To say he was a starving artist
would only be a cliché. He wasn’t
starving, we have soup kitchens
in our cities. But dear God how unhappy
his life had become. He set an easel at
the happiest corner of the street,
facing the entrance to the vast
Metropolitan Museum of Art,
With one last shot at becoming an
artist, because he’s almost lost the will
to die trying.
The snow falls so slowly outside,
it could be floating.
The thought of a brush struck
hovering in the mind before the brush
begins its fateful dip into the paint
And the savage thrash against the canvas
Writhing like so many lovers
naked, their erect parts perched,
ready to spill and melt into one body
A man leaving the latest exhibit stops on the steps.
He wonders why he can never walk faster
than those falling crystals.
His legs click to a metronome of silence
his eyes search for some sound,
already believing his ears deaf.
If you stop too long in the snow,
it’s easy to believe yourself dead,
already your last moment, slashed
onto the canvas.
He tries to remember having a conversation
With any great friend, or either parent,
while it snowed.
To break the silence of the snow,
or move
without the rhythm of its descent, was like interrupting
a prayer.
At just this moment he noticed a lone artist,
standing at the corner with an easel, but before
he noticed the gun, he noticed the snow distort,
fly wildly around the muzzle. He didn’t so much
feel the gun shot as understand it was there.
Waiting for his chance to make life imitate art,
the artist throws his gun in a passing garbage truck.
So his full attention can focus on the life passing
before him, stopped dead by the bullet he couldn’t hear
his senses focused wholly on understanding the snow.
The dying man, now laying on the ground, stares
straight up at the snow. Listening to it soak up his life,
Beneath him, he began to blink his eyes to the same
rhythm as he walked, and all was quiet again.
He turned his head to watch the artist, his palette
Turning white, his brush moving with the snow,
from the top of the canvas to the bottom. He wanted
To shout to him, scream the title of the piece,
as the horse of memory cantered through his
brightly shining brain. It’s breath steaming,
turning the world white, turning everything
to snow.
Yes, that book inspires, doesn't it.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
On the contrary, my family isn't very religious, nor are they giving me shit for leaving. The very support they offer is the crutch I need to shed. It's independance plain and simple, practice study and critique can only go so far in an environment you don't find conducive to doing whatever it is you want to do. I need some time alone from my family, from my friends and everything else. I need to be able to take a couple of steps completely on my own after Japan, follow any whim I feel will take me closer to this intangible ideal I'm chasing and see it through to the end.
and the grin will be large
I was the prodigal son (daughter). I returned different, but I'm glad I returned. Good luck to you!
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
As I poet who travelled through Turkey it didn't take much for it to suck me in. I thought it was phenomenal.
I don't think travel really changes us more than any other new experience, once you realize that you aren't collecting new experiences and new perspective, you're not really living anymore, just existing.
I don't think travel really changes us more than any other new experience,
You mean like bungee jumping?
Travel could help define home depending on the length of the travel. Home for me, after being away from it for 10 years, is the sense of belonging. I didn't realize that I was just on an extended trip until I found home again.
By the way Brick Lane is better written than Snow, in my opinion. I thought the translation of the dialogue in Snow was stiff. The description of Snow and what it could mean was incredible.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Travel could help define home depending on the length of the travel. Home for me, after being away from it for 10 years, is the sense of belonging. I didn't realize that I was just on an extended trip until I found home again.
By the way Brick Lane is better written than Snow, in my opinion. I thought the translation of the dialogue in Snow was stiff. The description of Snow and what it could mean was incredible.
Exactly like bungee jumping, be it some new activity, cooking or trying new foods, anything really to avoid walking through the day with nothing but that dark void in the mind where thought should be.
I haven't read any of his other books, but I intend to, the guy has talent. I'm not so sure the dialogue was stiff though, because the book all takes place in such a small time frame, and Ka was the kind of character who seems to exist far better in his own mind than anywhere else.
I'm thinking of making a big 5 part piece about memory, of which this would be one part. Hot off the presses.
Memory
Part I - The Jacket
Tracing a path along remembered tram lines,
Prague feels like a lost jacket, pulled years later
from a dusty hanger, the fabric
still fits along the irregular frame of my chest.
The restaurants shout their entrée’s like
cuff stains, the waitresses plod along the
back of my eyelids, like so many familiar
wrinkles in the leather.
Memory multiplies with repetition,
water pours into the pot, while the flame
struggles to evaporate it all away.
Though like a siren speeding down
the tourist clogged Wenceslas Square
I struggle to know whether I can still
hear the squalling, or the memory of
the sound.
How hard I try to turn words into pictures,
and make memories into life again.
I try to stretch metaphors along the circumference
of my brain until they become emotion
until I am still scared
of the Czech cowboy police,
until the sweat
of my masturbation is her sweat,
until the heat
of this New York shower,
is her heat, tangled into my nostrils,
with her perfume,
lingering in the folds of my coat.
I moved away when I was 18 to live in belgium for a year....
I was miserable for the firs 5 months or so, but I learned the language and I learned to get around. I barely made ends meet alot. But...
It was the best thing i've ever done with my life. And I never would have beena ble to do it had my family or friends come with me.
I remember when I was travelling extensively around Western Europe, and taking a lot a planes, I would stop for a second right before I boarded. And in a split second I would just kind of take an emotional poll of myself, and everytime I got on a plane there, fully knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do if the plane went down, that at least in the last few days, I have done everything I possibly could, eeked out every last breath of life from the experience, and was perfectly content to go sit down. It doesn't happen too much these days though. But it's something that will stay in my mind for a long time.
these made my heart ache. you made me cry and that's good thing. for me it lets me know that i still can feel.
thank you .
sorry I try to respond to everyone, I just missed this one for some reason.
Thankyou so much for the compliment, tears have such a purifying power sometimes, and to be able to evoke that kind of response from another human being makes me very proud of the piece, and the pain that inspired it.
Tracing a path along remembered tram lines,
Prague feels like a lost jacket, pulled years later
from a dusty hanger, the fabric
still fits along the irregular frame of my chest.
The restaurants shout their entrée’s like
cuff stains, the waitresses plod along the
back of my eyelids, like so many familiar
wrinkles in the leather.
Memory multiplies with repetition,
water pours into the pot, while the flame
struggles to evaporate it all away.
Though like a siren speeding down
the tourist clogged Wenceslas Square
I struggle to know whether I can still
hear the squalling, or the memory of
the sound.
How hard I try to turn words into pictures,
and make memories into life again.
I try to stretch metaphors along the circumference
of my brain until they become emotion
until I am still scared
of the Czech cowboy police,
until the sweat
of my masturbation is her sweat,
until the heat
of this New York shower,
is her heat, tangled into my nostrils,
with her perfume,
lingering in the folds of my coat.
Part II
Old Photos
At her wake, I spent hours with scrap books,
tottering through photo albums, adding
her memories to mine. It’s funny how you
can watch someone dying through still
images, how the flash bulb catches
the twilight of the elderly, her death rattles
transmitted through the negative.
The sound like an old jazz singer, too stubborn
to admit death has wrapped its scythe around
their vocal cords. I look at her wrinkled face
laughing at some family barbecue, and I hear
Neal Armstrong
Why is it that the tatters of a song
can clear a path through the snow-
covered world of memory for so long?
How can the voice of some singer replace
my grandmothers laugh for two weeks?
The layers of protein in our brains, weather
so thoroughly from the acid of our thoughts.
The dreams though, pile and mix, until what
I thought I was is so adamantly replaced
by what can never be.
I will never be in this photo album, there
are no moments here for me to recollect.
Her face, so vivid inside the casket, has
already began to melt from memory,
like a picture, yellow, and hot in some
attic, trying to scream off the dust, with
that voice, that phlegm the dying accumulate,
displacing everything about life they forget
they once loved.
At her wake, I spent hours with scrap books,
tottering through photo albums, adding
her memories to mine. It’s funny how you
can watch someone dying through still
images, how the flash bulb catches
the twilight of the elderly, her death rattles
transmitted through the negative.
The sound like an old jazz singer, too stubborn
to admit death has wrapped its scythe around
their vocal cords. I look at her wrinkled face
laughing at some family barbecue, and I hear
Neal Armstrong
Why is it that the tatters of a song
can clear a path through the snow-
covered world of memory for so long?
How can the voice of some singer replace
my grandmothers laugh for two weeks?
The layers of protein in our brains, weather
so thoroughly from the acid of our thoughts.
The dreams though, pile and mix, until what
I thought I was is so adamantly replaced
by what can never be.
I will never be in this photo album, there
are no moments here for me to recollect.
Her face, so vivid inside the casket, has
already began to melt from memory,
like a picture, yellow, and hot in some
attic, trying to scream off the dust, with
that voice, that phlegm the dying accumulate,
displacing everything about life they forget
they once loved.
ETE, part I was definitely good but man, part II....jeez, pulling the heart strings. I love your descriptions, so often they bring tears to my eyes. There's many people I'd love to have a beer and a chat with on this board and you're definitely one of 'em!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
ETE, part I was definitely good but man, part II....jeez, pulling the heart strings. I love your descriptions, so often they bring tears to my eyes. There's many people I'd love to have a beer and a chat with on this board and you're definitely one of 'em!
BE the feeling is entirely mutual my dear. Thanks for stopping by.
Comments
As if I'd have to mention it again. Yokohama Steve will send the goods.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
As I poet who travelled through Turkey it didn't take much for it to suck me in. I thought it was phenomenal.
I don't think travel really changes us more than any other new experience, once you realize that you aren't collecting new experiences and new perspective, you're not really living anymore, just existing.
Travel could help define home depending on the length of the travel. Home for me, after being away from it for 10 years, is the sense of belonging. I didn't realize that I was just on an extended trip until I found home again.
By the way Brick Lane is better written than Snow, in my opinion. I thought the translation of the dialogue in Snow was stiff. The description of Snow and what it could mean was incredible.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Exactly like bungee jumping, be it some new activity, cooking or trying new foods, anything really to avoid walking through the day with nothing but that dark void in the mind where thought should be.
I haven't read any of his other books, but I intend to, the guy has talent. I'm not so sure the dialogue was stiff though, because the book all takes place in such a small time frame, and Ka was the kind of character who seems to exist far better in his own mind than anywhere else.
Memory
Part I - The Jacket
Tracing a path along remembered tram lines,
Prague feels like a lost jacket, pulled years later
from a dusty hanger, the fabric
still fits along the irregular frame of my chest.
The restaurants shout their entrée’s like
cuff stains, the waitresses plod along the
back of my eyelids, like so many familiar
wrinkles in the leather.
Memory multiplies with repetition,
water pours into the pot, while the flame
struggles to evaporate it all away.
Though like a siren speeding down
the tourist clogged Wenceslas Square
I struggle to know whether I can still
hear the squalling, or the memory of
the sound.
How hard I try to turn words into pictures,
and make memories into life again.
I try to stretch metaphors along the circumference
of my brain until they become emotion
until I am still scared
of the Czech cowboy police,
until the sweat
of my masturbation is her sweat,
until the heat
of this New York shower,
is her heat, tangled into my nostrils,
with her perfume,
lingering in the folds of my coat.
I remember when I was travelling extensively around Western Europe, and taking a lot a planes, I would stop for a second right before I boarded. And in a split second I would just kind of take an emotional poll of myself, and everytime I got on a plane there, fully knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do if the plane went down, that at least in the last few days, I have done everything I possibly could, eeked out every last breath of life from the experience, and was perfectly content to go sit down. It doesn't happen too much these days though. But it's something that will stay in my mind for a long time.
sorry I try to respond to everyone, I just missed this one for some reason.
Thankyou so much for the compliment, tears have such a purifying power sometimes, and to be able to evoke that kind of response from another human being makes me very proud of the piece, and the pain that inspired it.
Part I
Old Jackets
Tracing a path along remembered tram lines,
Prague feels like a lost jacket, pulled years later
from a dusty hanger, the fabric
still fits along the irregular frame of my chest.
The restaurants shout their entrée’s like
cuff stains, the waitresses plod along the
back of my eyelids, like so many familiar
wrinkles in the leather.
Memory multiplies with repetition,
water pours into the pot, while the flame
struggles to evaporate it all away.
Though like a siren speeding down
the tourist clogged Wenceslas Square
I struggle to know whether I can still
hear the squalling, or the memory of
the sound.
How hard I try to turn words into pictures,
and make memories into life again.
I try to stretch metaphors along the circumference
of my brain until they become emotion
until I am still scared
of the Czech cowboy police,
until the sweat
of my masturbation is her sweat,
until the heat
of this New York shower,
is her heat, tangled into my nostrils,
with her perfume,
lingering in the folds of my coat.
Part II
Old Photos
At her wake, I spent hours with scrap books,
tottering through photo albums, adding
her memories to mine. It’s funny how you
can watch someone dying through still
images, how the flash bulb catches
the twilight of the elderly, her death rattles
transmitted through the negative.
The sound like an old jazz singer, too stubborn
to admit death has wrapped its scythe around
their vocal cords. I look at her wrinkled face
laughing at some family barbecue, and I hear
Neal Armstrong
Why is it that the tatters of a song
can clear a path through the snow-
covered world of memory for so long?
How can the voice of some singer replace
my grandmothers laugh for two weeks?
The layers of protein in our brains, weather
so thoroughly from the acid of our thoughts.
The dreams though, pile and mix, until what
I thought I was is so adamantly replaced
by what can never be.
I will never be in this photo album, there
are no moments here for me to recollect.
Her face, so vivid inside the casket, has
already began to melt from memory,
like a picture, yellow, and hot in some
attic, trying to scream off the dust, with
that voice, that phlegm the dying accumulate,
displacing everything about life they forget
they once loved.
ETE, part I was definitely good but man, part II....jeez, pulling the heart strings.
BE the feeling is entirely mutual my dear. Thanks for stopping by.