Wednesday, October 30, 2019

 

Harvard Square... it's Worcestering.

Standing at a bustop in a saturated landscape painted in reflected auras of neon and sodium as the calendar begs 2020 with 1979 synth pop in my ears and stirring my brain it is suddenly 1987, July, in another city... and of another mind. What is time? And, wherever are we in it, when the guideposts are out of sight, and all we know is "now", isolated, singular, beautiful, and deeply mournfully ephemeral?

Thursday, August 08, 2019

 
My life
Is a fractured Kaleidoscope.
Lightning and rain,
Dissolving sands,
Clouds afire...
Crooked fractals
Of broken meaning.
I wonder at the patterns,
Divine and scry
As I may,
But the answer...
There isn't one.
No matter how hard,
No matter how long,
I tear fruitlessly...
At the bones of yesterday.

Thursday, March 21, 2019

 

The subconscious is a strange beast

Sentence left floating in my head as I surfaced from a dream:

"That moment when the stripper at your table says to Burt Reynolds, 'It's a pity the coffee's not strong enough,' and you're fairly certain she means to support her weight."

Thursday, March 07, 2019

 

What is that light glinting in the darkness, is it a blade, a tear, or a star?


I've been listening to my friend Drioux's music a lot lately.

When my birthday arrives in a few days it will have been one month since my friend Drioux Galván left this world. He left not in an apocalyptic blaze of performance art pyrotechnics suitable to his creative persona but in the far more common way, quietly, in a hospital bed succumbing to the struggle. As I thought about Drioux in the days leading up to his death I kept coming back (as I still do now) to the Japanese concepts of wabi-sabi and Kintsugi. They are respectively the philosophy of finding beauty in the imperfect, impermanent or incomplete, and the repair of broken ceramics with lacquer and precious metal dust to transform that which would be discarded into a beautiful and unique treasure. Drioux was beautiful for his brokenness, simultaneously strong and vulnerable. And he used that to create beautiful art sometimes indistinguishable from the artist himself. Filling the cracks with feathers and shining metal, honing the rough edges to obsidian blades provocatively peeking from within a mirrored sequin gleam. He had a big heart and loved passionately. He was always a pedal to the floor kind of person in all things, and that is likely part of why he is gone. I will miss him greatly. I have lost a good friend and the world has lost a great talent. Drioux always found a way to make beauty from pain and find humor in the darkness. I hope that I can do the same.

This may be my new favorite song.

Tuesday, March 05, 2019

 

Just texting with the boys (an excerpt)

our west coast correspondent: I wonder if defenestrated could be used in a sentence along with rusty tin bucket and spade?

operations: Possibly....

owcc: Having already administered a tracheotomy with a spade, he defenestrated the remaining body parts he'd gathered in his rusty tin bucket.

me: Upon being discovered cowering in the upstairs lavatory Lord Edgar was promptly defenestrated, which owing to the lavatory's second floor location he would have likely survived had it not been for the rusty tin bucket and spade, left lying about by the gardener's pathologically distractible daughter, waiting below as if their destiny was to at last become one with his aristocratic throat. 

me: Hahaha! I love that we both "went for the throat". 

owcc: Because, we're both writers, darling. 😉

Thursday, February 21, 2019

 

More musings

The dripping of the ice melt, iron lattice, old stone, salt and snow. Another neglected street, the suspect countenance of commerce that has ceased... and yet where are we in this Urban dream? Fumbling towards mediocrity as if it were the pleasure-dome. Promised, but wholly incomplete.

 

Late night musings

Silence falls from the sky as a beloved ghost whispers its way through an electronic veil to coil in the recess of my ear. Beautiful white dust of light on metal and wood thickening rapidly over the disused, the once darling now derelict, frosting all the edges, upping the contrast and fuzzing the focus, making art of the everyday. Ah, isn't that the way? Making the cruel beautiful. Making the darkness poignant. Making the pain of a pivot point a realization, understanding it's like a mirror or a filter and are we doing anything that nature doesn't do itself? Distractions, abstracting as form shifts as lighting changes. Shadows lengthen, focal length shortens, is anything real, and that asked, does that make any of it less beautiful?

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

 

I used to have a way with words


I used to have a way with words.
Consonant constructions climbed
Stark dark and slick with rain
To tower glowering
While vowels howled
Through ovate openings
Wide as eyes alive with fear
To hear rhymes chime
Behind blind walls
As their echoes spilled
Into chill still
Streets of
Meter.
I used to have a way with words.
Now
They have their way with me.

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