Vietnam Jungle IX – VII

DSC_5225I 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 … šŸ™‚

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.








About amyjacksoncc

I am a professional artist, writer and musician creating from my home studio. To view my artwork, visit
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