I think I’ve resolve the background issues, thankfully, and am steaming ahead with it now. Yay. As you can see. I’m using two transparent bright limes and one very dark Hooker’s Green, for contrast, with a flowy form/sketch line I’m painting in as I go, for fun. Yes.
I also put a little curl, and two new vines in, as well as some butterfly-like code. Mmmm. This painting is getting really wild in the best sort of way. I’m having a blast.
I did have to stop though. My neck and back, and overall emotional fatigue due to flashbacks of the beaches I’ve been to as a little girl, as well as many different alters from younger girl times. Not sure why today, but lots of activity this afternoon from the alters made it very distracting while painting, blurring my focus literally, my vision, while painting, making it very hard to continue.
So, I listen to myself, and take a break.
…
I tweeted a poem of mine today, perhaps to the frustration of my followers, I have no idea really. But it reminded me of when I wrote it, before the internet was really … taking off, when I was craving, even more than I do now, some sort of exchange … which I now have more of, due to the internet! Yay! Here is the poem, in case, the odd, rare case, that you are curious …
December, Dialectics and Physics
— 60 minute universe
the physics of the art dialectic
newton’s random apple eve
science contemplating the mind
the mind contemplating itself
like the flow where the
scientist can’t know the frontier
of the brain juice
a string of cubes where each year lives
where each movie is a grain of sand
compared to the whole of experience
which is carried forward unum
hourglass timeglass cubes
the dialectic of philosophy and art
when the art is part of the soul
and the soul breathes experience
but the artists lived in different centuries
they just missed each other
somehow they converse
originate and respond
what bursts original and what from the
hearing senses absorbing
avant garde, native and movement(s)
libraries holding voices dry with spines
galleries present associations through your eyes
magnify silence and sounds in response
like fragments from the depths of the subconscious
coming through the wire
or colonial mirrors of the payors in fine paint
el greco showing their eyes soulful
cortazar speaking from the side of the bench photo
curls and spirals in his words himself
a pearl is formed of an outline with one crescendo
decrescendo creche, Jesus is born of a December second where joy lives, an instant,
a grain of sand, a grain of saint, a piece of salt, saltpeter peace
love mixed with all the pain of all those who have died for nothing, nothing?
and the love is perfect compost
wherein new babies form pearl bubbles at breasts
yet it weighs
incandescent the sky in winter broken opalescent lavender ices
the winter glaze in doom’s eyes is shock still milk curdled cold
and something still still survives
it is ghosts living within you amid laughter and traffic gurgling
a leaf falls spiralling with variable factors: mass, shape,
position on limb, angle on limb, gravity,
air current on start, currents during fall,
this barring people, cars, tree limbs, other leaves, chance
the odd candelabra
as light as smoke, as heavy as that smoke from a cigarette slowly spirals
hangs in the air,
and falls, your breath into it steady creates a lower stream
which causes smoke to
stretch itself and curl like a cat’s back,
or suddenly like a thoughtstream snaps —
a snowflake melts —
December 9, Ā©1998
Amy Jackson
I have not edited out all the double spacing and stuff, because again, I’m taking a break now, but I do hope you get the sense of the thing … š
I’ve rather decided to read it on July 26th. We shall see. I found out from a poet friend in Nashville that feature poets read for 15-20 minutes … and I think I’ll try for fifteen to be a good girl and see what happens, not to hog the mic, as it were. So excited, but I won’t start printing out and gathering my poems truly until July.
It’s strange to me that my “poet” is so quiet now, my writer even. I mean, I blog, but … I used to HAVE to write poetry … crave it … the words would beg me to write them down, almost like I was going to spill them out if I didn’t write them, and then, they literally came out of nowhere, all these words and images and stuff … hmm. I wonder if I spent more time with a blank screen again if they would come to me again?
I just don’t feel the same way anymore, that college sense, even that post-college sense of urgency to write things down.
I’m in the narrative, the long story, now. I do feel more of an urgency to write stories, novels. Big time. So … I do feel a clock ticking there. I suppose as some women feel the clock ticking for their uterus. Ahem. That is mine. I did see a photograph of a ninety odd something man writing novels and was heartened, that his nineties were his most productive years. Well, yes! I certainly hope so. But I can’t wait and hope for that. Lord knows what is in me to write before then, and the proverbial bus could take me down, right? At any time. No one knows how much time they have, any more. Never did, anyway, but especially now, I think. Time is too precious to wait.
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