Art And Prose

Poetry and prose have inspired me visually for many years, most often in ways that are less than obvious. But I did this painting as a tribute to both Henry James and his ill-fated heroines, such as Daisy Miller and Isabel Archer, young American women who abandoned themselves to European culture in the 19th century, and came to bad ends. So my corseted tourist sits amidst ancient ruins, perhaps contemplating the ruins of her own life. Very "Jamesian." I've done portraits of some of my favorite writers, but I hope to do more paintings inspired by their work, particularly Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, and Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. So many paintings in my head, and so little time left . . .

Yes, Dorian Grey please! That would be fun. Perhaps some Poe?

LOL 43 views and no takers? Don't be shy. Surely there are some writers (poets welcome too) out there.....? Viet you want to chime in, where are you my friend?

"'Good-byes are only for those
Who Love with their eyes.
Because, for those who love
With their heart and soul,
There is no separation.'' ever !
RUMI

Lovely VIV. Thanks for sharing your heart here. It is much appreciated. I think there is much to share - color, light, words, music, and heart.

So true, we carry around with us those we love, those that impacted our lives and are never forgotten though greatly missed. I suppose it of great importance then such a life that will forever impact others :)

As I know you have.....I'm sure many on here can testify to that. MUCH LOVE

 

My intro/narrative of Arcana, a commissioned video biodrama focused on my maternal grandmother's life, is an example.
 

For the curatorial essay, and video, see https://carmenhathaway.com/platform-centre

I could have sworn Frank Burns in MASH early episode read a passage in a book to Hot Lips that went like that.

"... Pričala sam ti o morskim konjićima koje obožavam. Neki od njih nisu veći od zrna riže. Zbog toga je njihova snaga nevjerojatna. Tako mali, a opet tako "veliki". Marljivo i odlučno pokušavaju, već godinama, očistiti svoj dom od "našeg" smeća. Hoćemo li zajedno zaroniti u dubinu? Ako budemo imali sreće, vidjet ćemo ih u moru. Nesreća će biti naša ako ih vidimo kako se muče, pokušavajući odvući "naš" otpad iz svoje "spavaće sobe". Oni zbog njega ne mogu mirno spavati. Otpad šteti njihovom zdravlju. Dijete me pažljivo slušalo, niti ne trepnuvši ..." © Davorka Gredičak

Carmen, thanks for sharing. Forgive my ignorance. I when to the site, but didn't see the work on the site, except for the picture here. Very interesting concept.

David, lol Brings back memories.

Davorka, thank god for google translate. Yes, I would hate to make the little guys have to work so hard to clean up all our messes. Poor things. Thanks for sharing.

 

You're welcome, Ken. The link brings you to the Arcana exhibit page on my https secure, personal site.

You should be able to scroll down the page for the curatorial essay, and video.

Arcana: https://carmenhathaway.com/platform-centre

Thanks.

I just finished this today: An allegory discovering the purpose of our lives, and how special we truly are:

Such wasted years, he thought to himself. Ty’s existence had become nothing more than a dream of what he could have become, like his brother, Hal, holding fast the grandest ship in her Majesty’s navy, nothing moving as long as he held tightly. Yet here Ty was on a lowly frigate, dirty and frayed. No longer useful, just piled up in the corner, time to indulge in boundless “what ifs” as the days slipped away. This was it then. He had resolved himself to meet his end, thrown into the pyre of wishful thinking.

It was especially cold today, and Ty could feel every fiber of his being stiffen as the icy wind blew over him. It was only the sudden hand that reached out to grab him that jostled him to awareness. For all his complaining earlier, the only relief from his prior misery this new environment offered was the longing for his little lonely corner in the ships cabin. This new place was thick white, cold - Hell frozen over. Tossed back and forth, the hands of strangers who once passed by him without not so much as a courteous glance, now clutched onto him, holding tight with such reverence, all focus on him and him alone. Weaving in and around the dark figures of men faded by the harsh blizzard now upon them, Ty held his place. Silence mixed with hope, tainted of fear, the men reached back for Ty. He wondered if all the twist and turns of his existence were for this moment, as the line marched ever forward to what would be salvation. For the marooned crew of the HMS Endurance there was never such ambiguity towards Ty. He had been the lifeline that bound them together that fateful day in 1915, leading them across the barren Elephant Island to safety. Ty was what was needed. And that was purpose enough.

"We all have a purpose in this life, some in the spotlight for the world to see, others in the corner of a frozen wasteland – but all of lasting importance. And though through the veil of woundedness we may not see our benefit, I assure you it is there, if only searched for. This takes patience and perspective. During this Covid pandemic and social unrest, wherever you find yourself taking roots, we need community now more than ever, if at its very basic worth to offer each other a place to belong and be useful. What good is art stuck in a locked vault for no one to enjoy. We need to be out in the open to shine beautiful in whatever creative way we are put together. For some, it’s just to smile, to laugh at this word, others to have broad shoulders for the heartbroken to cry on. Our life, bound together with others around us, is what is meaningful and useful. We, together, are the ties that bind"

When I finished this painting, what immediately came to mind was Bob Dylan's You Ain't Going Nowhere: 'we'll climb that hill, no matter how steep, you ain't going nowhere'.

So the alternate/original title has always been No Matter How Steep.

And now, of course, that song will be in my head for hours.

The Ascension of the Sea Stars

The Sea star scuttles along the bottoms of seas and oceans all around the world. But what if a few of them yearn for more? Perhaps even to ascend to the stars they resemble?

Maybe, ever so often, with the arising of the proper full moon, when the weather and tides are ‘just so’; they climb to the beaches. There, they line up where the sea, sand, and sky meet. As the frothy brine hits the shore, they slip into the bubbles, then the wind whips them aloft…sea creatures, no more. They float up into the heavens to become celestial stars.
***
While painting this moonlit sea, my mind wanders (as it does!) into what could be happening in this scene. I thought of the spray of the foam as the waves crashed into the sand. What if it released bubbles? My brush followed my imagination.
I liked it, but it was still too sterile. It needed life. Nighttime=stars, ocean=sea stars...and what if they might float in the bubbles, like little maritime astronauts?
***
The Sea star is a curious looking echinoderm (NOT a fish!). They belong to the class Asteroidea, "true stars”. They trundle along the ocean floor on tube feet. Because they are not classified as fish, marine scientists wish they could correct the public’s use of ‘starfish’ to ‘sea star’.
Sea stars occur in a variety of colors, shapes, and sizes. All resemble stars, most commonly with five arms, (although some can grow up to 40).
Sea stars have an eye spot at the end of each arm. This means that a five-armed sea star has five eyes, while the 40-armed ‘sun star’ has 40 eyes. Each sea star eye looks like a red spot and is rather basic. It can sense light and dark but very little detail, just enough for the murky environments the critters dwell in.
The arms are arrayed around a central disk. They can regenerate lost limbs and swallow large prey inverting their unusual stomachs. Instead of blood, sea stars have a circulatory system made up primarily of seawater.
There are some 2,000 species of sea star living in all the world’s oceans, from tropical habitats to the frigid seabed. There are no freshwater sea stars, and only a few types live in brackish water.

Tendrils of Death was inspired by a poem 'Letter to a Long-Lost Lover' by Elizabeth Leo. I am including a link to the poem (not certain of copyright issues)





https://triggerfishcriticalreview.com/letter-to-a-long-lost-lover-elizabeth-leo/

The Art : FEATHER SERENDIPITY



THE INSPIRED POETIC RESPONSE, courtesy MARIA DISLEY, poet,member/faa


Here, poetry I treasure,written for Iain by Maria Disley, soul sister............
IAIN...........a poem, by Maria Disley, October 2014....posted with
gratitude, to you Maria, for the solace of your words,heart,friendship.......

"For Iain.

And here now in an unforeseen way
We meet dear son,
At this dear meeting place,
So long without,
So often thought about,
Through angels sent to me,
By you maybe.
I have come here in another guise,
My soul resides
In others hands,
In others faces,
Feel my love,
As our bond strengthens evermore.
To Iain, from your mother, until we meet again."
© Maria

Wow. I'm so overwhelmed by the great posts here:

J L Meadows: So true. Being one who suffers from ADD and I'm always better off when I slow down. Maybe I should be a tortoise then huh? hmmm, not a bad idea. I like this one!

Douglas Brown: Interesting. Well we need more of it for sure!

L A Feldstein: You should post this one on the other discussion of mine about art and music. It be great to share the song. Thanks for sharing the poetry as well. I think there is something important about taking the visual and opening up with the written word. Exciting.

Merana Cadorette: I got goosebumps reading this and seeing the work you shared. My inner child wanted to go soaring up there with them. If only....

My dearest VIVA, as always, wonderful work. Jealous (JK) I didn't think of this. Love the black and white image. The minimalism. Ok, and now the waterworks.

"My soul resides
In others hands,
In others faces,
Feel my love,
As our bond strengthens evermore..." ***cry***

If you are unfamiliar with my more recent work, I underwent (and still on the journey as we never end) a significant turn-around in my life, and now take great joy in sharing what I've learned along the way through art and the written word. And music, though I haven't written in a long time musically :(

New one that is close to my heart right now -

Dear One,

It’s been so long since you’ve come to see me here by the lake, our secret place: The edge between sky’s fire and amber’s shore. Time shared, now memories lost. I did not think that you would have left me here alone wandering like a vapor through the maples as night fades into absence. Will you ever find your way back to me? It was the sharpness of the knife plunged deep, my first memory of life, that brought me to you. Connected by grit and soul, we found our way to Autumn Lake, talking, laughing, crying, absorbing each precious moment with reverent intent as we made the short walk across the dock that perched atop the water. There you stood, skipping stones across the surface of the glassy water as if by doing so you might recapture your youth. These pebbles you flecked, pieces of your heart, I’ve kept. Bottled safely away. Waiting for you to hold them again. To remember who you are. To remember this place, to remember us. I have not forgotten. You’ll find me on the dock. I will wait. Come find me. Find yourself home.

Artist Note: “I have been going through another season in my life where parts buried deep within my heart are manifesting themselves, crying out for attention. Memories of my past do not want to be ignored and will eventually find their way out one way or another. Of course, sometimes I run away from the wounds and get lost. Fortunately, in time, a “Dear One” letter, like this one, will come from the depth of my being leading back to where I once found peace. Many of us have a place where we can be with ourselves. To be still. To listen. To remember the memories of me I had forgotten. And by doing so, I find a feeling of wholeness and home within myself.”

I LOVE , "The Lake", your outpourings, insights, gentleness, hope, all you say in your Art, words, simpatico sublime.

My post, in admiration, on "THE LAKE" painting......"So VERY beautiful, so elegant, understatement, gentle earthy palette, and your thoughts!!!::" I find a feeling of wholeness and home within myself.”.........speaks for all those mute, who want to be whole.............Kudos, Maestro."....f.v........VIVA

and, humble Thanks, my Friend, for your KNOWING, caring, even your tears......I am honoured! 🙏

VIVA, you're the best. Thanks and I'm humbled as always. No greater honor than to share one's heart and for it to be received!

When I finished Little Boy Blue, I realized it reminded me of the poem by Eugene Field. Growing up, we had a few books of poetry and this sad one always stayed with me.




https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Boy_Blue_(poem)

(copy and paste the url)

The 'white' Art....is / was a challenge !! I haven't a prose link per se, but, offer this as inspiration to 'do' WHITE art, and enjoy the
wonderful comments, b/c, most folk here at FAA are cluey and helpful and with this one, I was so rewarded for what was a personal
journey...


PAUL COCO:: VIVA, this is a brilliant piece. In my mind the pear and the pot disappear and the pure white just folds in and out of itself. Beautiful!...VIVA Anderson replied: Thank you dear Paul, for beautiful thoughts and the bravo 🙏.....Thanks, Aurelio, so glad you like this: appreciate your thoughts!, VIVA.......Aurelio Zucco Cool idea for a capture...nice work, VIVA! L/F......Stefano Orazzini :Great composition and shades of ... white. I love it !

"Davorka, thank god for google translate."
Ken! These are my thoughts every day. Why should only I suffer :-)))

Katherine Nutt Thanks for sharing this. Delightful!

Thank you, Ken.
Please do show us your Dad’s guitar! Were you allowed to touch it? Play it?
and the George Raft, Jerry vids!! Amazing, considering their age. Fond memories!
I’ll bet you have a huge collection ! And have you got guitars, too.
What a font of info you are!
great thread. diversity abounds here at FAA.
So wonderful to be on this path to freedom, together, here in this safe Forum,
among kindred spirits.🙏

Covid Nightmare

Necessity drove me out into the pandemic world today.
It’s the day after Christmas and 23,361 people in the
United States died this week of Covid related causes.

Armed only with paper mask and disinfectant wipes, I moved
carefully through the crowd keeping a safe distance from others
defying caution, I found myself breathing shallow and holding
my breath for what I thought was my own protection. My aim
was to avoid all close contact with anyone on my route to the
pharmacy, where I was to pick up a love one’s life saving prescription.

At the counter was an armed man frantically waving a gun and
repeating that he wanted a cure, “Give me the cure” he shouted.
“I need something for my my mother. She’s really sick. She’s dying."
The Pharmacist frozen in fear said there was no cure to be had,
it didn’t exist. That’s when the gun went off with a deafening sound
claiming two more Covid victims.


edmeredith
2020/12/26

Once more ED. speechless.

VIVA: Not sure what collection you are referring to. I used to have more instruments. I have 2 bass guitars, an electric guitar, an acoustic, my grandfather's German standup bass (needs some repair) and 2 keyboards (used to have more). As for Jerry Lewis movies, I have many. I grew up with him and never grow tired of his antics. Side personal note, this is one of the things that drew my late wife to me. She loved Jerry and was so surprised to find anyone that new of him (apart from the telethon) let alone liked him. I remember doing a stupid impression of him and she fell in love with me right then and there. Women! LOL

I just received a electronic message with an attachment from one of my
retired avatars. His name is Ishmael.

Ishmael has been traveling the web ever since the day I told him that
he was free to go. To be who or whatever he chooses to be, the choice
was his. He wasted no time. Ishmael was gone quicker than a planck.

We've kept in touch sporadically these past three years.

Last time I heard from him he was exploring politics and the dark web,
he didn’t go into detail but he sounded a bit frightened and concerned
as he put it, "for humanity”..

But this time's different, he sounded upbeat, almost happy in fact.
He said that he’s been active in an art community somewhere in the
Carpathian Mountains and trying his hand at performance art.

When I read that, I had no choice but to stop reading and open the jpeg attachment.

Uploaded
May 25th, 2020

The Carpathians!!!, Ed !.........dark stories.........I painted this: it the 'place' of birth of a dark character who turned up in my life, whose home
was , the Carpathians. I should have known! but did not. By painting this, I set MYSELF free !

@Ken, So wonderful that your love story starts with Jerry Lewis, a tragic/comedy, figure, some of us remember, too......and I just had to
SMILE at your beautiful connection,sync, with LOVE everlasting.

and, wow, goodness, thanks, re all your instruments, their history.....that you treasure them, that you 'make music' ! I hear you !

I fear a cardiac coming on from you ED...just keep entertaining me sir! such wit and thought. Appreciate you.

VIVA: This was one of the earliest memories of your work when I first stumbled upon you back in the days. I'm glad you found your way out into the light. Even then such brightest against the darkness...even more light these days. Thanks for sharing this. :)

Thank you kindly, dear Ken.
My mind's rushing with these 'dark' places, that have illuminated my imaginings, my musings: in paint (no longer an option for me)sigh.
Today, out of the (dark)blue, came a comment from Spain! from a member I've never met, who waxed lyrical about this painting....
another not-dark, dark place, that she understood.

Her comment: Carmen Luna 3 Hours Ago -Según como se mira se ven personajes escondidos... formas... escalera de caracol... Me gusta Viva¡

My son, John Frederick: aka: FRED !, lives in Spain. Isn't it amazing how we are all connected !

And, Thank you so much, Ken, for your visit and wonderful comment.🙏

He never read much. TV sports was more to his liking. Football, baseball, basketball, golf; you know.... "manly" stuff.

His wife was the "Bookworm", a term of endearment that he teased her with for most of the 48 years of their married life. She was a voracious reader finishing sometimes two or more books in a week. She was also a regular at the local bookstore/cafe and he often accompanied her but he either read sports magazines or kept up with the sport scores on his Ipad. The novels she read didn't interest him.

When she died unexpectedly he was devastated. For weeks he lived in a haze; a non-world in which he wasn't certain he would be able to go on much longer without the woman who had shared his bed, his life, his entire world for over four decades. Then one day he found himself standing in front of the bookstore/cafe she so loved going to.

He went inside, ordered a latte the exact way she liked it and then found one of the books by one of her favorite authors. Sitting at "their" table he took a sip of his drink. It was as if she was sitting across from him again. With the slightest smile he turned to chapter one.

Bill, wonderful short story... "sweet"

Bill, thanks for the waterworks. As a widower, I can relate. So many things that either were an irritation or just things I never understood about her, become so much more precocious with her gone. Wonderful story with a sweet image. Thank you.

.

Lunching with Jimmy Hoffa:

Jimmy Hoffa was a labor union leader with ties to organized crime.
He was last seen in the parking lot of the Machus Red Fox Restaurant
in Bloomfield Township Michigan on July 30, 1975..
There's a lot of theories to where Jimmy Hoffa is buried…
I know the truth.

On July 31, I was having a late lunch at Machus Red Fox Restaurant.
known for fine dining and its English Country hunt-club motif, rich in
red velvet and intimate dimly lit booths. I decided to eat there because
someone mistakenly told me that the Fox served an excellent ossobuco.

As I poured over the menu searching in vain for the ossobuco while enjoying
the delicious cooking aromas coming from the kitchen, i overheard the
waiter telling two imposing looking 'gents' in shiny suits, that the special for
today was "Jimmy" Tartar. They both smiled and laughed and said that
sounded good to them and asked the waiter to bring a bottle of their best
red wine to go with the tartar.

The waiter referred to them as Mr Giacalone and Mr Provenzano,
they called each other “Tony Jack” and “Tony Pro”…
i had a salad.


edmeredith
2007

LOL enough said!

DREAM



POE .................. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

"Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

Turned back upon the past? "

"“Deep in earth my love is lying
And I must weep alone.”

.
Speaking of lunches, yesterday I just had one of my regularly scheduled
lunches with my old friend The Buddha.


Lunching with The Buddha

During one of my early lunches with the Buddha a few years ago, he was bitchin’
and ragging on about how criminal it was that they have bred the taste completely
out of tomatoes. “You just can't get a decent tomato now days", he said, “Tasteless”.
Then he told me about when he was traveling through the Middle East how he
discovered the origin of hummus and how today it's all about kale and quinoa and
the health benefits of vegetarianism.

Back then he was eating nothing but fruits and veggies and juicing green smoothies.
Well he did that is until we had our fourth lunch together. He ordered avocado toast
with a sprouted salad of some sort and I ordered an Italian beef dip combo with hot
sausage and sweet peppers. He asked me why I ate that kind of food. I told him I liked
the intense flavor and spices. I offered him a taste and he thought a for a moment, then
out of curiosity, took a small and hesitant bite. Well you think he’d died and gone to Nirvana.
His eyes lit up and took a second bite, then another and another and another until he almost
devoured the whole sandwich.

Anyway, fast forward to now, today’s lunch. He's droning on and on about the tasteless
tomato again when our double cheese pepperoni with anchovies pizza arrived, we went
into blissful silence until the last bite. "Not to judge, but that was really good,” he said,
rubbing his round tummy. I agreed and rubbed my tummy, too, and we both laughed.

As we finished our beverages and waited for the check, he began to expound upon
the wonders of pepperoni and sausage, mozzarella cheese and garlic. “Never forget
the garlic”, he pontificated and continued on about how surprisingly hot the red pepper
flakes were and on and on about all the new and exciting flavors and sensations he’d
been experiencing, I just sat there in my smiling silence and thought how right the Buddha
had been about the inevitability of change. Then again I thought, as I paid the bill and
tipped the waiter, some things never change.


edmeredith

Ken Walker thank you for starting this wonderful thread, I have a lot of poetry I love, some inspirational, others just touching my emotions and the heart, this is one short sample of what has caught my attention.
There's a lot of sun on the countries of Islam:
A white, violent sun that blinds.
But Muslim women never see this:
their eyes are used to shade
like the eyes of moles.
From the dark of the maternal belly,
They go through the dark of the father's house,
From this to the dark of the marital home,
from this to the dark of the grave."
(Oriana F.)

Vivian Aaron - Very well done. Thanks for joining us. BTW, also stop by VIET TRANS thread specifically full of poetry - where you can find his wonderful poetry, as well as others. Of course poetry, stories, musings are all welcome here.

I wanted to share one of my early "stories" that ties in with an image. This one I was especially proud of taking the song lyrics to a wonderful song by Bruce Hornsby "Mandolin Rain" and turning it into a short story. Please take a moment and listen to the song and its lyrics as you view the image, then read the story below. Enjoy!





"He knew how much she loved the sound of a summer storm. Beth said it 'played on the lake like a mandolin.' Damian didn't know, on this particular rainy evening, what brought him to a little bar and grill hidden in the glades that sat on the water's edge called the Wayward Gator. The bar had good food, good company, and the band that played till the wee hours of the night always seems to soothe his troubled mind. There was that, but tonight was especially painful being a year to the day that Beth had walked away from him.

It hadn't been a surprise. Damian knew the moment he first met Beth that her heart was his for just a moment. It was a choice he'd made long ago to accept her nature, knowing his heart would break someday. The day had come, and now a year later he was biding his time, listening to the bluegrass band till the last note, in the hopes of keeping Beth off his mind. It wasn't working.

The banjo wind began to pick up, and then he saw her outside dancing in the rain, oblivious to the world and to the fact that the band had long since packed up and gone home. This beautiful stranger was swaying to the music that only Damian and she could hear, the music of the storm-the 'Mandolin Rain.' He caught her attention and was overjoyed when she smiled and waved her hand to come and join her. This was why he'd come tonight. For her. And as the steamboat passed by, the big wheel spinning and the whistle blowing, he thought once last time about Beth and let her go."

Hello all. Let me know if the playback isn't work as it's working on my laptop.

VIVA, so sorry, missed your DREAM - Lovely as always and timely words!

A response to Vivian Aaron's post




Description: Woman, lady, girl, female, mother, sister, burka, niqab, chador, mask, veil, religious dress, traditions, cultures, Iran, Iranian, Islam, Middle East, Muslim, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, 3rd world countries, virtue, beliefs, modesty, religion, obedience, sanctity, political, symbolic, beyond dichotomies, ironic, original, different, unique, out of the ordinary, mixed media, by Vegan Artist, Vivian Aaron ....′′ There's a lot of sun on the countries of Islam:
A white, violent sun that blinds.
But Muslim women never see this:
their eyes are used to shade
like the eyes of moles.
From the dark of the maternal belly,
They go through the dark of the father's house,
From this to the dark of the marital home,
from this to the dark of the grave."
(Oriana Fallaci)


Fighting Islamophobia

your demand that outsiders
must not hold
any bias
on
Islamophobia
is very reasonable and legitimate
no one can reserve the right
to look down
on other cultures and religions

but respect is needed to earn
you have to work hard to gain it
depending on how you treat your own people

Muslim women are usually victims
of domestic violence
committed
by their loved ones
(fathers, brothers, husbands)
their sufferings
in
no doubt
come from
the male-dominating norms
wouldn't you better clean up your own messy home?

is it possible for Muslim men to change?
how
could
they give up
male’s absolute privileges
which make them superior to their female counterparts?

of course, biases upon social norms
and religious
beliefs
should be condemned
yet how could
the lack
of respect for Muslim women,
essentially domestic abuses,
be culturally and religiously tolerated?

it’s no problem if you live in the Middle East or in a Muslim country
otherwise, you are in our non-Islam nation
of which
gender equality
is socially and legally protected
we expect outsiders to respect our laws and cultural norms

Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet
10-14-2021

.


Bukowski and me
Drinking, Swearing and Throwing a Poetic Verbal Punch or Two

I met Bukowski in a skid row bar where the corners of everything had been hand rubbed
round and oiled stained dark from years of wear by the nameless patrons.

A shadow of its once elegance self of hardwoods, brass and bronze, the room was dark
and dingy. Years ago all the windows had been painted black to keep the daylight out.
Now betrayed by time, hundreds tiny pinholes and faint cracks allowed the forbidden light
to shine through like distant stars in a moonless sky.

The vintage tin ceiling was dulled with age. The walls and mirrors were coated with a patina
of yellowish grey from decades of cigarette smoke that still lingered, accumulated in the stale
visible air. The room was filled with the stench of discarded cigarettes butts, soured spilled
whiskey and stale beer that fought for dominance over the acrid smell of sweat and urine
that hovered around some of the lost souls on their wobbly bar stools. 
It was tough to breath.

I didn’t recognize him at first. He looked like all the others sitting at the bar, used and worn.
He was rumpled, slumped and craggy but better groomed, cleaner than the others. I tried
to squeezed onto the empty stool between him and his doppelgänger. “Is this stool taken”,
I asked. He turn and stared at me with a puzzled and intimidating look. “Taken where? It looks
like it still fucking there”. There was a long pause as I decided if I would sit there or not.
"Are you boring?” He grumbled, "If not sit down”. I sat.

We started with a staccato first date kind of conversation, mostly about the cheap rotgut
they served and that it was cheap enough to be worth drinking. "It didn’t matter’, he said,
“The end results are what counts… oblivion.” He talked about his days at the postoffice
and said he almost the first one to invent the concept of “going postal” one day when he
hated everyone everything at work but it was quitting time so he went to his favorite bar
that would still let him in, got drunk had a good fight went to bed bloodied and forgot
everything the next morning. He was over it and went to work.

We started trading ideas and thoughts about everything and ended with poetry and how
it works, what needs to be said. We had our own little slam going on. And then there we
were, a couple hours and a dozen drinks later, there we were, Bukowski and me standing
toe to toe in Shangri-la slamming back shots and being disagreeably agreeable tossing
four letter words at each other in poetic form.

I heard someone say; “Nothing nice going on there, nothing nice. ”Naaaw”… said Bukowski
with a big best buddy grin as he grabbed me by the shoulder giving me a solid shake.
“It’s just me and what the fuck’s his name here getting to know one another better.


edmeredith

@ ED, re, Bukowski: MY MANTRA image: courtesy Bukowski quote.......and to say, omg, about him, how you met, found him to 'BE' ...

In a way, my heart's broken knowing his life (not).....and/but, kudos, Ed......A Fabulous read !!.



@KEN, thank you so much....

Viva Vivan!!!

Makes me so happy that you, like me a fan of Mr B enjoyed the read... hugs

(Taken From journal chatter written in steam of consciousness - 1994 )

*Boeuf River Mud
The smell of the mud along the Boeuf
Is full of human tales
It reflects the sweat socked flesh of the darkies
As they sway and sing
Their expressions of life seeps into the mud
Persevered

* Boeuf is an Indian word used by the small Quapaw tribes that lived along the Red River and Bayou Boeuf River.

Dear BA, firstly: congrats for your Sale!! deserved. Then, to say I love this,Boeuf River, the 'feel' of the mud !, their spirits becoming their earth...to quote you :"Their expressions of life seeps into the mud. Persevered" I think a lot, now, about 'being preserved'...and this adds to those thoughts, as relates to.......fire, or, mud ... one's choice of 'preservation'......Thank you! You've stimulated my heart and mind !, fav, VIVA

above posted in A.Stream,too. Kudos, B A !!

Cheers dear Viet, Ed, Ken.

I can't wait to take that "Ultimate Ride" ....... on a shooting star !

THIS ONE

Viva ,
You have given me a great start to my week —- I always enjoy your comments because they are so heart felt ! Yes Boeuf River mud is deep in my creative bones !
Thank you for sharing that with me! Fondly, BA

Hello everyone.

Thank you for joining in this thread and adding your great images.

Ken, thank you for running this thread. When your thread is closed you must wait 2 weeks before opening a new one.

You may open a new one on 11-01-21

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Abbie Shores
Site Mgr, Fine Art America | Pixels.com