowed to fill, so much space.

Anyway, like I say, this man was talking, and I saw some young women bristle at his talk, and I lamely blew some support in their direction, but still, this guy was talking.  Loudly, because, well, people that talk shit quietly aren't really a problem, are they?  

Anyway, I heard my lame and weak protestations, which I had designed to undercut but not confront directly, this old loud white guy, and I felt keenly how formed I have been by talk like his.  How whispered undercuttings are not really enough.

Anyway, I decided, that even though I have wanted to share some of the great moments; the great openings in my formative years, made possible by the voices of men that seemed to ring very true, very boldly, very expansively; that these moments are kind of polluted, actually, and not good enough to share.  

Anyway, by moments I mean words, I mean books.   

Anyway, I am going to clear my bookshelf of these kinds of men talking, even though they meant a lot to me, because I don't think we need them anymore.  I don't think people need to hear more of the details of what they do not want, and 

anyway, I don't need to either.

PS

Here's a source for some books I can put in the newly emptied spaces on the shelf.

Friday, again.

 

Edouard Manet, Spanish Ballet, 1862.

Dear Friday Evening,

You know what you are, don't you?  You are the summer dance party, and this is your song!