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Invented Brunette

February 3, 2013
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Bobby Darin wants a Dream Lover, so he don’t have to dream alone. Paul Simon says all the girls he knew in high school…would never match his Sweet Li’l Imagination. And speaking of imagination, Whitfield & Strong breaks our hearts with “When her arms enfold me/I hear her tender rhapsody/But in reality/She doesn’t even know me–Just my imagination/Running away with me…”

So about sixteen hours ago I invented a brunette, and wrote:

Isadora Theodora Glocca Morra Deb
Never met them won’t forget them hotter than a Weber [a barbecue grill]
Viva Diva Apéritiva too imprudent Pru
Each one non-historical unsung by Jacques Barzun
Netty Betty Ferlinghetti’s Muse Meg Marguerite
Though they don’t exist their Kiss is still both Tart & Sweet
Evie Stevie U.B. Levy none is 2nd best
Dante had his Beatrice I have my sweet Celeste

After I’d drawn her face, I showed it to my girlfriend, and said I’d tried to make a face I’d never seen before. Denise took about one second and then said “Illeana Douglas.” Pretty close, actually! Now I’ll be hearing that Fran Drescher-like voice for days.

Why Celeste? Because my Invented Brunette is Celestial; also, the crew of the Mary Celeste disappeared without a trace.

You Knee Verse

February 2, 2013
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I don’t know what to say about this page except to describe it and tell a little of my choices.

At the top of the page are three panels labeled You, Knee and Verse. Interactive state-of-the-art does not permit me to insert an image of a given individual reader. If it did, the left panel would hold an image of YOU, the person who is reading these words. It would be the same image you would see if you dressed up and made up as you pleased and then posed in front of a full-length mirror. (Any reader who wants to please me no end is invited to fill the left panel with such an image and send the jpg of the revised page to onewithclay@hotmail.com. Really!)

The middle panel is this artist’s conception of a knee, with ancillary leg and an arrow pointing to the knee to be specific. I did not draw from a photo source, so it’s not too anatomically accurate.

The right panel contains a verse, a specific verse written by Robert Louis Stevenson and apparently intended for his epitaph. So after “This be the verse you grave for me” I made the rest of the verse epitaphesque, but it tickled me to isolate and emphasize “HOME” so the three Homes lined up. (Some readers may think it’s “home from the sea,” but I have it on good authority that “home from sea” is correct.)

My triple acrostic beneath reads:

Y’all think you can deny the Grave
Or call in MARKERS for a favor
UR-LIFE demands we pay our dues
UNoffers we cannot refuse

Fans of THE GODFATHER franchise will recognize the riff on “an offer he cannot refuse.” As for UR-LIFE, the prefix Ur means Primitive or Original.

At the bottom I’ve quoted another poet, this time Bob Dylan, from “Chimes of Freedom,” one of my favorite songs of his. “Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed/For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse/An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe/An’ we gazed upon the Chimes of Freedom flashing.”

The last thing I did was sign and date it. I took a little more care with my signature, mainly because I thought I’d done so well with the G of “Glad did I live…” It’s similar to the way George Washington made his Gs.

Any questions?

Curly Queue

February 1, 2013
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“Ars longa, vita brevis.” That’s Latin for “Art long, life short.” But sometimes in our short life, we have to wait a seeming forever for something we want. Sometimes we have to get in a line to get it. Sometimes we have to get OURSELVES in line to get it. And some heartbreaking times we find that what we waited for, and what we behaved ourselves so pristinely for, was not quite what we wanted, or even at all what we wanted. So the next time you’re in a line, with a lot of time to kill, ask yourself: Is THIS what I REALLY want?

Blurred Visions

January 31, 2013
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Once upon a time, a man named Lyon Sprague de Camp summed up the Propheteering game by opining, “It does not pay a prophet to be too specific.” Many years later, a charismatic charlatan named John Edward McGee Jr. truncated his name and hung his Psychic Medium shingle on the airwaves, fooling millions with “I’m seeing a J. He’s VERY important…” and similar claptrap. If you’d like to become a Psychic Medium yourself, there’s plenty of How To material on the Internet; just do a search on “Cold Reading.”

Ever since the summer of 2012 I have lived in the charming subsection of Sedona, Arizona known as the Village of Oak Creek (also known as the VOC). In this beautiful rock-formationed land there is much belief in the supernormal. Last December a fellow went up Bell Rock with the publicized claim that a “space portal” was going to open up and he was going to jump in. Alas, no such portal materialized for him. It does not pay a prophet to be too specific.

The last line in the acrostic refers to Kurt Vonnegut, who was my favorite writer in the 70’s, and continued to be so in the 80’s, the 90’s, and the Aughts. In his Slaughterhouse-Five he followed every mention of death with “So it goes.” It does not pay a prophet to be too specific.

Finally, for those unfamiliar with American alphabet soup, an ATV is an All-Terrain Vehicle. I can be specific about that, since I’m no prophet.

 

Malty-tasking, Moldy-Tasking, and the Heart of the Matter

January 30, 2013
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This has been a week of doing several things at once, as are all weeks, for all of us. But when a few things forestalled my journal paging, the word Multitasking sprang to mind, and solved my daily problem of what to journal-page about.

David and Bathsheba are mentioned, as they were, sort of, in Leonard Cohen’s melancholy anthem “Hallelujah.” (I have listened to one of k.d. lang’s versions on YouTube approximately three dozen times.) My new avatar reminds me of Cohen, and the paleness of my face thus makes me a pale imitation. I wasn’t trying to imitate him, though: that pesky software Gravatar kept bugging me for a picture. The hat was purchased on the Redondo Beach pier last spring by my girlfriend, who gave it to me; it was the Performing Poet’s Fedora I always wanted. I have only worn it in public performance a handful of times, but many people have said it looks good, so here it is.

As for the heart of the matter, it is, as always, the human heart. May yours be full and fresh.

Tycho Brahe’s Nose, and Other Work Done

January 29, 2013
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Tycho Brahe, that great Danish astronomer, dueled and lost a chunk of his nose. The duel, according to Wikipedia, was “over the legitimacy of a mathematic formula.” After that he wore a prosthetic nose, thought to be silver or gold, but which exhumation proved to be brass. More than four hundred years later, Kim Kardashian had a nose job. Thus the two were fated to meet on one of my journal pages.

I never would have dreamed of giving Kim a gold nose, but the necessities of making a triple acrostic in Sonnet format demanded it. I also had to slop three lines over into the next line to preserve the rhyme scheme.

This is not my first foray into a discussion of enhancement for the sake of beauty. There was this, done in October of 2008:

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Much more recently I did a portrait of a woman whose only enhancement, far as I knew, was staying alive for a century. Her beauty stunned me. My drawing is but a rough echo:

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Friends, when it comes to Work Done, the best place for it is on the pages of our lives.

Prospective Perspective

January 28, 2013
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Here is the text:

Prehensile tales of yore and more compel to take a sip
Recalcitrant curmudgeons oft complain thus get a grippe
Olfaction may be chancy on the way to Life Fornever
Suspiciousness will keep some eyes on toggle switch & levers
Perception’s doors undirtied kept that Blake bloke in the loop
Especialities for Little Deuce include a Coupe
Conveyances of sympathy enhance the Story’s arc
Then lilies and an aftershave — we’ll gleefully infarct
Investitures of efffort help to slide skate surf or ski
Vermilion may redden due to falsely hued TV
Existence–essence–let us add ENJOYMENT–let it be

Fans of William Blake–and I know there’s at least one such reading, and you should see her Lynda-Barry-esque graphicizing of Master William–are familiar with his notion: “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite.” Aldous Huxley did a book about his attempt to cleanse his own doors. Jim Morrison’s Doors took their name from the quotation. Alas, Perception is only ten letters long, or this would probably have been a triple acrostic…

 

Eggs with Legs

January 27, 2013
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Orson Welles once described Eartha Kitt as “the most exciting woman in the world.” She was a slinky Catwoman in the campy 60’s series Batman, though she was pushing forty. Owl-Like for her big, wide-spaced baby browns; an Eel for her slinkiness.

Joseph Addison and Richard Steele founded The Spectator in 1711. It ran daily for 555 issues. Its stated goal among others was “to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality…” Why do I make Addison and Steele gelid? Mainly because I like the word; but some printmaking processes involve the use of gelatin. Call me anachronistic, but I see a connection.

The three were Good Eggs who had a good run. We still remember them today. And that makes them Eggs with Legs.

Killer Diller Filler

January 25, 2013
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Yesterday I was hurting for time. My shift ended at 7am. I grabbed a few hours of sleep. Midafternoon, off to Cottonwood and then Yavapai College with my lovely Girlfriend; my class ended after 8 and we rolled into the driveway about 9. My journal page, which I’ve done daily without fail every day of 2013, was undone. Could I do it? Yes, but it would be a “filler” issue. Yes, but it would be KILLER DILLER filler–hey, there’s my Triple Acrostic!

(Anyone remember George Harrison’s “Polythene Pam”? “She’s killer diller when she’s dressed to the ‘ilt…”)

For the illustration, a lot of things easily morphable to Filler, Sorry about that, Phil Donahue, Fuller Brush Man, Filet Mignon, and buckminsterfullerene, you wonderful substance, you.

If you can’t make heads nor tails out of the words, remember: it’s filler. On the other hand, if you see beauty, profundity, and wisdom there, remember: it isn’t ANY old filler. It’s Killer Diller Filler.

PS RIP Phyllis Diller, from a fan.