Splitstraction

Spontaneous Imaginaries #1

A shaker-upper eyes the ring

Interesting.  This video was just posted a few days ago  to YouTube and already has over 75,000 viewers.

In this interview Vermont senator Bernie Sanders, an Independant,  echoes citizen anger over economic injustice, corporate corruption and lack of financial regulation/accountability vis-a-vis Wall Street, and the interviewer keeps trying to change the subject to . . . Hillary Clinton.

I'm not the only one to wonder, if Bernie Sanders does, indeed, run for president, what effect that might have on the outcome of the 2016 U.S. election. Judging by reaction to his announcement, not a few are saying he would definitely get their vote, and, as many have suggested, a Sanders/Warren ticket would pull in even more.  It does remind voters of the difficulty of someone outside the two main parties getting elected president, much less granted equal media coverage.  Maybe it's time for a change.

Who knows.  It will be interesting to watch the reaction from certain quarters as this all plays out. 

Turtle and the Inkpots

On top my computer desk, every morning - that smile.

Meet Turtle, of the Blackfeet Tribe,  photographed in the 1950s, in Wyoming.

Saw this card on Ebay and that smile got to me.

When down days come, sometimes a single, simple image can pick you up again.

Turtle,  some little happy folk dancers, a tiny Buddha or miniature rhino - personal

brick-a-brack that say stay on track, no matter what.  What floats the boat.

But this is new:  The ink shelf, housing 4 blacks, 2 browns, 1 red, 1 blue-black, 1 Prussian blue, 1 Veridian, 1 India ink, and 3 especially designed inks for the rapidograph. 

I've become interested in ink wells lately, their shape and size and style.  I began to develop a preference.  My old Shaeffer, Parker Quink, and Pelikan bottles, while of interest to many collectors, didn't especially grab me esthetically.  This one, however, did:

I loved its size and shape and simplicity.  It was intended, or so the thrift shop keeper told me, for serving  compote, those little fruit-in-sugar syrup desserts.  I got 8 of them, still in their original package, for a mere $2.00. They were destined, however,  not for compote, but for my inks.  

I felt a bit guilty not labeling which was which--for example, which was a Parker, which a Pelikan and which a Shaeffer,  as if the emptied bottles would be offended if I didn't.  Now the inks all sit next to one another, unidentified--even as to color--and it's hard to tell now which is black or blue or brown.  I have to open it up and dip my pen inside to test it out.  What was I thinking?!  (I know which is which by how they're placed on the shelves.  Of course if someone comes along and mixes them up - well, let's not go there.  The deed is done, as they say.)

I love that they're all together, each in its own special place, each of equal importance. The inks are no longer scattered,  in some desk drawer,  the closet, or an old shoebox from 10 years ago, waiting to fill the fountain pen, a supply that will last a lifetime, and several beyond.  But then I discovered sketch doodling and gathered them all together,  began seeking certain new colors, and the nibs to try them out with.  The desktop, alas, has not been the same since. 

Turtle smiles from the upper corner.

Poets and their places

T.S. Eliot's family's former 7-bedroom/ 3-bath  summer house in Gloucester, Massachusetts is up for sale, for $1.3 million.

Do I dare to say a thought?

He might've worn white flannel trousers, and walked upon that beach

and heard the mermaids singing,

though probably not to him.

I’ve not lingered in the chambers of the sea, like he.

Human voices wake us, t’is true

but they also put us to sleep 

(except those of certain poets)

And dare I say,

what we ultimately drown from

differs.

Who couldn't write in such a space!

(says my awe-stricken imagination, comparing . . .)

but muses choose the time and place, 

and circumstance; don't

forget the prevailing whateverelses.

Apologies to T.S. Eliot for borrowing some words here.

The pruf is in the frock

Either it fits or it

doesn't.   But that thought about

our old houses and their handed-down rooms, as

shrines -

I hear some mermaids leaving

Already?

 

awynfoto

 

 geese flying above the house this morning

heading south

flannel shirt needs  new button

When Imaginings Stun

  War Child. .  Artist:  Michael D. Edens

Imagine

Imagine nothing to read or write
no way to watch your saffron thoughts
unfurl in gray graphite on pristine sheets of white

Imagine loneliness without solitude
no way to swim between friends and lovers
and the treasured company of your own secret muse

Imagine only filthy, brackish water
or no water at all to cleanse your body, inside or out
no clean springs in which to play by graceful glades

Imagine children conceived in rage and revenge
mothers without means to provide, to protect,
endless explosions stilling life on killing grounds

Imagine knowing only
war
poverty
ignorance
powerlessness
hunger

Imagine dying before you are old enough to know who you are

~ ~ Jamie Dedes

First published in Poets Against the War (February 2010).

_________________

Words and an image -- from poet  Jamie Dedes and artist Michael D. Edens, who once gave me their kind permission to share their creations on my poetry blog over at Salamander Cove. I would like to re-share them again today.