ground plane XXI

 

skies

 

Dear Blue,

This song is nearly 99 years old this year.  It just keeps getting better, and it is your song of the day!

a few lines

 

Dear Listener,

Pick up the line; follow the lines; get in line.  Or not.

Ground Plane XIX

 

Ground Plane XVIII

 

oddly satisfying

 

Dear Reader,

The phrase, the two word combination is oddly satisfying, but what do people mean in saying it?  Is it a satisfaction that feels odd, or is it odd that it feels satisfying?  Because, finding yourself satisfied is an odd feeling, for sure;  I don't think we give much attention to how we feel and whether it is odd, or satisfying.  

The thing I find sometimes, and it is odd, I guess, or at least rare, is a feeling of elation.  Or a dawning giddiness.  A sudden awareness of lightness.  Oh, and it is also like when you get to yell "bingo" because you have filled in your board; Bingo is such a metaphor for my emotional landscape!  Maybe yours, too?  You are working away, listening, putting markers on the co-ordinates, focused on the task at hand, and then, pow!  Bingo!  Up you jump (figuratively) from the flow of attention to a big burst of extroverted yelling.  It's a marvel of experience, playing Bingo.

You may need convincing- it isn't strategic; but you have to pay attention.  I used to play in our community center as a 13 year old; a lot of people older than I were there, and you played for a dime, so when you won, when you bingoed, you'd get a paper cup with maybe $2.70 in it.  I really loved the way this game brought people of different ages into the same, focused space.  It's odd, yes, and satisfying, too.

Ground Plane XVII

 

Ground Plane XVI

 

they are playing our song

 

Dear Malaise & Ennui,

Hey, hey;  It's bleak, and it's gray, it's low, but hey, they are playing our song, and they are playing it the best, and it is our song of the day.  

corner store

 

lilac cream

 

it is coming: spring

 

magnolia

 

bulbs

 

what is it made of?

 

Dear Everyone Occupying Space at This Moment,

Are objects made of poetry?  Without doubt.  What else is inside a thing?  What other potentiality could there be?  What would there be that will not rust, combust, or decompose?  If you counter they are made of atoms, I say; there is your proof!  Little things we cannot see, tiny theoretical impulses are poetry itself!

Here is a poem on some small, un-identified cut brass chips that came to me.

You gave me tiny shiny squares of golden light.
I sent you back a sewn order of gold.
I had to cheat, too, with glue, but I'll never tell.

And they were so crooked and poorly aligned; Agnes Martin
would have died again, even as I thought of her when I arranged them in their

sloppy, 

messy, 

that's life grid.

Ground Plane XIV

 

corner of a window

 

shadow brush

 

caution

 

evening tide