Bring your creative kindling to our campfire!
- Flipping a Washer
- Under an Umbrella
- Forest Adventures
- Playground Xylophone
- Sharpening a Knife
- Bali Mynah
- Playground Blocks
- Thanksgiving Table
- Practicing Piano
- Toy Phone
- Dictionary Pages
Contour and Consequence
Smoke, smoke, smoke. The man with the fire is a good man. I can hear the purple heat. It’s all curled and wavy like the sea. I wish I knew where the beacon had fallen. Maybe the man knows. He’s good, but not good enough to keep me away.
To have been born in the morning was a mistake. All I can remember is the rain on that day. It’s coming back. The rain. It was warm though. Or was the feeling of the saline? Of the IV?
I can feel something heavy in my chest. I believe it’s my heart and it’s full of memories that I can’t remember. Tuesday afternoon walks. The sun is good.
There is music. Where did the music come from? Perhaps it was the sigh.
I’m afraid. Not of the fact that I don’t remember, but of the fact that I can fear.
This is death.
At least I believe it is death. Are the memories and feelings mine? Or do they belong to all of us?
A girl. A poem. A bird.
Why is this what I took with me? And how long can I hold on to it?
Do I want to hold it?
Please. Just for a moment longer.
I can feel it slipping.
Down the hall
Of my consciousness.
Every contour and consequence of life
How wonderful and sad it would be
to make one last call
Who Goes There By Firelight?
Who goes there by firelight?
Set out an extra chair.
The dogs could have been called off by a ghost.
Static. Sit still and watch the coals.
You see and hear what you want,
rings of flame round rings of carbon.
Solar winds send rain.
Rain grey like a spent coal.
A coal with an idea, or a memory
depending on the direction of the light.
An interval between devising, revising.
Visioning. How sharp is a flame?
Curved as the tooth of a dog,
the bevel on the carving stone?
Someday everyone sings songs you don’t know.
Sometimes they are still about you.
Someone comes smelling the edge of the garden
because the coals dumped in the topsoil
retain a piece of the look someone gave
the fire when they caught a glimpse of your shape.
You tricked me. A word only has so many tastes
but then, I only know as much as I know.
I recognize only so many faces and sounds
as I’ve stored, until I am wrong. And the
wrongness means it is new.
Endless Beautiful Session 007