one old year frightful as ice road trucking and tonight kneeling, a soundless corner in the dark anteroom she gathers from memory roses budding and leaves falling and roses budding
in a goodbye bouquet ax scented with pine and eucalyptus. the sheet rock is chipped, a foot square round hole in the wall clear through to the next room from which dust blows and circles over her bowed head. am i praying she wondered distracted by winging banners of three airplanes caboosed outside the window overhead lit up with red and white and what words they spell and what it said raggedly and waving in flowing ribbons. a message she thought and smiled at how much work there is, for no more like this again but
quiet quiet now as an outstretched arm emerges n beckons 'come forward' draped with shadowy folds of fabric a loose embrace bell sleeve and the sound of silver bracelets jingling and trembling a heartbeat seems remote but deafening. 'good bye' she said, 'old year in time'
(that which seems uncomfortable' i thought scanning the column
and then further)
....the invaluable whateveritis that we do
join a trusted
connecting community that expects to
improve peoples lives
declare 'we r a landmark'
have 50 ways to say the same thing
.....................
it could be huge and there would be no turning back
i dare say,
but, pause for a moment and let me tell u about a product i truly adore. wired ribbon, three inch wide, diaphanous. the sculptability of it is wonderful, it is infinitely playful. and the cats love it too. i used it once to decorate a shrine to lakshmi, formed to unfurl in ringlets falling from the sides. jasmine rose is her favorite color. this one had a rounded gold-flecked edge as well as the select hue. it has been shaped and reshaped often and rarely ever cut, i guess about seven yards of it still long enough to respool just like new. i have had it for three years and it comes in a variety of tone. wired ribbon, three inch wide, good, lasts forever
ok
during interviews when i speak aloud my collar flashes
aflame, fire that covers my ears - just not real fire
but so what. it could be.
tho it isnt. nonetheless it is curling around my throat when to the left a venetian flock of birds lets loose
sprinkled in delicate lines across the silver churl of clouds smoothing the horizon, like fairy dust expelled from a magic trumpet their flight path forms a curve, a g cleff, five lines four spaces curled like a ribbon bebopping w/ mouse's ear on-a-stick notation and fingerflags waving there in the blue sublimity and instantly i am transported from the window to the top of a faraway hill where it dissolves in the sky over view
always just a little too late, it seems. i mean in getting the point or reaching outside the stall for tissue or something. wonder if jonas salk ever thought that he had to invent a vaccine because it was already too late. invention is the mother of intention, or what was that? neccessity, a perky pinkyfinger word. the mother of invention. and thus i cant helpbutt recall the impact of frank zappa. cover that girl with chocolate syrup and love her till the cows come home
"up against the wall!"
huh?
"I said, Up Against the Wall, hands flat in front of you"
but dont worry it turns out to be a comedian in uniform, doing this laughing cop shtick.
thats just a water pistol, and ha ha, it's fluorescent purple. wish i'd taken fuller note of that before but the excuse is that it was dark in the alleyway
there was so much he had to give, and give he did.
he always had a handful of something
jewelled intuitions and memory pearls and ribbons of rainbows
and with the smooth pebbles rumbling in his pocket
you could hear him coming from a distance
one must come to terms with any profound and monumental loss. this one is really gonna take some time
i remember him especially on his birthday, a day, nov 19, which from now on will be featured in my calendar as paul squires day. an international holiday written in bright green. no one works on this day and yet everyone gets paid.
but mostly, i came here to remember that what he gave to me was a wonderful world, full of color and music, people and ideas and creative genius. and here is louis armstrong to sing about it.
dedicated to paul, a great writer and friend, and a gentleman i shall never forget
and to all of the people he loved and who loved him
at times a work will plow new roads that echo a skidmark stretched out on solemn ground, tho usually when something begins feet first it walks closely, we witness polite repression tap six deep as he dares to say something dignified and improbable while the gestures cackle and the bell tolls magnetictic tic
1999brooklyn museum of art, Chris Ofili's"The Holy Virgin Mary," shielded by impenetrable plexiglass and 2 armed guards on either side...the irony evident. that her breast was made of elephant dung and exposed, the accents intensely sensitive. unwittingly (or not) the work changed history at the end of the last century.
i listened at the door, they were right, right round second middle and obviouslyinspired but i groaned hanging passionate upright tractions and felt gloom swayingin our neatly confidential family as it grew tumultuous. the considerable effort of the century was pronounced with a shrill sixteenth note played paternally and w/o any appreciable discretion, it was saturated w/fatha. it wasnt trying to reach muthur, no, she was on a retreat with strict rules about visitors. can these dry and broken aphorisms get near any uttered consciousness? spent and sculpted to the pose we thought more than we said, in projected expression, crammed into an older automatic sort of soft carved lyrical guard.
the little picked pieces opened a robust forehead gate beyond which education lay moulded, brakes held the furniture flat, the paper almost went serious and closed. leaving artfully thin spirits waving roses. in the distance a warm house was umber and beautifully congenial in the front third forward which shone distinctly and answered rhetorical reflection so simply and lovingly that disquieting traces of dark frantic attitude created an entirely happening poetic, man
vaguely unhappy the morning news ran far younger than when it was planted but made such respectable take that there could be no question, the twentieth abruptly got ready to go and things went backwards with indolent lines off the room elastic
pedaling tight on steep hills swinging baggages will provoke the metallic spokes. riding up to methodical solidarity infinitely jolly to further even an event with some agent, a protocol practice of the curious 'know not do higher unseen modestly' ie "candy hum" (kndhum) and eventually we hope to come to a glad end tea reading.
tell me everything you heard that night the detective said, pulling the bulb down
here reasons are old and seem nameless. the meticulous work was utterly condemned. in a dirty eighteenth street warehouse basking in surrounding moments we didnt think 'lateral' but 'critical' - voiding out to catch a train reserved for nobodymen punctured panelled and pictured. anyone whose hour sank at sunset might find laid bare hands reaching though a wimpled narrow horizon line.
we began to see That Ease was perfectly spacious without any ripe nostalgic remoteness. further, the inexhaustible urge goes onward in magnificent horrible halfway stilliness, and awful pictures bathe up and sell. shouting out about conversational questions when the natural thick answer is a black bamboo brush or something leaving startlingly pleasant and indignantly simpler questions. do you ever have the feeling that everything is just all right? did you get candy?
we r waltzing, me and the ghost ashley gone scarlet with the wind carolina marble nightshade deep carved velveteen by vermeer abreeziated in treetop T and ease
round n round
a wind-up dancing toy ballerina in the bottle of Bols the gold-flecked licuuuuure
same as atop precious kheer a cure for sure
served on bone china
diamond studded lacquer base kept in the secret jewel case
gothic glances interlock and watching from afar
a johnny masquerato on the ladder of my cohorts shadow
where the thin line spray emanates at the perceived edge of water meets fizz/ native formula b4/ the cool blue air. nomansland comlient element
transposed boundaridissolvings and birth flags snakecrawl cross the 'film'
a complex convex projection w/same give/take
as eyes have when they
shake hands the first time on some new deal
in oyster colors like flamingo and china peapod
he smiles while trembling with fear or excellent searching for
something seen up close
dash 2 open the sewing basket, for a piece of a snipped zipper or a braided cord in shiny gold and metallic red, handtwist my hair into the same shape
with tangled ends round a thin tin of odd buttons w/a dent in the couture lid
is this it? i am asking, when i stumbled over a velvet pouch gathered at the top with twine and filled with various rare words he nods he nods at every little thing
all there or anywhere
speakin loungepowder like i never heard b4
oh yes, a boddhi, allknowing buddha child
enlightened ha ha thought makes me shout
'u couldnt be cruel even to save your life'
this inkling blinking thing
connects to the neoprene casing
his heart is dressed in, for deep seaventure
cold and dark one thousand leagues below sav ancient knowing
psychedelic fish pulse neon lines and bangle bars
phrase n blacklight tubulur rhythm there only a mojowoman
i woke up early this morning after having fallen asleep on the livingroom couch, with the tv on, the classic movie channel. and there, in low volume indistinctly noirish b&w, was an old newsreel interview with the actor david niven.
he told this story: he had taken a leather jacket to the cleaners, it had been covered with fake blood and various other sticky substances during a movie scene. when he picked it up, it was fine and smooth again, but there was a note attached from the cleaner "it distresses us to return work that is not perfect". he went on to say that it had become his motto as an artist. he smiled and brushed his lapel, settling back in his chair, chin up. all this before my first cup of coffee.
i am a perfectionist and it does distress me to do any work that doesnt meet the criteria. however, perfection as modus operandi can become so tight that freedom to experiment, to go beyond strict lines of creative reasoning, can become impeded. likewise from the opposite angle of perfectionism, if anything in the perceptual field is clouded then other issues become fuzzy. and one can not fully feel or see if even one part of vision is not addressed. the perfectionist in me will refer to the adage: even one tiny drop of black ink will change the entire color of the water in a large glass jug. one glance at a dust puff at the edge of peripheral vision becomes anathematic, while you can not wear blinders and still see clearly. everything must be taken into account, especially that which you are practiced in not looking at. i need to look at perfectionism and admit the semi-anality of it. so the exercise for today is in opening the angle. from a narrow 45 degrees or so to a complete 360. since perfectionism is in question today, i will be satisfied with at least a 180.
"Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose"- Yoda
"To put the world in order, we must first put the nation in order; to put the nation in order, we must put the family in order; to put the family in order, we must cultivate our personal life; and to cultivate our personal life, we must first set our hearts right."
all content in 'spaces between trees' including art, images, music, video and writing (unless otherwise noted or obviously from youtube or open source) are original copyrighted multidimensional works and the property of the owner of this blog katherine a bloom aka tipota all rights reserved.
