Session 15: Sunset Bell – Featuring Scott Mullins from ThisIsWriting.com

Session 15: Sunset Bell - Featuring Scott Mullins from ThisIsWriting.com

Ring in a new level of creativity with Endless Beautiful and our special guest Scott Mullins from ThisIsWriting.com!

Sounds

  • Sunset Bell St. Pete Beach
  • Short Drive from Hope
  • Microwave Corn Heating Pad
  • Shoveling Snow
  • Taking out the Trash
  • Heavy Rain on Umbrella

Scott’s Result

All she needed was a moment. A moment to get close enough in the crowd. She weaved an intricate pattern as she focused on him. Aiming for him.

He wouldn’t notice someone like her, another face in the crowd. That was what she was counting on. He had long put her out of his mind but she hadn’t forgotten him. He was all she had thought about. For years she has watched him.

She pushed passed a man spruiking his wares. The man seemed to pause, just for an instance almost indefinable, but she was sure it was there. Then in an instant, he turned he darted down an alley.

She rushed forward, the conversations around her surged all at once in an uproar of violent confusion.

Panic set in. Had she lost her chance? Would he disappear back into the shadows?

Then a hand reached out of the crowd. Then darkness, and the road. An engine powering up. A car taking off. The rattle of the engine.

A truck passed.

The trunk popped, and his hands reached in after her. He threw her to the ground. In the corner, she could see the hole that was already pre-dug. This was normally how these things end. Next to some long-forgotten truck stop.

She looked up at him. Her head pounding. She smiled as her hand tightened around the knife in her pocket.

Lucas’s Result

Knock Knock

It was hot. A woman’s sweaty arm brushed passed Rick’s. It was a bit disgusting, but the coolness of it was a welcome relief. Rick jumped up to try to spot Tony’s florescent green hat bobbing through the crowd. The dope. They had gone to the comedy festival for 3 years straight, and been hopelessly separated every time. They were lucky they didn’t end up in jail last time. Tony had dropped three hits of acid in the morning. By 10 am, he had jumped onstage during a standup’s routine, screaming something about cows and the apocalypse. Fortunately the standup had been a good sport about it. He rang the big bell that he had up top as a prop, and proclaimed Tony to be the festival’s resident dunce.

Rick was mortified. He hadn’t so much as smoked a cigarette before in his life, much less drop acid. He remembered looking back at the security posted behind the stage, palms brought up to their ears, with somebody probably screaming, “Take him down! Take him down!” By the time they did manage to run out onto the stage, Tony was nowhere to be seen. It took rick 24 hours to track him down, sleeping with some whinos down by the beach. What a mess. Rick didn’t know why he hung out with Tony, honestly.

Familiarity he supposed, as he wove through the seething swarm of sweaty drunks and strangers. Tony if anything, had consistently been there, even if that meant being a consistent mess. Rick made his way around the blue portapottys, to a gigantic bin full of empty beer cups. It reeked of plastic and stale beer. Rick frowned when he spotted glass perched atop the heap. There was a sign. Plastic only, bottle went over there. Dumbasses. And then it happened.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” belted over the P.A. for the nearest stage. There was no mistaking. It was Tony. Rick ran around the corner. A woman had a box of wine over her head and was chugging it. When she finished, white wine ran down her mouth and onto her breasts. She yelled out a battle cry like a Viking goddess.

“Knock, knock…” said the still not visible inebriated voice of Tony on the stage.

Oh god thought Rick, as he kept running. He imagined choppers launching off of pads, police on radios, speeding cars.

Rick pushed his way through the crowd some more until he spotted it. The green hat.

Carolyn’s Result

Her voice sits at the end of a bicycle spoke,
testing the ring of the bell in its circle,
waiting to turn over, to be oiled,
the wait is too long – too many strangers,
accents and tongues colored in red tones.

It looks exactly like that.
It is last call.

The tongue in the bell is told
to toll, a rope pulled guides it – ting-tong.
Ting tong. She imagines the daily spider
in the upturned brass hollow,
its threads taut and cut loose.

Spiders eat their webs. Some do.
She often eats her words, well chewed.
Her words are like warm soup,
chowder to go in a paper cup,
wax melted from its sides.

It isn’t shyness. Or dullness.
Is it defensive? Do I defend this woman?
I project onto her, scoop her attributes
like wet snow in the mouth of a shovel,
cannot resist touching.

A bell and a heap of snow draw our heat away.
How warmed by sunlight.
Sun on the ears.
She tucks her hair behind her ears,
showing off the folds to the light.
Catch brightness what normally catches sound.

Turn. Consider the photon.
Consider the phoneme.
The phenomenon.
Speak.

-Carolyn Decker
4/1/17

Session 14: Scrawk!

Scrawk!

Endless Beautiful is out on the prowl! Join us for some Korean food and Scrawk!

Sounds

  • Stock Interior
  • Harp MLK On Common Ground Event
  • Metal Meets Support Pillar
  • Filling a Pot
  • Running Dishwasher
  • Home Alarm
  • Scrawk!

Lucas’s Result

Mr. Boxburn

Tanner liked chewing on the wrapper after he ate his tootsie rolls. He didn’t like to admit it, and it was painfully embarrassing when he was caught, but it was a truth that he could not escape. The wax, the texture, the taste of the pulp in the paper…the chocolate was an afterthought, or at least a preamble. So here he was, at another of these damn fundraising events. Stuffed collars, and lit wives, hiding in the corner, trying to hide that fact that he had squirreled away not just one, but two glorious wrappers. There was a wet ballet of wax of the highest order and pedigree gently gliding across his molars and…

“Hey!” yelled a young brunette girl of Tanner guessed 10. He sighed and swallowed the wrappers. They slid down his esophagus like leaves filled with mana, never to be seen again.

“Hey!” yelled the girl again. The girl in question was Tanner’s neighbor, Charley.

“What Charley?” barked Tanner, suddenly remembering where he was at, and remembering why he hated it.

“Have you seen Pauls?” Pauls was Charley’s imaginary friend. Charley updated Tanner on the status of Pauls every chance she got. Even though Tanner was obviously a disinterested 31 year old man. Pauls wore a red derby.

“Pauls is dead Charley.” Tanner’s mannerisms didn’t budge. He knelt down and took Charley’s hand. “Mr Boxburn,” (Mr Boxburn was a monkey with a robotic tail that could swim to the bottom of the ocean and jump to Mars and drink ten gallons of chocolate syrup, another of Charley’s creations), “Mr Boxburn told me that he had found Pauls dead. In the pool. There was a note,” he whispered in Charley’s ear. “I think it was a suicide.” Charley held there for a moment before pushing Tanner away.

“You’re a jerk, Tanner.”

“Yes I am, Charles. Yes I am.”

Now, to find another tootsie roll.

Carolyn’s Result

Proteins are folded waterbug legs
striders across coded surfaces,
tension strung by polar force.

The pool is still iced.
Frozen amphibians thaw,
throats bloated with song.
Their ear, the timpanium,
instrument and input alike.

The fairy shrimp is real,
as is magic. Body segments
transparent and vibratory
as harp string. Life is small.
It bears itself raw,
residual, renewed.

Egg masses melt, lipids
eaten, opened. Tail bedecked
tadpoles trade gills for futures.
The pool is cloudy, our crystal ball,
mayfly our seer for hope and doom.

The cold is slow,
sticking to leaves thick
at the bottom, muck drenched
in winter. Ghost. Spirit.
The pool the liquor the forest drinks.

-Carolyn Decker
3/31/17

Session 13: Bubble Wrap

Bubble Wrap

Unwrap your creativity with this Endless Beautiful workshop!

Sounds

  • Tennis Practice
  • Dali Museum
  • Ventilation Fan
  • Elevator and Doors
  • TF Green Parking Lot
  • Reciprocating Saw
  • Bubble Wrap

Lucas’s Result

The Little Things

Spring is coming. I think of middle school boys smoking rolled newspapers in the back shed and girls throwing rocks at each others heads. Warm plexiglass and the smell of smoldering leather and plastic in the backseat of a Cessna or a rusted out Nova.

Spring though. It feels good man. Little pieces of green, chewed up tennis balls from the neighbor’s gigantic Tibetan Mastiff. It could snap a giraffe’s legs if it wanted. According to your neighbor he’s a lover. A grizzly is a lover at some point and time, too. For twenty seconds, until it rips a family of deer in half. This is nature though. Just like the kids pretending to smoke weed out back.

I suppose everything knows Spring is coming in some respect. The hum of a train. A backseat of a car. A wooden post driven into the ground. The frost leaches a little less. Gives way. Even gives back a little that it took in the first place. Provides new ground for rot, decay, an old rancher to finally say fuck it, or a new one to want to tame a piece of the world and make it theirs.

Little things like fence posts matter. They add up. Slivers that had to be pulled with pocket knives eventually turn into bridges, and those bridges stand tall and long across raging rivers…until they don’t anymore.

I suppose Spring is a time to take a look at those bridges. Check for cracked rivets. Put the bad parts in your hands and crush it a bit. Throw it in the wind and downstream. Tell yourself that it didn’t matter. Or if it did, you have new wood to lay planks with.

Carolyn’s Result

Bigger Senses

Helicopters rumble a new dialect
in the language of birds.
Low wide sounds – closer to whale song,
the pops and cracks of radio,
radar, infrared. We endow
our new beasts with bigger senses.
What will they make of them?

Put your ear to the ground –
says my sister. You can feel
the train coming before you hear it.
The vibrations conducted more purely
through the solid earth than open air.
What signals do the rotifers take
from trainsong rushing past?

Once again, study is reduced to comparison.
Likeness. Do I like this?
Do I understand?
I stand under a tree.
The tree stands in the road.
A car is always going by.
Leaves stick to its tires, spinning, spinning.

I feel my pulse most
when I do not mean to.
Purposeful swishing behind my knees.
There is so much happening.
Of course. But its feels important
to say so.

-Carolyn Decker
Endless Beautiful Session 13

Session 12: Thunderclap

Thunderclap Cover

A storm of creativity is coming your way in this session recorded at Social Enterprise Greenhouse in Providence, RI for our special collaboration with EcoRI News!

Sounds

  • Winterstorm Niko Thunderclap
  • Sirens Outside During Storm
  • St Pete Beach Volleyball
  • Elevator and Doors
  • Haircut at Stefano’s European Barber Salon
  • Waves at St Pete Beach
  • .306

Lucas’s Result

Starfish

Lightning cracked, or was it the sound of a cannon? It was difficult to tell the difference these days.

The days were blackened with smoke and death, and the night was lit we distant fires, strange glowing, and flashes.

The war had been on for three years. Before that Sud had been playing volleyball on the beach with friends. She had spent warm afternoons in green parks watching planes fly and squirrels compete for potato chips and pieces of bread they had found in the trash.

There was another crack in the night. This one seemingly closer. Sud shied away from her kitchen window. It was eerily like the day that this had all happened. She had been washing the dishes – forks and knives, the water had been warm. A flash and a thud.

It had been so out of the ordinary for her small Indiana suburb. Sud hadn’t known big noises before that, not ones that she didn’t want to hear. Now it was all she knew. It was driving her to madness. She was wasting away, mind and body. The food that she could find, she couldn’t hold it down, even though her muscles desperately needed it.

Sud had wrapped her clock in toilet paper to deaden the violent blows of the pendulum contained within its casing. She had been oblivious to the noise prior to the bombings, but now it sounded like steel raindrops punching through glass and flesh. Sud couldn’t bear throwing the clock out, though. Time was one of the few things that tied her to before the war. Without it, she would cease to be human.

She had given herself a haircut the previous day. The rusted blades of her scissors snarled on her black and silver hair. Now she looked at herself in the mirror. It reminded her of dating, sex, and finding starfish on the beach. It was good. It was human.

Another explosion rocked the house. A pot slid off the shelf and clattered on the hard wood floor.

The clock remained.

Carolyn’s Result

Idea

It starts with an explosion,
and the rhythmic aftermath,
the equation that changes as it passes,
all things only either known
by its place or its time.

Toss your ideas back and forth,
shout them to mark the variables,
an equal sign: the net in a badminton match,
the shuttlecock the unknown x,
flying out of reach, grasped
and deflected.

Hold your thought expressed as
a rising elevator,
do not let it exit the lift
until it has reached the roof –

push it to the balcony
and make yourselves look down.
Vertigo is an illusion meant
for the three dimensional.
Test your idea’s shape.
Is it scared? Does it hold you back?

Take steps to be kind.
Mind your idea’s appearance.
Has it impressed you lately?
Know that its impression lies
within you alone, it is your
personification it adopts after all.
In the right light, it will
glimmer a mirrored sun.
Believe me, it wants you to look.

Don’t forget the reflection,
the back and forth, the high and low
of the wave, the parabolic,
the parable. You and your idea are paired.

Do not worry. Even if you forget,
the idea is not forgotten,
the moon does not forget a wave,
only lets it disappear into the sea a while.
Do not make the mistake
of thinking a wave is new.
Even your thought is merely a new iteration
of old energy, electricity reforged.

If you must, set your idea on fire.
Remind yourself of ash.

Session 11: Weird Dogs

Weird Dogs

Don’t let your creativity go to the dogs! Join us for this Endless Beautiful Workshop recorded at the Marlborough Public Library in Marlborough, MA.

Sounds

  • Copper Basket Chains
  • Laughing Gulls and Black Skimmers
  • Heating Water on Gas Stove
  • Singing in the Shower
  • Weird Dogs
  • Carolyn Talks to Pigeons and is Drowned Out by Horrible Machines

Lucas’s Result

Big Win

He pulled the big silver lever with a red ball on the end. Two gold nuggets and a spade. Damn. C’mon these slots must be rigged.

“How does Yancy always catch a break on these things?” Wondered Buford.

It had all started on the beach. Throwing peanuts at the gulls. Damn things almost carried off the rest of Buford’s lunch. Yancy just sat there laughing with his big stupid teeth crusted with cheese and pickles. Why had Buford trusted Yancy? It was his idea to rip off the till at the Dunkin Donuts and play his luck at the slots.

Yancy told Buford that he’d meet him at the dump down the street and they’d go make a million bucks. Well, the till only had twenty eight dollars in it, and Buford had waited for about 2 hours for Yancy to not show up. So here buford was, sitting at the damn casino, trying to make gas money before the cops came barging in and hauled him off. It was probably some kind of crazy setup. Yancy probably worked for the cops, FBI, or Buford froze before pulling the lever again….the DEA.

The slot whirled and the first one came in…red diamond….there was a chime….diamonds were x10. The next one came in….another diamond….this one yellow…Oh boy…Buford’s heart beat a bit harder. C’mon baby…thought Buford….the last one was coming in…IT WAS A GREEN DIAMOND!

Buford jumped up out of his seat. A red light and siren began blaring on top of the machine. Coins began pouring out. A crowd began to form. Old ladies with eyes glowing green with jealousy and waitress smiling expecting a big tip. A kid with a hot dog smashed it into his mouth and began clapping.

Buford was beaming. That sly dog Yancy wasn’t getting a dime of this. No way he was getting a cut. Attendants wearing white aprons and IDs from the casino ran out with a big white bin to collect the coins. A man grabbed Buford’s hand with a vice grip and shook it. A camera flashed. Buford stumbled a half-step back.

Buford watched as two county sheriffs enter at the far end.

Carolyn’s Result

Even ghosts leave footprints,
lighter than wire chains,
thin as spider webbing,
tangled as the laughing gull
with feet and beak deep in the wrack,
throwing its head back, tossing foam.

Let there be a chorus
for the beached whale,
for the barnacles that survive,
for the need for sea, for sun, for rot.

We sent songs on Voyager,
the fragile ships sailing out of the system,
past gaseous giants ringed in ice,
tidal gravity flexing moons
we could not see from home.

They say the microwave hums.
Our oven sings too when it is ready for us.
Do you believe
that lessons come to us only when we are ready?

If so, what wisdom lies behind the sun,
comets and asteroids with radiant tails,
spectra glowing silent,
growing crystal and shedding dust.
I can’t see it.
I wonder how far I can hear.

Seventeen miles and a single candle.
Twelve thousand stretched by rolling waves.

Doves can see in UV.
flowers look wholly different to them.
but I can make my imitation,
coo to them through my hands.

Session 10: Bike Pump

Bike Pump

Pump up your creativity with us at this session recorded in Attleboro, MA for On Common Ground and MLK Day!

Sounds

  • Walking Sandy Short Brush
  • Bathtub Bubbles
  • Approaching Beaver Dam
  • Crunching Packing Paper
  • Bike Pump
  • Spinning Quarters
  • Sand Wheel
  • Loading the Wood Stove
  • Petting Zoo
  • Kicking Leaves

Lucas’s Result

Swamp

Sam had been walking for three days. His feet hurt. They hurt real bad. Worse than he had ever felt. Which wasn’t that surprising, considering he spent most of his adult days sitting behind a computer at work or watching family comedies at night.

Hmmmm. What was this? A swamp of some sort? Sam wasn’t really sure, but he figured he would call it a swamp. He was never sure about these things. His friend Jake’s Dad had given him a field guide to look at once in cub scouts camp, at least the one day that Sam had attended. That was about the only exposure Sam had to real nature before this.

Anyway, a sad story, and half-way redemption through necessity, but back to the swamp. Sam hoped that nothing big and nasty was living in under it’s green, slime layered surface. Big and nasty things were much more common these days. Maybe they had always existed, but Sam hadn’t had to deal with them in the comfort of his living room or his bathtub.

Ah yes, a boat of some sort of the edge. Some kind of makeshift dock. Made out of railroad ties and rope. The heavy, grey fog cleared a bit. There was a light, out in the middle of the swamp. It looked like an island. There was much more space out there than Sam had anticipated. The world was much bigger for Sam now that he had to walk and freeze and sleep in it.

Sam got in the boat. There was about an inch of water in the bottom, but there was also a pump. Some sort of siphon. Same cleared the leaves out of the end of the hose in the bottom of the boat and began pumping the water out. Several minutes passed.

Sam could still see the light trying to make its way through the dense fog above the water. Sam began rowing.

As same rowed his way toward the mysterious island, he thought about marbles and spinning coins on a table with his grandfather. Why this memory? Strange memories and dreams were coming to him more often these days. It seemed like he had more space in his mind for these things – like the world and his brain were trying to work something out.

Halfway there. Sam was beginning to notice details behind the light. A trailer. Possibly abandoned. Maybe not. Old, chipped paint. A shadow. Sam’s heart jumped. Was it really there? He stopped rowing for a second. No it was too late. He had come this far.

Keep rowing.

When the row boat reached the rocky shore of the small island, the rocks scraped the bottom with a terrible metallic stroke. Sam ducked down low in the boat. Still nothing. No movement. He clumsily stepped over the edge and almost fell over before regaining his composure. The fog was thick. He could taste it. It smelled of dirt, living and dying things.

Sam walked toward the old trailer.

Carolyn’s Result

We walk together, uphill,
sand and grass scraping through us.
We walk to the spring,
where water bubbles beyond gravity.
We walk to fill our throats,
to make our blood full, to lift our feet.

Soon, the mountain will drop,
the continental divide drift us
to an ocean our eyes have not seen
We will swim to the salt edge,
tasting a sodium dream, a wave.
We walk there now, in the current.

Session 9: Electric Fence

West Warwick Electric Fence

Charge up your creativity with this workshop recorded live at the West Warwick Public Library in Rhode Island!

Sounds

  • Coffee Maker
  • Chicago O’Hare Gate Background
  • Shakey Paperweight
  • Rubber Band
  • Basement Sink
  • Electric Fence
  • Outdoor Wind Chime in Maine
  • Playground Blocks
  • Zipping Suitcase

Lucas’s Result

“Start the damn thing!”

“Ack, why can’t this thing ever work like it’s supposed to?”

“Do you even know how it’s supposed to work?”

“Well, no, probably not.”

“Where do you think the oil goes?”

“I don’t know, somewhere dark, deep, that kind of thing”

“You think something really lives down there?”

“Naw….well, maybe. I don’t know. Don’t you think it would have started something again after all this time.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it isn’t angry anymore. After we started putting the oil back in.”

“I doubt it. It’s got to be dead. Whatever it is didn’t just forget about what had happened. With the explosion. Something that big doesn’t forget about a thing like that. Would you forget somebody cutting your belly open and pulling you apart?”

“Probably not. You’re right. We’re nothing compared to that thing.”

“Ssssshhhhh……You hear that?”

“I think I might, but I don’t want to say it. You tell me what you hear, and we’ll see if we came up with the same thing.”

“A baby?”

“Nope”

“A buzzer?”

“Nope”

“A shaker?”

“C’mon man…forget it.”

“So what do you think is happening to all of this oil anyway?”

“Some crazy shaman on the internet said it’s being shipped to an overlord in another dimension.”

“What does an overlord in another dimension want with our crappy, half-used oil?”

“You could ask him.”

“What?”

“Ask him. There’s a portal. Not the freaky magic kind. I mean there’s a web portal. Even an app. But it crashes all the time. Here, check it out on my phone. See if it’s working today.”

“Is that him?”

“Yep…what?”

“I guess I was expecting something a little more…y’know grand. For being an oil hungry other dimensional overlord. Not a skinny guy with a bent nose wearing a Mastadon shirt. Is this some kind of joke?”

“You want to chance it?”

Not really.

“Woah, what’s that chime mean? He couldn’t hear us talking could he?”

“Naw, that’s my taco delivery app. My order is done when you hear the chime.”

“It’s a strange world that we live in.”

“Yes it is. Yes it is.”

“So the machine? What should we do?”

“I guess we just keep on feeding it.”

“I don’t think I want to feed it.”

“What?”

“I’m done. This is ridiculous. Enjoy your tacos.”

“Wait. There’s a message on the app. The overlord app. It says, “Jake, you better not leave, and Lucy, you better give me those tacos.”

“How do I give him tacos?”

Carolyn’s Result

Surface

Ready? Something is about to surface.
The auger will twist, puncturing the ice,
and a dark and watery unconscious mind
will pour over the face of the hole.
The ice under the fire will steam.

No beast is too far way.
But friends are close. Come close.
Warm your hands on the rainy tarmac,
it holds the sun. It cracks when it smiles.
It smiles when you visit.
It smiles differently when it is alone.

I do not want to name the seasons.
Where have I brought you? Ice fishing.
And then on a plane. And before, a road.
Where and when will you be on this other plane?
It has two sides. It sings rubber and vibrant
when its sides are shaken, when
its surface is
plucked.

The water underneath us has a behavior,
a self with boundaries we feel before we see.
Ice turns white – and blue – for the air.
A spark shows itself only when it leaps.

I am happier sometimes than I have ever been.
I know I have at least two sides, that I am the same
opposite threads of a suitcase zipper knitted into a seam,
that I seem to make little sense.
I only sense.
Something is feeling all the time all the time.

Session 8: Hooper Brook Pond

Hooper Brook Pond

Paddle out into the reservoir of creativity!

Sounds

  • Rowing on Hooper Brook Pond
  • Bhutanese Brass Wind Chime
  • Tater Cannons
  • Mule and Goat Eating
  • Breaking Bark
  • Church Bells
  • Wind Tunnel
  • One Stringed Mystery
  • Splashing in a Puddle
  • Pellet Stove

Lucas’s Result

Blank

Sal I told you to put that damn camera away.

Don’t be such a fuss Blank.

I’m telling you, I need you to be watching out. You heard what they said about the Reservoir.

“Oh C’mon Sal. That’s some stupid shit and you know it.”

“Well, I’d rather….what the hell was that?”

“What?”

“Your camera. Take your camera and point it out that way. Use the zoom. The zoom.”

“I don’t know how to use the zoom.”

And that’s when it happened. You can read a thousand reports on tension rates, and the scraping of corn and mule’s feet, but they’ll never tell you about the crunch.

I lost you…sorry, this is a different part of the story. Or the same story, just later on. I’m Sal, and Blank, well Blank took a 30/30 round to the chest. Died on impact and fell into the black reservoir. What a mess.

He sank like a rock and the beavers carried him 300 meters downstream. The cops, U.S. Marshals, Homeland, I’ve even heard the FBI were looking for him. They found his body two weeks later wrapped up in a beaver dam.

The shot?

Nobody knows. I was there and I don’t what happened. Not sad really. Just quick.

There were five of us at his funeral.

One guy was watching America’s Most Wanted on his smartphone. ‘

Can you believe that?

You can watch whatever TV shows you want with your cell phone these days.

Man, I remember trying to tune Nova on a bad set of rabbit ears like it was yesterday.

4G.

Amazing. I suppose there’s Mars, too. I wonder if Blank had the choice….to be shot in the chest and be turned into kindling by a bunch of beavers, or go to Mars, alone, and have to stay there until he died. Which one would he have chosen?

Carolyn’s Result

First Bullet

Rustling breeds stillness
when the creak of the oars
presses under the water.
The wind dies in your ears
and the pond lily drags.
The crack of black powder
rips over the rowboat, ringing
deeper than the slap of a beaver’s tail.

Strange voices–single shots of air.

When bitten, a bullet
cannot be chewed. The tongue
rolls it, the teeth touch.

I know someone a bullet has burned.

Air can break.
Ships pass the breaking point
where vapor turns hot again
and magnets only point down.

The clang inside the churchbell
is the pulse inside the ear
with no other sounds to hear.

Broadcast through the system
a wideness over a disc,
a single string pulled taut,
a dot centered, and deigned.

Stillness breeds a rustling.
Come breathe.

12.9.16
-CD

Session 7: Campfire

Campfire

Bring your creative kindling to our campfire!

Sounds

  • 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

Lucas’s Result

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?

I do.

Please. Just for a moment longer.

I can feel it slipping.

Down the hall

Of my consciousness.

Every contour and consequence of life

Fading

How wonderful and sad it would be

to make one last call

Carolyn’s Result

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.

12.5.16
CD

Endless Beautiful Session 007

Session 6: Singing Bowl

Singing Bowl

Join us in this workshop to find your creative voice!

Sounds

  • Tibetan Singing Bowl
  • Elliptical Machine
  • Beer Bottle Pipes
  • Fall Bugs
  • Sweeping Dirt
  • Grocery Store Interior
  • Rain Gutter
  • Shuffling Cards
  • Wooden Bridge Footsteps
  • Dictionary Pages

Lucas’s Result

Night Out

The ground began ringing the day before last. Not like a telephone ring or a big computer or anything like that, more like the sound you get when something old and pure rubs together. I guess that makes sense, being that it’s coming from the ground. You don’t get much more old and pure than that.

A lot of folks are trying to figure this damn thing out. Sure there’s the religious nuts, screaming that the end of days are upon us. That’s been going on for thousands of years. But there are all kinds of other nuts out there too. Folks selling listening machines, tuning forks, special diggers, and listening devices. I guess I can’t talk though.

I’m selling my own brand of madness. Whisky. The bar was empty on this first night when the low metallic hum started vibrating the floor boards, but sure enough, the bar was packed with the usual drunks the following afternoon, and even more people looking to forget their troubles by the evening. God bless ‘em.

Bastards. Goddmammit. This place is a mess. It’s the morning of the third day now. Broken glass and used condoms. Can’t blame ‘em. I wonder though. If this thing gets sorted out. And there is a reasonable explanation, where do we go from here? Do you just pretend like nothing happened? I doubt it. If we do survive, you know, not get ground up by some alien force or whatever, I bet there are going to be plenty that don’t accept the same old 9 to 5 gig that they had going before this all started.

I need a break. Not just from sweeping, either. I’ve got to get out of this basement bar. What if this is the end? Am I going to spend down here watching a bunch of drunks living like there’s no tomorrow, and when there is no tomorrow, not be able to spend the money? No.

Come on down if you want a drink. The door will be unlocked. Just don’t bust up the place too bad. Y’know just in case I have to come back. Good luck my friend. Oh yeah, make sure you sign my guest book. Who knows, when we get turned to dust, somebody might want to read it a hundred thousand years from now.

Carolyn’s Result

Is it too much to suggest
that all things swirl
when some scratch, and some stop?
The background leans forwards
when the inside of the bowl flips
over the slip, the edge, the out.
Here comes movement.
A comet leftover from oldest ice,
only knowing sunlight, sister
to the wind on a northern slope,
a wind caught inside a jar,
an orbit born long enough of matter
to spin and trill, a wave
crested enough to sweep over its own top,
to dip down, earthen,
gathered into a human voice,
a mechanical voice, a water voice,
pumped through valve again,
into air again, into rock again.
Turn me over. Mold and spread as
pulp or clay my form. Take to me
mortar, stirred with lye and
build from me a sturdy place.
Coarse. Smoothing.
I come apart. A part of
a thing with moving parts.
I come down. And up.
I turn like a ribbon on
a taffy pull.

-CD

11/12