Pulitzer and Tony award winning playwright Wendy Wasserstein died Jan. 29 at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in Manhattan at the age of fifty-five.
The New York Times' Obituary
In Memoriam: Wendy Wasserstein
Related Links
Stage Scene
Monday, January 30, 2006
Thursday, January 19, 2006
CodePink Antiwar Petition
Crossposted at Disabled Americans for Democracy
CodePink Women for Peace has an international petition to end the war/occupation in Iraq, endorsed by leading women writers and artists. Please join me in signing it.
For More Information:
CodePink Women for Peace
"Women's Anti-War Petition Circles the Globe"
CodePink Women for Peace has an international petition to end the war/occupation in Iraq, endorsed by leading women writers and artists. Please join me in signing it.
For More Information:
CodePink Women for Peace
"Women's Anti-War Petition Circles the Globe"
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Poets Against War Newsletter
Dear Friends:
It is three years since we began Poets Against War. It seems altogether appropriate to note the occasion with three comments from Walt Whitman. It was, after all, Whitman to whom I turned that cold January afternoon after reading my invitation to the White House. The real war is not in Iraq or Afghanistan, but in the hearts-and-minds of people around the world. I turned to Whitman. And I knew in that instant my life had been changed forever. I could go play nice with a murderous establishment or I could live as I have tried to live all my adult life-by the revolutionary path I first glimpsed in Whitman when I was still a boy.
We have walked a long way together. We have a long way to go. While it remains essential for us to continue to be engaged with fellow groups and individuals working for nonviolent solutions, it is also good to remember that we sometimes accomplish the most by working alone, daily, with a few good words from the heart. In either case, Whitman is good company. Not only are we not alone, but our company, our majority, grows- one by one, day by day. Namaste. We have good work to do.
-Sam Hamill
*
Anyone interested in obtaining a DVD copy of Tim Robbins' utterly brilliant satire, Embedded Live! or Cinema Libre's Peace! may do so by contacting: www.docworkers.com
*
Does anyone wish to offer a few polite remarks to Henry Kissinger? Among his many accomplishments besides Viet Nam, the Nobel Peace Prize winner gets credit for overthrowing the duly elected government of Salvador Allende in Chile on September 11, 1973.
On March 10th and 11th this year the fourteen Presidential Libraries and the National Archives will host a conference at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library in Boston on "Vietnam and the Presidency." Many of the leading U.S. "decision makers" of that war will be present , including former Secretary of State, and National Security Advisor, Henry Kissinger, who rarely makes such public appearances. Unfortunately, perspectives will be limited, as will access to the conference: currently no seats are available. In an effort to address these issues, across the road at the University of Massachusetts Boston, the William Joiner Center for the Study of War and Social Consequences will host a series of events offering those who have lived the consequences of these decisions to make their own testimonies and present their perspectives. In an effort to provide individulas unable to attend the same opportunity we are offering to deliver letters and emails directly to the conference, and to Mr. Kissinger. We ask these letters be addressed to Mr. Kissinger, personnally, since he will be the chief architect of the war who will be present. In a time when the same issues of Presidential power and the abuse of that power we saw in Vietnam are again in the air, we feel this conference offers a unique opportunity to deliver a message.
email may be addressed to joinercenter@umb.edu
*
Please keep us advised of poetry-related events as appropriate for our calendar.
In the coming weeks we hope to find about a dozen volunteers to become contributing editors to our Poetry Matters section. We want to build a library of important links and to be notified of important events.
The Winter edition of Poets Against War Newsletter is on line and features the first installment of William O'Daly's commentary on poetry and torture along with poet-translator-doctor Fady Joudah's memoir of recent work with Doctors Without Borders.
*
Walt Whitman
From Specimen Days
The Real War Will Never Get in the Books
AND so good-bye to the war. I know not how it may have been, or may be, to
others-to me the main interest I found, (and still, on recollection, find,)
in the rank and file of the armies, both sides, and in those specimens amid
the hospitals, and even the dead on the field. To me the points
illustrating the latent personal character and eligibilities of these
States, in the two or three millions of American young and middle-aged men,
North and South, embodied in those armies-and especially the one-third or
one-fourth of their number, stricken by wounds or disease at some time in
the course of the contest-were of more significance even than the political
interests involved. (As so much of a race depends on how it faces death,
and how it stands personal anguish and sickness. As, in the glints of
emotions under emergencies, and the indirect traits and asides in Plutarch,
we get far profounder clues to the antique world than all its more formal
history.)
Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal
background of countless minor scenes and interiors, (not the official
surface courteousness of the Generals, not the few great battles) of the
Secession war; and it is best they should not-the real war will never get
in the books. In the mushy influences of current times, too, the fervid
atmosphere and typical events of those years are in danger of being totally
forgotten. I have at night watch'd by the side of a sick man in the
hospital, one who could not live many hours. I have seen his eyes flash and
burn as he raised himself and recurr'd to the cruelties on his surrender'd
brother, and mutilations of the corpse afterward. (See, in the preceding
pages, the incident at Upperville-the seventeen kill'd as in the
description, were left there on the ground. After they dropt dead, no one
touch'd them-all were made sure of, however. The carcasses were left for
the citizens to bury or not, as they chose.)
Such was the war. It was not a quadrille in a ball-room. Its interior
history will not only never be written-its practicality, minutiæ of deeds
and passions, will never be even suggested. The actual soldier of 1862-'65,
North and South, with all his ways, his incredible dauntlessness, habits,
practices, tastes, language, his fierce friendship, his appetite, rankness,
his superb strength and animality, lawless gait, and a hundred unnamed
lights and shades of camp, I say, will never be written-perhaps must not
and should not be.
The preceding notes may furnish a few stray glimpses into that life, and
into those lurid interiors, never to be fully convey'd to the future. The
hospital part of the drama from '61 to '65, deserves indeed to be recorded.
Of that many-threaded drama, with its sudden and strange surprises, its
confounding of prophecies, its moments of despair, the dread of foreign
interference, the interminable campaigns, the bloody battles, the mighty
and cumbrous and green armies, the drafts and bounties-the immense money
expenditure, like a heavy-pouring constant rain-with, over the whole land,
the last three years of the struggle, an unending, universal mourning-wail
of women, parents, orphans-the marrow of the tragedy concentrated in those
Army Hospitals-(it seem'd sometimes as if the whole interest of the land,
North and South, was one vast central hospital, and all the rest of the
affair but flanges)-those forming the untold and unwritten history of the
war-infinitely greater (like life's) than the few scraps and distortions
that are ever told or written. Think how much, and of importance, will be-
how much, civic and military, has already been-buried in the grave, in
eternal darkness.
Nature and Democracy-Morality
DEMOCRACY most of all affiliates with the open air, is sunny and hardy and
sane only with Nature-just as much as Art is. Something is required to
temper both-to check them, restrain them from excess, morbidity. I have
wanted, before departure, to bear special testimony to a very old lesson
and requisite. American Democracy, in its myriad personalities, in
factories, work-shops, stores, offices-through the dense streets and houses
of cities, and all their manifold sophisticated life-must either be fibred,
vitalized, by regular contact with out-door light and air and growths,
farm-scenes, animals, fields, trees, birds, sun-warmth and free skies, or
it will certainly dwindle and pale. We cannot have grand races of
mechanics, work people, and commonalty, (the only specific purpose of
America,) on any less terms. I conceive of no flourishing and heroic
elements of Democracy in the United States, or of Democracy maintaining
itself at all, without the Nature-element forming a main part - to be its
health-element and beauty-element - to really underlie the whole politics,
sanity, religion and art of the New World.
Finally, the morality: "Virtue," said Marcus Aurelius, "what is it,
only a living and enthusiastic sympathy with Nature?" Perhaps indeed the efforts
of the true poets, founders, religions, literatures, all ages, have been,
and ever will be, our time and times to come, essentially the same - to bring
people back from their persistent strayings and sickly abstractions, to the
costless average, divine, original concrete.
* *
From the 1855 Preface to Leaves of Grass
Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to
everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income
and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience
and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or
unknown, or to any man or number of men-go freely with powerful uneducated
persons, and with the young, and with the mothers or families-re-examine
all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss
whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem,
and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent
lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in
every motion and joint of your body.
It is three years since we began Poets Against War. It seems altogether appropriate to note the occasion with three comments from Walt Whitman. It was, after all, Whitman to whom I turned that cold January afternoon after reading my invitation to the White House. The real war is not in Iraq or Afghanistan, but in the hearts-and-minds of people around the world. I turned to Whitman. And I knew in that instant my life had been changed forever. I could go play nice with a murderous establishment or I could live as I have tried to live all my adult life-by the revolutionary path I first glimpsed in Whitman when I was still a boy.
We have walked a long way together. We have a long way to go. While it remains essential for us to continue to be engaged with fellow groups and individuals working for nonviolent solutions, it is also good to remember that we sometimes accomplish the most by working alone, daily, with a few good words from the heart. In either case, Whitman is good company. Not only are we not alone, but our company, our majority, grows- one by one, day by day. Namaste. We have good work to do.
-Sam Hamill
*
Anyone interested in obtaining a DVD copy of Tim Robbins' utterly brilliant satire, Embedded Live! or Cinema Libre's Peace! may do so by contacting: www.docworkers.com
*
Does anyone wish to offer a few polite remarks to Henry Kissinger? Among his many accomplishments besides Viet Nam, the Nobel Peace Prize winner gets credit for overthrowing the duly elected government of Salvador Allende in Chile on September 11, 1973.
On March 10th and 11th this year the fourteen Presidential Libraries and the National Archives will host a conference at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library in Boston on "Vietnam and the Presidency." Many of the leading U.S. "decision makers" of that war will be present , including former Secretary of State, and National Security Advisor, Henry Kissinger, who rarely makes such public appearances. Unfortunately, perspectives will be limited, as will access to the conference: currently no seats are available. In an effort to address these issues, across the road at the University of Massachusetts Boston, the William Joiner Center for the Study of War and Social Consequences will host a series of events offering those who have lived the consequences of these decisions to make their own testimonies and present their perspectives. In an effort to provide individulas unable to attend the same opportunity we are offering to deliver letters and emails directly to the conference, and to Mr. Kissinger. We ask these letters be addressed to Mr. Kissinger, personnally, since he will be the chief architect of the war who will be present. In a time when the same issues of Presidential power and the abuse of that power we saw in Vietnam are again in the air, we feel this conference offers a unique opportunity to deliver a message.
email may be addressed to joinercenter@umb.edu
*
Please keep us advised of poetry-related events as appropriate for our calendar.
In the coming weeks we hope to find about a dozen volunteers to become contributing editors to our Poetry Matters section. We want to build a library of important links and to be notified of important events.
The Winter edition of Poets Against War Newsletter is on line and features the first installment of William O'Daly's commentary on poetry and torture along with poet-translator-doctor Fady Joudah's memoir of recent work with Doctors Without Borders.
*
Walt Whitman
From Specimen Days
The Real War Will Never Get in the Books
AND so good-bye to the war. I know not how it may have been, or may be, to
others-to me the main interest I found, (and still, on recollection, find,)
in the rank and file of the armies, both sides, and in those specimens amid
the hospitals, and even the dead on the field. To me the points
illustrating the latent personal character and eligibilities of these
States, in the two or three millions of American young and middle-aged men,
North and South, embodied in those armies-and especially the one-third or
one-fourth of their number, stricken by wounds or disease at some time in
the course of the contest-were of more significance even than the political
interests involved. (As so much of a race depends on how it faces death,
and how it stands personal anguish and sickness. As, in the glints of
emotions under emergencies, and the indirect traits and asides in Plutarch,
we get far profounder clues to the antique world than all its more formal
history.)
Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal
background of countless minor scenes and interiors, (not the official
surface courteousness of the Generals, not the few great battles) of the
Secession war; and it is best they should not-the real war will never get
in the books. In the mushy influences of current times, too, the fervid
atmosphere and typical events of those years are in danger of being totally
forgotten. I have at night watch'd by the side of a sick man in the
hospital, one who could not live many hours. I have seen his eyes flash and
burn as he raised himself and recurr'd to the cruelties on his surrender'd
brother, and mutilations of the corpse afterward. (See, in the preceding
pages, the incident at Upperville-the seventeen kill'd as in the
description, were left there on the ground. After they dropt dead, no one
touch'd them-all were made sure of, however. The carcasses were left for
the citizens to bury or not, as they chose.)
Such was the war. It was not a quadrille in a ball-room. Its interior
history will not only never be written-its practicality, minutiæ of deeds
and passions, will never be even suggested. The actual soldier of 1862-'65,
North and South, with all his ways, his incredible dauntlessness, habits,
practices, tastes, language, his fierce friendship, his appetite, rankness,
his superb strength and animality, lawless gait, and a hundred unnamed
lights and shades of camp, I say, will never be written-perhaps must not
and should not be.
The preceding notes may furnish a few stray glimpses into that life, and
into those lurid interiors, never to be fully convey'd to the future. The
hospital part of the drama from '61 to '65, deserves indeed to be recorded.
Of that many-threaded drama, with its sudden and strange surprises, its
confounding of prophecies, its moments of despair, the dread of foreign
interference, the interminable campaigns, the bloody battles, the mighty
and cumbrous and green armies, the drafts and bounties-the immense money
expenditure, like a heavy-pouring constant rain-with, over the whole land,
the last three years of the struggle, an unending, universal mourning-wail
of women, parents, orphans-the marrow of the tragedy concentrated in those
Army Hospitals-(it seem'd sometimes as if the whole interest of the land,
North and South, was one vast central hospital, and all the rest of the
affair but flanges)-those forming the untold and unwritten history of the
war-infinitely greater (like life's) than the few scraps and distortions
that are ever told or written. Think how much, and of importance, will be-
how much, civic and military, has already been-buried in the grave, in
eternal darkness.
Nature and Democracy-Morality
DEMOCRACY most of all affiliates with the open air, is sunny and hardy and
sane only with Nature-just as much as Art is. Something is required to
temper both-to check them, restrain them from excess, morbidity. I have
wanted, before departure, to bear special testimony to a very old lesson
and requisite. American Democracy, in its myriad personalities, in
factories, work-shops, stores, offices-through the dense streets and houses
of cities, and all their manifold sophisticated life-must either be fibred,
vitalized, by regular contact with out-door light and air and growths,
farm-scenes, animals, fields, trees, birds, sun-warmth and free skies, or
it will certainly dwindle and pale. We cannot have grand races of
mechanics, work people, and commonalty, (the only specific purpose of
America,) on any less terms. I conceive of no flourishing and heroic
elements of Democracy in the United States, or of Democracy maintaining
itself at all, without the Nature-element forming a main part - to be its
health-element and beauty-element - to really underlie the whole politics,
sanity, religion and art of the New World.
Finally, the morality: "Virtue," said Marcus Aurelius, "what is it,
only a living and enthusiastic sympathy with Nature?" Perhaps indeed the efforts
of the true poets, founders, religions, literatures, all ages, have been,
and ever will be, our time and times to come, essentially the same - to bring
people back from their persistent strayings and sickly abstractions, to the
costless average, divine, original concrete.
* *
From the 1855 Preface to Leaves of Grass
Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to
everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income
and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience
and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or
unknown, or to any man or number of men-go freely with powerful uneducated
persons, and with the young, and with the mothers or families-re-examine
all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss
whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem,
and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent
lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in
every motion and joint of your body.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Poetry Matters
I was just looking at the Poetry Matters section at the Poets Against War site.
Yeah, the written word is only one facet of who we are. Still, I think it would be cool - and possibly very useful - to get ourselves sufficiently organized to get linked to from their page. I don't quite know what that would entail. OK, I don't have the faintest idear what it would entail. But, I think we need to begin seriously thinking of ourselves as an organization, a progressive, activist organization with one goal (TBA) striven towards through several means: the written word, music, photography/painting/graphic arts, handycrafts, etc. I'm not a great fan of structure, but I think we need to start seriously considering the structure of this org., its purpose and means.
Any idears?
Yeah, the written word is only one facet of who we are. Still, I think it would be cool - and possibly very useful - to get ourselves sufficiently organized to get linked to from their page. I don't quite know what that would entail. OK, I don't have the faintest idear what it would entail. But, I think we need to begin seriously thinking of ourselves as an organization, a progressive, activist organization with one goal (TBA) striven towards through several means: the written word, music, photography/painting/graphic arts, handycrafts, etc. I'm not a great fan of structure, but I think we need to start seriously considering the structure of this org., its purpose and means.
Any idears?
Sunday, December 25, 2005
I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Thanksgiving
Crossposted at Disabled Americans for Democracy, Disabled Voters for Dean and Howard Empowered People
As we prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving, that quintessentially American holiday, let us reflect on the blessings peculiar to us as Deaniacs.
We have, not only our own families and friends, but a nationwide, indeed an international, community of friends, comrades, and co-workers, all of whom share the same values, American values: honesty, kindness, love of country, hard work… We share, too, a vision of a just America, an honorable society that cares for its own, especially the most vulnerable and most disadvantaged; that is a good international citizen; and that has earned once more the respect and love of the world. We see a land where young and old, LGBT and straight, black and white, Jew and gentile, disabled and able-bodied, Latino, Asian, Native American and Arab-American all embrace one another as sisters and brothers and all have the same equal rights in fact as in principle under the law.
We see America as she should be, and we know that we have the power to bring that vision into reality. Tomorrow, as we give thanks for all the blessings, large and small, with which the Lord has graced our lives, let us keep a special warm thought for Howard Dean and thank him in our hearts for having given us hope, strength and community.
As we prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving, that quintessentially American holiday, let us reflect on the blessings peculiar to us as Deaniacs.
We have, not only our own families and friends, but a nationwide, indeed an international, community of friends, comrades, and co-workers, all of whom share the same values, American values: honesty, kindness, love of country, hard work… We share, too, a vision of a just America, an honorable society that cares for its own, especially the most vulnerable and most disadvantaged; that is a good international citizen; and that has earned once more the respect and love of the world. We see a land where young and old, LGBT and straight, black and white, Jew and gentile, disabled and able-bodied, Latino, Asian, Native American and Arab-American all embrace one another as sisters and brothers and all have the same equal rights in fact as in principle under the law.
We see America as she should be, and we know that we have the power to bring that vision into reality. Tomorrow, as we give thanks for all the blessings, large and small, with which the Lord has graced our lives, let us keep a special warm thought for Howard Dean and thank him in our hearts for having given us hope, strength and community.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Happy Birthday, Gov. Dean!
It's the birthday of our founder, hero, and general inspiration, Howard Dean. We wish him many happy returns, and a peaceful day today.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Mini News Roundup
Novelist John Fowles, died Saturday at the age of 79 after a long illness. Read a brief article from Reuters.
RIP
In other news, Grokster is out of business. Read a brief article at Wired News.
RIP
In other news, Grokster is out of business. Read a brief article at Wired News.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Group Story
mprov13 said...
so, how's this for an idea:
let's start telling a story. anyone can add whatever they want. bend the plot, create characters, anything. ok. i'll start:
as the door opened, i could just barely see that there was movement in the adjacent room. the voices, almost hushed in a whisper, could just be heard. the woman swept by me, distracting me for only a moment, as i tried to hear what was being said.
"...don't get rid of that guy. there's no point...but, if you do, i'll..."
"mr. santos, he'll be ready for you in a second."
i sat up a little straighter and smiled at her in that manufactured way that was expected. she disappered into the room closing the door behind her.
i refocused on my surroundings: that awful rented office waiting room furniture with the obligatory copies of prints by artists that could have come out of a cracker jacks box. the avacado colored lamps with the 60 watt bulbs that couldn't quite light the room. the industrial carpet that isn't really any color at all. and, that smell that always seems to permediate these places, a whisp of blended somethings that probably came in a take-out box. and me.
Puddle: Chapter 2
Strange, I thought: what kind of doctor wouldn't have a better place than this? I squirmed a little. Still, try as hard as I could, couldn't wipe out that snippet I'd overheard: don't get rid of that guy. . . . Who'd proposed getting rid of anyone? And why? After all, this was a gynecologists' office. I didn't think I'd let Cricket come back here. It wasn't passing the sniff test. At all. And it wasn't me.
I was beginning to mull that over, when they called me to come get Cricket. No, definitely not again. Even if I had to chip in some bucks to make sure she found someone better than this.
"You okay Sugar?"
"Guess so. I think. Don't know if I want to do this again, anytime soon, though."
"Don't worry. You won't have to."
"But --"
"But me no buts, youngster. Papa Jack's got something else in mind. You'll get whatever help you need. So worry not."
She did look worried though. Her face kind of knotted up. And I didn't think it was the anesthesia. God, this place was really giving me the creeps. I was pretty sure I was going to have to hit the 'nets. And damn, I wish I'd done it before I'd let her come here. Well, better late than never. . . . I hoped.
Continued. . . . Nov. 4, 10:15 pm
Jessica said...
so, how's this for an idea:
let's start telling a story. anyone can add whatever they want. bend the plot, create characters, anything. ok. i'll start:
as the door opened, i could just barely see that there was movement in the adjacent room. the voices, almost hushed in a whisper, could just be heard. the woman swept by me, distracting me for only a moment, as i tried to hear what was being said.
"...don't get rid of that guy. there's no point...but, if you do, i'll..."
"mr. santos, he'll be ready for you in a second."
i sat up a little straighter and smiled at her in that manufactured way that was expected. she disappered into the room closing the door behind her.
i refocused on my surroundings: that awful rented office waiting room furniture with the obligatory copies of prints by artists that could have come out of a cracker jacks box. the avacado colored lamps with the 60 watt bulbs that couldn't quite light the room. the industrial carpet that isn't really any color at all. and, that smell that always seems to permediate these places, a whisp of blended somethings that probably came in a take-out box. and me.
Puddle: Chapter 2
Strange, I thought: what kind of doctor wouldn't have a better place than this? I squirmed a little. Still, try as hard as I could, couldn't wipe out that snippet I'd overheard: don't get rid of that guy. . . . Who'd proposed getting rid of anyone? And why? After all, this was a gynecologists' office. I didn't think I'd let Cricket come back here. It wasn't passing the sniff test. At all. And it wasn't me.
I was beginning to mull that over, when they called me to come get Cricket. No, definitely not again. Even if I had to chip in some bucks to make sure she found someone better than this.
"You okay Sugar?"
"Guess so. I think. Don't know if I want to do this again, anytime soon, though."
"Don't worry. You won't have to."
"But --"
"But me no buts, youngster. Papa Jack's got something else in mind. You'll get whatever help you need. So worry not."
She did look worried though. Her face kind of knotted up. And I didn't think it was the anesthesia. God, this place was really giving me the creeps. I was pretty sure I was going to have to hit the 'nets. And damn, I wish I'd done it before I'd let her come here. Well, better late than never. . . . I hoped.
Continued. . . . Nov. 4, 10:15 pm
Chapter 3 (Segway to catreona's comment from the last thread.)
*************************
I helped Cricket into the car and drove her home. It was a silent ride that seemed to take hours when it was actually only minutes.
I told her I would call her later, thinking that would be a better time to ask about the strange conversation I had overheard at the doctors office, and continued on to my appointment.
I walked into the waiting room and de deja vu hit me. Rented waiting room furniture, cracker jack prints, dim lights, and cheap carpet. "Just a typical waiting room" I said to myself, attempting to brush off the feeling that something strange was about to happen.
Then the door opened and I heard "Don't get rid of that guy. There's no point...but, if you do, I'll..."
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Could I have heard that right or was I just starting to imagine things?
**************************
Chapter 4 (from catreona)
All in all, this was a most unexpected place for me to have been summoned, especially to meet...
The voices increased in volume. It sounded like the stranger - I didn't recognize her voice - was displeased at being questioned. I bristled. Who was this unknown person to raise her voice to Gov. Dean? After all, he was heading this venture. He may, perhaps, not have been perfect, but he was the force that had drawn us all together. His vision and enthusiasm had been enough to bring in doubters, to corral donors, and to form a volunteer corps. I was one of those volunteers. It made me angry and a little queasy to overhear this argument.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
National Novel Writing Month
Well, it's only the 2nd ~~ not too late to get in on NaNoWriMo! The hell you say?
I stumbled onto this site a couple of years ago, and it's great fun, even if you decide not to do it. November's never great for me: it contains Thanksgiving. . . .
Check it out!
I stumbled onto this site a couple of years ago, and it's great fun, even if you decide not to do it. November's never great for me: it contains Thanksgiving. . . .
Check it out!
Friday, October 28, 2005
I'm Getting Scooter' For Fitzmas
Made my bet on Cheney's head;
Hoped somebody'd snitched on him.
Wanted a frogmarch to be Rovian-led;
Hoped somebody'd snitched on him.
I'd spilled some ink on that Novak turd;
I'd hoped that Judy ate her word;
Had some hope from things I heard;
Hoped Somebody'd snitched on them.
CHORUS: Oh,
I'm gettin' Scooter for Fitzmas
Cheney and Bushy are sad.
I'm gettin' Scooter for Fitzmas
'Cause he ain't been nuttin' but bad.
I was hoping for Mary's charge;
Hoped somebody'd snitched on her.
Waited on Fitz for Karen's charge
Hoped Somebody'd snitched on her.
Next year more will be going to jail;
Next year justice won't be for sale;
Lots of spinning, but there's a tattletale;
Somebody snitched on them.
So you better be good whatever you do
'Cause if you're bad, I'm warning you,
You'll get Scooter for Fitzmas.
Sung to the tune of:
I'm Getting Nuttin' For Christmas
Hoped somebody'd snitched on him.
Wanted a frogmarch to be Rovian-led;
Hoped somebody'd snitched on him.
I'd spilled some ink on that Novak turd;
I'd hoped that Judy ate her word;
Had some hope from things I heard;
Hoped Somebody'd snitched on them.
CHORUS: Oh,
I'm gettin' Scooter for Fitzmas
Cheney and Bushy are sad.
I'm gettin' Scooter for Fitzmas
'Cause he ain't been nuttin' but bad.
I was hoping for Mary's charge;
Hoped somebody'd snitched on her.
Waited on Fitz for Karen's charge
Hoped Somebody'd snitched on her.
Next year more will be going to jail;
Next year justice won't be for sale;
Lots of spinning, but there's a tattletale;
Somebody snitched on them.
So you better be good whatever you do
'Cause if you're bad, I'm warning you,
You'll get Scooter for Fitzmas.
Sung to the tune of:
I'm Getting Nuttin' For Christmas
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
November 5, International Day of Poetry and Consciousness Raising
Make note of this upcoming date, and read Sam Hamil's editorial in the current issue of the Poets against War newsletter. As Sam points out, Bush's immorality and corruption reach far beyond the shores of America and Iraq.
Sam deals with poets and more broadly with writers. As we know, artists of all kinds need to answer the call to envision and help realize a peaceful, human-friendly, environmentally sound future. Does anybody know of organizations similar to PAW for other disciplines, or other cross-discipline organizations? We should, even now in our infancy as a group, consider how we can network and cooperate with others. The first step in that direction is to know what others are out there. PAW is what *I* know about. what do *you* know about?
Sam deals with poets and more broadly with writers. As we know, artists of all kinds need to answer the call to envision and help realize a peaceful, human-friendly, environmentally sound future. Does anybody know of organizations similar to PAW for other disciplines, or other cross-discipline organizations? We should, even now in our infancy as a group, consider how we can network and cooperate with others. The first step in that direction is to know what others are out there. PAW is what *I* know about. what do *you* know about?
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Snowball
"Damn!" I slammed back from the computer, body taut with pent up frustration. "I can't write!" I sat rigid for a moment or two, staring at the monitor. Then, I sank my head into my hands.
"What's the pur-roblem?" my cat, Snowball, inquired languorously.
She sounded so relaxed! I dug my fingers through my hair and groaned. "The problem is that there's nothing I can write about." Snowball made a low, rumbly sort of inquiring sound. I sat up and swiveled to look at her where she lay on the windowsill, ears perked, large, round green eyes trained on me attentively. I sighed. "You're supposed to write what you know, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, everything I know - my real or everyday life, my dream life, my fantasy life," I choked on a sob and returned my head to my hands. "Even and especially my pain and despair and emptiness life - "
Snowball growled. I ignored her and my ungrammatical construction. "Everything I know is Kit." Snowball sneezed.
She had never liked Kit, and had made no bones that she was satisfied that he and I had broken up. But, I was devastated by the breakup. I hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't gotten dressed for days. The only thing that kept me going was needing to take care of Snowball. Then, I had woken up this morning, well, actually, it had been almost 12:30, and looked listlessly at the clock which showed not only the time, but also the date and room temperature, and realized that the deadline for the Writers' Division contest was only four days away. I had to enter something!
After washing and filling Snowball's food and water dishes and cleaning her litter box, I sat down listlessly at the computer. But, everything I started seemed too personal, too intense, too Kit.
Now I tried to explain this to Snowball. She rumbled thoughtfully. "Don't humans write about their most intimate experiences in autobiographies, and memoirs, and those novels with the Fur-rench name?"
"Roman à clef? Yes. And, most first novels are largely autobiographical too."
She sat up and began washing her paws. "So," she inquired again with a delicate redirection of emphasis, "what's the pur-roblem?"
"I find that sort of stuff distasteful enough to read, let alone write."
"Writing about one's life and everyday ex-purr-ience, you mean?"
"Yes."
She began washing her face. I loved it when Snowball washed her face, and the top of her head. She was absorbed in this important business for several minutes. When she finished, she blinked. "Is everything in your life distasteful?"
It was my turn to blink. "Well, no, I suppose not. But…"
"Is everything in your life too intensely purr-sonal to talk about?" she pursued, stretching her front paws.
"Well, no; but…" I stared at her. She stared back, sublimely unconcerned. She yawned.
"Is there anything, or purr-haps anybody in your life that is noteworthy?" she asked with a fine show of indifference.
I had begun to grin. Of course! It was so simple. "I'll write about you," I said, leaning forward to rub her head. "I'll be sure to win First Prize in Fiction."
I laughed, the first time in days, in weeks, I'd laughed as she reared up, the image of a lion rampant. "What do you mean the Fiction prize?" she demanded in a low growl.
I smoothed the ruffled fur on her back. "Well, after all," I said. "No one would accept a story about a talking cat as nonfiction."
"What's the pur-roblem?" my cat, Snowball, inquired languorously.
She sounded so relaxed! I dug my fingers through my hair and groaned. "The problem is that there's nothing I can write about." Snowball made a low, rumbly sort of inquiring sound. I sat up and swiveled to look at her where she lay on the windowsill, ears perked, large, round green eyes trained on me attentively. I sighed. "You're supposed to write what you know, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, everything I know - my real or everyday life, my dream life, my fantasy life," I choked on a sob and returned my head to my hands. "Even and especially my pain and despair and emptiness life - "
Snowball growled. I ignored her and my ungrammatical construction. "Everything I know is Kit." Snowball sneezed.
She had never liked Kit, and had made no bones that she was satisfied that he and I had broken up. But, I was devastated by the breakup. I hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't gotten dressed for days. The only thing that kept me going was needing to take care of Snowball. Then, I had woken up this morning, well, actually, it had been almost 12:30, and looked listlessly at the clock which showed not only the time, but also the date and room temperature, and realized that the deadline for the Writers' Division contest was only four days away. I had to enter something!
After washing and filling Snowball's food and water dishes and cleaning her litter box, I sat down listlessly at the computer. But, everything I started seemed too personal, too intense, too Kit.
Now I tried to explain this to Snowball. She rumbled thoughtfully. "Don't humans write about their most intimate experiences in autobiographies, and memoirs, and those novels with the Fur-rench name?"
"Roman à clef? Yes. And, most first novels are largely autobiographical too."
She sat up and began washing her paws. "So," she inquired again with a delicate redirection of emphasis, "what's the pur-roblem?"
"I find that sort of stuff distasteful enough to read, let alone write."
"Writing about one's life and everyday ex-purr-ience, you mean?"
"Yes."
She began washing her face. I loved it when Snowball washed her face, and the top of her head. She was absorbed in this important business for several minutes. When she finished, she blinked. "Is everything in your life distasteful?"
It was my turn to blink. "Well, no, I suppose not. But…"
"Is everything in your life too intensely purr-sonal to talk about?" she pursued, stretching her front paws.
"Well, no; but…" I stared at her. She stared back, sublimely unconcerned. She yawned.
"Is there anything, or purr-haps anybody in your life that is noteworthy?" she asked with a fine show of indifference.
I had begun to grin. Of course! It was so simple. "I'll write about you," I said, leaning forward to rub her head. "I'll be sure to win First Prize in Fiction."
I laughed, the first time in days, in weeks, I'd laughed as she reared up, the image of a lion rampant. "What do you mean the Fiction prize?" she demanded in a low growl.
I smoothed the ruffled fur on her back. "Well, after all," I said. "No one would accept a story about a talking cat as nonfiction."
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Letter: Breyten Breytenbach
Breyten Breytenbach was declared a "terrorist" and imprisoned in South Africa for his anti-apartheid activities. His "letter" was written at the beginning of the war but has not been previously widely published in the U.S. —Ed.
LETTER TO MY AMERICAN FRIEND:
Dakar, 8 March 2003
Joe, please receive these random thoughts at countdown time. It is the eighth of March. In a few days, it now seems certain and ineluctable, thousands of people will die stupidly and violently. Nothing new. The human species is dumb though sly and violent though tender. read more at Poets against the War
LETTER TO MY AMERICAN FRIEND:
Dakar, 8 March 2003
Joe, please receive these random thoughts at countdown time. It is the eighth of March. In a few days, it now seems certain and ineluctable, thousands of people will die stupidly and violently. Nothing new. The human species is dumb though sly and violent though tender. read more at Poets against the War
Thursday, October 20, 2005
As the person who forwarded this to me said: WOW!!
This came this morning in an email from Ireland (small world!), and I knew at once where it belonged, so here it is.
No Place for a Poet at a Banquet of Shame
by SHARON OLDS
[from the October 10, 2005 issue of The Nation. The poet Sharon Olds has
declined to attend the National Book Festival in Washington. Olds and
someother writers were invited by First Lady Laura Bush to read from their
works.] Olds's letter:
Laura Bush
First Lady
The White House
Dear Mrs. Bush,
I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind
invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on
September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the
breakfast at the White House.
In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a
festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of
finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, and in terms
of the
desire that poetry serve its constituents--all of us who need the
pleasure, and the inner and outer news, it delivers.
And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been dear
to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a
major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent
outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers.
Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women's prison,
several New York City public high schools, an oncology ward for children.
Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically
challenged, has been running now for twenty years, creating along the way
lasting friendships between young MFA candidates and their students--
long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor,courage and wisdom,
become our teachers.
When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell
out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new
poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and essentialness of writing.
When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is
completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed
first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the first letter
of the first word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in
her head all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say
yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation,
self-expression, accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of
writing, which celebrates the value of each person's unique story and song.
So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought
of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I
thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some
of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way,
even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we
should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to
invade another culture and another country--with the resultant loss of
life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home
terrain--did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision
made "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted language, and by
untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of
tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of the liberty, tolerance
and diversity our nation aspires to.
I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear
witness--as an American who loves her country and its principles and its
writing--against this undeclared and devastating war.
But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if
I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what
I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.
What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food
from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that
unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of
permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries
where they will be tortured for us.
So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and
shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the
clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the
candles, and I could not stomach it.
Sincerely,
SHARON OLDS
UPDATE: sorry about the formatting, I tried transferring it to a couple of different programs to get word-wrap working, no can do. But, in fact, I think it looks kind of pretty this way, so I'll just let it alone as it is.
No Place for a Poet at a Banquet of Shame
by SHARON OLDS
[from the October 10, 2005 issue of The Nation. The poet Sharon Olds has
declined to attend the National Book Festival in Washington. Olds and
someother writers were invited by First Lady Laura Bush to read from their
works.] Olds's letter:
Laura Bush
First Lady
The White House
Dear Mrs. Bush,
I am writing to let you know why I am not able to accept your kind
invitation to give a presentation at the National Book Festival on
September 24, or to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or the
breakfast at the White House.
In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The idea of speaking at a
festival attended by 85,000 people is inspiring! The possibility of
finding new readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms, and in terms
of the
desire that poetry serve its constituents--all of us who need the
pleasure, and the inner and outer news, it delivers.
And the concept of a community of readers and writers has long been dear
to my heart. As a professor of creative writing in the graduate school of a
major university, I have had the chance to be a part of some magnificent
outreach writing workshops in which our students have become teachers.
Over the years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a women's prison,
several New York City public high schools, an oncology ward for children.
Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for the severely physically
challenged, has been running now for twenty years, creating along the way
lasting friendships between young MFA candidates and their students--
long-term residents at the hospital who, in their humor,courage and wisdom,
become our teachers.
When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and almost nonmoving spell
out, with a toe, on a big plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new
poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion and essentialness of writing.
When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet card for a writer who is
completely nonspeaking and nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed
first to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get to the first letter
of the first word of the first line of the poem she has been composing in
her head all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is touched to say
yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy the human drive for creation,
self-expression, accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of
writing, which celebrates the value of each person's unique story and song.
So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought
of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I
thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some
of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way,
even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we
should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to
invade another culture and another country--with the resultant loss of
life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home
terrain--did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision
made "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted language, and by
untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of
tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of the liberty, tolerance
and diversity our nation aspires to.
I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear
witness--as an American who loves her country and its principles and its
writing--against this undeclared and devastating war.
But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if
I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what
I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.
What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food
from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that
unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of
permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries
where they will be tortured for us.
So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and
shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the
clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the
candles, and I could not stomach it.
Sincerely,
SHARON OLDS
UPDATE: sorry about the formatting, I tried transferring it to a couple of different programs to get word-wrap working, no can do. But, in fact, I think it looks kind of pretty this way, so I'll just let it alone as it is.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Departings
The leaves and the birds fly
Through a mirror-blue sky.
They rise when the winds call.
Like winnowing memory,
Birds scatter and leaves fall.
Through a mirror-blue sky.
They rise when the winds call.
Like winnowing memory,
Birds scatter and leaves fall.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Open Thread
We're long overdue for a new thread. And, since I can't think of anything witty or trenchant to post, it's just a plain ol' open thread.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Poetry of, by and for the People
Two poets have already contributed to this blog. We are pleased and humbled to front page their work.
(Mystery poet, enter and sign in, please!)
weak force
gravity
the thud imagined
stronger
orbit random electron
near where expected
people powered poetry
blogward
drawn
here
Anonymous
(Mystery poet, enter and sign in, please!)
STEERING LESSONS
I'm behind the wheel
feeling the acceleration
as my vehicle careers
along in the Dark.
I am not asking for intellectual
discussion on the operation of
accelerators or braking systems.
Just tell me what you see.
Sometimes the lurching
frightens me. Are there rocks?
Is this a bend to negotiate?
Am I too near the ditch just now?
Does this new Silence mean
freefall or coasting?
Listen. My aim is only to be
centered on the road alive.Written during the Gulf War...
IN THE MIDST OF FEAR AND GRIEVING
A voice calls:
"I will raise up your ruins.
Return to me for I have redeemed you.
Come to me and I will give you rest.
Comfort, comfort my people.
I am with you always.
I am the Beloved and there is no other.
"Do you say to me,
'Your work has no handles'?
'We have no bread'?
Do you imagine that I grieve with you?
"Would that even today you knew
the things that make for peace.
Truly, I have borne your griefs.
Forgive them,
for they know not what they do.
Give them something to eat.
Walk in love.
O that I would find you
Grieving with me,
Toting crosses,
Purchasing fields in Canaan.
~ listener
Howard Empowered Poet
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Who and What
I posted this on the last thread as an off-the-cuff rant on that topic. Catreona asked me to post it as a thread. Please take these comments for what they are: opinion only.
======================================================
On my 1st trip to Haifa, Isreal, I took a tour with one of the local kibutzs. A highlight of the tour, at least for me, was a brief visit at an artist's kabutz. It was explained to us that "all" of the residents of the kubutz, including the children, had to be artists and had to be voted in by the current membership. This seemed a little harsh at first, especially regarding the children, but the more i thought about it, the more sense it made.
Let's take Jessica (sorry to use you as a test case Jessica) as an example: she states that she "like(s) to do crocheting and needlepoint, and I've done a little quilting." Now that's ok. But, if we could see a picture, maybe, of one finished article, then we could judge its artfulness and welcome jessica as a full member. Or a description by the artist or another observer could do. One doesn't have to be Picasso, or Miles Davis, or Gunther Grass, or et al, to be an artist.
So, i looked in the dictionary to help define art, but it only seemed to be concerned with process and characteristics:
*the conscious use of skill, taste, and creative imagination in the production of aesthetic objects. (partial definition from Webster's 7th New Collegiate Dictionary, G & c. merriam co., 1976.)
that's a fair description of process, but what is art?
To me, art is an intention, a process, and an outcome. The intention is to create in order to express. The expression may take the form of banal beauty, or it may be intent on enlightment or exchange of ideas. The intent must be, but is not always necessairly, an attempt by the artist to "relate" to an audience even if the audience is a single person. The way in which the artist relates involves the process, or form, employed in conveying the communication. If the color, design, feel, or useful nature of Jessica's articles produce an emotional aesthetic or ambiance, then she has created art. Most often the receiver/audience determines what the communication has become no matter the intent of the artist. Some would say that the closer the audience is to the intent of the artist equals the success of the art, but i really don't like to narrow a plausability to the level of a near yes/no.
Vague? Sure, and intently so. Art has many descriptions and forms. As artists, i would include, but wouldn't limit the list to:
physical artists (painters, sculpters, jewelry makers, etc.)
musicians
dancers
poets and writers of literature
performance artists (talking about a vague description)
actors
story tellers
dreamers & liars (maybe)
film/video makers
(some) clothing designers
architects
The "what are we to do" portion should perhaps take the form of expressing the world as we would see/have it be. To attempt to create the mental image, a lasting image, that would cause people to wrestle with their own hearts and minds as to the right path we should take as a species. Will it be together, or apart? Will it be to ensure common health, or individual excess? Will it be to replace a face full of fear with a smile, or will it describe a coming holocast?
Sorry for being so dramatic. This is art after all.
======================================================
Also, from Catreona:
I think ART as such doesn't need to be overtly political but, yes, I agree that the best art conveys a vision of the world as the artist would have it. That's why Dark Fantasy, Horror and shading into pornography disturb me. It is possible that on some level such works portray the world as it is, or one dark vision as it is, but it does not strive for the betterment of the characters, the reader/viewer, the world at large. Such things may be very well crafted, but I hesitate to call them art. Beauty, on the other hand, be it majestic like Michelangelo's David or homey and humble llike a lovingly and well made quilt, is always a good, a lift to the spirit of the viewer and, thereby, makes the world better to some extent.
======================================================
What do you think???
======================================================
On my 1st trip to Haifa, Isreal, I took a tour with one of the local kibutzs. A highlight of the tour, at least for me, was a brief visit at an artist's kabutz. It was explained to us that "all" of the residents of the kubutz, including the children, had to be artists and had to be voted in by the current membership. This seemed a little harsh at first, especially regarding the children, but the more i thought about it, the more sense it made.
Let's take Jessica (sorry to use you as a test case Jessica) as an example: she states that she "like(s) to do crocheting and needlepoint, and I've done a little quilting." Now that's ok. But, if we could see a picture, maybe, of one finished article, then we could judge its artfulness and welcome jessica as a full member. Or a description by the artist or another observer could do. One doesn't have to be Picasso, or Miles Davis, or Gunther Grass, or et al, to be an artist.
So, i looked in the dictionary to help define art, but it only seemed to be concerned with process and characteristics:
*the conscious use of skill, taste, and creative imagination in the production of aesthetic objects. (partial definition from Webster's 7th New Collegiate Dictionary, G & c. merriam co., 1976.)
that's a fair description of process, but what is art?
To me, art is an intention, a process, and an outcome. The intention is to create in order to express. The expression may take the form of banal beauty, or it may be intent on enlightment or exchange of ideas. The intent must be, but is not always necessairly, an attempt by the artist to "relate" to an audience even if the audience is a single person. The way in which the artist relates involves the process, or form, employed in conveying the communication. If the color, design, feel, or useful nature of Jessica's articles produce an emotional aesthetic or ambiance, then she has created art. Most often the receiver/audience determines what the communication has become no matter the intent of the artist. Some would say that the closer the audience is to the intent of the artist equals the success of the art, but i really don't like to narrow a plausability to the level of a near yes/no.
Vague? Sure, and intently so. Art has many descriptions and forms. As artists, i would include, but wouldn't limit the list to:
physical artists (painters, sculpters, jewelry makers, etc.)
musicians
dancers
poets and writers of literature
performance artists (talking about a vague description)
actors
story tellers
dreamers & liars (maybe)
film/video makers
(some) clothing designers
architects
The "what are we to do" portion should perhaps take the form of expressing the world as we would see/have it be. To attempt to create the mental image, a lasting image, that would cause people to wrestle with their own hearts and minds as to the right path we should take as a species. Will it be together, or apart? Will it be to ensure common health, or individual excess? Will it be to replace a face full of fear with a smile, or will it describe a coming holocast?
Sorry for being so dramatic. This is art after all.
======================================================
Also, from Catreona:
I think ART as such doesn't need to be overtly political but, yes, I agree that the best art conveys a vision of the world as the artist would have it. That's why Dark Fantasy, Horror and shading into pornography disturb me. It is possible that on some level such works portray the world as it is, or one dark vision as it is, but it does not strive for the betterment of the characters, the reader/viewer, the world at large. Such things may be very well crafted, but I hesitate to call them art. Beauty, on the other hand, be it majestic like Michelangelo's David or homey and humble llike a lovingly and well made quilt, is always a good, a lift to the spirit of the viewer and, thereby, makes the world better to some extent.
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What do you think???
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Who We Are And What We Do
Last night, listener offered this simple - once she pointed it out - and wise summary of what this group is all about:
So, what constitutes being an artist, poet, or musician, for our purposes?Though she modestly asked for other idears, it seems to me listener's spot on. What do others think?
Could it be Dean Supporters who naturally create and express through art, poetry and/or music?
My impression is that the purpose of coming together would be to support one another in our creative endeavours and to, at times, offer our creativity to a group endeavour, so to highlight, support or otherwise enhance whosoever and whatever we deem is serving to create this country and world rather than destroy it.
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