#uncoffeed...

You have a beautiful mind. Thank you. And we want you to use it. Thank you. On what should I use it? You can use it on anything you like. Butterflies? Well, yes, butterflies. But don't you want to use your mind productively? What means productively ? Something that progresses the state of the world. The world seems very big and moving due to gravitational collapse... The citizens, then...mankind as a whole. Just the mans, then? I am not a man. No, silly...humans. All humans are equal. Okay. Am I a humans? Yes. I like butterflies. Are butterflies humans? No, butterflies are not humans, but you can like them. I want to use my beautiful mind to help them.  I can study what they need and they will always be and I will be happy. Will this progress the state of all humankinds? Well, perhaps...butterflies need oxygen like we do... And food. Butterfly foods are in flowers, and I like flowers. Do humankinds find that production of f...

Gloria was my father's second wife, my brother Michael's mom.  She was truly one-of-a-kind.  It's whispered in the hallways that my gay Uncle Thom was so impressed by Gloria that he gave her orchids he'd grown himself - twice. "I'm part Indian," she once told me, blue eyes twinkling. And then she lifted her pants leg. "See my Black Foot?"  I think she was serious about being part Blackfoot, though; she had a funny sense of humour.  We sometimes fought.  She borrowed my hippie clothes when she was pregnant.  And she could outdrink my dad.  Gloria went on to marry several times after divorcing my father. "Seventh time's a charm," she quipped.  I could hear her eyes twinkle over the phone.  That was probably the last time I talked to her.  We weren't close, but she was important. But these aren't the stories you tell when a beloved passes away.  And I wanted to show how she'd impacted my life.  I wanted a tribute. ...

My work-space is currently a poetry lab, but the poetry's not mine - Peter Kidd sent me some-odd pieces by priority mail so I can see what art may manifest to accompany them. I fixed the pages like butterflies* with long pins to my U.S. map, around and over the Presbyterian Migratory Trail where each generation of Ewing is marked with a different shade of plastic head. The ancestors will have to wait and support this project - every choice they made was for me, was for now , after all. Right?   Take the risk. This assignment coincides with the emotional birth of Deconstructed Corvid 3, which I saw in the rocks and moss growing between the carpets of my driveway. The carpets are not allegory nor metaphor. I'm not sure why they were laid out there initially, but as I move them throughout the winter to cover iced-over puddles I think I get the idea. When Pete said he'd be mailing the pages, my first thought was that I should send them back illuminated like Medieval...

Art is all about emotion - people crave emotional rides. I have more feelings than I need, but bottling them for sale challenges me.  I have to translate the emotions first, and then package them in some identifiable format, which is the part that's hardest for me to understand. I understand soup. Soup is an art form. Quality comes at base from the raw ingredients. The recipe documents the chef's labor-intensive process of finding balance between individual flavors and textures (yes, there is work in soup.) Like any other art, the ultimate reward is finding something that's good for the artist and also for the audience. Those lucky few in the chef's inner circle get to taste the soup and get excited: OMG. This is the best soup ever. You could sell this.  My taste is pretty eclectic; I try to create more of what I love so I can love more of it. If I find someone who loves what I do enough to pay for it, that shared love is more reward than money. Having m...

Conceptual Skeleton is my new favorite thing, because it forces a match between two of my pre-existing favorite things, concepts and skeletons . This week's GEB book club reading - we're working through Chapter XIX - was really all about me and my methods in writing, especially poetry. I figured it out thanks to Sherlock . I see a pattern between disparate words or processes and I squeeze until I can draw a metaphor over them, forcing a match. The metaphor drawn and applied is a conceptual skeleton . Skeletons work nicely because the variety of bones and joints makes the concept flexible enough to drape over something unlikely, and then it can be pushed around until it seems to fit. I am not ashamed to admit I don't know how many times I've watched all episodes of Sherlock. While I was reading GEB, Season 3 Episode 1 was playing on the TV and something gelled. If this is about to be a spoiler, shame on you. You should have already seen this show. I think it...

Match my underthings and wear cowboy boots and spend money on a good pillow and enjoy brussels sprouts and avoid cheap wine and whatever I want and let friends go when they want to go (this one has been the most difficult, more than brussels sprouts) Start doing all these things now, if not yesterday. It will save you time sweat tears, not so much but that's okay.   *this post is dedicated to Al, who appreciates my boots and lingerie even though he hasn't seen any of them.

Time stops in muffler shops. Reading Slanky while I wait ~Transatlantic~ From somewhere there was sweet perfume While Don sang me a maudlin tune Words and notes began to meld With the spark of heat striking Metal and I couldn't separate them, and it didn't matter... There we were all in one place - You, me, the music, the spark, the Slanky, The old man in the khaki pants chewing his calluses And the greasy, gaptoothed-grinning muffler repair man. * Cut to 20 years later, from IAD through LAX to the Other Washington, I find this poem in a 20-year-old journal thrown offhand into my travel-bag. The universe is cyclical. We are all... Further Reading: Slanky - M.Doughty Don't just read it; buy it. I guarantee at least one new perspective for you - Cookie Monster if nothing else.  I was mentally reciting Outlying Seattle as I rode the LINK to SeaTac.  My favorite is the one about butter-churning, though. Also, I want to say the title of the ...

That shiny paper is its own reward:  It scampers out of reach so flittingly And dances nearer of its own accord, Much more intriguing when compared to me. What value is not obvious to see The worth at hand compared with effort spent, But who am I to judge the cost to thee?  A thing already won, irrelevant, I'll take the status quo, but play is cruel intent.

Speaking in symbols can lend something more than words, boundaries eclipsed. Let's not fill your head with my palabras today.

Behold thee, Redbud: Blooms erupting from thy skin Break my heart for joy. These droplets don't come from me But Spring cries for both of us. 

because you exist things should be considered, though better left absurd. I like my dreams impossible but you crack the door open.

the truth of the matter a woman knows knows before she knows hence the fearsome sense the truth of the matter i would were it not for matters of logic and exposition be able to answer more clearly the question.

Djinn This is what I do Shutter tight the world's eyes Strip down to what's behind the mask Turn the water free, hot like fire, A memory of whence I came This is what I do Drop magic in the pool at my feet Vetiver like the earth holds me down Exotic acacia gathers far corners With calm hands from another lost life This is what I do Inhale the burning mist Press my wet face against the wall Escape via space between cold metal And demons washed down the drain They can't see me here.