Saturday, April 14, 2012

after reading about how creativity creates

DESCRIPTION OF DOGWWOD FLOWERS ON A SPRING NIGHT WITH MOONLIGHT

You glow like strange eyes in darkness,

like hearts o aliens,

like light under water--a pool at night,

like the inside of light,

like burners on a stove in the darkness,

like a hundred tiny flashlights,

one tenth of a lightening bug,

like cream puffs on fire,

like whipped cream neon,

like you know who you are!

like you come awake in darkness,

like your language is luminance at night,

like fountains of water reflecting sunshine,

like a word so clear, it hurts the ear,

like silver essence,

like magic that was lost with youth,

like otherworldly blood,

like white mud,

like pure white sand on fire,

like a baby’s voice,

like summer’s choice,

like a household flame,

like fireworks in the rain,

like a death door’s jam,

or a electrified man,

or my mother’s love,

or the reflection of a dove,

in a window of a church,

where jesus lives,

and gives his love,

and pearl earrings hanging,

above a creamy neckline,

and the whites of the eyes

when reflected by a fire.

You glow on

until the sun.

Out that window,

where I am home,

glide and glow,

on the end of your limb-O.

A landing pad for fairies, bats, and bees

up, up, up in the dogwood trees.

Language all your own

comin through a mega-phone.

Drinkin the moon.

Glow like the famous worm.

Get some of your own:

a glitter strata zone,

a start on a branch,

the color of ranch,

(like the salad dressing)

your glow is your singing.

I dig you true.

I see you new.

Every spring you wind me,

you spin me and refine me.

I’m new with you,

wanna do what you do,

wanna shine in the nighttime,

and smell fine in the sunshine,

age like wine,

swim forever in my own brine,

bloom a new doom a boom a silver spoon,

a new name,

a new day,

say all I wanna say,

with a glow,

and a slow flow,

hello flower, hello.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Just a though I had today:

Writing is like my mother’s kitchen sink. The drain stopper is a little dented and bent. When you want to fill the basin with water, you have to turn the spigot on for a few moments and then watch to see if the water remains stagnant or if it begins to slowly, incrementally drain away. If so, you have to wait til the water empties, adjust the stopper slightly, and try again. Sometimes you can never lock the stopper into the drain in the exact way to damn the water without a leak no matter how many times you twist and retwist it. You can end up wasting a whole lot of water—all of it unused—watching it slink away and magically disappear through the cracks.

Or like waiting on hold for about 42 minutes. Phone crushed against your ear—no speakerphone. You wait and listen to the bucolic music and the recording that intermittently recurs, “Our representatives are still helping other customers. Please, continue to hold.” All annoyance, anger, expectation dwindled to nothing more then the endless jazzy fake piano notes of the continual tune. Sometimes an occasional glitch in the recorded music makes your heart beat faster; you think a friendly representative is about to speak to you. But the music returns, not acknowledging its self-interruption, and you return to empty waiting.

When a voice suddenly materializes in your aural system, stimulating the eardrum and sending faint messages to your brain, you’ve forgotten almost everything you wanted to say as you fumble for memory and words to return to you.

I don't know why I've chose to focus on writing. As an art, acting was so much simpler.