Stephen Hawking posits that philosophy is dead -
A recent WP writer posits poetry is dead -
So, dear reader, i (yes, a small i for i do not claim to know) posit to you -
are they dead?
If yes, what was the cause of death, discuss ~
All posts in category musing
what say you…
Posted by angela on 2013/01/30
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2013/01/30/what-say-you/
Gladys dances to Kafka
I’m being a bit of a voyuer.
I lie.
A suburban bookstore is not exactly adventuresome highway, nor route 66 into rose existence where perhaps mars landed some crew in the sixties. This is more about how the day wears on under a south wind that lacks the warmth of even the coldest lovers embrace; even that one filled with pinked passion and it sent your mind wondering if he kissed you while scenes of Ryan Gosslyn, (wrong spelling, forgive me for I’m rolling with this inspiration under creative duress of slogging long hours in this cracked cranium) flashed behind thin skin.
Staycations buried the muse; she even begged those two bucks at a stoplight for a drag of smoke. We tried to chase windmills today. Last night’s Fuel memories had me turning my non-diesel, non-bling Honda around, 29 miles out. Z and I meandered, tail between our legs, backing into where we came, but never really been. Miles of paved grey landscapes, foundations for salt box houses with tarpaper patches and plastic wrapping each sagging sash. How must the ghosts go running at midnight under such a forlorn cacophony. Next door, a beige prefab, a windowless barn filled with glass menagerie. Hard working buxom frames moving dreams around so your bedside table holds a full glass of water, a PBR chaser, after a good buddy offered a dance on the house. Be nice, perhaps she’ll decorate your table next holiday; bring your voyeuristic tendencies to climax if you read aloud Kafka, feeding her hunger for other’s nightmares.
Letters to a young contrarian, damn that Hitchens, can’t even curse him for fear HIS ghost will haunt.
Stop!
Train wreck of thought just interrupted by, get this, some gold sweatshirt donning twentysomething, reading fantasy, talking loudly on his phone. He didn’t just say”I love you, I’ll be down in a minute?” Here we sit, on the second level, milling ants down below, trying to fill that empty space, or missing missing face in that family picture. Right, it is all about escape, isn’t it?
In my lap, I hold Raymond Carver. No, not him, but his book, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love”. It is me being voyuer, or is it being stalker, when you try to figure out what makes the blood pump harder through a stranger’s veins so that it oxygenates his mind to write brilliant prose of red words and blue sighs. Each ball a pop fly into the universe of words; holding breath, wondering if it will go out of Wrigley. Scanning the latest memo, holding most insight for later, perhaps sipping it slowly with a glass of rose trying to ignoring the couple at the bar next to me arguing if he will stay tonight. I do know the write mentions this book; obsessively compelled to know what fills those empty pockets as to widen my blank landscape that struggles to be industrial, yet the streets we rolled through held no unusual sidewalk trash.
Even Gladys, whose probably getting ready with another coat of paint; cinching up black garters, one held together with a tiny pin; her German expression is deeper than any of my contrarian pondering. Looking down, there is that heaven someone promised me long ago, it swims between a thousand covers waiting to be opened.
Posted by angela on 2012/04/13
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/04/13/gladys-dances-to-kafka/
Mid-day musings on pack animals and goldfish
Poetry to be updated later; figuring a revisit to a poem that walked sexy across my brain while listening to eryka badu channel on Pandora. If you has spied this body walking then, the sidewalk scorched with heat pouring forth with each step. That, my friend, is the power of neo-soul.
Right now, however, I sip my first coffee after a trudge to the grocer for filters. The pup insisted we take the backbone home. It adds several miles, and we ran on spots of cleared scrub, and I wondered about Cheryl Strayed’s, wild. (I’ll add links later, but for now, I sit outside under shadows, slightly cold, only allowing what can be done with my phone and a WordPress app)
RR Tracks take twice as long. We jogged a lot of broken ties; you do develop a rhythm making it easier to run ‘em than walk. Mile 4 or so, it seemed, I decided that Maundy service was in order since church is the one place to sit quiet for an hour. Besides, a gal asked me about z as i tied her up by the store; our convo made me think again how Z was a prayer answered. I owed a bit of Easter attention, since I’ve failed in obedience.
It’s a mad world we live. Seeking solace to escape thinking or electronics. I’d like to hang it up, be wild; hike for thousands of miles. A 50 pound pack is awful, but the majestic freedom has to be payoff. Yet, I’m writing this to free my head. Rattling words banging off the interior lid, and a tongue ready to talk…time off is lovely, but too much solitude…
A POW in a dark room; I wonder if my muse would be more King, or produce a bowl of yellow mush minus even honey.
Do we really relish being monk; or are we not far from our owners, who know it is best to be a pack. Just make sure to jockey up to alpha; calling the trail, sniffing out the next beast is more fun then being behind one who halts, mid-step, to drop a bit of what remains of a dumpster dive that almost killed the lot with pink slime.
The dog sighs. It is time. My coffee is cold. A poem unfolds somewhere in the bottom of the grounds once the deep umber gets me high with caffeine. Perhaps, I’ll wait, better verse when I write like Papa with an aperitif.
(sidebar… If you’re the one who left a comment using my initials; I reserved the right to not publish it yet. The email you made up is requesting a response. I’m most curious who the other goldfish is swimming around…that, and if you really know if I’ve fish lips. All others, do you ever get random comments that take you identity? Most intriguing…)
Posted by angela on 2012/04/05
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/04/05/mid-day-musings-on-pack-animals-and-goldfish/
coffee shop chronicles – bootstrapping and beyond
Jazz infuses the atmosphere. Old jazz. Billie is currently crooning. The mechanical whirl of the roaster lulls between blue notes. Eyes are heavy despite the dark brew, cup half empty, covered with a P&W postcard trying to keep in the last bit of steam.
The coffee shop barely bustles this mid-afternoon. People are filling tall buildings, drinking stale coffee, not roaming coffee haunts. I’ve just left my gig; my weekend working reward, an afternoon off. Actually, it is just so the hours worked on Sunday don’t max into OT. Seven days in a row; tomorrow will sing me home. Two days to play until I do it all again next weekend.
I wonder (scratch that, Worry), that they think I’m “one of those” who keeps no time, setting clocks to changing toe nail polish and a suit’s arrival home. The bank balance to sit in a cafe, midday, and sip smokey Peruvian beans while pouring over P&W; inking up a Hepburn embossed spiral. Yes, if I saw me, sitting there in half-hippie garb: scuffed bircks; a satchel (peace sign and all) and, funky wooden jewelry, I wouldn’t like me at all. Add hipster black frames, and almost boy-like (bad Bieber-like) hair, and I’d muse, just how bitchie is she in real life?
It’s true, we label; we assume. I’ve worked with the public, face-to-face, for fifteen plus years; I’ve heard it all. We wear labels as a consumer, rarely a name. If you’re female, it is just uglier. Fashion magazines are not mega dollar industry because we don’t care what image we project. A sad state, especially since I just read that all this online face-time has young girls perfecting pouts and angled bangs.
Objects are closer than they appear; stay back; use caution before you approach.
We can never know anyone’s story unless we do approach. Sometimes, we are able to uncover a vibe, or feel an energy, from a smile; but it takes a word, a phrase, at least a ‘take five’ in order to scratch beneath the blue butterfly tattoo.
Who would guess that Poets&Writers featured author, Cheryl Strayed, appearing carefree, her smile lighting the photo shoot; a blond halo framing her inviting nature, did heroin. Who could know that she left this material world at age 26 to deal with her mother’s death, hiking from Mexico to Canada, alone. Would you even fathom that Strayed is a literal last name, taken after she resurfaced, reentering life after her addictions and heartbreak. You read the Q&A in P&W and stay amazed for Strayed is also the ever famous advice columnist, Sugar, for The Rumpus. No wonder she pulls no punches and lays it down, take it or leave it.
She is a sister whom we celebrate this month; this day. Today, we champion the courage and strength of women everywhere; especially, those who are still fighting for freedom. International Women’s Day reminds us that women stil fight for equality; freedom. Women, such as Strayed, demonstrating that you do have to stray; be wild; take back their name and declare it blank, just to be heard over the clamor because their breasts and vagina somehow make them less in the whites of the eyes of their penis touting counterparts.
Woman: Hear. Her. Roar.
I’m not roaring. Why? I don’t think I’m living. I wrote the above with their, instead of our, because I’m not There. I’ve not thrown it all away for the sake of Something. I’ve not tossed it over the cliff to test wings blessing my dreams. Something stops me every time; be it comfort; be it security; be it (more), I was raised with cautious parents within the cautious Midwest.
I’ll say it loud: I’m blessed; don’t get me wrong. The fact that I can write this tells me I’ve made it much further than billions on this planet; millions in this country. My job is intact (for now); my roof shields rain (at least today ); and my health is fine (until told otherwise).
Yet I know, there is more than this semi-pastoral landscape. I’ve walked down too many other city streets, observing the way the trash pools in overdrawn alleyways; how a slanted sun, between metal moonbeams, draws mobs of coatless folk; or running down a morning mist, skipping over blanket covered sidewalk grates still cradling last nights Boons. What of their story?
The women we celebrate today were struggling yesterday. Empowerment comes with a voice. A voice tells a story. A story begins where the ‘no’ ends.
The coffee shop’s roaster stops, making everything amplified. A conversation about a new neighbor; a table with student laughter; and the order of a coffee drink that sounds more like a milkshake. I take one more deep sip; my lips come away dry.
I pack up my oasis. Dropping my dirty mug at the counter, I hesitate, then let it go. Somewhere, I know, a better brew awaits.
Posted by angela on 2012/03/08
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/03/08/coffee-shop-chronicles-bootstrapping-and-beyond/
Montage of white notes
Montage: a brief snippet of images to convey, or parlay, a development of story line cinematically.
Pan in:
rain falls in whispers, blanketing the pavement in wet lines. Trees bow westward as wind unwinds. She moves against the grain; rain blinds her future. The pale moon drips with thunder. She loses footing, sliding; mud walls cave. No one knows. Free fall. Snow falls; freeze frame, a shadow follows. “Damn.” The word still hangs whisper white when they uncover her come spring. No one knew her name.
I just read a couple of brief snippets via mcsweenys. A look at the montage has me thinking poetically. Are we creating verbal montages that could be set to screen. Does that define moving poetry?
Doubt it, but I’m fumbling for balance this morning. Words keep me upright. I need that, it’s raining outside. A violin queues up, mocking with it white notes~
Posted by angela on 2012/02/23
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/montage-of-white-notes/
New Orleans & a red kite dream ~
a chill kills my spirit; words dangle before me from shut doorways; a light breeze swirls in the entryway, perhaps it is the muse spinning herself into oblivion; she won’t shut up; she won’t be still; yet, she continues to hoard every. single. word. pathways seems to be shunted; blood stops feeding; oxygenation suffocating every attempt to intake ideas. i do belive i’m slowly dying a creative death. i’d write about it; but that’s my point, I can’t.
I imagined the life of a kite today. The sky outside (as I was inside, in my cave, looking outside wistfully) a blue canvas splattered with white cumulus, edges dipped in grey. It beckoned for a kite; simple and red.
Freedom, sometimes we feel we’ve not enough; sometimes it buries us in its limitlessness.
They are dancing tonight in jewel coloured masks; royal vintages and emerald vines; drinking from a well of youth. I’d like to pour bourbon into my veins and age, until I cannot discern where I stop and the next warm body begins; sticky sweet under a hundred proof glaze.
I’ve no bourbon tonight, just a dream. I’m traveling to New Orleans aloft a simple, red kite. ~
Posted by angela on 2012/02/22
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/02/22/new-orleans-a-red-kite-dream/
duel nature ~
Image via Wikipedia
He stripped me naked, emptied contents from left hand pocket:
(one silver foil containing a torn piece of mint coloured gum;
one metal bobby pin, child size)
he then crossed me, priest style, absolution of all, or any, self-
adornment, exercising out leftover conflictions.
I stood there remembering Hemingway’s poem, Montparnasse:
(a suicidal poem gone horizontal with vertical sentiment
regarding successful death; never such luck amongst friends; actually,
Hemingway doesn’t mention luck, but, between lines, his depression bleeds
blanc spaces; he knew then, I posit, that his pre-meditated, self-
inflicted death would become the greatest bounty, amongst friends).
He walked away with everything that I was; I am; that I could be;
a frozen wasteland rose around me, drowning thoughts in silence,
white landscape loud with white faces; aggressive, their passive nature;
scratching heavy black lines, bas-relief, creating a lone place, a cafe,
imagining Hemingway would meet me there ~
***************************************
Not really certain where that came from, the above, other than I was driving home from work tonight and the start of the first line stuck in my head. It happens, but usually, after a marathon of checking emails; updating social media accounts for another job; consuming food I’ve not eaten throughout the day…the thought rarely ever reappears. Tonight it did, so I rolled with it after reading the short poem by Hemingway.
Sidebar thought 1:
A beautiful bouquet of coffee; earth’s gift born of proper cultivation. Fresh cut stems, heads heavy with delicate perfumes of rouge, blanc, or verde; bare loveliness, but the scent of roasted bounty, just ground, offers solace. I’ve come to believe that coffee, and sliced apples, define pleasurable scent escape.
Sidebar thought 2:
Imagine you’ve a book to read, you take it to bed with intention to read. Alas, midnight’s song, a loon’s call across northern waters; your head tips forward, lids heavy, lashes whispering down. The book falls left; your head sinks right; sleep. Not is all loss, however, for in this dream world, the power resides in the energy of the book. The story, contents, actually play out during dreamtime. Upon waking, all aspect of said book would be remembered. If there’s an App for that…. let me know ~
Posted by angela on 2012/02/07
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/duel-nature/
objects and energy ~
Image via Wikipedia
Coming at you live. Energy. We are made of it; we live in it; we consume it; and we produce it. It is something that we generally cannot see unless you consider something akin to Nikola Tesla’s Wardenclyffe Project.
I’ll venture to say, however, that I believe we can feel energy. Have you ever visited a house, finding it quite beautiful and inviting from the outside, only to get an immediate sense of unrest when inside? The walls may be soothing shades of desert sand and bleached wood, but colour doesn’t deflect the disharmony projected from the occupants.
That said, let’s consider energy, personal energy. This shall sound terribly ‘out there’, but I do believe that things worn often, such as jewelry, hold our vibe. Is this New Agey? Maybe, but what about Catholics blessing their rosary beads with prayer energy?
Now, posit that an object does hold ‘life forces’; is it possible that a negative person’s objects may continue to hold the wearer’s energy after passing?
This question derived from a conversation with a clerk at a used clothing shop. I was trying on an antique ring that was quite stunning; I can still see it, square goldstone set in copper. I was immediately in love with it until I tried it on. The ring was beautiful, but I was immediately set with unease. I joked a bit, stating that the ring was telling me I was not meant for it. The woman’s brow furrowed, becoming quite serious. Her sister had once bought an antique wedding ring, and upon its possession, a series of unfortunate events plagued her.
Coincidence? Perhaps; but it stuck in my head, making me weary of antique jewelry. I’ve enough mishaps without someone else’s bad vibes thundering my rain showers.
Yesterday, attempting to brighten my day, I visited the local book shop. When back at work, I discovered one of my earrings missing. My co-worker suggested I call the bookstore and inquire. Despite feeling silly, as they are not fancy, just pieces of metal work, I did. The clerk took my name and number, with a promise to call if anything turned up.
Today, after I had lamented to my co-worker my earring was a lost cause, I received the call; the earring had been found. Truth, I hope it gave off a good vibe when the finder picked it up. ~
Posted by angela on 2012/01/20
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/01/20/objects-and-energy/
hallelujah ~
Image by Scott Ableman via Flickr
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr.
What drives a man to lead; to draw the sword to fight the demons walking amongst human kind. A sword of crafted words, a heart of solid gold. A weapon fashioned to pierce openings, allowing light into minds still housing chains.
What drives a woman to remove her white gloves to shake the hand of opposition. One blue eye meeting one brown, then turning her check; beating back hypocrisy. Hate was their backwoods religion. She only planted seeds, refusing to uproot even the dying tree, finding worth in everything.
Amazing grace may swell our seas, but our streets still seethe. History repeats; cautioning backstory, a margin only the bound bother to read.
Whose building a vision for tomorrow’s yesterday. We walk a thousand steps then back, wondering if our movement sends the enemy. Silently, they grow a strong majority, and we just wait, sucking up kept breath.
Free me, free thee! In the name of a man who spoke of dreams. The next time we swallow words, it would do well to remember:
“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” ~ MLK Jr.
When I finished this write, this song came up on Pandora. I thought it was an apt close. ~
Posted by angela on 2012/01/16
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/01/16/hallelujah/
music and the energy collective -
Image by @Doug88888 via Flickr
Too many thoughts, too little time.
Seriously, do you have days when you’ve about a dozen writing ideas swirling in the grey matter, but none wish to land? Perhaps, it is the day. The push to be productive, my one day off in the next seven.
Let’s dispel the myth straight away, librarians (especially weekend warriors) do not get to sit around and smell the glue binding. Who are we fooling; glues gone, hello digital ink.
I digress. Writing block, back to that program.
One blocked idea concerned the much failed NaNoWriMo fiction project. If the muse speaks up again (often she doesn’t get loud until close to midnight), I’ll go jot it down.
Second thought jolted back into the grey sphere after reading my blog reader, seeing Brevity’s post regarding music and writing. The blog referred the reader to another blog, Lits Bits. Here is a tidbit:
Anyone who reads YHC on a regular basis, knows my penchant for music. I’ve no doubt that there are hundreds of unwritten poems embedded within my music memory. The thoughts generated, however, went elsewhere, focusing on how we can “set the mood” of a piece, or poem, by music we are playing.
What came up for exploration was the idea that a musician’s state-of-mind could transfer to an “in tune” listener’s ‘energy collective’. Studies show that music does alter moods, ergo, not a stretch that the original composer’s emotions are embedded and received cognitively.
Quickly Googling this topic offered many scholarly articles, mainly abstracts without the ability to link. What I did find curious were the articles regarding music, mood and marketing. “If you feel it now, you will think it later” was especially telling; music’s ability to cause an emotional recall.
Marketing and music, oh the number of tunes that have been made popular by a product. Did anyone from Gen X even know Nick Drake before Volkswagen used Pink Moon in its ads. Mark of a successful ad campaign indeed. The fact I can still recall the brand, how many years later, is proof.
Nick Drake allows me to bring us back full circle. I’ve composed several dark poems listening to his music. Not that finding the dark side of my muse is difficult, but if I’m especially contemplative, needing to work through words of emotive catharsis, Drake is a go-to.
Drake died of an overdose. Listen to his music, his lyrics and the mood of the melody. You don’t have to read a Wiki bio to conclude he was chasing demons, or they were chasing him. Dark chords of reason tell me that his melody can impact my own, if I open to it.
Lit Bits explores music’s impact by having the student write from the voice of the age the song recalls. What would be even more interesting, is to write from that age before traveling via song. Then, listen to the song and write another memory from that era. It would be curious which one resonated more with the reader.
That said, I guess I’ve yet another writing idea to swirl about the grey matter. ~
Posted by angela on 2012/01/13
http://yellowhousecafe.wordpress.com/2012/01/13/music-and-the-energy-collective/
