Random Journal Entries #16

Consider these, then, notes for a series of unwritten poems.

Premise:  The Wizard of Oz is exhausted from pulling on the bellows, monitoring the entire nation, injecting magic into the world and, ultimately, getting Dorothy back to Kansas.  Being an energetic genius is hard work, and he is weary.  Dropping back into his well-worn leather chair, he drifts off into a dream of you.

Premise:  A land parched for years, so dry that no life appears possible.  Sun-baked, the desert shows nothing but death, no, beyond-death, a place so lifeless that even the memory of conscious movement is gone.  Unbidden, a small translucent cloud moves across the horizon, stopping above the least hospitable part.  Barely one shade removed from transparency, the cloud lets light through, but not sunbeams themselves.  Rain drops appear beneath the cloud, the moisture sucked up by the need below.  Life, long gone, reappears.

Premise:  A stand of trees.  Between them running into a bright green forest, a long line of doorways, each one different from the last, some large, some round, some nailed shut, some made of paper, some of stone, some of glass, some of wood.  A guard, armed but beautiful, directs all visitors away alternating between claiming no doorways exist, explaining the doors don’t open or opening fire to protect the doors.

A stranger, neither tall nor short, handsome nor ugly, approaches the guard and listens to her explanations.  He stays next to her.  Although she keeps her gun aimed at his mid-section, she does not shoot.  He looks into her eyes, she looks away, then back, then away again.

He asks her why.

Why what, she says.

Why do you guard?

I guard the doors.

From what?

Intruders.

Her weapon slowly points to the ground.

How is your hearing?

My hearing?

Could it be that you misheard your orders?

My orders?

Your orders to guard.

Could it be the order was to guide and not to guard?  And could you be my guide?

She slings her weapon and reaches out her hand.

Premise:  Notes on Liberty House

 

In speaking of “group” and “community” and “process,”

I find me editing my words,

removing the theological terms:

Covenant, Chosen, Love, Sacrifice,

even Spirit

and,

god forbid,

God.

Yet,

in examining a church or other religious institution,

I am drawn to the words of sociology

“mass delusion,” “emotional needs met” and “belief systems.”

 

One wonders why the language of

geology never slips into biology,

geography into biography

or

necrology into gynecology.

One wonders but can never know.

Premise:  Weight controls him.  Not weight itself, but its measurement.  Each day he records, to the ounce, the numbers on his scale.  As his weight goes up, he feels joy—he does need to gain weight for medical reasons—tempered by guilt and shame.  Imagine an Almond Joy bar with Drano-laced coconut.   When his weight goes down, he feels disappointment overpowered by pride.  Imagine a skull-and-crossbones imprinted brownie.

 

Pus Theory (a joyful dirge)

You just wait for the pressure to build up, you just wait for the build-up to blow,

Then what you spew out of your mouth, mind, or hand can be called a piece of art you know.

Whatever pops into your mind and plops out on a page

Artistically represents your joy, sorrow, loss and rage.

 

Art is art when an artist has found it,

Take a blank wall, put a frame around it

Don’t waste time trying to master your craft

Just set sail on the ocean of art with your ego as your only life raft

 

You don’t have to be that clever, you don’t have to have much soul

Jackson Pollock didn’t know what he’d get when he poured that paint out of a bowl.

You don’t have to study your craft, you don’t have to be that clever

When you subscribe to the pus theory of artistic endeavor.

 

Art is art when an artist has found it,

Take a blank wall, put a frame around it

Don’t waste time trying to master your craft

Just set sail on the ocean of art with your ego as your only life raft

 

Artists of a feather gotta hang together so they won’t hang separately,

Vision is a tired anachronism; you want marketability

Money is really what matters; vision is really quite garish

Never mind what the Bible says; it’s without mammon that people perish

 

Art is art when an artist has found it,

Take a blank wall, put a frame around it

Don’t waste time trying to master your craft

Just set sail on the ocean of art with your ego as your only life raft

 

3 thoughts on “Random Journal Entries #16

  • Traditional theoretical theological theorems tragically transmogrify to timocratic trebuchets that thoroughly tantalize tenacious thralls to truth.

    Like

  • I commend you so much glad you found your peace I spent my child good up there with no water and electricity and try to make it up there as much as I can every year it keeps me sound of mind at our camp the part of being disconnected makes everything better it’s you with nature

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.