Thomas Jardine

2012-01-08T07:07:00.000-08:00

Process belies issue. If you understand the process, you understand the issue. If you understand how something works, you can fix it. If you understand what the issue really is, life gets simplified. If you argue with the issue all the time, you lose. Live in process, and you will go forward. Straight lines, curved lines, be neither.

2012-01-06T06:37:00.000-08:00

Dear Poet

Dear Poet; you might live for one good hour each day,
one hour totally yours, quiet with pen and paper,
either in faint blue light of five in the morning
before the sun pops up behind trees with big engines
and breakfast plates clatter with cares and wares,
or late in the office when exit signs are noticed.

Young Poet; do you believe how many things
cleverly entice you out of your writing chair,
out of sweet reverie and boundless thought
and new vision, explanatory order, fine wisdom,
and rare connections, possibly quite valuable?
What kills you with another day out of your life?

True Poet; however you have found this page
in the charged confabulations that muck your day,
reach out and cover the nearby window with your hand,
listen, and hear the numerous misdirected slants
that try to sell you dozens of pre-scheduled calendars
with your name and title filled in royally on wasted days.

Hot Poet; don’t do it, don’t live in pretense land,
you can never win over, you can only avoid
poisonous personalities with duplicitous smiles.
They offer appreciation and name-tag awards
and already-spent money for your limited time.
Look out, be careful, because, look at your poor friends.

Blue Poet; you write in silence, yet speak in sound.
Whether great or mediocre, you are an alone sojourner,
yet to be accepted and to help others is the goal.
The minute they like you they want you to cease;
talk, they ask, stop writing! Be with us! Honor us!
Adulation addiction smudges sentences with fakery.

Famous Poet; witch-doctor, village priest,
sooth-sayer,
drunken fool, visionary, assuager of hurting hearts,
whatever your job, how close can you get to truth?
We look to you for integrity more than opinions.
You put feelings in thought, and thoughts in feeling,
and you know the difference between thought and feeling.

Tough Poet; be kind, encourage others.
Lone wolves don’t make it. Praise sparingly.
Decline money for blurbs. Money can make you lie.
Blurbs are read, not for the poems, but to see
if the writer dances the cha-cha in a tutu.
No one wants your poetry, they want you.

Human Poet; others are not to be misunderstood,
they pinch you only to see if you are mean.
Poetry is the side issue. What they want is help,
small help, usually to be simply acknowledged.
Although often true, scratch a poet — get an angry person,
fire sans artistic passion is uglified arrogance.

Gracious Poet; leave the animal body behind,
your better spirit sits on a cushioned chair (or hard bench)
in a concentrated, high-conscious assemblage of thought,
and hopes barefoot muses patiently nod or disapprove words.
Remember, oh, so gently, involve the constant need to belong,
give kind appreciation to everyone, and respect their chair.

New Poet; do you say things people don’t understand?
Overlooked means you are still free, everything new.
Unknown means you see exact and pure as unlined paper.
No one watching means that joy of creativity is yours.
When no one shows, it means you must improve.
Great writing is belief in the power of a single line.

Fair Poet; the first line is an easy line,
you simply write down your thoughts.
The last line is the hardest line,
a million variables weigh expectations.
The only rule is don’t mess with anyone’s dream.
You need know only one thing: whether you can sing.

Sad Poet; when you write, write for the future.
You luxuriate in beautiful misunderstood time,
where beauty is always accompanied with danger,
if only in resentment from others that you write.
To be a poet is to be free, and others don’t like this.
A leader is magnanimous. Let others find the truth.

Love Poet; if you can talk, you can write.
Love is never, never, inferred or oblique.
Be forthright, creativity loves action.
Don’t shepherd; one of the sheep is always a wolf.
Ability is responsibility. If you have the ability,
you are the one, the only one, who can do what you can do.

Big Poet; keep your opinions to yourself.
However painful, keep what you know to chitchat.
No one will agree with you when you are right.
Never make a statement! Keep your belt buckled!
Don’t smoke and walk around with a drink in your hand.
A roomful of idiots can always find the smart one.

Kind Poet; genius is a happy thing.
If you want what you want, write one beautiful poem.
No matter what, after you are read and done,
if you are not interesting, forget it.
Ask yourself, exactly what do you have to offer?
Is poetry your first love? What have you done today?

Brave Poet; remember, when things go well,
be most careful, that’s when you are most vulnerable.
The principle of life is based on king of the hill, pure ego.
Enjoy the cuts, the burns, the insidious smears by pea-brains.
No one really grows up; they just act mature.
Money is the language of humans, not words.

Lonely Poet; pick your friends carefully.
The poesie-parties are full of wanna-be kingrats,
who palm your cheek then rip out your jugular,
full of two-faced failure-poets turned sick critics
with vituperous venom and slicer-dicer agendas.
Always call them by name, smile and shake their hands.

Fine Poet; do you see full prismatic rainbows
in a spot of sunlight on the washing machine?
Does the word fret invoke musical reach?
Do people seem to mumble? Do you seem to talk down a well?
Does your brain scan word-horizons like an explorer?
If you experience the above, you’re probably a poet.

Sweet Poet; are you shuffled between a million
writers,
shunted to the side isles of reluctant universities,
useless, doubtful, un-mainstream, a cheesy leper?
Yet famous awards are bestowed on famous poets,
and you wonder, how do these honors find the talent,
who discerns respected genius? And you? Time will tell.

Wise Poet: fact is, poetry is a small, exclusive
club,
rampant with charlatans who stick awards on each other!
The best advice is don’t bother, don’t waste your life
with endless simpering drivel by artsy poet-wimps.
Whatever you do, don’t write poetry. Don’t do it.
Hate and disdain all poetry. Then you can write.

2011-10-20T18:32:00.000-07:00

John Keats. Death Mask. Always drop judgement from your world. Who are you to judge? Well, we all need to judge. But just to cause a ruffle: who could possibly stand up and yell, hey, this picture couldn't possibly be a poet!? Certainly looks like a poet to me. Do you look like a poet?

2011-10-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

For men, it is best to avoid women poets. Why? Women poets are man-haters. Read poetry by women and so often there are affronts to men. Why is this? There are many reasons. First, fundamentally, women don't like men. Men are stupid, for certain. When is the last time you read about or saw film of thousands of women carrying guns, knives, weapons of all sort charge thousands of other women into "enemy" canon or machine gun fire, yelling and screaming bloody murder, intent on total mayhem?

The woman with the mask, not claiming to be a poet, is learning how dopey men are.

2011-01-06T20:32:00.000-08:00

Every day I see a zebra. There is a small herd on an exotic ranch on the way to the studio. I did not notice when I took the picture that it looks like there is such a thing as a Unicorn-Zebra. I think it is just a branch in the background.

It is nice to see a zebra.

2010-05-21T20:24:00.000-07:00

Bike outside Hotel Frederick, Missouri last month. I guess I am a tour guide.

2010-05-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

Beware the searchers, trust only the finders.

2010-05-19T20:08:00.000-07:00

This is a funny "old style" picture, the static, wistful, balanced green on both sides, found as is, subtle interior window light and tiny frame on the other side of the building. An easy picture to take, but still fun.

Some people change and some people don't.

2010-05-18T19:57:00.000-07:00

A vacation to me is to go where there are no crowds; not desolation, a few people, but never where I have to stand in line.

And when I write, I never write to belong: most people write to belong, they are belongers, they must belong, they wear t-shirts with designs, logos, ads. They "express themselves" Facebook.

2010-04-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

A landmark in Ruidoso, NM, and I don't know the story behind the bike. But we don't often see a bike in the snow.

A bike in the snow, chained to the sidewalk, not free.

2010-03-23T09:53:00.000-07:00

Which objects attract us is endlessly interesting. Half of beauty is order. Does anyone make the effort to see what you see? Hell, sometimes you can't give beauty away.

2010-02-24T07:43:00.000-08:00

Ever wonder why you picked the one person for you? Love? Mystery? Unconsciously? Because of what they looked like? Interpersonal power workings? Instinctual mating drive, mate selection? Communication? Opposites? The sound of their voice? How was the decision made? Because of potential? Your own intuition? The price tag?

I don't know, but what a difference such a decision can make in your life!

2010-02-21T11:19:00.000-08:00

People, (and maybe rightly so) are so often only concerned with themselves and nothing more. Ever notice that everyone wants to talk and no one wants to listen? Do people read books so they can talk about them? Think Facebook. Of course people read what others have to say and then they add their own tiny remarks in the form of some reaction and so forth. It is like the buzzing of a bee hive. Theatre in the late 1500's may well have been a kind of Facebook, all the gathering and the chit-chat, often moving in one direction, in one sense of order. Gather for a play, watch, talk about it, go home. Endlessly gregarious humanity.

Solitary blogs are no longer fashionable; single websites are stale. Group-think outside the borg is condemned.

Ants. Bees. Corporations. Group art projects are very popular.

A single person's point of view will be an antique.

Join up. It's free.

2010-02-09T21:17:00.000-08:00

The ego needs to be kept aside when writing. A true line is written without ego. Whenever a writer claims that they are 'part of the scene...' or 'we are poets...' the ego rears its phony fur and false roar.

One of the hardest things to do in poetry to write a good first line; in fact it is so hard, that the very thought itslf that the first line has to be good is the main reason for the existence of free verse, or the general bibble-babble so prevelent, because, well, if the first line doesn't have to be good, nothing else does either, so nice general prose or jumbly junk is considered to be poetry -- that way, the claim as to whether what is written is poetry or not is not up for argument. The lowest common denominator becomes the norm: I write, therefore I am a poet.

All day, all night, 24 hours a day, many a poet's hat is worn on the head, without a poetical thought.

2010-02-05T16:24:00.000-08:00

Having a dull day? Here I am running around taking pictures of door knobs.

2010-02-02T09:00:00.000-08:00

A photograph fails more often than not. Most are plainly amuzing images, arty, like the sepia doorway image above. You know, thoughtful, composed, even though it is an image of mostly nothing. There are few great photographs. Most photographs have a meticulous left-brained stamp to them, which is in part due to the technological aspect of the means to capture an image: glass and electronics and/or chemical processes. There is a distance between the maker and the object, and little touch of the hand. The best hope is to share a moment.

2010-02-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

Picasso said that inside every photographer is a painter. Thus, photoshop, and this Starbucks is where I go quite often, and as much as it is a nice view, messing with the image is fun, you know, adding a streetlight here and there to help make a more composed image. Ansel Adams 'burned' all his images, thus, to make the high contrasts that weren't really there.

Good morning. Looks like a romantic European terrace. We walk through romance all the time and don't even notice.

2010-01-31T09:46:00.000-08:00

In the poetry world, is it best to speak what you think of others, or to hold your tongue? If you criticize, you will draw fire, which in effect is to think things and keep thoughts to yourself. If enough people don't speak up, the mob rules, and certainly the mob rules in poetry. Just read the last few issues of Poetry, the magazine. Utter nonsense. Apparently it isn't politically correct to be negative to other's work: it is their work, therefore it is fine. Maybe there is wisdom in this. Creative people can just go forward, developing as they go, but then do they hear the truth? If truth is not presented, can any endeavor be true?

What is true and so forth, an endless nothing. Maybe people just don't want to hear the truth, especially poets, who are great illusionists at defending their own lies with pride, ego, as they scribble nonsense over and over.

Damn fake flowers. So many fake flowers.

2010-01-30T07:29:00.000-08:00

If art does not inspire, it is nothing. Forget the art itself: do you walk away feeling inspired? This feeling of inspiration is the goal, the offering.

2010-01-29T13:52:00.000-08:00

Sitting and doing nothing, waiting for the light to change, always beauty.

2010-01-28T13:45:00.000-08:00

Hidden Judges

A morning taps a finger to the nape in awe,
a lovely and incessant sprinkling change
from dainty dawn to when our name is called,
when work and goals, at times, are pre-arranged.
We are not taught to listen to ourselves;
we tap-dance for a boss, obsess with things,
more things, until our spirit under whelms
itself. The thing is whether you can sing.
The drones will twiddle thumbs and tap their heads
and when you die, they toss your private stuff.
Try this; walk by a big old tree, your hands
cupped over eyes, and listen: hear the riff?
Right. You can hear a tree. It echoes dense.
Avoid the hidden judges. Tap your senses.

2010-01-27T18:32:00.000-08:00

Highways

Yellow on the left, white on the right,
dotted lines and reflectors down the middle.
Hum in the engine, whoosh in the wind,
songs on the radio keep passion a riddle.

Red taillights blink, sparkle, hover,
headlights race head-on, bright and cruel.
Neon gas stations are cotton candy constellations:
pleasurable liquids, crunchy chips, lotto and fuel.

Green highway signs float—over—behind.
small numbered roadside markers count miles.
Shrieking tractor-trailers are scary monsters.
Anonymous speeders tailgate, with smiles.

Huge billboards—$19.00 motels, 100 antique dealers,
trailer home deals, tasty junk food—liquor and beer.
Cars zip crossways on bridges overhead,
massive trusses flex, whip away and disappear.

Mind-numbing boredom searches for essence
true or changed in a friend or crucial hour.
The steering wheel, the pedals and lighted dial
are mechanical illusions of control and power.

Sweaty, unprivileged construction workers
work machines and pour cement and hot tar.
A brick farmhouse in a corn field is ideal.
Heat waves blur shade trees. White chaise. No car.

Long wire fences bounce and leap along posts;
pink flowers, hand written signs, lost black dogs.
Worries accompany sunset and night.
Faceless strangers flash high beams; scofflaw rogues.

No familiar cues and mesmerized to focus,
gospel makes promises in scattered radio static.
The exit ramp slows the speeding, flying car.
To check in at the motel is weird, traumatic.

Inside the stuffy, cheaply scented, boxy room,
the air conditioner rumbles and spits and whines.
The lamp is off and eyelids blink odd shapes,
reverse remnants of lights and highway signs.

Tractor-trailer diesels vibrate the motel window.
Fearless autos hiss and hurtle on dire missions.
Truck gears wind and grind the long grades—
a hushed crescendo, then drawn high-pitch additions.

A dump-truck stops, the load door slams and pounds.
A driver cranks chains so the load will stay.
The highway sounds like rain on calm ocean.
A mild breeze breaks small waves into spray.

Vehicles dive into the dark with feeble headlights.
The single law of momentum sneers at slow speed.
The addictive travel-curse is fully awake
and sees everything, everywhere; no logical need.

The urge to go faster and faster overwhelms
the mind-set journey until the destination arrives.
Powerful family demands drive free will
into rolling metal and glass, routed lives.

Continual expectations, schedules and maps
mark no field with a hazy tree and a white chaise.
Conditioned by unquestioned, assimilated factors,

encapsulated travelers pass by on highways.

2010-01-26T19:46:00.000-08:00

Where are the women when the men start wars? I asked this question once and you could bang your head on the silence. But never mind. Whenever we have a war, those whom we fight end up coming to America and start a business.

Our political correctness will be the end of us. Keep your eye on New York fashion: you like little white skirts on men?

What does this have to do with art? In America, everyone is an artist, everyone is right. We are now into the third generation of "blank white canvas" [tonal] as being "art." Meaningless installations are now art. Offend no one. Accept everyone. Criticize not. Draw no fire. Honor the collective.

2010-01-25T16:30:00.000-08:00

One of the great pitfalls in poetry is when the writing implies the meaning, or infers the meaning, never saying anything directly. In fact, some people do this as well -- all their lives -- never saying anything directly, only saying things by implication rather than any sort of honest approach. What a way to risk a lack of communication. "What do you mean by that?" "I thought you meant..."

Art is the same way. Vague obscurity accomplishes very little. The viewer, the reader, the listener, needs to come forward but not analyze.

I've known people who say everything by implication, never saying anything directly. They say everything with sign language with hands behind their back.

Silent statues.

2010-01-24T21:42:00.000-08:00

Traffic is fascinating. Everyday people get in their cars and zoom around -- as if it is a normal thing to do. No, it isn't.

2010-01-22T22:51:00.000-08:00

Do you foggy days make you happy?

2010-01-20T22:13:00.000-08:00

Most people I know don't want to talk about why any two people are together, what makes a couple a couple, or why not. You've seen large telephone cables, hundreds of multi-coded wires -- a good analogy how couples are -- some communication gets through, but not every single wire connects current. What chooses -- concious or unconcious? Who knows. Too many variables. But aren't there people that for some reason you automatically do not want to have anything to do with? But you can't say exactly why? Why is that? Like garlic. Like a Low Fat Deliciousness Turkey Melt. What is it that makes people think that what they put on those enriched bread rolls is actually real food? What is that tasteless yucky stuff shaped into shapes that resemble real food?

Bread is "enriched" because if the manufacturer doesn't add nutrients the USDA says it can't be marketed as food.

Do you love garlic?

2010-01-17T20:48:00.000-08:00

Anyone can write, few can revise. I've heard about writers who resist revising anything. Especially poets. Revise, over-revise, who knows the answer. The higher the writing, the faster it can fall, and maybe that is why prose poetry is so popular now -- prose doesn't usually go very high; prose is mundane. Therefore far less a chance to fail. There is no such thing as prose poetry -- it is prose.

Just kidding around with the re-work of the photo, just rushing through it.

2010-01-16T08:37:00.000-08:00

When I think about it, writing scribbly lines on paper seems an odd thing to do. Why do people write stories? Why not just state facts: best to do things right, respect all people, learn about life and love, watch out for people who try to fool you, don't buy things you don't need, -- no.... people want stories, you pull them along with suspended momentum, they believe, then they retain the thread of what wisdom is there, the time spent creates empathic memory, and lives are changed. Give people a story and they will love you. You know what I mean, people have interest in story tellers.

2010-01-14T11:40:00.000-08:00

Zooming home yesterday, this image flashed visually in my head as I passed by the location. Today I went down and took the picture.

How often is it people don't follow up on their fleeting insights or visions. It takes a lifetime to listen to the voice inside you.

2010-01-12T13:20:00.000-08:00

I have two regrets in life. One is that I did not take photos of all the places and people I knew years ago.

The picture is a Baltimore alley in Fells Point. I spent 30 years on such streets, in fact, I've been up and down this street several times this year and I live in Texas.

What's that saying? Life happens when you are busy doing other things.

2010-01-11T15:47:00.000-08:00

The latest thought I heard is to take your age, divide it in half: does it really seem like the midpoint, the halfway mark of your life? And then take your age, divide it in half from the time you were 20: that is the half way age of your adult life. In other words, if you are 40, the halfway point would be 10 years, 20 years of adulthood, so to speak.

Hardly enough time for anyone to achieve but a few paltry goals. Hurry, there isn't much time. Hope people don't waste your time. Don't appear to be going someplace when you are not, just still, on the ground, get moldy.

2010-01-10T17:30:00.000-08:00

If your art does not have a narrative, it isn't art. Few will agree with this.

2010-01-08T12:47:00.000-08:00

There is an old greek saying: You make your face by forty. It is true. We make our faces, the decisions we make have an effect. There is also another truism: You hardly ever see an interesting face. It is true. We all think we are interesting, but we are not. No, the picture above is not me. What can you tell about this man? For once, leave yourself out of how you see, and see what is actually there. It can be a lot of fun, leaving yourself off to the side, and actually seeing.

2010-01-03T19:31:00.000-08:00

A poet has an easy job. All a poet needs to do is to write what he feels about what he thinks. But is this what most poets do? Or do they usually write what they think about what they feel? Apply this question to any poem, and see what is there.

2009-12-23T07:39:00.000-08:00

We must also love what is not perfect.

2009-12-21T23:30:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas. Well, what can I say. It doesn't exactly snow in Texas.

2009-12-20T23:17:00.000-08:00

People, maybe including myself, tend to do things of which they are not exactly aware. No one wants to be in the situation in this picture, five days a week. That backup is actually about two miles long -- every day.

People write poetry without thinking -- they just write the best way they know how, and somehow expect poetry to come out of it. As if it is natural to them. They expect to be a poet without thinking about what they are doing with their art. I want to ask a poet, tell me how your work is advanced in comparison to what is being written, what are you discovering? What is your poetry about? What do you have to say? Are you actually stuck in traffic and don't know it?

2009-12-19T23:16:00.000-08:00

My Days

My mind is bright as bumper chrome,
intensity few retinas can take.
My thoughts are loud, however reticent,
and tangible as stoplights in the sun.

However, days are highway lanes. My home
is blocked by smoggy traffic. Headlights break,
and maniacs can't stand magnificent
reflective brains, which, once cracked, are done.

I slow on curves to disinterest fate,
however, madmen smoke and fume and smash
with reckless speed, and the momentum, weight,
can easily claim an accidental crash.

There are no open roads. There is no joy
in driving fast. I am a backyard boy.

2009-12-16T22:51:00.000-08:00

...... excerpt.....

Time past, candles were for the rich.

Now, the poor light candles to be rich.

Kissers, campers, castles with kings,

alters, grievers and gourmet kings

light candles with purpose at night.

Slimeballs too, burn the night.

........

2009-12-15T12:07:00.000-08:00

Little itty bitty moon up there. After all, it is just you and the world.

2009-12-14T11:48:00.000-08:00

Being bitten by ants or fleas? Sun in their eyes? Tearful joy at the wedding on the beach? Thoughts of their own time passing or that one love who got away?

2009-12-13T09:29:00.000-08:00

A gloomy day in the suburbs. With Red Box, people can rent movies full of actors faking life and not talk to anyone, or get the movies mailed or sent via cable. Perfect.

2009-12-12T11:16:00.000-08:00

A flea market in San Antonio. You like flea markets? Flea markets are odd shows of humanity. It is very much like watching humans in a fish bowl. What on earth are they so interested in? Is it part of the discovery need -- the endless need to discover, to search, explore, to gather objects to possess? All the things they buy end up back in the flea market or in the landfill, all used up, worn out, chewed on, broken, or maybe in some museum if rare or valuable. I bought a nice pair of Nikon binoculars. I need to know what is going on out there outside the fish bowl.

2009-12-09T08:03:00.000-08:00

Here is the title poem from Virtual White Orchids. I thought I'd post a poem for once instead of musing on poetry.

Virtual White Orchids

A tiny gleam of star

within a hill of trees

by motion of a glance

is visible or gone.

Below the piercing star

a dirt road curves from woods

to open pasture grass

around a stone farm house.

Several thousand twigs

allow remaining beams

a momentary line

along a thinner thought.

Another glimpse can see

above the hill the stars

are virtual white orchids

not struggling with trees.

2009-12-08T18:20:00.000-08:00

Discovery is always a great joy. We all want to discover something. Discovery is why people like art, why people enjoy making art. Any art is the art of discovery.

Today I discovered, when I was standing in the middle of an intersection of a two four-lane highway with my camera, stepping inbetween cars while I tried to get an angle before the light changed, that it didn't bother me if people thought it was strange that some guy was standing in the road with a camera. I felt like a kid, trying to capture something beautiful.

2009-12-03T20:31:00.000-08:00

Where do you write? Here is my favorite place to write -- the kitchen table. The pen on the notebook is a Waterman fountain pen for which I paid $150 -- about 14 years ago. Also, I heard years ago, to write, just write the poem or story you would like to read. What you would like to read -- write it.

2009-11-24T20:11:00.000-08:00

In Florida last month, I always carried my camera, and often stopped along the bike paths to take pictures. Above, the blue water of a calm lagoon reflects the beginning of the evening sky. I myself, am so often in a hurry, and it is still hard to slow down and take a look at things. The same thing goes when we look at people, noticing things we did not notice before, good or bad.

2009-11-07T09:04:00.000-08:00

I am always amazed at poetry, how poets write poems in a weird non-human voice, how the poems "chatter ideas," and how they want in some desperation to be published, as if being published proves something. Of course being published proves something, but the intent seems to be published now, today, currently, poems that offer nothing of interest to living life, but packed full of "half-thoughts," tid-bits of incomplete angst like stepping barefoot on a wide slice of onion on a cold tile floor. Icky.

Here are the rules for modern poetry:

Don't say anything.

Avoid a story.

Stay clear of wisdom.

Do not be clear.

Politics is acceptable.

Political correctness is demanded.

Contort the language.

Prose is poetry.

Personal angst is art.

Trauma, negativity, gloom required.

Incomplete, obtuse vague inferences are 'arty.'

The 'subject' is sacrosanct. Any subject is good, even if meaningless.

Religious poetry is always perfect.

Poems in tongue, in code, mysterious, popular.

Private poetry vs public poetry -- unknown concept.

Far-fetched references mean sophistication, however phony.

Anger, resentment, bitterness, yelling, are theraputic, and dull.

Never "offer" anything in a poem. If you do, just who do you think you are, some phylosopher? Everyone is on the same "level," everyone is equal, and never criticize anyone or their work, because whatever any writer produces is "art."

There are many other rules for modern poetry, yet there are one or two who rise above these rules.

The picture above, ugly to some, beautiful to some.

2009-09-26T01:38:00.000-07:00

One of the most frequent thoughts I think is how few people will make a real difference in your life. I can rewind my life, go back to crossroads, events with people that made great difference for my life from then on, and there are only a few important ones. Where would I be if that one person did not make the decision they made? There are many different levels of events, but the important ones are very important and very few, at least for me. I remember her decision; she meant, "no, I am not living my life with you." But my love for her has never left and still lights and shadows my every living day.

2009-09-24T00:59:00.000-07:00

How much of every life is a delusion? Which of us deludes our self into living what we know is false? Everyone does this to some degree, I imagine. We live all day inside a huge bubble of importance above our heads, when there is no real bubble. Wake up and get real, there isn't much time.

2009-09-09T08:37:00.000-07:00

Redemption is a great theme for any art and any life, however many tragedies occur on the way.

2009-08-17T16:00:00.000-07:00

All of life looks like a vacation if you are dead. Just returned from a nice vacation in Rockport, TX, a small gulf town, a small working waterfront, shrimpers and oysters, and fairly quiet. The view above is morning, and is for me the ideal place to wake up and start a day.

2009-06-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

Finally got rid of that clock. I've never read such idiocy on how to change the time zone, since the time was an hour off.

Web things are so often designed by web-geeks and they, like poets, imagine people have any idea what they are talking about, since poets, like web-geeks, only talk to to web-geeks, er, rather, other poets.

So who is missing from this scene? Regular people.

So what do you have to say for yourself?

2009-06-23T17:34:00.000-07:00

Ah, summer time, and the living is easy. Lounging around the pool, trying to find my lost swim goggles, avoiding the bugs which the pool company doesn't bother to clean, nothing is better.

How many summers? Count, not the years, but the summers you have left. But not now. 102 degrees, clear sky, roasted salted almonds, oranges, cool icy drinks, and then to go swimming later, under the stars of Texas, ah, nothing is better.

Hope your day is going well, too.

2009-04-12T18:13:00.000-07:00

Acceptance of chance is an under-appreciated wisdom. Many of us can't remember where we put something down a short time ago. Most of us are bumping through jumbled days and weeks, but somehow things get done, things happen, and life goes on.

2009-04-11T20:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, as often has been noted, the most interesting things are simply found, chance events and so forth. A kind word from a stranger, a plastic bag by the window.

Some see these things and some don't, and who knows what really matters? Some will see such things as "pictures of nothing" and much prefer pictures of waves smashing into light houses or jets flying through clouds, which are things also of interest, to be sure.

Either way, it is the process and the discovery that makes the day go along.

2009-01-21T19:32:00.000-08:00

We tend to forget that we live in a paper-thin atmosphere, and could climb a ladder into space in an afternoon, if one existed. (Well, maybe if one could climb quickly.)

How are your New Year Resolutions? One of mine is to try to stop trying to do too many different things. Time is limited, except for the moon, which scientists say is getting further and further away from earth, and one will day will sail off. Illogical.

2008-12-23T12:17:00.000-08:00

How does one tell if a picture is a setting or rising sun? It is easy. If you are really happy, it rising.

2008-12-22T12:57:00.000-08:00

The fishing boat with the reflected sunlight is about a mile from this statue.

2008-12-21T18:42:00.000-08:00

Where does the willingness to take huge extra steps that most will never attempt come from? Or, is it, why are some unblocked?

2008-12-19T18:39:00.000-08:00

Very little of good poetry is mere juxtaposition. Good poetry has forward motion, action and image, not dead irony. Irony is dead, cheap. And voice.

Poetry involves others to make it work. Let the reader step forward.

2008-12-11T07:16:00.000-08:00

A rainbow.

2008-11-09T19:15:00.000-08:00

You've seen this sign somewhere. Something there as the car goes by in a hurry. The will to stop, to change the momentum of the situation, the travel, the destination, the goal, is often fleeting. The sign is still there, the restaurant is closed. Everything in passing.

2008-10-18T18:43:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen light transverse an eye through the pupil and behind the iris and illuminate the white of the eye from within? Sure you have.

What did you think? What did you feel? Did you mention it?

Or are you asleep?

2008-10-13T08:32:00.000-07:00

THERE ARE TWO KINDS OF PEOPLE;

There who people who tell the truth, and those who lie. These two people don't mix very well.

There are people who will seek psychiatric help and those who never will. Never the twain shall meet.

There are people who do not have the capacity to be empathic. This is a brain thing, and affects more people than we imagine.

There are people who have absolutely no self-perception. They have no idea who they are, what they want to do, or how others perceive them.

Some listen, others don't. Etc, on and on.

I think it helps to think in simple terms, although there are many more complexities than there is time.

I learned all this from Shakespeare, in the lines;

Listen more than you speak.

2008-10-11T20:45:00.000-07:00

Everything is right before us. Live correctly, and things appear before you.

2008-10-11T20:12:00.000-07:00

Another of the great mysteries of life is how people will live their lives and ignore the work of this century on psychology. I use the word psychology in a light manner. In other words, if your car breaks down, you call a mechanic; if your mind breaks down in some irrational manner, you call a shrink -- but most people don' t call a shrink or seek help. They think they have the absolute right to live their life their way -- and they do -- but why ignore science? There are patterns, there are needs to look under the hood, or under the body of the car with mirrors to check things out, to look for bombs if nothing else, if not the engineering skills of the mechanic.

One only moves forward with knowledge. Knowledge, not passion. Passion will fall by the wayside, knowledge guides.

2008-10-08T21:08:00.000-07:00

Every one of us is running by some one else's window, and maybe they see you and maybe you see them, but it is all one great confluence of time and place, even the people you love, even someone special, because a moment here or a second there, and some meet and some never meet.

2008-10-05T08:59:00.000-07:00

Well, this is my impression of the state fair. I couldn't find any interesting people to take pictures of, so with a positive attitude I looked up.

You don't want to hear what I really have to say. Of course, who am I to talk?

http://picasaweb.google.com/tomjardine is the free picture site where I will be loading photos anyone can see, in little slide shows, for the rare viewer.

Anyone can open their own site and post pictures.

I always like to think of what wisdom I have learned recently and to write about. I haven't learned anything recently.

The Mucky Duck

2008-09-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

A few final pictures. The restaurant is the Mucky Duck, the name taken from an affectionate nickname for the White Swan, in Shakespeare's day.

In the slide show, on the bottom right corner is a link to the picassa site and by going there the pictures can be seen and there is a slider to make the pictures larger, if one cares.

Sanibel 6 2008

2008-09-23T15:15:00.000-07:00

Intimacy with the world, getting as close as possible.

More pictures in a day.

2008-09-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

Well, the last night here, I leave tomorrow. Lots of new pictures, almost three hundred, and I will make an ordered sense of them when I get back.

I did not make the shell heart on the beach, I was riding by on the bike, thus the tire marks.

Back to the old reality tomorrow.

2008-09-18T19:11:00.000-07:00

Eight miles or so on the bike, on the beach.
The pictures of the huge house under construction was amazing. At least 20 thousand sq.ft. The main room is almost 40 feet wide facing a zero-horizon pool, I think they call it, when you do not see the edge of the pool.

Wonderful place, great time to be here.

2008-09-16T19:17:00.000-07:00

Busy day running the body around.
Since being here I have written about 5 thousand words in two pieces, long narrative stories, a mix of poetry and story telling, very moralistic, or with hinted wisdom.

What a great place for rest and relaxation.

This morning, trying to figure out where to ride the bike, I watched dolphins, a pod of about 6 or so, heading to the lighthouse and inlet. So I walked that way a few miles, and it was getting hot by the time I got back.

Well, all this seems to be 'here are my vacation pictures' kind of stuff. Oh, well.

...
the calm of hope, faultless mode of wish,
desire to be the steward of beauty,
the momentary tenant of heaven achieved.
...

2008-09-15T11:12:00.000-07:00

These are out of order, but I rode the bike down the path to the beach and watched a storm approach. The gulf turned green, the clouds turned dark, and by the time I got to the condo, wind, rain, lightning, power outages. It was fun watching the whole gulf suddenly lit up by lightning for a brief second. The next morning, bright and sunny.

2008-09-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

This should come out to be pictures of Sanibel.

2008-09-14T07:09:00.000-07:00

The light house at the tip of the island, at the inlet between Sanibel and mainland.
Dinner at evening with the one you love.
And under the rising moon.
A worthy shot, I thought, of a clam, or what is left over after someone else's dinner.

I am always amazed at how, when writing a story, the story is right in front of me, and I hardly have to make anything up.

Sanibel

2008-09-12T06:19:00.000-07:00

Two lovers walking together toward the sunset.

This guy is checking out dinner on the beach. He caught something but I couldn't see what it was.

Night gets dark quickly, and there are no lights on the beach, so one of the secrets as to why people find magic here is that, just like in the olden days, when it gets dark, they go home instead of running around to no purpose. More a natural rhythm.

Sanibel

2008-09-12T06:08:00.000-07:00

A few hundred miles beyond those sparkles is the hurricane "Ike."

2008-09-11T07:23:00.000-07:00

The approach to the units and two people and a seagull.

It is all about controlling time and not letting time control you. Maybe control is not the best word, maybe modulating time sounds better. All I know is that half my life slipped away before I knew it. I chased things I had no need to chase.

There will come a time when everything in your life needs to be reconsidered.

It must be like stepping on your own boat for the first time.

Sanibel Island

2008-09-10T14:38:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, in between hurricanes, I find myself on Sanibel Island, Florida, in a magnificent unit, alone for ten days.

I just walked an hour on the beach, the return trip against the wind from hurricane Ike's outer bands. I can see the curved clouds of a band, for lack of better terminology.

What heaven.

What heaven. Here, pictures. Enough talk.

One of Life's Mysteries

2008-09-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

One of the great mysteries of life is how you might like person A yet that person likes person B whom you cannot stand at all. How does this happen?

Does person A like you in reality, (for lack of a better term?)

Is life and love really no more than knocking bowling pins or spinning marbles?

I guess these things are impossible to figure out.

For example: is that a romantic picture or a smelly fishing boat?

2008-08-28T20:49:00.000-07:00

I have had so much fun recently, but probably because of a flaw in my nature. On occasion, I amuse myself with obvious predictability of human nature. I can be rude and tease people, but only because most people bore me to tears.

Everyone thinks they are interesting. No they are not. Most people do not have an original idea in their head. Most people do not know how obvious they are to other people. Not having an idea is not the same thing as not being able to see. But at the same time, most people, 99%, are sheople. They follow.

Why can't everyone just slow down and get therapy?

All this, of course, excludes me.

2008-07-10T17:57:00.000-07:00

Today I spent time jumping from one poetry site to another, one poetry blog to another, and seemingly gathering information, but then after a couple hours, figured out that there was no information. It was all that endless useless networking kind of bibble-babble, none of which amounted to the bettering of writing skills.

2008-07-04T08:27:00.000-07:00

Spent almost all day yesterday writing. I think anyone's productivity will increase if they have space to work that is all their own and not the house where people are, where bills are paid, and phone calls come in. It is funny, though, how expensive even 1,000 feet of space can be, if it has a bathroom, A/C, heat, lights and so forth. A place for books, desks, lamps, chairs and the like. I finally have such a space, and it is truly amazing for the spirit to concentrate.

First the will, then the art, then the space will come around.

2008-05-26T08:18:00.000-07:00

Consider carefully when you are upset about what someone says about you. Sometimes someone you object to helps you more than a friend.

But you know this already.

Intolerance

2008-05-22T13:22:00.000-07:00

As I get older, I become intolerant. Of people, things, but mostly people.

I am continually amazed at people who try to call themselves poets by writing 'poems' which are decidedly not poems. In other words, the subject of the poem has nothing poetical. The first objection comes: 'a poem can be about anything ... ' usually in an irate tone. Sure, a poem can be about anything but the subject needs to be something poetical and not something merely ironical, political, or any one of the other dull forms of subjects mistakenly put into poems.

May Already?

2008-05-06T21:29:00.000-07:00

May already, already May. What have I done?

I'm caught on the wires
while speeders speed by.

So many going fast,
so few saying hi.

2008-01-22T19:24:00.000-08:00

Frankly, I haven't read a decent newly written poem in a couple years. This sounds negative, I know, but approaching poetry in a highly technical manner means microscopic analysis. One super minor flaw, or fundamental flaw, even in the concept of a pinhole sinking a freighter. Not much fun, but don't people like perfect flawless things such as diamonds?

Next: What is advanced poetry?

2007-12-13T06:57:00.000-08:00

Whoa. That was a long nap. What is going on? Urp.

A Sad Day

2007-09-23T20:12:00.000-07:00

It is a sad day when a bicycler is run over, his bike crushed between the wheels and under the engine and the bicycler's body smashed into the windshield. The ambulance turned on the lights and siren and drove away, only to make the first u-turn North on highway 281. There is no hospital that way. Only the morgue.

Five o'clock in the afternoon, on a beautiful day.

His family got some bad phone calls that evening.

2007-08-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

Back from vacation, ready for the next vacation. All earth is one big vacation, as long as you are running around, sitting around, watching the parasails over the waves. Smack dab in the middle of heaven, sometimes it is hard to stop and get the camera out.

2007-07-04T23:07:00.000-07:00

Happy 4th.

Remember the real fireworks.

2007-07-02T15:23:00.000-07:00

Sunset over the Hill Country of Texas last night. The very last of the sun is going down right at the horizon. I missed the glorious part of the sunset, but the afterglow is important, too. The part of the poem that stays with you long after you read a poem is the important part.

Predictable

2007-06-30T08:35:00.000-07:00

Of course, to add to the previous post, men are gambles.

I find at this age that people are getting predictable. History is starting to repeat itself--out there in the world--and in my world as well.

Poets are becoming predictable, as I age. They seem to be the ultimate liberals, whatever that means.

I need more time.

2007-06-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

Every woman is a gamble. You never know which way the balls are going to roll. Marriage is one of the most complicated things to get yourself into. A lot has been written about marriage. To make a commitment to another person is a wild thing to do. Gawd, after ten years of living with someone do you every get to know them? No.

Everyone keeps changing, and that is the poem for today.

2007-06-18T19:06:00.000-07:00

There is nothing more wonderful than having a cup of coffee out on the deck in the morning and reading a book of poetry. Except now, I've given up coffee. I think it is weird stuff. So, now there is nothing more wonderful than being out on the deck and reading a book of poetry. Except now, I hate poetry. I can't stand it. That's why I try to write poetry.

2007-06-12T22:13:00.000-07:00

To live a long time without a major tragedy is good luck. How few of us count our blessings. It isn't easy to count our blessings. It takes effort.

Here is an artist you might enjoy,

http://www.marybickford.com/

2007-06-09T09:27:00.000-07:00

No matter how old we get, (I am convinced) emotions often remain simple and easily understood--what confuses and stresses is when there are too many conflicting emotions, when feelings are forced by necessity into being modulated by thinking.