Poem 22 2017

April 22, 2017 § Leave a comment

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Composed at the case, here. say. press

Poem 17 2017

April 17, 2017 § 2 Comments

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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)

 

 

poem 3 2017

April 3, 2017 § Leave a comment

as I’ve done in past years this one was composed at the case…not written out ahead of time and set, but composed as it was being set…

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it was like honest is

and the early morning’s bird calling to the sun
.tender. as the note, given.
the tone languishing & melodious
like a lover’s watchful glance like breath
on my neck before there ever was shape
hewn by your touch

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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!”
.

With apologies to r.d. laing

November 11, 2016 § 7 Comments

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Day 2

Day two of president elect Donald Trump. And playing out on a national level is the confusion of feelings and facts, by which I mean understanding reality based on ones feelings, and justifying ones actions based on feelings. Well, I mean the whole election was an example of that, but as my good friend Doug pointed out for at least the 150 times in the last year or so, we are a republic, not a democracy, and it’s not simply about majority rules. It’s about disagreement, and the push and pull and tug and scratch of the factions. And of course there was going to be push back against the what the fuck of all the changes that have seemingly been rammed down the throats of white men and women it can’t help but be said, who weren’t, aren’t ready. But, it is just another cycle and another beginning, and change does not come at the click of the mouse, nor in a nanosecond, and is not done by others, so there is a steep learning curve.

Wow how did I get to be on the elder side of this I can’t help but marvel.

This whole cycle was also full of no one knowing what they were talking about. The irony of course is that Donald Trump was the perfect exemplar of that, and so of course he won. But the extent to which now in post mortem people continue to come up with simple explanation not to mention blame to explain the right and wrong of it is as mind blowing as the whole experience has been. And it is annoying.

So I get back to feeling sad feels sad, or mad or glad and let’s just rest there until one can or is willing to marshall his her or eir feelings to get about life the business at hand, which is living in accordance with ones own values, oh yes, here we are back to how do you know who you are what (do) you want?

The motes in our eye are blinding.
But and feeling sad feels sad. Or scared or angry.
The blame game is lame.

It just is the beginning of another circular go nowhere argument and there are plenty of parties to engage but they are all someone’s other. Yesterday my sweet husband in his discombobulation tried out I blame this on women! I mean I got the point he was trying to make but, really?! Really he thought saying it just like that would do anything but land up his ass?!
The fix is in there is no fix except the fix we are in and pulling on the short hairs of r.d. Laing, therein is the fix. Ha!
There is a glut of everyone thinking they’re so smart or have just right thing to say this away. Mostly, if, or when, we are honest, really what everyone is doing is triangulating, checking to see the lay of their land, their tribe, their safety, their fallback position. Of course we are afraid, but we must not cower. Of course we are sad but we, by which I mean I, will not despair. All is not lost. All is not anything.

Dear m.d.
So, the extent to which any of us do not temper our smartest in the room with wisdom is the extent now to which we are no longer the smartest one in the room. Just sayin’

In fact that you look and sound exactly like the arrogant and so blinded by the mote in your own eye shortsighted blowhard know nothings you are deriding.

It’s very much more complicated to be as smart as you think you are. And you’re old enough now to start wising up. As in adding a mix of wisdom, and (not empathy or compassion, but) the tenderness and ferocity that comes from your own skin singe in the game, to the way you move around in our world.
Time to dial it back a bit or it will bite you in the ass, in the real world you, as in, we live.

Tempted of course would I be to give him backstory and context but that then would give him ground for debate and therein is the extent to which the point would have been missed. It is a rubicon moment, and I the bony finger pointy nosed cranky old woman who has only to say there’s no sorry that will get you back once you’ve crossed. There is no debate. Cross at your own peril. You’ve been warned, and you don’t get to say no one ever told you.

Not surprisingly he didn’t want to hear. Fair enough.

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