earth gapes

lost 25: earth gapes

a vocaloid. hologram hatsumi miku līve in tokyo take stick hardened in fire and roar of fury turn into pepper’s ghost (month of mary month of may blue and white gown). delirious elixir – spokes from a motor bike, the world is mine, say hatsumi, tremble madonna kesha britney spears. barbie, don’t you tremble too? beware of all enterprises that require new clothes missteps misspoken we make/alter memories/visions remembering/remaking we won’t/will remember only hologram past/future about it. from one single genetic mutation 10, 000 years of blue eyes (fans want her eyes to be blue) think, the jellyfish are coming and that’s bad. a sky sends down fingers of fire earth gapes and swallows an old dog kennel neatly made the dog the maker the tools the love all gone dead and gone lost in a fog of mutual incomprehension this girl do not get older do not eat never put on weight no think no understand walden coolest singer in japan! fans feel delighted watching the naughty and exciting evolutions of hatsumi. ghost ready to bolt, a wind in the lower branches of a white pine

beware…H. D. Thoreau

From Stephen Pressfield Online: (Getting a start on a writer’s day) 

By Steven Pressfield | Published: April 18, 2012
http://www.stevenpressfield.com/2012/04/my-head-in-the-morning/

From the moment my soles touch the floor in the morning, I am seeking to manage my emotions for that day.

There’s an analogy you see a lot in ancient texts like Plutarch or Plato. The analogy is to the driver of a chariot. The charioteer has four horses. Each one is strong and willful and each one wants to gallop in a different direction. The horseman has to channel that powerful, unruly energy and make it go where he wants it to—without reining it in so much that he stifles his chargers’ fiery spirits.

The chariot race from “Ben-Hur.” We want that horsepower.
We want that spirit. We want that horsepower. We just don’t want it dragging us all over the arena and eventually crashing head-on into the wall.

If you’re like me, you work by projects. For me it’s books. My life isn’t a one-day-one-thing, the-next-day-another affair. I’m almost always working on some long-term enterprise. Resistance loves long-term enterprises. They’re so easy to sabotage. Resistance can derail them at the start, at any point in the middle, or at its favorite ambush site—the end.

Maybe that’s why I wake up so grumpy.

Resistance has seen me coming. It knows exactly where I’m going to be. It can take up a concealed position beside the road and wallop me broadside as I trot past.

What I’ve found is that if I can get past my bad-tempered, pissed-off self early, I can make the day go my way.

Once I’m working, I’m fine. In the groove, all moodiness vanishes. I’m cheerful, I’m upbeat, I’m ready to contribute and primed to help.

I have two friends, women, each of whom has confided to me recently that they wake up with severe anxiety.

I wonder if this is Resistance.

I wonder if my friends are like me, only their Resistance takes a slightly different form. Both women are artists. Both have high aspirations and both care deeply about their work. Both define themselves, to some extent, by their art and their enterprise.

Maybe I’m projecting my own stuff onto my friends, but if I were either of them, the first thing I’d tell myself is that that anxiety is not you … it’s Resistance. It springs from your fear of the day’s work and your passion to make of it something great.

Don’t dwell on that anxiety. Don’t overthink it.

Get up. Get moving. Do whatever you have to do to seize the reins of that chariot and to take command of those four unruly horses.

Fiery chargers are good. Horsepower is what we want. We just have to learn how to gain control of those magnificent, passionate beasts and to get them to take us where we want to go.

Posted in Writing Wednesdays

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Thank you Steven, though we’ve never met. Your site would be a good one for writers to go to. Just that thought: “Don’t overthink it”, is a great expression to keep on a writer’s bulletin board.

The Poetry Conversation:  Hatsumi isn’t real, is created by her ‘fans’. She wears sexy clothing, dances provocatively, looks like a child with those long sweeping pony tails, right to the floor like images of courtesans in Japanese woodcuts. So I suppose, as poets, we can do this too, write what is going to ‘bring in the fans’… or, taking another view, ‘be outrageous’. A concert with Hologram Hatsumi brings in 25, 000 fans.  Maybe we’re on the wrong track.

cherries

lost 24: cherries

extremely high resolution observations, a dinosaur with feathers. observe the holes in the substance of the brain, more or less filled with boots stockings comb towel ripe cherries shirts shoelaces a scanning electron micrograph JPEG of Cyclotella stelligera. out of this world asteroid mining by robots and/or the library robot that learns (how strongly did you co-operate, correlation zero) to spout the  X-rated repartee of a coarse-tongued flirt. don’t overthink it – press 9kim8jn love the metal the rusting commodore or falcon skin-thin tires chipped windscreens glistening curves of delicate peelshine. let’s make this about the cherries shall we? auxiliary telescopes in the atacama desert region of chile – these two are not the droids you’re looking for. a japanese friend out in my woods cutting up a fallen birch stories of fetching water for grandmother’s iron tub making fires under it for a bath. the map ballpointed in tiny characters, beaver pond, plan  for six cherry trees never sent

top photo: Shai Ben-Shalom, underneath photo from website of Steven Pressfield online

Yesterday was bath day for Desirée, my beautiful feathered tyrant:

which merits a few lines of a poem:

le Tub

 

impatient

she has grabbed each plastic toy from the bathwater

flung it away from

 

                                    le Tub

 

a contemplation of the calming waters

one last suspicious

head swivelling check that no one’s peeking

that her towel is to hand

 

then dainty as a Renoir or Degas nude she steps

into the shallow glass bowl

            now the other foot –

                        she lowers herself into the inch of water

                        shivers as her delicate parts

                        submerge

                                    leans forward to immerse

                                    breast

                                    feathers

                                    woman bathing…

 

I will read her this poem by Amy Lowell; obviously they are kindred souls

Bath

By Amy Lowell 1874–1925

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

From About.com, Women’s History

http://womenshistory.about.com/library/etext/poem1/blp_lowell_amy_spring_day.htm