Fade to Grain…

Tags

Abstract, Black and White, Experimental, Florida, Grain, Lizard, Nature, Odd, Photography, Rain, Wandering, Writing

Olitory rain; a rain-forest in the kitchen, again. Time for a change. Time for an adventure. Time to let the ceiling-cascade water the counter-top-basil-and-sage.

Time to escape.

“Time runs along a linear plain, they say. Nothing remains the same. Thus, we can never turn back, again.”

Pompous, highfalutin windbag…

Another dull interplay as Traffic Light refuses to change.

“You see, this is known as the arrow of time, which describes the asymmetrical nature of Time, and…”

Please…Eat your…

GREEN.

Bunched traffic left in a puddle, behind.

What am I doing? What have I been doing all these years?

Unraveling like an old sweater.

All my life, pushing quaint little notes under the slouching fence.  But I see no familiar, vibrant-faced recipient peeping back at me through the shadowy gap in the moldered boards. I only see darkness.

She must have grown up and moved away.

How pretty mold can be, as it glitters in the rain.

She used to snack on fistfuls of buttercups in the field and make her eyes turn white.  She liked to snarl like a mountain bear and play basketball on roller-blades.  And how she loved wild toads.

I have found it- another abandoned place to jauk about, dispensing disheveled, nullibiquitous thoughts out into the ether.

Let the leak in the dysphoric sky wash me like a houseplant.  How lovely to watch each drop scatter the dust.

That liminal phase- I wander through a succession of tropical depressions, a soggy bindle sagging over my shoulder.

A golden-eyed hobo toad searching for a secluded little hovel- preferably filled with mud and rain and, preferably, beneath a mossy stone.

A snort of lightning- a sniffle in the clouds- a sneeze of wind.

When is that point at which the pain of change is less than that of remaining the same?

“You’re beautiful,” she said, “and as gentle as a gale.”

The other day, I noticed that I was missing another tooth.

I keep digging under that same old soggy fence, searching for her bones…

I scuffle away, lutose and mildly bemused.  The usual state.

Time to face the traffic.  Time to shuffle on back, back to the swampy garden on the counter-top.  Back to unraveling into a stringy bundle on the floor.

Back to Entropy.

Fade to grain.

How I Wish There Were No End to Rain

Tags

Black and White, Death, Florida, Grief, Introspection, Music, Nature, Ocean, Pain, Photography, Prose, Quotation, Rain, Sea, Writing

I loomed beneath a dark feathering of sea-oats, pointed tips glazed with recent rain. I listened to the subdued murmur of little waves. The fetid and russet beds of sea-wrack had been washed away, leaving the sand barren and strange. A forlorn gull loitered at the swash line, analyzing the crinkling water as it fizzed in and out.

Distant lightning lazily branched from the moody-blue squall-lines and spidered across a sullen sea of herbal green. Coy ghost crabs emerged, removing dark masses of dripping sand from drowned burrows. They built little, lumpy mounds around the entrances to their small, black holes.

The storm was leaving me. How I longed for it to stay.

I was tortured the other night, seized with the memory of my little Siamese cat squeezing her eyes tightly shut for the last time. How swiftly she was gone, her soft, cinnamon cheek resting upon a colorful, flowing blanket that masked the metal slab beneath. I had never seen an animal euthanized, before. I understood, logically, that it ended the physical misery of her little, bony body.

Yet, how troubled I am by that last image of peace…of life tenderly released.

My mum died of a similar ravenous kind of disease. I remember that final image. Her face waxen and unreal, her mouth a small, black hole. She did not tightly close her eyes. She was not escorted quietly, through a warm wash of sleep, into the darkness beyond. Yet, I was not so disturbed by her image in death. And how vividly there lacked any look of peace…

I do not know what that reveals about me.

But I wish the storm would never leave. I want, forever, to hear its screams over this cold and fleeting sea of herbal green. How I wish there were no end to rain. Just as there seems to be no end to Grief.

“Darkness settles on the ground
Leaves the day stumbling blind,
Coming to a quiet close
And maybe just in time”
– From the song God Only Knows by Joe Henry

Un-Ring in the New Year With Sir

Tags

Black and White, Disgruntled, Florida, Fun, Humor, Nature, New Year, Photography, Portrait, Rain, Sir, Swamp

Ring in the New Year, you say? More like UN-Ring in the New Year…

What’s my New Year’s resolution this year, you ask? To lose this parasitic clicking proboscis snapping in my face…

She’s at it again…

Every day feels like a battle…

“You’re a real fashion model, now, Sir!” the terrible Lens-Slinger squeals through a series of gleeful snaps as I attempt to flee into the swamp…

(Lovely Frilled Lavender Scarf Design by local artisan: Barbara A. Alexander, who does custom colored shawls
E-mail:  Barbara10172002@yahoo.com
Scintillating super-model for scarf: Sir)

I try to hide in the soggy reeds, but the Lens-Slinger has no fear of cotton-mouth snakes, giant spiders and quick-sand mud riddled with hissing alligators. I, however, am terrified of these things and find I can no longer move as I begin to sink deeper into the muculent mire…and I still hear that persistent sound, clicking, in the brambles somewhere…

Even when I slip and fall on the slick and moldered green board-walks she marches me onto after dragging me out of the gurgling marsh, still NO stopping for a single drop of sympathy. Just an endless symphony of clicks buzzes over me as the great Black Orb winks at my corpse in complete lack of remorse…

With a cumbersome sigh I contemplate yet another year ahead…2015…I could just cry, attempting to fathom another 12 months of this incessant, photo-snapping torture…It’s not easy being a full-time super-model living in an endless slideshow-nightmare…

Happy 2015 to all from a wee Smiling Toad and a slightly disgruntled Sir!

Words Like Coins Jangling in a Jar

Tags

Black and White, Change, Florida, Freedom, Humanity, Melancholy, Orlando, Photography, Poetry, Prison, Rain, Walking

His meaning was

sharp and swallowed,

with words like coins

jangling in a jar.

“I’ve been out for nine days…”

Of Lustrous Grey- A Poetry Film

Tags

Abstract, City, Classical Music, Dog-days, Florida, Frédéric Chopin, Island, Monsoon, Nature, Nikon, Piano, Poem, Poetry, Rain, Sea, Summer, Thoughts, Town, Tropical Rains, Tropics, Video

(A new and rather disturbing venture- a wee “poetry video,” oh dear…)

This is not the City
I hear no violin’s
Cry of empathy
Wafting up to
My lofty pane

This is a brushed
Little town
An ait between
Languid lagoon
And sun-washed sea

And somehow
A kind of
Penitentiary

As dog-days
Tame the waves
And my only Love
Becomes the
Monsoon Rains

That sweep
And brood
And pound
Into the deep blue
Of hissing Afternoon
And make
Lustrous Grey
This summery
Hide-away

Opioid Blizzard

Tags

Abstract, Black and White, Childhood, Dark, Entropy, Neglect, Photography, Poetry, Rain

Creeping grey shadows-
The young evening rain-
Spindling down ridges
Of a blue landscape
Jagged spine rising
With thin crimson veins
Bound about this face
So stumbling inert
Quashed and well-erased
Thoughts, like sooty stains,
Squelched, livid between
These muddy fingers
Groping through the gap-
Opiod Blizzard

Droll and frenzied cries
Waft up from below
As the metal groans
Deft feet kicking
Minims ricocheted
Her soft infant face
Punched with eyes of stone
Hands red and rusting
In this place, her home,
Wet, bent and ugly
A one-swing grace-land
In a pebble sea
Pendulous laughter
Like sugar in rain
Dissolving slowly

Muculent trenches
The buckling of time
Her maimed childhood
A mute, mewling cry
In the yard below
Her timid summons
A wind- brushed, hollow
Drowned at the window
Never leaking through-
Paternal instinct
Escaping through gleet
Glinting on grey toes
Razored knees, limp eyes
Fixed on the canvas
Of barren ceiling
So stoic, above-
Restive memory
Cryogenic now
Such impotent Love
And nothing beyond-

Sagging plastered sky
And a muffled sound
Perhaps a housefly
At the window
Has come ’round

Disheveled Night- Through Peccable Eyes

Tags

Abstract, Black and White, Experiemental, Night, Night Photography, Noir, Photography, Poetry, Rain, Urban

Disheveled night

To peer through peccable eyes

The restive rebel

Curled up inside

This sweating mind

Warbling words

Driveling through a soggy grin

Tepid brow nestling into the grit

Of neon-washed, city-skin

Uvid and mucid

This life therein

Dank and dainty

Delicate, it drifts

Dastardly light

That sweeps and swims

In coal-coloured eyes

That leer with a limp

And in smoky shame

Still long to live

A Shrewd Grief

Tags

Abstract, Art, Black and White, Digital, Drawing, Experimental, Grief, Ink, Introspection, Nature, Night, Photography, Poetry, Rain, Thoughts

  Barbed malevolence

A shrewd and blunt Grief

That his somber Absence

Should foster such Relief

Afraid of the Dark

Tags

Asphalt Jungle, Black and White, Casablanca, Darkness, Film, Night Photography, Noir, Photography, Portrait, Rain

“Experience has taught me never to trust a policeman. Just when you think one’s all right, he turns legit.”
-From the film “Asphalt Jungle”

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”
-Plato

“Rick Blaine: I came to Casablanca for the waters.
Capt. Louis Renault: Waters?! We’re in a DESERT!
Rick Blaine: I was misinformed.”
-From “Casablanca”

In the Ivory Light of Winter

Tags

Abstract, Black and White, Drear, Droplets, Florida, Light, Lonely, Loss, Monochrome, Nature, Pensive, Photography, Quotes, Rain, Sky, Stark, Sunset, Urban, Water

“But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope”
-From “Middlemarch” by George Eliot

“When I left my home and my family
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station running scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places only they would know”
-From the song, “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel

“Even death has a heart.”
-Markus Zusak, “The Book Thief”

“We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever.”
-Carl Sagan
“The old ones called it ‘the hour of the wolf’. It is the hour when the most people die, and the most are born. At this time, nightmares come to us. And when we awake, we are afraid.”
-Ingmar Bergman, film “The Hour of the Wolf” (“Vargtimmen”)