Beware the searchers, trust only the finders.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

 

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.

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.

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.

Do you foggy days make you happy?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.