Braille Poem No. 1 [draft 12292013]

the ring finger
the palm
ring finger
the palm

preoccupied
father again
wonder again
another
chalice-full of vinegar

strapped to this cluttered table
again
Charles Olson                               again
pinot noir                                     again
sony                                            again
starbucks                                     again
menu and ravenous tin
the New York Times                      again

exclude burning past lives
holding the hand of wonder            again
pushed into the street                    again
ring finger, palm
palm, ring finger, palm
suddenly with such speed.         morning again.

Image

Notes from a dream, 1215-172013

(over my shoulder/from a dream)

12162013

1. “Ashuver Sixlio”

2. “As I failed to shoot the dog”

3. Lot of dreams tonight. I curse myself for not waking to sketch them along the way. But last among them:

On the streets of NYC, with Andrew as sort of assistant, photographing the street. Lots of people. Smiles but also secret shooting of the homeless and glamorous at perfect unobserved rest. Anyway, at some vague point we encounter a group of 8 to 10 girls aged 16 to 22 (I intuitively know/guess) and they start to follow us. Flirting at the same time annoying and gadflying. We welcome the attention, the company, the shared energy, but they are a distraction, clogging the sidewalk as we try to navigate through without too much negative juju coming our psychic way.

Andy and I stop at some point to deal with an equipment issue and the sirens swarm, smoking, making my lens change more difficult than it needs to be. One of them, a young brunette all soft lines, most devious bodied, the youngest, most supple bodied, stands in front of me. Me, two feet from her burning Camel Light. The sweet smoke passing between us without burning my eyes. She won’t stop talking; so much more than talking: sexualizing forth, weaponizing, poking me with her untouchable womaness. Clouds me. And I’m trying to change that god damned lens, not let any of her smoke into the camera body. Fuddling with lens caps.

An ash, like a perfect snowflake (it had been snowing now IRL for two days), falls from her cigarette to her dimpled chin and, as if that ash were a universally understood cue, I kiss her lips with such quick aggression that she takes a step back. Unbalanced/shocked. Gives me a moment of much-needed distance.

The hip girls all snicker and chat, one says something to no one: “Oh my god, she’s only 15.” But no harm done. I lock in the wide angle lens and we all move on.

warm /in/

the brutal dew 
crystallized crawling
wonders between heat life
glaze all warm light
this voice
long after death
lost /in/ witness

what sublingual shade
by what bent recollection
under which narrowed who
there of love
concrete of

for c.t., c.o.

 

“Cy Twombly” from “Collected Prose of Charles Olson”

“Sculpture fled. And architecture has now run after. And for good reasons: that the round world (which it was their job to lead us to enjoy—to illuminate)—turned to rot. It had been treated cheap, not by these arts but by what makes arts: men.

All the golden things, including the mean, got debased. Then everything blew up, from the inside, from cause.

It is even possible that one has to include line as having suffered, and color.  But this will not be so easily apparent, and the point of it can wait.

There came a man who dealt with whiteness. And with space. He was an American. And perhaps his genius lay most in innocence rather than in the candor now necessary. In any case, he was not understood.

What seems clear is, that two dimensions as surface for plastic attack is once more prime. And with all perspective as aid gone, the whole Renaissance. Even line gone. And maybe color—as too easy.”

An excerpt from Charles Olson’s short essay entitled “Cy Twombly” from “Collected Prose Charles Olson”.