Today I’m looking at finding the disinterest in infatuation and infatuation in disinterest. Today’s study of infatuation brought me to foolish passion and and another look at that great word “unreason,” which made me think of the obsessive works in Nonconformers: A New History of Self-Taught Artists by Lisa Slominski (and contributors).
For today’s images I changed my lighting preparing my palette for next month. And I cut a new detailed filter.
Today’s is an ekphrastic prompt. Of the four painting to choose from, I felt the most connection to “A November Morning” by John Atkinson Grimshaw.
What We Dare in the Glow of Morning
We dare the cold bite of winter chill getting through sweaters and coats mittens, scarves, and caps to find purchase in our bones We dare the slippery sidewalks the threat of the hard meet of concrete embarrassment of flailing pain, bruises, and scrapes We dare to dream of a different world where all this courage has purpose inspiring, changing, improving every trek to a destination desired We dare to imagine a future in which our Novembers are paintings of the past in which we dared to venture out in the glow of morning
Today I’m looking at finding the indifference in excitement and excitement in indifference.Everything about my work is excitement to me, the lights the shapes, the discovery, so how do I show indifference in that excitement. A second person might be indifferent to the excitement. The world might be indifferent to the excitement. What does indifference look like? I was thinking no filter at all. Only looking at circles. But even that is exciting. Maybe not looking through the lens finder at all.
It is Quadrille Monday where today’s challenge is to write a forty-four word poem which includes the word “warm” in some form. It will be an interesting exercise to condense all the lines I collected from the poems I’ve written this month into only forty-four words as my remix poem.
Attempts at Indifference Went Down in Flames
Let’s pretend I found indifference— was free of bias learned from experience and could know vibrations of unfiltered perceptions and nerves afire went for broke Nothing is as incomprehensible as honest truth —would I in my excitement be warmed by the fire or burned?
Last night I set up files for each of the scenes I need to get me through the end of this draft, and hopped from one to another writing about five hundred words into each. I still have a ways to go, but I think I can get to the end by the 30th. I’m excited.
Today I’m looking at finding the enhancement in diminution and the diminution in enhancement. Today’s study definitely starts with the dictionary.
enhancementnoun the state or quality of being elevated, heightened, or increased, as in quality, degree, intensity, or value
diminutionnoun the act, fact or process of diminishing, lessening; reduction
If one thinks about the law of supply and demand, one could enhance the value of something through diminution: lessening the available quantity. So that could be the diminution in enhancement. I’m still thinking about my first attempt at cubism yesterday. Cubism is a type of diminution, reducing something to its shapes and angles, and yet also increasing them by showing the shapes and angles from more than one point of view at the same time. So cubism could be the enhancement in diminution.
For today’s images, I cut another filter in an attempt at cubism, then took shots from different heights, and tried different intensities by adding my purple LEDs to the blue, and then using transparencies with mostly white.
I feel like all of today’s experiments got me closer to the cubism idea I had in mind. I think it’s a fun concept to explore further.
Yesterday I got my second NaNoWriMo win, so my draft is at 90,000 words, and yet I have a ways to go before I hit The End. I’m excited that I’m over-writing this year, so for the first time my revision process will be chiseling away instead of building up. However, I also want to get to The End, so I can let it rest, and focus on poetry next month while I put together my chapbook. Determination is key. I have four days: will I write this novel to the end? I sure hope so.
“Reality only reveals itself when it is illuminated by a ray of poetry.” ~Georges Braque
Georges Braque was a Fauvist and Cubist painter of still lifes. A ray of poetry sounds like a dream image that reveals reality, thus the reality in the illumination of a dream. Do I want to attempt some cubism today a la Georges Braque? The experiment is how to create the curves and lines to create an impression of cubism.
Today’s prompt for some stream of consciousness writing is “on your/my plate.“
I feel like there is always too much on my plate. But no one puts anything on it but me. Why do I continue to find things to pile on top, when it was already comfortably full? Because my eyes are big, much bigger than my stomach, and everything looks so delicious. When one sees flavor in everything, it’s easy to want a little, or a lot, of each. And when I have cut and chewed, and stabbed and shoveled down to revealing part of the pattern of the plate, a blue petal, the head of a partridge, the blue feather on the speckled beige background, do I celebrate, the accomplishment, rest and admire? No. I fill it right back up. I cover that space with new and exciting spicy explorations, and then pile on some more. Perhaps that’s why I’m never sated, because I never give myself a moment to digest. I guess I like how the colors and flavors combine, the surprises I find when I let it all mingle for a while. Finding something greater than the sum of its parts.
I love putting every color on the plate: the white rice with black beans, red and yellow peppers, orange carrots, green broccoli and spinach, blue and purple cabbage, a full spectrum of flavors for the eyes, mouth, nose, and tongue. The sound of utensils on plates, the chewing and crunching flavors for the ears. Does the plate make a difference. If I filled a different plate would the results, the experience change? If I filled several plates instead of heaping, and heaping on one, would that be better or worse?
Today my search leads me to the injustice in justice and the justice in injustice. This study gets right to the heart of what it is to be a human in society. The concepts of justice are based on a moral code that people have to agree upon to live peacefully together. But some laws are created and upheld that are not just or moral. And though justice is supposed to encompass equality and fairness, some laws that are just and moral are only applied to some, while others believe they are above the law.
While I explored definitions today, I came upon the importance that bias plays in injustice, and became fascinated by the word “unreason.” unreasonnoun 1.inability or unwillingness to think or act rationally, reasonably or sensibly; irrationality 2.something that lacks or is contrary to reason 3. lack of order; chaos verb to upset or disrupt the reason or sanity of; to deprive of reason.
It’s the verb part of that definition that fascinates me: that through unreason one could deprive another of reason, disrupt someone’s sanity. Is that what is causing what appears to be so much injustice?
I believe bias is the injustice in justice, but where is the justice in injustice? Perhaps through recognizing injustice—as in unjust or unfair laws—we can change those laws, thus creating justice through injustice. However, what is determined as justice to one person may be considered injustice to another, so it’s possible that society itself—the attempt of humans to live together peaceably through creating and enforcing laws—is the injustice in justice, and the justice in injustice.
Visually this gives me the excuse to play with my scales filter again. I really like that I went back and put the time into getting the filter the way I wanted it. The upper bar is affixed with a tiny brad so the scales of justice can be even or uneven. And the scales themselves are attached with wire and tiny jewelry loops so they move freely. Thus, in every capture the shape will be different.
As serious as flashing lights in the rearview As serious as pulling over on a backroad As serious as one would whisper I’m scared in comfort’s absence As serious as silence in answer’s drought As serious as a gun barrel threatening extinction As serious as vocal modulation implying impatience As serious as high blood pressure in heightened stress As serious as blood rushing uncontrolled As serious as trespass trampling underfoot As serious as bias skewing perception As serious as the banging gavel finality’s sound As serious as judgement sealing fate As serious as freedom self determination As serious as lost freedom broken spirit As serious as tragedy hope drowned As serious as life and death
Today I’m looking at finding the warmth in coldness and the coldness in warmth. You might be thinking, Wait a minute, those aren’t abstract nouns: they are sensations: I can measure them with a thermometer. You’d think this writer would understand what an abstract noun is by now. And you would be right, if I was exploring temperature, or the weather.
warmthnoun the sensation of moderate heat. coldnessnoun having a temperature lower than the normal temperature of the human body
And I definitely don’t mean to be creating any confusion, but each of these words also have meanings that make them abstract nouns:
warmthnoun liveliness of feelings, emotions or sympathies; ardor or fervor; enthusiasm or zeal; the quality of being intimate and attached coldnessnoun lacking in passion, emotion, enthusiasm; not affectionate, cordial, or friendly; lacking sensual desire; unexcitable; imperturbable
One way I could approach this visually is through color. My net lights will actually do it for me: blink blue and green, then yellow and red. I could use temperature symbols like a snowflake, or the sun, or fire, as metaphor for the emotions.So if the lights were blinking warm colors and I used a snowflake filter, would that show the coldness in warmth and the warmth in coldness? Or is that too on the nose? Guess I’ll find out.
The blue sky surrounding the snow-covered volcano the gold glints of sun on the crystal clear lake in November pulling your sweater tight as the frosty grass burns your bare feet waving and smiling then hurrying to hide inside the vacant stare of the confidant who keeps the uh-huh rhythm while their fingers play a sonata of social media on their phone the smiling face and open arms of the back-stabber the gossip who feigns caring to dig up your dirt the resting face interpreted as angry and stand-offish when only deep in thought the damaged and traumatized who fears but longs for touch shying from advances of the person most wanted to advance a hand that reaches out when shivering with fear pulling your walls in tighter as the fires of passion lick your feet the raging volcano inside the silent, chilly stoicism the blue bottle in the icebox waiting to warm the way down
Today I’m looking at finding the calm in anxiety and the anxiety in calm. Actually, I’m looking to find that every day, but I’m looking at it differently today. For today’s images, I revisited the pin-hole patterns I’ve created, thinking of the black space as calm and the points of light as anxiety. I like how the images evoke both calm and anxiety: a keenness, a botheration in a halcyon harmony.
Today’s prompt is to write a family poem. Combining my prompts reminded me of a family gathering poem I wrote back in October of 2017. The poem was inspired by a flying horned monkey in a Joan Fontcuberta photograph which appears in this short video where he presents a museum showing of his work:
The Horned Flying Monkey In The Room
When it flew into the room You had just said, “That hurt my feelings” She said it never happened He wondered when you would get a real job He shoved his mouth so full of mashed potatoes he couldn’t answer any questions and the baby hit his sister, hard On purpose
When it flew into the room You were staring at your empty plate She was serving pork and steak He was asking about the bank He was chiding you for your tastes And the baby threw his food on the floor On purpose.
When it flew into the room You were fighting back tears She was poking at your fears He was pushing Roth-IRAs for later years He put his steak on top of your salad And the baby was kicking the table On purpose.
By the time anyone noticed it was in the room You stared at it curiously She said she didn’t see it He threw his plate at it It swooped down and pierced his neck with its horn And landed on the baby’s head On purpose.
This year, I’m looking forward to a quiet, relaxed Thanksgiving with my parents.For fun I revisited this poem, imagining the horned flying monkey arriving at tomorrow’s dinner.
This Year’s Horned Flying Monkey In The Room
When I first heard the flapping He had finished the same short grace She had passed me the mashed potatoes, and I was full of thanks for this quiet, relaxed meal
When it flew into the room, its horn glistening I put down my fork and knife and watched agape He stared at his plate and cut and cut, and She discussed the most recent Proverb of study
When it circled the room, dropping more than feathers She had mentioned a piece of political news I had argued a counterpoint, but needed to produce evidence, and He was yelling, though we were inches apart
When it perched on the table next to me He said, “I don’t know” in that sing-songy way, She made a connection about something unrelated, and I plopped a scoop of mashed potatoes on the tablecloth
When it stole her corn with its tail I wanted to laugh but didn’t say anything He decided it was time to unretire for the third time, and She admitted to the sin of pride
When it stabbed the turkey with its horn She said, “but what about the murdered babies?” I said, “Turkey’s gross! Why turkey?” and He said, “How do I get that thing out of there?”
When it flew away and we stared after He said the meal was delicious (though he has no sense of taste, or smell) She brought out her home made pies, sweet and rich with flaky crusts, and I knew that my dream holiday repast had finally come and gone
I’ll admit that I’m feeling a little anxious about actually getting to “The End” by the thirtieth. With all these words I keep writing, I would hope to see an end in sight, and I think I do, but I also don’t want to force it. I’ve enjoyed how the relationships between my characters have guided the story and I want everything to go into this draft, every single idea so I can carve out a great book from it in 2023, so today I’m going to stop stressing about it. Whatever happens, happens. I’m going to keep typing away, calmly having fun with this story, and see where it takes me.
If the American readers don’t stop by tomorrow, I hope you have a calm and relaxed Thanksgiving with tons to be thankful for. I’m sure I’ll have something to say about mine in the coming poems. 😊
Today I’m looking at finding the uncouthness in sophistication and the sophistication in uncouthness.
For today’s images I used a brad filter with moveable lines and shapes. Were the lines uncouthness? I thought of faux zebra stripes as uncouthness. I thought of the attempts to use the neon blue to recreate the 3-D effect as uncouthness: course and crude, awkward, clumsy, strange, ungraceful, in action but not result. The work is sophisticated because it is altered through experience. But where is the strange false arguement, the falseness is the bringing my filters, the shapes I create into the real world through light and mirrors. It is the digital capture itself. My techniques are continuously becoming more sophisticated, educating myself in the history and techniques of abstract art, and mastering the techniques I’ve created through daily practice and trial and error. So the medium in a way is the uncouthness, string lights, mirrors, paper cuttings, none of them are sophisticated. The way that once I find what I’m looking for I push a button, move slightly push a button again, none of that is sophisticated, but the result is sophisticated.
Today’s prompt for Poetics is to explore the connections of drinking and beverages to poetry. In a way this is a good fit with uncouthness and sophistication, as beverages and the way they are imbibed can be symbols of both.
For the Love of Hot Cocoa on a Rainy Winter Day
I adore a warm cocoa in the dining room Yeah? I like a cocoa while watching tv pinkysticking out from my china cup a mouth-miss dripping on my white tank top Ghirardelli double chocolate, founded in history Value corner Mix or whatever’s cheaper in a tin sealed by an eagle, its packet shimmers the quarter cup of mix in hot water oak, rose and valentine in the light grainy in my cracked, glued mug the smell reminds me of a perfect square crossing my re-stitched slippers in my fabric fraying easy chair of dark chocolate melting on my tongue as a reward that creaks loudly as I pull the lever to release the foot rest for a week of depriving myself with an explosive pop, and I lean back I sit straighter at the long, wood dining table the steam opens my clogged sinuses with crisp bleached tablecloth and cloth napkins reminding me of instant Swiss with tiny dried marshmallows my silver spoon stirs and stirs, clinks against the china like a tiny bell the salty air on my cheeks mingling with the steam until the smooth liquid swirls a ribbon of the melted curled white chocolate I drizzled on top, while listening to the waves crash on the beach reminding me of the elegant parties my parents threw the hike with the pack was hard, but this made it worth it when I was given a cup of cocoa, and told to go upstairs
Today I’m looking at finding the memory in forgetfulness and forgetfulness in memory. Today I recalled my recent detailed cut, covering the top and bottom so that it was more of a rectangle, so the repeated design was more stackable. Taking the images made me think of how recall itself is a form of forgetting because each time a memory is recalled, it is changed through the process of remembering.
Somehow the blue LED’s of the net-lights created an interesting 3-D effect in this configuration. If I remember, I’ll have to see how else I can use this effect.
Yesterday, I went to my first write in of this year. It was at my local library, in a glass meeting room in my local library. My ML was the only person who showed up. I’ve wanted to meet her and we enjoyed a long chat before we got to writing. However, I got a lot of writing done in a short time. I’m not sure if it was the need to get out of the house and into a new environment, or just the energy of meeting a new person, or the inspiration of talking shop, but the scene I’ve been working on finally came together, and a new avenue of clues and connections opened up.
If you haven’t done it yet, I highly recommend going to a live write-in if you can.
Today I’m looking at finding the silliness in seriousness and the seriousness in silliness. I’m excited for today’s study, because I take my silliness very seriously, or is it that I find my seriousness very silly?
definition: silliness n. the quality of lacking good sense; foolishness 2. absurdity, ridiculousness, or irrationality 3. clownish, whimsical, or exaggerated humor and playfulness; unrestrained high spirits
Interesting how the first two definitions appear to be negative, deficits, lacking, but the third includes whimsical and playful which are positive and “Unrestrained high spirits” sounds great. The more I study these abstract nouns, the more they also appear to be Janus words; which adds another dimension to this study. It makes sense to create one image for contradictory abstract nouns if each one actually contradicts itself.
What are you doing sitting in the mud? You look like a fool who lost a one man tug-of-war. I’ll find some rope and hold one end. I’m offering an out. You don’t have to thank me friend. Take it. I’m serious. And don’t let it tangle. I’m not trying to interfere with whatever you’re doing here, but don’t run against the tide just keep up the appearance of having some sense.
What are you doing there avoiding this mud? It’s cool and fun and perfect for play. I can’t think of a better way to spend the day. It squishes through my fingers. I can shape it like clay. It inspires happy thoughts of all manner of shapes. And it makes funny sounds that make me bubble with giggles, and fills my body with energy of squirmies and wiggles.
Don’t be absurd. You look ridiculous. The mud’s not for us, it’s for worms, or should have grunting pigs in it. Here take the rope, and I’ll pull you out. Before you get a parasite or grow a snout.
I’ll take that rope, but I’ll pull you in. I don’t want to lock horns, but I think it’s important for you to relax. It’s not good for your health to view the world with that stress and that weight. Come play with me, play with me, play in the mud.
Today I may pass 70,000 words in my draft. It’s a good time to be ramping up the conflict. I think I’ll start my writing session by listing my planned conflicts, then brainstorming five to ten ways of making them worse, and more surprising.