Banking by phone.

Hello. Thank you for calling
Bank of America. We have your money
in a box
slowly suffocating.
Para continuar en español
presione 7.

Minuet and a Light Box

It’s been a long while since I’ve really wanted to take up my camera again but it’s very very hard to say no when an eminently cute cat obliges by hanging out on the light table.

  <img src="_Minuet+and+the+Light+Box.jpgMinuet+and+the+Light+Box" alt="">

I was writing. Minuet was an excellent distraction.

  <img src="_Minuet+and+the+Light+Box.jpgMinuet+and+the+Light+Box" alt="">




  <img src="_Minuet+and+the+Light+Box.jpgMinuet+and+the+Light+Box" alt="">




  <img src="_Minuet+and+the+Light+Box.jpgMinuet+and+the+Light+Box" alt="">




  <img src="_Minuet+and+the+Light+Box.jpgMinuet+and+the+Light+Box" alt="">

There’s probably longer to write about creativity, photography, and my recent shift in mental state but let it suffice that I think I’ll start carrying my camera in my daily bag again.

I Can’t Be The Only One Who Does This

I’m still getting the groove of my creativity, still trying to understand what makes it flare. I have been fairly inconsistent in my approach.

Ideally (ideally) I would write every day, at the same time. I would eat dinner, pet the cats, and disappear into the night’s masterpiece. As it has been, though, I am only consistent in so far as I write at night now. It feels more natural. Certainly more natural than when I do get up at 5 wherein reading has always been my go-to when I get up. And the only reason I think I’m making progress on a 52 books in a year challenge).

Which I have also been… inconsistent at getting up then. Despite always liking it when I do. I’ve seen more sunrises over the prairie this year than tje whole of my life to now.

However! However, I am finding that when I do write, I write a whole bunch of stuff in fairly rapid succession. I’ll have an idea and write out a poem which generates another idea and I’ll write that out and then an hour later I have 5 or 6 poems.

(They ain’t all good, mind.)

But I do a whole bunch nearly every time I sit down in a quiet place to work. Tonight I wrote two, one of which is something like 500 words in my favorite sort of stream of conscious style. So I’m not hurting for interesting results, I think I may be averaging a poem a day in so far as I catch up.

Does anyone else do this? I know a nunber of you haeve similarly creative pursuits. Do yo try to be regular or do you work inconsistently but in volume?

And the loaded qusetion: which do you think is better?

All of my favorite writers wrote every day. Well, they say they did but only a few have proof in journals and such - Frank O’Hara, Hrmmingway, Murakami (not past tense). You get the idea.

I don’t know anyone worth their salt that admits to being undisciplined or inconsistent.

’course many of them didn’t have a TV.
(have you heard Jordan Smith on The Voice yet? Holy crap is he magnificent)

Truth belied.

How sincerely seeking
on all hallow’s eve
a costume to hide
sickly sins we’ve swear’d;
We are only wishing
for the world to see
that all these covers
are lives to truth aver’d.

Truth belied.

How sincerely seeking
on all hallow’s eve
a costume to hide
sickly sins we’ve swear’d;
We are only wishing
for the world to see
that all these covers
are lives to truth aver’d.

An Approaching Lullaby

I never rhyme or write in verse and meter. So, here’s all of it all at once to make up for all the years of not writing them but for class.

An Approaching Lullaby

Daylight sets the skies to burning
and his metal alarms all blaring
which jostles him to out of slumber.

In that moment between dreaming,
waking, laughing, and of being
he hears a whisper deep and dreary from the void.

Eyes now open to the dawning
In his ears an echoed howling
that was wont to land upon his ear.

From the void that was speaking
of the safety in the darkness willing
to embrace him like his lovely bed.

Rising for his daily brushing
not just his own teeth he’s viewing,
like there’s gaping fangs behind him too.

With blurry vision sharply turning
spying but a phantom’s vaporizing,
he dresses, eats, and leaves for work.

Through the day still working
a creeping specter arm is curling
about his rigid, meager, neck.

A tiny voice, sweet and lilting,
softly crooning in ears now perking,
clear and sweet and deathly little notions.

“Come to me my precious being
To the succor ye are seeking
and I’ll love of you ever more.”

O! Love and safety truly wanting
so true our bonds fully forming
he is rapt in that blinding instant.

Firmly he presses fingers downing
breaking keys beneath his frowning
resolute in decisions wholly made.

Back his chair he is rolling,
a violent speed he is growing,
toward plate glass portals to the noon.

Smile unfurling; wild eyes searching,
smashing through the windows hooting
he yawps a caustic holler of success.

Through the air he’s escapinging
air and cloud and sun so clearing
that he looks for awaiting hands to grasp.

Only sky and cool winds wailing
past his ears no longer hearing
nought but the ground whistling nearer.

Where is the voice so soothing
that it drew him to this loosing?
What has happened of my trueform love?”

So certain, now, of the slighting
by his blinded carnal yearning
of a dark and sweetly love abound.
Only a final approaching lullaby he’s found.

I’ve had Lovecraft on the mind. Have you ever read his poetry?