#86 … considering She, interrupted…

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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 …

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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.

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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.

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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…

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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.
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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.

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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 …

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

 

 

 

 

#81…considering romantic negotiations…

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Apparently, with some alterations on He’s part, romantic negotiations are in process.

As it is, playful expectations are accompanied by that which begets fear; poison ivy, scratchy thicket burrs and branches edging the river’s ankle-deep poetry. The easy grace of youthful cinematic romance (certainly absurd) ineptly flows.  5F6V6984Airy posts, charming gifts, and romantic dress more appropriate for elegant studios may not be the best in a snaggy fact-ladened riverine encounter.  It is high-summer, bugs and sweat, smells and flying insects and snakes (thankfully no venom) and spiders and jumpy things.  The gifts of a young man, the momentary relinquishing of props, the poetry of late afternoon (and mosquitos to follow), perhaps the right words; may, (if the universe retires from interrupting) unfold some delicacy, some grace.

100_0560Although well-intended, even the elements of the simplest desires aren’t always landed in the best place.

 

 

#79 … considering the straight and narrow …

IMG_0003He, male guide for this blog, wears his craziness.  It is far to vasty a space to cling only to worried craziness, you know, the interior kind. On a trestle, He is doing what daddy told him not to do; frivolously wandering where other men work. No matter that his pride is augmented a bit, considering that daddy also told him to walk the straight and narrow.

Field (another name for labor), it’s high-summer, nature does the work in grainfields; it’s to late to intervene, to early to benefit.  Time for a boy to wander.

Meadow (another name for ball-field), it’s ripe for pondering the good and lovely, retirement to a simple nap, or onto adventures and the dangerous remains inside the still tottering boy. However, to go from field to meadow graciously, he must walk the straight and narrow, just like daddy told him.
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Predicaments, the trestle, no shortcuts (plan an escape?). There usually is a slight impediment at the border of any meadow.

Access will hopefully go un-noted, in the legal sense, now that the cows are gone to industrial pasturage and no bulls guard the harem.

 

 

 

 

There is the hope that He will continue towards goodness, proceeding through the meadow; ambling to a rendezvous at the river.

She, the feminine guide, and his pursuit, is presumed at the river.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#78 … The gaze and the grasp …

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Gazing, gazing, gazing into replicated delicacy;

one would like …

… a pensive mode, little concern, just the decoration (please), the sunlight, the quiet repetition, the ongoing distance, all those bits of actions good for happiness; some resolution eventually, some hope of a steadfast grip on protective surroundings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But sometimes there is a fight to be fought, a battle – maybe not desired – but, nonetheless there.

No time for the sissy-shit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There must be some moment  when the door can be slammed, confirming entering the confrontation or the withdrawal.  But then again, which is sensible, it is never quite clear.

 

 

 

 

 

…Vignette…

The American Experience continues…

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Sometimes, even here in the very sensible midwest …

… things get mixed up.

Barbed wire, roses, poison ivy, all share orderly fence posts,

sensibly convoluted.

 

 

Anarchy … the soul of one, just one … twists, for want of other choices …

… on structure meant for broader devisings, other purposes, different borders, other times.