S.B.T. 352

paul squires was a rare person, a creature of delicacy and aplomb, who balanced architecture and magic with words, poetry of the people, a unique and supremely intelligent and perceptive mans 'music'. mr. paul squires was a beautiful human being, unlike any other, whose wit and insight might seem to have vanished, yet if you recall his politic and politeness, he surely deserves a "Sir" salutation on the anniversary of his passing two years this week.

at first one clung to the hope he was still there, formed a rationale to interpret and digest the tragedy, held onto the now-irreplacable tenets he left in sensitive and/or bright and/or colorful messages and missed his encouragement, which can be recognized now as his teaching on how to make the most of the creative spirit et al. i miss the ability to access his astounding mental library on all things writing-related, and now remember up close and/or from a distance, either way one remembers.

it started as a world-still-sleeping sunny morning and now the reedy wind is rippling through the leaves of the big oak, and the weather report is predicting severe thunderstorms as they might come up suddenly without warning, just like that, in the middle of a pleasant summer day.  i just changed "in the middle of this pleasant..." to "in the middle of a pleasant...", in effect, a precise example of the detail pauls teachings alerted my senses toward discovering. alerted and altered forevermore. 

he was something special. 

gingatao

S.B.T. 351

what if i always thought in mathematical terms - for instance a fractalistic viewpoint or position. 

or being fracktalistic on the ground straddling two worlds, a good thing imo - it's always heartening to consider other worlds.

like the idea of parallel universes appeals to my sense of balance

cuz otherwise what is all the suffering for, at least for a place where everything went right all the time,
or most of the time.

that place might also have it's notorious wrong events or entities just the way once in a while something really good and important happens to everyone all at once no holds barred except of course if you dont want it (they weave into the fabric of life but stand out embedded pearls and gemstones just the way good news does).

say the balance of having st. therese of the flowers here, would be having hitler there. but alas there is also here. now i'm blundering - first someone who existed on earth for a short season, like a flower, and then someone who lived way too long. that would only be the first iteration - 'first' and 'then' are terms only useful for sequence since time is not linear while language and thought can be but lets say, not for long

Yoko Ono , Sean Lennon on Jimmy Fallon 13 July 2012


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S.B.T. 350

long purple shadows cast by boulders. a silver flute plays chopin inside the top of my head which is a cave, there in the distance, with bats ratcheting. deep red velvet pain, the color is like blood, but at least it is alive, it is red. this fabric, so luminous, alluring, is untouchable. it is draped in a room painted by vermeer, carefully crumpled into a circle by little feet of cats, arranged in a brass ring basket, shaped like a crown, plumped with goose feathers. and the room is in some castle in the clouds.  only the delft geographer could imagine what all these things are for. for susan where you once were, is no more, unsettled scattered across the landscape of a hollow place where a friend is laid to rest.

S.B.T. 349

weeds

heavy metal clippers, 

dark green hoses

soil-soiled lime-green gloves,

prod the crumbled earth with love

creeper vines will reign no more!

free the ash and roses! 

as wilderness reveals its core

in secrets it discloses

we see a family of weeds, 

who squeeze between the silver shoots

of wheatgrass where the roots take hold

around a clump of trees and fruits

_

how tall and proud the weeds once stood

before i shook them loose

they offered no resistance

i gave them no excuse

they laid their lives down for the cause

of quince and tiger lily paws

for sweet perfume to trail and rise

from petals perched by their demise

ah, good weeds go to heaven

S.B.T. 348

i used to make jokes of the sharply observant kind. i grew up doing it. it came, i think, from having noticed my mother's fierce intolerance of bacteria on tiled surfaces and all that lysol scent had an effect on me. 

i would probably call them "bummer jokes" - tipping toward some unspeakable something, maybe foundational from every place of quiet or place of fear, which responds in some way to the need of the now moment. something you would never think fast enough to hold back before it got out. a way to gain an edge and facilitate structure-comprehension, a subject i think should be an educational requirement. not sociology, psychology, political science alone, but something bigger that teaches about structuring in general. "the mathematics of structure" so a person can begin to develop rational discern with all the crossweaving that goes on. continuously. one needs to work up a sweat doing daily structure-leaping exercises and construction chores and get them all done. because you never know where the dragnet falls next.

it wasnt kosher to joke about having creative block in the sculpture class, i was just doing my thing, but sheesh, they gave me such dirty looks!  ok, admittedly, i hunched over like quasimodo and flapped bat wings when i said it, it's possible the largest share of communique' resulted from that

i stormed a dylan concert once, walked right in w/o a ticket because i had an american flag wrapped around me like a sari and so they must have thought i was in the show. if anybody had tried to stop me or especially put a hand on me including gate police, i would have screamed "hands off the flag you treasonous

fool!" and if that didnt work "rape of freedom!" even tho wearing the flag is actually illegal, not one cop even reached for me.

haha

i know i know but cmon my act was worth the price of the ticket

S.B.T. 347

red sunset

 delicate birdcall summon s

light - 

ethereal butter

spreads smooth

over the ledge

calling out   .   moving in

leaning on the low clouds

drifting

a strikingly subtle phase

just before dark 

origin turns a face

to the wind

lullaby

albumen print

my eyes are as sharp as they used to be the old fool muttered

i havent lost much twinkle, poking the fire patch

this is the pilgrims way of cooking chicken he said, 

bespectacled, stirring the pot

at least the revolution was exotic, in a chilly way

if only we sipped chardonnay bliss

fully instead of sharing soup

it takes years to describe them, from the denizens

of the night, citizens, warriors, the occasional intriguing tapdancer

but this one you were my teacher, 

the laughing one, the happy hotai

in the fashion of green disney demons

with golden intentions

amplified through a sheeps horn

tiny piglet giggle

how is it sir i said, that you can do that

unravel, not clip, the ends 

              

                                                                                                                                

S.B.T. 346

Yogi Berra said, “It’s tough to make predictions, especially about the future.”

Years ago I saw an exhibit of photos at a church-turned-gallery - tiny tinted daguerreotypes of deceased persons, some sitting, eyes closed, after death - while portraiture became more accessible with the introduction of the medium, people did wish to have a commemorative image of their loved departed, and many had not been photographed while alive, so families splurged to make these after-death portraits. It may have been a flourishing business for a while in the 19th century. Certainly the fact the subjects could not move made the long exposures facile, quite a feat in clarity of focus for the photoprint of the times.

I was fascinated by the images, particularly the mannerism, fashion, history, and the allure of heart associated with death and dying, and experienced a mock strangeness in seeing these images collected together for 'arts' sake, in what seemed to me an out-of-context setting. However something did set quite comfortably about the whole aesthetic of the experience - though I had never seen the likes, it still felt surrepticious somehow. (as opposed to enlightening) Yet, I have never forgotten it. (footnote:in the 21st century it is a jackpot business only for paparazzi and clerical evidenciary material in policework)

fast forward to a broadened in-outlook and realize zing that the essence

was the lesson about the platform, or stairway, maybe a spiral one, of

intention and/or reward systems - how these can build into any slant of vision and equally how an episode of moral question and/or crisis brought on by art can only (sssshhhh) be good