Tuesday 25 --Wednesday 26 October 2005
"I will write down my thoughts here as they come and in a perhaps not
aimless confusion. This is the true order and it will always show my aim
by its very disorder.
"I should be honoring my subject too much if I treated it in order,
since I am trying to show that it is incapable of it."
--Blaise Pascal, PENSEES 532, Scepticism.
"The most beautfiul world is a heap of rubble tossed down in
confusion (or:' heap of rubbish piled up at random', alt. version)."
"I do not seek, i find."
Welcome to all who, passing by, stop for a moment here. Hopefully,
conversation shared, looking & listening--uncanny recognitions, celebrations
of the found. Sitting in quiet. I walk & work a good deal outdoors, so this
site may well be pretty much field notes & snatches of songs, sights &
sounds & signs among rubble.
As i work with found materials, there is no great pre-plan or
sought-for-goal i work with or can offer. My hope is to share materials &
methods, which may be of interest and use.
Working with the found, what may be "new " to me may be something
anachronistic, out-of-date, ancient, of yesterday, or of a moment for anyone
else. It may also be brand new: just-out journals, works,
events--whatever one comes across to be shared.
"A poem can be made of anything" (W C Williams) "A poet
regards everything, each street corner, each encounter . . . as material for
use." (V. Mayakovsky)
(The poet as stealer of fire--or a junk collector--or both at
once . . .)
My deepest thanks to Jim Leftwich and Jukka Kervinen for, out
of the blue, creating this blog to present my works and notes. I hope I may
give thanks for their immense generosity by bringing things truly of
interest & use, with "the care and the attention" (C. Olson) which are found
with and in all things.
Visual Poetry & la vie en rose.
Waiting for the bus at 29th & Wisconsin, in the West Central
City where i have lived the last three years.
A stocky dark skinned woman moving at an adamant speed towards
me through the ragged traffic. She pulled up beside me panting a bit, her
face split open in an immense smile and her eyes shining madly, glistening
with a dancing light. I offered her a cigarette to keep her hands busy
while she gathered herself together, straightening her jacket, adjusting her
hat, pulling at her handbag.
Years ago in Quebec i noticed that in so many small places one
went into--bars, eating places, etc--the diamond shapes of wall ceiling and
floor patterns were an alternating pink and black. I remembered my aunt
Merence ("may-ronsse") as a child had a fascination with pink. Her hair was
pink, her glassses' frames, her immensely finned Chevrolet, the bar in her
house and the house itself. (My grandfather told me he was sure she only
dreamed pink dreams. When i was older and knew what it meant i told him
--'elle vit la vie en rose'--she lives the life in rose colors--rather than
she sees it in rose.)--Once her husband had died, there was a continual
pink explosion. If one looked into the dimness of the bar area, however,
there were still the pink and black diamonds on ceiling walls and floor.
Even in the pinkness, there still had to be Quebecois pink and black.
The woman talking with me had very beautiful black skin--and she
had painted herself pink. Pink circles huge around the eyes, pink eyelids,
pink lipstick, pink blush on the cheeks. Pink nail polish, pink open toed
lattice heels and pink handbag. A pink plastic belt. Her hat had pink
designs in a bright blue field.
"It's my birthday, my birthday," she kept repeating. "Want to
celebrate with me? Got time before work? Just a quick party. We can go
around the corner." She made a small gesture with her hands--meaning
smoking crack cocaine - and said--"i got some rocks".
The bus came and i watched her through the spotty windows
approach another man.
Visual poetry isn't of the page and mind alone.
It's a way of life.
Pink and black--since childhood--some colors of it.
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