I have been really loving the work of Alex Katz. Here is a triptych for you to enjoy. Click on any of the images to get sent to more of his work.
Frustrated, she stepped out of the car to pump the gas herself. Curses formed on her lips, what as asshole. He was! The way he spoke down to her and made her feel small. His small mind, but… she loved him and recognized his faults. She knew he recognized hers. Somewhere in the distance she heard water running, the smell of soil gathered with gasoline, and knew she should be the one to apologize. With the pump in the tank, she leaned toward the window, “I’m sorry.”
He was gone. He left the door hanging open, hot air seeping into the air conditioned car.
Speech is a powerful tool, but not as persuasive as silence.
In every garden be sure to place a fountain. This is important.
There is always a secret self. Even if you speak it. There is always a secret, unknown self.
Don’t forget everything changes. What you feel kinship with today might poison you tomorrow. The sour taste may turn sweet.
“Luca Pacioli (Gemaelde)” by Jacopo de’ Barbari (1460/1470–before 1516) – Transferred from de.wikipedia; transfer was stated to be made by User:Stefan Bernd. Original uploader was Dr. Manuel at de.wikipedia. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.
“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. … No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”
Here I am in the not-too-late-of-a-night-city-silence, updating a document which will provide the backbone of a brainstorming session I am to hold tomorrow with an old friend from college. Yeah, so here I am trying to remember what is about the scene I had read about when Ginsberg* first read “Howl” that moves me so much. I go exploring and come across an article relating the experience.
We will get to it. Yet, in case I forget to say it later. This blog is my personal project, Denver Dust is my upcoming public project, and creating a space conducive to the atmosphere you see below is my community project.
Being that I am not financially secure to travel and write, and until such a time exists, I will begin composing the intended pieces of this space on where physically exist now and where I have been. While I hope to be eventually hired to travel, for now pitching ideas and stories will do. I present to you, the reader (my friends and family I must assume), the first diary entry, gonzo poet style, on Denver in her spring dress.
Easter robins, which still nest, I am sure, in a Folger’s coffee can hidden amongst the lilac bushes near my childhood home, have returned, singing in the trees like crystals of song, refracting spring breezes into rays of harmony, to the trees outside our window.
Is there a word for…
How under a clear sky
The meat of our hearts
Rings for that vision
Of expansive freedom
In feeling this terrible
Fear we create —
Music and Poetry even Life
According to the frequency
…Of those vibrations?
I believe this poem is the backbone of who I am. The lungs, the toes and fingers, the hips, and belly. We are all open, mutable beings. Containers of the soul, which changes shades as well. We are the changing seasons. We are lifted, celebrated. Everyone. That bro who you think is a waste of space has a mother who (probably) loves him, even the girl who won’t give you attention at the bar suffers as much as any of us. Lives and loves as much, as hard…
I’m not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don’t prefer one “strain” to another.
I’d have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says “That’s
not like Frank!”, all to the good! I
don’t wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart–
you can’t plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.