Conciliatory Arbitration is an anthology of sorts. It can be argued that an anthology is not an ascertained fact. The writer examines the cause of the natural occurrence and decides which was embedded and that which touches the edge in awkward places. I suppose I viewed this force as an accident while another might conclude that it was nature’s will. Either way the anthology is preserved by nothing less than vision and how it subdues.
The Air in Paris is a subjective view of growing older and knowing that cut-off point. Science is driving life to the point where one hundred years old is becoming the norm. Should it; it would seems that this should still be a matter of personal taste; left alone it is a marketing driven idea. The facts then, are as follows: restlessness is an art form, conscience is a means of shepherding, and laughter in the face of death is a genuine ideal. Undoubtedly modern medicine, if called upon often enough, is an act which can be used to perform a symbiotic dance in the business of living longer than fully expected. Whether or not we should prolong life is a whole different set of question and answers, so it might appear in this century at an extreme. We should certainly strive to have as many answers to this one pressing question, regardless of the reality if living longer brings happiness and dying slower brings a more sure closure. One supposes one would have more time to subjectively conclude one way or the other, if the long or the short of it is good or bad by attitude, belief and value alone, or taken together. But what if we do this in mass?
This is a window to someone’s view—a subject on which another could enjoy speculating. Views happen; this happens to be a view of consequence and now experience; a theme that is split somehow.
There is nothing that comes to mind with regard to ‘no trespassing’ from this field of view. In fact it engages and then allows someone else to climb through to see what could be ventured getting to the other side. Go through it and do not be withdrawn by the next purview: is this inside or out: ordering one toward or away. Crawl through with dignity.
I do particularly well when it comes to windows—no poet can avoid this forever—a chance of taking odds versus falling back to the mundane. Any poem well thought out stands as a flight through fancy when mounted through and through. Just do so quietly and steal away seeing and then feeling what is on the other side of perspective wrapped around sensation. Take that oath, will you.
My patience has run out and I am already through following the light, standing in the shadows, scaling this platform easily enough to say that I am done.
I have satisfied a whim and now I shall enjoy this new panorama and eat lunch and drink at least one half of a bottle of crisp and refreshing white wine. This is my solemn oath to stay as drunk with pleasure while I do so—not so just in the interim.
Within this framework there is a consequence of time;I will apply additional layers to keep track until I am satisfied, then I will let it go underwhelmed.
When the clock struck five o’clock the curtain went up and morning appeared as a stage backdrop as far as the water’s edge; a journey’s end, perhaps beginning. This image is oil on canvas, 88 inches by 77 inches and depicts a live setting on the coast of Australia, just north of Sydney in 2002. Standing nearby I attempted to get used to the existence of camels down under.
Tribute to Rodin
In consideration of how such a vast collection of art from France arrived on Stanford’s campus, Rodin certainly dominates. For all that I know of how they arrived, here I can spare the time to take them in; they are nourishing. Pausing to take them in is not fatal. This painting is only a depiction of one which grabbed my attention in particular and is represented as oil on canvas, 64 inches by 51 inches. The image is as interesting now as it was then, and it is visited frequently—again fifteen minutes from now.
In the days of growing up in the San Francisco, when variety was huge and strange, jazz poets roamed throughout the waterfronts. This was an era when jazz music was necessary, as protection of a world gone large. You see the dinosaurs roaming the world were reported to be sixty to seventy feet long. Imagining jazz poets who were just as tall is not a hard task. This acrylic on board painting represents one jazz poet named Robert Cherry captured in Oakland, and is 72 inches by 36 inches. It must have been hard for him to reach far down in his throat to supply this vast body of music that filled the air all around us for the longest time.
I love sunsets on the Pacific coast of the Baja peninsula. Having settled that, I must now admit that a sunset with pelicans soaring just inches from the water is mood changing because it is silent and strange and I forget everything else around me until they have disappeared. Even now, in what remains of the diming natural light I have the courage of going on because of the ventured gain. This painting is acrylic and calcium carbonate on canvas, and is 86 inches by 80 inches. When we reopen our histories we open only such a small part of it. Did we forget the rest or is it now a secret.
This is an invitation to engage in linked verse locally, regionally or internationally.
Digital Poetry 2
Digital Poetry 3
Instead of trying to find some ideal hotel at a distant sea shore, try an old familiar place where the proprietors will love you on first sight. There will be less packing of suit cases, far fewer errands to run or trains and planes to catch to simply go. Stop by a local book store and buy that novel you have always wanted to save for that big vacation. Go on tour with it locally instead. Start this off easily. Sit in a comfortable chair waterside and turn to the first page after checking in. No taxi was needed to get to the front door of this place. You are ready and there in fifteen minutes quickly enough, ready to slow down sooner than expected.
There it is: the first page is turned; the minutes it takes to get to the end of the first chapter go by in a place in the world that you are already used to. It is about as swift a change that was really needed—that you could ask for without hesitation—from your daily life. This is the start of your adventure locally.
Go to chapter two and discover that all of the vistas and people you wanted to see are there surrounding you. Everybody is aware that you are there too—a local diplomat—to watch and to get over because that vista is just what they needed as well. And there it was the whole time right in your own city by the bay. Mutter thickly: “That wasn’t half bad at all. I live here; they see me where I already reside.” The music has started and no one in particular will hear your words.
Theatre of Puppets has just been released.
Theatre of the Puppet is a transmedia narrative and series of interviews covering life on the stage of life. The approach is kind of different; this is theatre with intensity; one emerges with the same feeling as though completing a monstrous workout. And like that you are on the other side of the room from where you had been watching so seductively.
Coming soon: A literary opera.
Let the Walls Come Down—this original painting is acrylic on board and is 68 inches by 64 inches. The story behind this composition is as follows: A friend and neighbor has returned to Europe and is standing with a crowd as the Wall came down around them. I am on Stanford’s (California) campus watching him on a news broadcast. The composition was done in as close to real time as possible.
This has come so late that my eyes are sore in looking for your face in the crowd. It was not in vain: “I have found you standing on the wall, not alone.”
Standing here drinking this wine I send a toast toward the screen and several of us shout out names of people we know are there, with the intention of being in this historical treasure as it changes colors, hues and tones. Surprised and touched we did our best to be there as well, to settle the score of a culture turning forward, settling the business of a future yet to be told. You eventually climbed down and then returned to Stanford to finish your studies. We had a chair waiting for your return, so that you could sit and study what I painted, while you sipped your wine and recalled your version of the story.
Embracing Still Waters—this is what I was thinking when this was composed. This is an original oil painting on canvas, 72 inches by 63 inches.
How much do you owe? One’s debts should not exceed a pocket full of memories. Not at all—take this vehicle for instance—I will ride my debt to the end of the world. That will assist me through all of those life’s pressures, so long as I have enough fuel to go, reiterating what is possible.
Hearing his story his wife just shook her head. Nothing could restrain her dismay better than silence. His fire has been straddling his machine while her way was to go on absorbing a lifetime: the arts, nature’s grander places, sitting back with a wonderful glass of Shiraz pressing through the pages of good literature. This is what is possible.
But one’s fantasies give way with the brush of the hand; let us take what remains as still working. We have only one thing left to do: entrust our definition of fortunes as an open field instead of four solid walls of restrictions. We are called Boomers; see how we prosper now at the entrance of this final grotto called life.
End of the Game—in a literal hell painted with a sky so blue, I am reminded of the contrasting beauty of hot and very cool. This is what I was thinking when I composed this painting in acrylic and calc sand on canvas, 120 inches by 78 inches.
Surprised and touched I watch University students from Mexico and the United States continue their dig around parched and sandy brown dirt , unearthing the bones of elephants in Baja Sir. While they talked excitedly about the discovery of this bone yard of 13,000 year old elephant remains, I sketched under the glimmer of the light from a lantern.
The sun has already gone down below the horizon while I nurse a cold beer pulled from one of the many ice chests on this site. From all of our points of view this find was better than the discovery of gold—a larger sum of value for discovering the content of this dig was never possible. They talked over how to proceed, and two of us climbed back into our paddle vessels and continued down the coast to land’s end. We were informed and now we would continue paddling around the remainder of the peninsula.
Chianti Dialogs explores the vineyards industry: from grapes to glass: a transmedia narrative.
I am too tired to fight fifty. The role of middle age is still not apparent to me, but I know that I will eventually get it—I have to as there is no other choice. Bringing this glass to my face I am aroused by the role age plays in the selection of wine—too far apparent. The glass of Chianti in front of me is deep red and the bouquet is richly berried, finishing off quite dry.