Poem 22 2017

April 22, 2017 § Leave a comment

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Composed at the case, here. say. press

poem 5 2017

April 5, 2017 § 2 Comments

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as if I were tired or old

as if I were waiting, unprepared for no small thing
to come

as if I were not who I am
silly isn’t it

as if the river weren’t still muddy
and your touch didn’t

move me, tired and old

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or not

 

 

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poem 4 2017

April 4, 2017 § Leave a comment

also composed at the case, this at my shop; here.say. press

 

far from home
this minute too: side-stepping
now forever
lost in the bargain,
baffling, or wayward
not so much errant as
fool

 

(n.b. note the ffl ligature)

 

 

remembering the forgot; full justification

February 17, 2017 § 2 Comments

There’s always the part where one becomes disheartened, or the project disheartens.

It having started with a focus and a deadline and a plan a project an idea yes an idea that was too complicated, and maybe had too many moving parts to meet said deadline, but there was no way I had been able to successfully talk myself out of it and forward ho with reckless enthusiasm I was going.

And this morning a windless sail.

And in between after codex conversations about where to now, what next?
and
The ways in which one one can start with the book as a stationery object and move toward the book (the art) as experience, (in the making and observing)
or it is, and starts with an/ the experience and moves toward objectification or artifact if you will

And then
we got to the coming and going of it, and if in fact making a book is like riding the freights as in you meant to go to North Dakota and end up in Minnesota then, the art is what happens in between the two places

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And so as is the case I was in the wrong place, or thinking in inches using a metric ruler or forgetting that lead type is not digital, though it was in my digits, which is to say instead of fomenting with the tool in hand I was trying to replicate something already done ●●● in the best way that particular thing was going to be done●●● instead of doing, experiencing what wouldcould be done with the tool in hand, and once figuring that out, once, I remembered there are things handily and readily done with lead type and leading that are indelicate and a yearning desire for photoshop well so there I am now, wind at my back!

And I’m off to my own out of order in preparation for advancing waters shop to see what may be wrought.

It is the remembering and forgetting of it all that one forgets and remembers forgetting, forgets remembering.

codex 3 confessions 2 vignettes

February 12, 2017 § Leave a comment

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The wherewithal wear with all and ware with all of it is no small matter but like any good junket by which in fact I mean outing feast banquet trip excursion expedition jaunt or simply good lay bad movie boring job best day ever worst day ever bad hair day going along to get along or bucking with full intent the camaraderie or any system it still boils down to the doing of it.
And either way, that is on either side of the table it is not for the feint or faint of heart. Which isn’t to say it’s not delightful, but it is opulent. It is obscene. But in its forbearance, annoying though it may be, lies its success, and its provocation, well at least to me.
This was the second time for me, there as an exhibitor as part of a gang of by and large experimental letterpress artists and printers, fine in some cases though our printing and execution may be, or thoughtfully short of fine on all counts the finished codex may be it is artful and full of heart and risk just the same, make no mistake.

Each time, and for each who enters there, no matter which side of the table (1000.00 or 30.00 or whatever the four day entry fee was) you are on, to succeed you must know why you are there. You must know what you are doing there, otherwise you are doomed. Otherwise you, one is not up to the rigors of withstanding the onslaughts, and there are many. Fine books to be sure, fine people to be sure, fine views, and conversations and ideas, and community and camaraderie in equal measures. But on the flip side the downside of up, and being called out every which way you go, are you good enough? Smart enough? Right enough? Rich enough? Literate enough? Bookish enough? Hip enough? Conversant? Artist? Writer? Poet? Able? Young? Old? On the list?

And there is no kidding oneself, there is no it doesn’t matter to start with. One can and over a lifetime (artist or otherwise) one does make it to ones own sensibility of mattering, and the aesthetic of it all, but one doesn’t start there, and many with names and experience, many who taught the many who are now the upandcomers were painfully  adrift and feeling out of sync and measure somehow not properly given their (sense of their) due, or proper admiration. Never mind their work.

And on the other side of it were those drifting and lingering, those loitering and amazed and those with spinning eyes and minds. It’s easy to lose track of the choices to be made. Not everything is grand. Nor the best in spite of the billing. Some of it is perfectly boring once past its cleverness, and so too the hawkers. That is part of the splendor.
All of this said, and grapes sour or otherwise, I am glad to have been there. For a variety of reasons. I hate being left out and I had an opportunity to be included. Or perhaps better said, I had an opportunity to be in included and I hate being left out when I have something to offer, to learn, to say, to stand up and in for. Or, more simply said, (there are times) showing up is fundamental.
That was a ha!
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2 vignettes
A fabulously striking young woman, piercings in her upper lip under each nostril dressed in black wearing a black leather jacket, sporting a half shaven head with perfectly straight and black part line black giving way to long rubine red hair draped over her shoulders and back who stood for some time looking carefully at my books. After turning the pages she looked up and said, “I never would have thought to use different papers in one book.”
I confess to having with delight laughed.
An older than 30 younger than 50 year old woman with her two sons in tow was caught by the red strip of paper at the edge of my display. She stopped, smiled, and picked up the red strip of red paper that said
black & white and read all over
and made sure to point out the not black and white of it to her nodding boys. I asked the older of the two boys if he knew the answer. He looked blank, I looked to the woman who was also at a loss. “It’s a riddle,” I said, “what is black and white and red all over?” They had no idea. Never having heard such a thing.
When I gave them the answer the older boy asked, “red or read?”
I confess to having smiled. “Well, that’s just the point!”
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statements, artist or otherwise

February 1, 2017 § 4 Comments

because.

not because I can but because I breathe not
because I would die but because I’m not dead because
I breathe and
write

because.

because I get dressed.
because my eyes are brown. because
the sun is in aquarius or virgo or not.

because.

because I am sad glad mad had
because I am
awake

here.say. press
those who can. must

some would say I’ve always been here saying, say I’ve always had, and given voice to, but there is a particular and impressive clarity now, distilled through and refracted by typography and brought to bear through the stages of letterpress publication which celebrates everything word, and demands nay elicits a sparse certainty,

my work has always involved story telling and listening, with an eye toward elucidating a set of values since in large part it is living in accordance with our values which allows us to know who we are and why we do what we do
which allows us to know why we do what we do and so, who we are

now, it is as an elder with a voice and a press, and perspective born of telling and listening to stories told by my elders and to those who use story to find their way to a possible life

the press: the first social media, which first gave us– the common man– access to the word and to deciphering it,

managing content:
I keep doing what I’m doing what I’m working on what pops into my field of vision and interest because it all seems to be part of the project I’m working toward.
even if I don’t know how

here say  crowe copy

pussies and pollys ho!

January 1, 2017 § 4 Comments

The year ends and begins I want to say in the same (and already not exactly the same place). And or with the faces of Janus and with a sense of dread if I’m honest as if already I’ve given it all over to the forces at play. As if the forces of recalibration, the equal and opposite aren’t built in. As if I’ve forgotten the push and pull of breathing. And underway now, the dread eases, on the way facing forward a wind at my back.
Buoyed in part by finishing in good measure what I’d started:
5 books in a series begun two years ago, exploring the vagaries, the moods and nuances of SELF: Who am I. What do I want. How do I know.
(Footing; self; name; place; hole in the grid).
And the projects along the way which include a few indices and lexicons yet to be pulled together
(RUST; index;)
And in part by a sense of next year’s work, the personal and public aspects, personal and public responsibilities, overlapping. The keen understanding of the need to protect our language, our vocabulary, our how do we know from the insidious force of not knowing rather than the ebb and flow, equal and opposite forces of unknowing already built in to how we come to know.

So under the rubric of syntactical drift, and the play of snigow (otherwise intended to have been mobius (<–you see the upside down and backwards of it, yes?) and working with lists of words already in play and words not yet brought into play I will go forward in mirth and good cheer, with hope, and my pollyanna in pigtails and ribbons on the one hand &, nasty pussy full of hiss and vinegar claws at the ready on the other.

Yes and all that said, in truth, I go forward with hope and equanimity in equal measure to my horror and fear.
And by all I hold sacred as I’ve said at least once before, if I’m going down I’m going down standing up, by Art! And yakking my head off.
On the mark. At the line. Pussy and Polly,  Pussies and Pollys ho!

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