#90 … Now, what of respect …

Feminine maize, the millennia’s inheritance.100_0636

Time always matters, especially … Now.

Now the rush of spring, now summer’s wet heat, now the fruiting fullness, now the drying, now some place for her, now some ending … now … firmly above the soil, the storms passed, the harvest to come.


NOW ... an edited story:

Maybe, if we reach completion … respect.

NOW, just a gentle breeze, still warm autumnal breeze, now picture (it is easy) the cumulus gentle pillow rising full wonder, holding up Heaven ( or the heavens, if you prefer). That which lifts highest, those are storms; violent heat coursing to the top, the cool reaches of tornadic whirling wonder:  a place of immutable divine rules, a full presence, a remembrance, the cosmos or so it is called.


Now a chill, if only for an evening, a dryness to hold the virtue un-moldy, a dryness to bury, a burial to crack, the remains of a spent voluptuous youth in multiple greens, the sun-yellowed green chartreuse moist sexual veil now furry purple brown. Bulbous pillows suspended rain, then it came; invested spectral sun and mineral movement, now sugar to starch and to dry, the silks purple brown tipped dusty dry brown; dry, longer lasting than rainbows, if a bit smaller and more serviceable, finished and golden.

Now land plots, tasseled waves, the swirled breeze, the rippled dust flows over endless acres, numbered now to the smallest unit.  Now, the unsheathed grain streams – filling mundane hoppers, trucks, shiny sullen mechanical towers.

Now, a dollared industry.





Now it is seldom for beauty or poetic contemplation, now lacking the intimate wonder of that which passed forward.













Now, immortalization – the respectful pedestal, the static story – her inheritance.



#89 … considering comparable pains …

We have little to bring you as far as local news; well, other than fires, murders, economic discontent. But this place, holding so many tax-paying emotives, pales so badly compared to the rest of the world on the hyperbole-index We are a bit embarrassed to bring up our problems.

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However, at the tent of anachronistic anarchists things are comparable, still a lot of little bombs lit and awaiting opportunity to be tossed, thrown, left lying around till they explode; it is in the nature of emotives (anarchistic and otherwise), and therefore is a problem worth noting.

We have been considering acquiring a drone, for observation and potential defensive purposes.

IMG_0014As it is, the weight of cameras and emotion-seeking bombs is probably greater than the carrying capacity of big-box discount-store drones. And we lack sufficient pilots, lethal or otherwise, who can direct the photography or bombing.


IMG_0001 2But, a solution was proffered. The artists here have decided to draw “artistic conceptions” of what the drone images would look like if we actually did use one.  It is unlikely anyone will get hurt ( it is art after all) but tiny bits of fear of heights and surveillance paranoia might show up.


IMG_0018It takes awhile to gain some perspective, some elevation. Artists must imagine heights that are not readily available on a broad farming prairie, so high angles are just to make perspectival drawings, a means of plausible truth.

IMG_0016This aerial drawing is the Mackinaw River, our local bit of the flowing divine, with some rains blowing in, rain, adequate usually, but not to much, usually.

The tent, holding anachronistic irascibles is either just below your vision or among those squiggles around some light area in the middle right. Drawings are nice, viewers get to decide what is important to them; you must imagine things like temperature, humidity and color,

Color should include the ragweed, goldenrod, black-eyed susan, big bluestem,  and the multitudinous prairie weeds, pain should include sneezing and sweating and scratching.  And, hopefully, scratching an itch will be the only sign of blood.


Imagine if you wish, empathize if you can, the pain and suffering around here; or, better yet, extend it to those in very windy places, very watery places, very hot places, very bloody places – far away.




#88 … considering delicate severity…

Once again, back  at the tent, She, emboldened by a moments reprieve from expectations (especially her own) seems, maybe, past the indelicacy of … the interruption.




Severity is her decided gift, a decision for all the crazies here at the tent; severity, lest the world spin even farther out of balance. Acute observation, nimble fingers, taut anatomy, severity in mind.  Closely fixed attention, decisions  hidden in the choice of placement, lest others mimic the skills (and demean the delicacy).

Trivial balance – boxes on boxes, squared and repeated left and right – endless, this is the enemy. Even here, credible artistic avant-gardes just want the ego form of balance – the lack of delicate attention, the bored response to failure, the (as it is) fear.



Delicacy, un-violated, broken, ripped, garishly devoured: delicacy, a veil necessary to exercise proportionate skeletal rhythms, the rush of trembling vibrations, the control.

Maybe long ago and far away, maybe, some orphaned dinner plates and a  need to consider what is past, (maybe lost) by some indelicate interruption were set to spinning, spinning, spinning the sounds of flutes and bowed strings.



All might fall in a moment, maybe devoured consumed depleted, maybe, (maybe – as has been noted – is a very big word), or, maybe …  delicately interrupted.



#87…considering the constant banter of fear …

It is not as easy as some might think – colors … brings to mind a bit to much of what He decided to conjure – the constant banter of the fearful – from the old (as in olde) days.

DCS_1611The artist’s olde days, cave living and later, wandering with wonderers, traveling with kith and kin (and kin with travails), wagon shows, magic, clowns and clutter and raucous bands;  whilst other folks had castles – stones stacked upon unmovable stones, fancy colored flags, and servants, (slaves even). Masks and wands, dripping headhunter souvenirs to show no fear, only conquest; demons, witchcraft, powerful oracles, hidden selves, and all that color. Actually, various blinking garish displays, smudged browns and vaporizing grays have been, and remain, the most common color, plus blood, Blood!, the Blood, just Blood!; the uniting color.


He, (in a “bachelor” moment), decided the happy magnificence of artist’s magic color gestures might enthrall, and disrupt, a world of incarcerated fear, maybe (?) avoiding the blood.

But what a mis-observation, to be clowning with a paint brush; consider: would it be easier to enthrall fellow self-caged rapacious emotives, or, a cage full of  hue-hyped predatory carnivores.

Ah, artistics: here at the reunion of the irascible anarchists in the tent of the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture attempting to retrain the detained former circus … a movable housing for the banter of fear, the exercise of folly, the momentary finesse.

As is observable, big-cats on the most precarious lurches – balance;  but, it is not as color coordination nor obedience to the magic paint wand … its’ to pounce.

Let’s all turn away and consider the emotive wonder of an olde-guy gesturing among fools (or for fools), and what is expected in nature’s severity;

maybe … the blood and delicacy of color.


#86 … considering She, interrupted…


She, interrupted (or was the interruption), has gone silent; somewhat hidden.

Summer’s days are accumulating, and the actions She had sought, expected, even desired – serving at the gathering – just didn’t happen.

She said (as best as possibly heard, interpreted, and passed along);  She said, “…you decide…”,  this was before She walked away calmly and directly to the river.

Summer is still here but the mornings are cool, afternoons temperate; a few leaves are changed – more dried-out than colored.

She, interrupted, might find the dried leaves adequate shade but inadequate isolation.

Summer will go, dried leaves then crackling ice will carry on.

She, interrupted, may (or may not) return to her post.

#85 … considering bloodsuckers …


The Illinois prairie, low risings and wet swales, formed following the long gone glaciers. That swampy wonder is now mostly drained for industrial agriculture and commercial projects.  But when night comes (and when it goes) the descendants of a billion generations of bloodsuckers fly out to sip and sup, sucking undefended animal nourishment for their progeny, virulent microbes rendered as payment for the repast.IMG_0001

Insect bloodsuckers don’t like hunting in yellow light (or so it is said). And so moderns hang yellow bug lights to make it confusing for mosquitos and their insect friends. Somewhere apart are hung blue lights to attract them into some killing zone, chemical or electric zaps.

This is all common-sensical, generally doable, and mostly effective, to be finally solved by the first frost.



But hot-blooded and blathering exhalers, (artists, emotives, artistic types, and the like), are targeted by a different (exploitive)  bloodsucking variety, and are in need of just such a simple defense.

Some artists try to make the mellow light ( warm and wonderfully renaissance Italianate) hoping the bad guys might spend or go bumbling away – if only in gentle emotional confusion.  As to where they might go, it should be noted that dystopian movies are flush with blue light accented by a spray of arcing reds.

Perhaps those annoying “skeeters” might happily depart to some artless blue electrified swamp.  And stop freely sucking artists blood while paying with tiny platitudes.

And so we let our little lights shine.








#84 … middenheaps and refugees …


IMG_0001 2What could be better for time-refugee enfant terribles than to be cast upon the prairie at a reunion housed in a disused circus tent, on a discarded farm, a bit upstream from the middenheap. Middenheaps matter, waste-piles downstream a bit (lest a nest be fouled), away from habitation.  The middenheap, the piles of revelatory refuse crushed in convoluted layers, canceled and discarded stuff of bygone refugees. A story of wanderers in convulsed pattern.


What did they eat, what wood or stainless ladle did beat on some drum or dinner bell, what poetic pottery, trade items, pets (or supper) bones; burnt and crushed, once valued – now eroding, discarded evidence of passed lives; even the affection in those lives.

Once wandering refugees left scraps from flint-tipped hunting somewhere around here.  Now our circus tent rests on farm ruins of but a few generations use; plus the middenheap bits of steel, bones, glass, plastic and bundled papers; erratically layered.


IMG_0004.jpgAfter commercial skirmishes destroyed their daily pattern, circus tents and quaint farmsteads are now mostly gone…industry and raucous media replaced what was singular or family, small, clannish, close,  (even romantic).



The ancient way is to rebuild on ruins and middenheaps, layer upon layer – that leaves evidence. Our tent (The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture) will no doubt leave some mark – for awhile; but certainly no stone reference of its’ mighty empire, just partially burnt and bundled discard.


Refugees from some new disturbance are bound to show up, and build their own.  Maybe our enfant terribles, anachronistic anarchists, will remain; then here will be another haunted place to be uncovered in measured layers.


Someday, maybe, someone who wonders about stuff in the middenheap might find useful evidence that is not yet consumed. IMG_0003

Projects of hands, maybe document bits recording homespun chores, numbers, affections, sentiments, burnt and crushed, layered among the middenheap, evidence not consumed, evidence of those who discarded and wondered on.


#83…Where is it , the dance…


Where is it, how is it , that we do our dance … it is the beginning of that time of year.

Awaiting along the side of the road, showing our need for your consideration; we do like the notice … but few pass slow enough. We are here, the grounded midwest, willing to make a show for you as you pass overhead.

A bit out of date maybe, a bit to sentimental, at least about some things.  Out of dispersion here are occasional settled facts, moving to a cold unity.

We have largely moved to the cities but still preserve the American Myth, agrarianism,  somewhat closer than reality allows. We don’t stoop-and-pluck anymore, lest it be for flowers.


Shedding of the black dirt from our feet still isn’t complete, maybe shouldn’t be. But that may not matter… for those who fly on-to and away,  to some bigger show.

#82 …Considering Mommy’s Broom…


Once, upon a class-less broom, the knightly class did ride.

IMG_0008“All Hail Mommy’s Broom!”   Peculiar battle cry…archaic emotions, ancient practice, a pre-rationalists insurgency.

Boys are always close to wild headhunters: its’ the dominance thing (who’s the toughest is the great question), mythical conquests and lost causes.  Adventures for the terribly cute.  Before riding in pursuit of dragons, demons, and invented enemies the boy must have a horse, a battle charger fully weaponized. As it is, an up-ended broom not a cavalry stallion carries (and teaches) the boy, and all the adventures imaginable.

Brooms are probably as old as dwelling caves (and mommies, cleaning up the mess).  Equestrian sculpture, the savagery made aesthetic, came much later.   Acclaiming in  town squares the skills of warfare, even if no army still buys fodder for horses.

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The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture hosts a lecture by the head of the ancients, in part to reopen the sores from battles where innocence was lost; placed before you (metaphorically speaking of course), in order to heal.

There is always such a mess after such a battle. Bemedaled and laurel crowned prestige comes later in the retelling and artful showing; bronze idealism substituting for truth.


But a broom is still useful…for cleaning up the mess from the terribly cruel.

“All Hail Mommy’s Broom!”




#80 … considering … maybe, what She is doing …

100_1366What is She doing?

(But first this inquiry) Does He have a right (is that the right word(?)- it is such a big word – to visit? Would it be best to just stay away?  She is, after all, trying to grasp and maybe emote some timeless grace.

Close to the river, the thickets (as good as any other background for mortality) limit her (as they do him); and maybe – maybe is such a big word don’t you think, (maybe?) – maybe She wants some quiet from the chaos of emotives and bomb-throwers, and enfant terribles, and maybe just (and is this the smallest maybe) maybe from He and his craziness?100_2305


Now that He has passed the conspicuous discrepancy (He, faulted, walked the straight and narrow – to her) shouldn’t He be acceptable?  Maybe (as one might think) maybe, to be with her at the river…maybe? Maybe He has his own flowing grace or simple crazed value.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe She just wants to ponder a while, stare (or gaze) through this moment …

… or maybe wait …


… wait …wait, (that is also … such a big word).