Petal in coffee

I continue to pay off my debt of owed illustrations with a quite literal drawing of a petal in coffee. I'm not sure this works entirely, but there are a few things I like about it.

The arched body

This is another illustration of a poem by Hanna. It's entitled Il Corpo Arcuato (The Arched Body), which comes from the opening line of her poem Vizio Onanistico.

Un pianeta: catching up

I'm doing some catch-up, and I hope to post a number of drawings in rapid succession. This first is entitled Un pianeta incompiuto (An incomplete planet), a line from a poem by Hanna. Don't forget to check out my still-in-progress new site: FrancisScudellari.com

Broken, Reach: a new drawing, a new site

I'm still adding content to my new website, but I've transferred quite a lot over the weekend. If you haven't yet, please check it out:

FrancisScudellari.com

I'll continue to post here to inform you of updates on my main site, and I may throw in some personal notes until I get a blog installed over there. Here's my latest drawing, which will be followed shortly by a new poem.

Rebirth

I am in the midst of re-defining my online identity. I may or may not resuscitate this blog, but my new creative home can be found here. I appreciate the very kind comments left on my last post. I'm dealing with a bit of frustration in my personal life, which is bleeding into my creative one. That's inevitable, but I hope that the new website will allow me to be more focused on writing/drawing and less caught up in the self-promotional activities that are inextricably linked to blogging.

Giving in to an existential crisis

I had the best intentions of blogging more, but the overwhelming indifference of a world with many other better things to pay attention to provokes a single echoing phrase:

Why bother?

My selfless contribution to the universe has been an unquestionably unrequited affair, and such an unbalanced relationship can never be healthy. So, I'll let things lapse with a whimper rather than a bang, and ponder what's next within the very solitary confines of my imagination.

Winding form

This drawing was inspired by the sculpture Windform by Lynn Takata (see yesterday's post, Smoothing things over...). It's definitely not a drawing of the sculpture. I made some unusual color choices on this one.

Smoothing things over ...

I'm sorry for the prolonged silence, but I was quite busy this weekend playing mason. I was part of a project to restore a sculpture that resides in one of the local parks. The piece, Windform, celebrates its 25th anniversary this year.

Lynn Takata, the artist, flew in from Portland to direct a few dozen neighborhood park and public-art lovers in the difficult but fun task of resurfacing the 100-foot long cement sculpture.

As you can see from the photo below (snapped by my friend Tom), I was assigned to the cement mixer to prepare the mortar. I'll post a drawing soon to commemorate Windform, and I still am working on posts about my NYC trip.

Easing back with Show & Tell

I'm back from New York City (stay tuned for photos), and am easing my way back into the old routines. As I regain my posting groove, I'm taking a few minutes to answer a question posed by my blogging friend Jena as part of a meme.

What would your version of the Madonna look like?

This is a bit of a cheat, but I drew a version of the Pietà a few months back that I think best captures my artistic conception of the Madonna. It is in the general form of a tear, but if you look closely you should be able to make out the figures of mother and adult child intertwined in shared suffering. I hope it also depicts a strength of selfless comforting in the face of great sorrow.

Creativity on hiatus...

I'm off to New York City for a quick weekend nibble of that biggest of apples. On the agenda is a Friday night Yankees game to see their storied eponymous stadium before it becomes rubble, and then a fast-paced submersion of this second-city denizen (technically third-city, but damn the census) in first-city living.

I will be toting my laptop, but I doubt I'll have much time to post much more than quick updates. If you start jonesing for some art, the Archive feature in the sidebar is quite handy.

Doodle Week: Blue planet

This began as a simple enough idea, but it took on a life of its own very quickly and the plant developed a too-intricate root system before I could rein it in. If you hadn't guessed, this is my second Doodle Week contribution, with theme Earth. I added Water , not just because the plant needed it, but because that's the second elemental theme of the week. I'm pinched for time and probably won't be able to get to the remaining two (air, fire) until I get back to Chicago.

Doodle Week: Setting Sun Flower

Another Doodle Week began yesterday, and here is my Day 1 drawing on the theme Sunflower — a day late. Unfortunately, with much real-world work to do and an impending trip to NYC in a couple days, I won't be a full participant in the week's festivities, but I'll pitch in what I can.

My ink's blot

I haven't written (or posted) a poem in quite a while. Sometimes I have to force myself to write, but other times the words seem to flow quite easily. This next piece is one of the latter instances. You'll have to let me know if it seems "dashed off." It was pretty clearly inspired by my drawing "My nib's blot" (see below).

My ink's blot
By Francis Scudellari

My ink's blot spreads --
A stain that seeps
Deep into skins
Of pale parchment

Or finger's flesh --
Guided slowly,
To see life on
My raised surface

Touching, it smears
My liquid words --
Jagged edges
Smoothed out, into

A blue blotch of
Blood-read feeling --
We two, both marked
By the passing

My nib's blot

The original concept behind this drawing was a fountain pen spilling ink, but it became something a little less recognizable during the act of putting pencil to paper.

My writing tips for surreal world success

Today I offer a bit of free advice for all of the people riding the crest of the "blog for success" Web 2.0 craze (or are we at 3.0 by now?): Writing to make money and win acclaim is a fool's game.

Sure, folks like J.K. Rowling lead a pretty nice life with the houses, and the travel, and the book tours, and the fawning fans. But as a dogmatically raised Catholic, I have to ask: Where's all the sacrifice and spiritual suffering?

Plus, as any devoted reader of King Lear would know, we're all Fate's dupes and payback is a bitch. The higher the arc upward, the heavier Dame Fortune's wheel will fall on the turn around.

There is of course the shining example of Edgar Allan Poe, who suffered for his art and died madly roaming the back-ways of Baltimore. The recognition came postmortem, but that's a bit too grimy of an existence. And the streets aren't as soft a place to lay your head these days, what with all the paving.

No, the real trick is to strive for success in mind only. A writer's greatest gift is the imagination, so what better place to savor the fruits of our fictive labors than solely within the boundless confines of our make-believe engines.

Write, write, write as you must, but cast your words out to the wind careless of whose ears, if any, they trickle into. If the worlds you create with penned lines or keystrokes are populated by imaginary characters, won't they appeal best to pretend audiences?

Conjure the smiles on their faces as they peruse your poetry and prose. Summon up fantastic sums making their way wirelessly into your bank account. Sit back in your tattered chair and feel it transform into a throne well placed in a palatial estate, no longer the cramped apartment of a wannabe writer. Success in the surreal world is never-ending.

Re-animated

Yesterday I posted a manga version of myself ... or as close as I could get to one given the available options at Face Your Manga. Today, I re-interpret the animated me with a hand-drawn rendering. As you can see, the only thing it has in common with the manga me is the scarf.

Animating myself with a twice-borrowed idea

As I work up the energy to return to regular posting, I thought I'd share a bit of borrowed fun.

I discovered this little exercise in self-portraiture at That Grrl (who saw it at Lady Banana). On the site Face Your Manga you can create a picture of yourself as a manga-style character.

I'm a bit of an animation geek (as you can probably tell from my drawings), so I couldn't resist giving it a whirl. The available facial features didn't allow for a very realistic portrait, but this product of my choices still amuses me. I especially like the sunken-cheeked look with the graveyard background.

I may just try my hand at a manga-style self portrait to see if I can do better.

Amiss and remiss in my posting

I've been inundated with work (the kind that pays the bills) recently, so I haven't had much time to work on creative endeavors. Although that's an unfortunate fact for my avid blog readers, it's very good news for my avaricious creditors. Things should ease up later in the week, and I hope to post my usual mixture of poetry, fiction and drawing before too long.

In the mean time, I'd like to acknowledge two of my virtual friends who have bestowed honors upon me:

First, a hearty thank you to Angel for giving me the Kick Ass Blogger Award (pictured at left). As she describes it in her post, the award recognizes a blogger "who can grab your attention and give you something to chew over for the rest of the day and in doing so, entices you back for more. A Kick Ass Blogger is someone who is witty, articulate, and informative. Not easy to pull off, especially in the blogosphere where the competition is intense." High praise indeed, and Angel's Here and Now blog definitely fits the description, so check it out.

Next, I owe a long over-due shout-out to Jena who a month ago gave me the Arte Y Pico Award (pictured at-right). In the summer, when distractions are omnipresent, time seems to stream by at a rapid pace and I habitually neglect too many things in need of doing. So I apologize for the delayed response. Jena has been very supportive of my work, and Gewgaw Writings is a great creative writing site that you should visit. There are some rules involved with this award, which I'm never good at following. If you're interested in such details, you can view the fine print accompanying this one by reading Jena's post.

For both of these awards, I'm supposed to name five more recipients. I'll work on that, and get a list up here when autumn arrives and time slows to a more leisurely pace.

Self-germinating

This drawing is typical of the transformative nature of my creative process. The image first popped into my head as a giant drill bit looming over the Earth (a not so subtle reference to the current off-shore drilling debate). Perhaps due to a disconnect between my visual imagination and ability to execute, or the fact that my hands have a mind of their own, the mechanical menace became a more ambiguous organic interchange. The Earth magically changed into a piece of fruit, and the gusher of oil is now an other-worldly plant. There's some sort of circular logic behind it, but don't ask me to explain it.

Topsy turvy

This drawing, originally inspired by the fourth chapter of my story Belly (see below), began life as a body on an examining table but matured into something else. Perhaps shed skin cast off on bedding, or floating on waves. As always, I'd love to hear what you see.

Belly: Chapter Four

Dialogue
by Francis Scudellari

"What do you hear?

"Voices…"

"More than one?"

"Yes … usually two. They're clearly different."

"Are they male or female?"

"Two men … I think. But it's hard to tell. They whisper."

"Are they speaking to you?"

"No … at least not yet. They only speak to each other."

"Is it a running dialogue?"

"I think so."

"Can you make out what they're saying?"

"I can hear the words, but they don't always make sense to me. They're only pieces of something much larger. It's as if I'm eavesdropping on a conversation that continues on later without me."

"Are the voices friendly?"

"They're not hostile, and they seem to tolerate each other. But I wouldn't say friendly, no. They're more dispassionate than anything. It's as if they're dissecting a corpse on an examining table."

"Are you the corpse? Are they talking about you?"

"Yes … perhaps … I don't know. Would that be good or bad?"

"It's neither good nor bad. I'm just trying to understand."

"So am I …"

Two-headed torch

Redundant torch: More comment-inspired poetry

Today, I continue with my (admittedly plodding) attempt to write poems based on titles suggested by the spectacularly inspiring comments from my post Interactive Exercise. I apologize, retroactively and in advance, for turning so many folks into unwilling abettors of my strange creative process.

The verse below is based on Claire's very intriguing phrase Redundant Torch. I'll soon post a companion drawing for it to add even more redundancy.

Redundant torch
By Francis Scudellari

If I could tell
Which way this flame
Will leap (up, down?)
When the big gust
(Finally?) comes
I'd hold a torch
(Above, below?)
To catch its spark
Mid-hop (fleeing?)
And keep it in
Kindling limbo
Where it will burn
(Safely?) until
I can coax it
(Willing or not?)
Back inside me

A glimpse reflected

Belly: Chapter Three

All ages show
By Francis Scudellari

"To see life in its totality is a very special gift."

"He won't appreciate it."

"He'll learn to. He has no choice."

"Maybe that's because we don't give him any."

A slow trickle of warm drool tickles Jonah's chin and startles him awake. For a brief moment the raised edges of the trailing liquid sit clearly on the front of his necktie. Then, as quickly as he notices it, the drop sinks into the dyed material; its outline lost in the twisting shapes on the cloth.

Embarrassed by his mouth's impolite leak, Jonah nervously turns toward the window and searches the mirrored faces. Had anyone seen? The glass, at this hour black-backed by the stubborn night, usually casts a perfect but inverse depiction of the cramped car's interior. Today, oddly, the portrait is indistinct.

The picture of row upon row of cushioned pews that stretch along each tin-can wall contains only strangely featureless faces. Jonah sees no eyes glancing disapprovingly at him. He sees no eyes at all; nor noses, lips, and lashes.

Even the bloodless hands that wrap themselves around the steel poles welded from seat top to ceiling are lacking form. No knuckles, wrinkles, ragged nails or wispy hairs are visible on the pale blobs.

But it's only the human flesh that lacks its customary identifying marks. Everything inanimate stands out sharply in the yellow light cast by the dim, domed bulbs that cling to the arched ceiling. He can make out the fibers of scarves and the creases on pant legs.

Grown brazen by confusion, Jonah rotates on his seat and stares at the man seated next to him. He sees only a swirl of browns, pinks and yellows, as if the wool-clad shoulders support a color wheel in constant motion.

Jonah strains his eyes into focus. Like a thumb on the flipped pages of a book, his gaze halts the face in flux. The salt and pepper coloring of the middle-aged man who he remembers boarding the train suddenly returns. The nose takes its recalled bulbous shape. The chin sprouts its noted stubble.

Then Jonah blinks and the image becomes as unsettled as his mind. Intricate networks of cracks spider-web their way across parched patches of the man's skin. Cheek bones push their way out and draw the now loose skin up under them. Once burning eyes cool and recede into shadowy caverns.

Another blink shifts the man's face back in time to the smooth, pudgy countenance of a teen. Frightened, Jonah spins away from his neighbor and stares at his own face captured in the dark glass. His features, drained of color, are otherwise unchanged. He peers deeply into the dilated pupils, and the glimpse of a new path flashes before him.

Doodle Week: Repose

Doodle Week wraps up with the most classic of artistic themes: Doodle Body. After another successful stint of doodling, all of the wonderful participants have earned a moment to kick back and savor the memories. For on the seventh day, we rest.

Doodle Week: Pet Project 2

It's the penultimate day of Doodle Week, and today's theme is Doodle Pet. If you've been following along since the last doodle-extravaganza, then you may remember that I previously drew a portrait of Albert the pug. Since that day I've had several friends ask about a drawing of his sister Lucy. Their patience is finally rewarded.

Doodle Week: Sinister

Doodle Week Day 5 gets a bit philosophical with the theme Doodle Evil. I'm not a subscriber to the black-and-white world view that sees clear external divisions between the holy and profane. Rather I perceive myriad contradictions in humanity's perpetual internal struggle to determine whether our worse or better nature wins out. When an evil act is committed, it's usually by the hand of someone who has given in to his or her baser, most selfish instincts.

Doodle Week: Lost at sea

Doodle Week Day 4's theme is Doodle Vacation. With the US dollar trending downward and travel abroad becoming very expensive, many Americans are taking stay-cations. This means doing interesting things close to home. There are also the frequent journeys into the imaginative world of books and movies that are on my itinerary.

I'm currently immersed in a book about early 20th Century cartoonist George Herriman who penned the strip Krazy Kat. Herriman's comic scenery verges on the surreal and inspired the following dreamy ocean landscape, which is where you'll find me during my mental summer vacation.

Doodle Week: Garden variety

It's Doodle Week Day 3 and the theme today is Doodle Garden. This is a genetically modified, fruity vegetable hybrid. It's designed to withstand all Doodle Bug infestations. It may not taste very good, but it ships great.

Doodle Week: Nebulous

The theme for Doodle Week's Day Two is Outer Space. Astronomy isn't one of my strengths, so I offer up a crude rendering of a galaxy. Be fair warned: If you stare long enough at the center, you may lapse into a trance.

Doodle Week: Larval stage

Day One of Doodle Week dawns with the theme Doodle Bug buzzing around the blogosphere, and I kick start my week of contributions with everyone's favorite larva: the caterpillar.

Sketchy plans

As the badge in my sidebar so colorfully announces, Doodle Week II begins next Monday. That means I'll be revving up the blog with daily posts very shortly. I'll also sprinkle the latest chapters of my short story Belly into the mix, so don't let your eyeballs stray far from this space.

To get you in a properly artsy mood, here's another illustration I created for Hanna's poetry book. It's called "Virgole di lacrime" (Commas of tears).

A thick-stemmed bloom turning

This didn't turn out quite the way I wanted, but the show must go on ...

In this Iris Garden

Continuing on with my next installment of comment-inspired titles (see the original post), I've written a poem based on the phrase "In the Garden of Iris" (slightly modified to suit my rhythmic purposes). It was suggested by Angel, the amazing poet and artist behind the site Here and Now 4 Angel. I'll post a companion drawing for it later.

In this iris garden
By Francis Scudellari

In this iris garden,
An uninvited guest
Not wanting, to intrude
I risk a sidelong glance

At the eager pupils,
Orderly arrayed round,
Budding blue-capped beauties'
Prayerful heads tilted

Upward to drink air thick
With instructions of love,
Selfless do's pouring forth
From a mistress aglow

Her tendered messages,
Felt but never spoken,
Chuteless slide lightly down
On rainbows' liquid backs

Till reverie re-moved
By nosy, nudging wind,
A thick-stemmed bloom turning,
Reflects my tactless gaze

And, self-aware I tip-
Toe a trail away, leave
Faint prints, one day retraced
For more eavesdropped lessons

Drips a crooked path

Belly: Chapter Two

After a much longer than expected delay, here's chapter two of my short story "Belly" (read Chapter One if you missed it). It's still very much a work in progress, so I appreciate all feed back.

Further back, and forward
By Francis Scudellari

"Where does a circle begin and end?"

"Wherever we choose to slice it ..."

"What if I place the blade randomly … here?"

"Go ahead … you'll see. We'll capture something important."

The train leaves the station and Jonah's stomach knots. A trailing memory of suggestive whispers causes Jonah to shift uneasily on the vinyl-covered cushion. Their words were spoken abruptly. The full conversation floated by in the short time it took him to find his accustomed seat.

Needing distraction, Jonah thumbs through the indexed list of songs displayed on the sleek, white device with a recall more agile than his own. A small pointer travels the recollected streams of sappy ballads and bouncy anthems. The blunt arrow settles on a track he hopes will mask the lingering echoes of those voices that slipped in uninvited on his morning train.

Jonah presses play and this time the expected words are piped through his inserted ear phones: "I was born in a cross-fire hurricane …"

Jonah drums his fingers to the catchy beat. The dull thud of his flesh against the briefcase's faux leather shell is strangely soothing. The rhythmic vibrations carry up his arm and down his leg. Before, so lulled, his once obedient thoughts would have steered him on a meandering but sure course toward slumber. Now, recently turned mutinous, these same thoughts scatter to unruly corners. Unmanned and tempest-tossed, their containing vessel is set adrift over uncharted, black depths.

After a few short verses, the calming fog of music is pushed aside, and the hallucinatory dialogue's dark-tinged drone looms again on a shortening horizon. Elusive shadows, impossible to grasp, flit across his mind's eye. Words stacked on top of words swirl in a gathering swarm that Jonah can only glimpse as a blur of rapid movement.

The hiss of stale heat pours from a vent below the seat. A drop of sweat trickles down from Jonah's left temple. It drips a crooked path across his cheek and soaks into his well-starched collar.

Jonah, cramped and ill-at-ease, loosens his red silk neck tie. Beige, geometric shapes spin hypnotically from its center. Still restless, he cracks the window. The gush of icy air gives him a moment's relief, but it can't chase away one lingering question: "What will I see and hear today?"

Jonah is certain that his brain is being hacked.

Muted tongues

This is the first in a series of illustrations I promised to Hanna for a self-published poetry book she is planning to release in the fall. If I seem periodically absent from the blog over the next few weeks, it's because I'm diligently working to create more of these drawings (among other things).

A Guest Post: The Sequel

Ever a man of my words, here's an excerpt from my latest poem Television, which is being hosted on Jena Isle's Gewgaw Writings site.

Careless he falls into ritual pose
Do dropped, down before this mothering knot;
Her gathering brown limbs, machine-carved smooth
In hollow, molded arc, to cradle him;

If that first stanza has you seated on edge, be sure to visit Gewgaw Writings to read the full poem.

My bauble of a guest post

The very talented and prolific Jena Isle asked me to do a guest post on her Gewgaw Writings site. In keeping with my usual two-step process, I've created a new drawing and a companion poem that she's graciously agreed to feature over two days.

You may have noticed the tease of a detail from the drawing at left. To see the full piece, please visit Gewgaw Writings, which also includes a very flattering profile of yours truly. While you're there, be sure to check out the first five chapters of Jena's compelling story Umma Ayam Sinsana (Where Are You Now?).

Stay tuned for the accompanying verse, which I'll preview here with an excerpt once it's available on Jena's blog.

Squeezing The Toothpaste

Continuing my very recent series of comment-inspired posts (see Interactive Exercise and A cryptic script: My answered exercise), today I riff on the title Squeezing the Toothpaste suggested by Mark at neOnbubble.

It's an unusual phrase to build a poem around, so I decided to try something different and write a haiku. As an extra bonus, I also created a companion drawing that better captures my conception of a squeezed tube of paste.

A coiled plastic snake
Desperately squeezed till flat
Splatters its venom

Writers Offering Our Finest - 13 June 2008 Edition

I've submitted last week's post "Belly: Chapter One" to be part of this week's WOOF. There are four other featured pieces by some very talented writers. Please check them out using the links below. I promise to get the next chapter of "Belly" up soon.

PlotDog Press WOOF

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top 5 posts as chosen by the June 13, 2008 WOOF Contest participants. Want to join the next WOOF? Submit a link to your best writing post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Top 5 Picks:

About Writing/Grammar
Kimota (Jonathan Crossfield) - "Grammar Wars"
Catherine @ Sharp Words - "Do Dreams Influence Your Writing?"

Poetry
Jennifer M Scott - "One More Time"

Flash Fiction / Fiction
Jennifer M Scott - "Last Request"
Francis Scudellari - "Belly: Chapter One"

BROUGHT TO YOU BY PLOTDOG PRESS FEATURING:
A Novel Approach Series: "A Prologue to a Prologue"

Chained

I'm sure this drawing will elicit some interesting interpretations, so have at it.

Terminal sigh

As promised in my A Cryptic Script post two weeks ago, this is the first of a planned series of comment-inspired poems. The title was suggested by Hanna, with a very slight change — not to mention my own mangled interpretation of the phrase.

Terminal sigh
By Francis Scudellari

Mortally minded, his own skull
He bloodless cracks, painfully pries;
With fleshy fingered forceps pulls
Splintered thoughts, fragmented feeling;
Disconnected, forgotten bits
Re-moves to neatly etched pathways;
Liquid memories suctions off,
Coiling feeds through light, fibrous tubes;
Essence transfused: flesh to ether,
Life's flow dripping off in slow leaks;
A mist of dream-refracting drops
He exhales: his terminal sigh

Eye of limpid blue

Belly: Chapter One

Today, I begin my second serialized short story. It's an extensive re-write of a piece I first attempted many years ago. The story and character at the core of it have sat dormant but never left me, waiting for the proper moment to re-emerge. I believe that moment has come. All feedback is appreciated and will be amply rewarded with my undying gratitude.

Prologue: A Circular Journey Repeated
by Francis Scudellari

Jonah Tannin's too heavy head jumps skyward as if tugged by a puppeteer's ungraceful twitch. The force of the commuter train's unexpected stop punches his jaw backward; it pulls his mind from the murky depths of a dreamless sleep.

Eyes of limpid blue, framed by new-pried, black-lashed lids, strain against the sudden flood of pallid, yellow light. Ears, rudely reconnected, receive the crashing waves sent out as the mechanical beast slowly regains its stride: screech, rattle, and rumble. Nostrils, at first flared to gulp the fueling air, now spit back the pungent smell of perspiration mixed with wet wool.

"What time is it?"

Jonah's left arm, too long wedged against the wall, refuses the command to lift up. The right hand, eager to revive its mate, quickly heeds the master's call and leaps the lapped divide to massage the deadened flesh. Blood gradually returns and brings with it the prick of tiny needles. Jonah clenches the waking fingers into a tight fist and then stretches them outward. He repeats this exercise -- grasp, release, and grasp again at nothing -- until the dull ache subsides and the stubborn arm rises to its proper position.

His mind starts to catch up with his senses. Words, an idea, and old feelings follow in lockstep with the sighted abstraction of two silver strips spread like open scissors against the plain white disk.

"Seven o'clock again, but that can't be."

Time's usually steady gait had limped to a halt and then reversed path back to the moment icy winds ushered Jonah onto this circular route. Jonah taps the glass crystal, but it offers no sign of life.

He peers out the frosted train window, but his vision can't pierce the confounding darkness that blankets the world outside. The uniform, black cover conceals from him the objects whose outlines reveal clues to his place in this ever-repeated journey.

"It doesn't matter."

A willing captive, Jonah nestles back into his accustomed spot in the belly of the speeding beast. Suspended inanimate within its vibrating walls, he lets the wash of artificial light and heat coax him back to unconsciousness. The troubling city sprawled out below him fades further into the early winter morning. His once sharp calling recedes to the indistinct mumble of words spoken far away in a forgotten tongue.

Overcome again by sleep, Jonah's shoulders slump down and his head nods forward. His controlling strings are severed anew.

Eight questions: An unauthorized autobiography

I was tagged with a meme by Jane Doe at Insanity Personified. It's a pretty simple exercise: answer eight questions. So, here it goes ...


1) What was the best moment of your life?

I have a shocking confession to make. I am in fact a Tralfamadorian, and I don't really get the human conception of time that divides existence into past, present and future. To answer the question more directly, all I can say is that the best moment in my life will occur in approximately 1,661 days as measured from your today. I don't want to spoil the "future" for the rest of you, so I'll just leave it at that.

2) If you could pick a superpower what would it be?

I've actually been working pretty hard the past few years to cultivate one very specific power. I can best describe it as inter-dimensional travel, or a type of omnipresence. I'm not sure, however, if that's something one of the popular superheroes can do. It might be more the purview of minor deities, fictive computer operating systems, and Las Vegas magicians.

3) If there was one thing you could do, with no limits of any kind, what would it be?

I'd travel, hence the need to work on the superpower of question 2.

4) What's the weirdest dream you've ever had?

The dream that I'll always remember, and that I hope to one day write more about, occurred when I was a wee lad with a mind full of strange and scary ideas (the only change now being I'm not so wee). I'll give you the broadest sketch of the plot as I want to keep your appetite whetted for a possible future post. It involved the discovery that I had a colony of tiny insects living inside my body. The little buggers threatened to take control of my motor skills, like tiny little puppet masters.

5) What's the weirdest thing about you?

See the answer to question one. Next best weirdness: I cut my own hair.

6) What's your favorite self made philosophy?

I don't claim to have ever had an original thought, let alone a self-made philosophy, but I do hold dear an amalgam of strange borrowed ideas. One such concept is that we humans are unavoidably barreling ahead toward a technological singularity that will either prove to be the precipitate of our eventual downfall or the first step down a new evolutionary path.

7) What (if any) question has been the most annoying unanswered question of your life?

This one.

8) Why do you blog?

I blog to interact with the world, and I've been happy to discover that the world has an ample supply of smart, funny and creative bloggers willing to engage me in a continuing conversation. Speaking of which, I'll do my usual universal tag: if you're reading this and would like to play along, you're it.

A cryptic script: My answered exercise

It's time to reveal the inspiration behind my last drawing (see Interactive Exercise to catch up). I did my best to pick an obscure subject in order to provoke a wide range of responses, and the comments didn't disappoint. In fact, I like many of the suggested titles better than my own.

A couple weeks ago I received a very curious piece of mail. It arrived in a wax-sealed envelope, and consisted of a single small sheet with a message composed in an ancient script. Only after some Internet-based research was I able to identify the computer-generated font as a cuneiform alphabet. After several fruitless hours spent trying to translate it, I discovered by reading a few other blogs that it was most likely part of a promotion for an upcoming HBO series.

The drawing was my attempt to replicate in typically fractured style one of the letters found on that mysterious missive (you can see images of the four-different mailings that went out on this site named after the Japanese word for blood ... the one I received is on the far right). As it turned out, the words held much more sway over my imagination while their likely meaning and origin remained unkown, and I think that speaks on some level to the power of art, language and myth. I haven't pursued the mailing's meaning any further out of a desire to maintain some sense of lingering uncertainty.

I really appreciate all of the very creative titles offered up, and to show my gratitude I'll be writing a series of poems inspired by each participant's take on the drawing's meaning (with a fitting attribution and dedication to their authors). To get the ball rolling, here's the piece I built around the phrase initially on my mind.

A cryptic script

By Francis Scudellari

A cryptic script
By unknown hand
Knowingly penned

Aged symbols dusted,
New-pulled from yawning gaps
Of a bookish slumber

Inky smooth, slithering lines capped
With ever hungry heads, feeding
On preyed-upon partners' trailed ends

Intricately cut keys
Unchained, distance-scattered
From forgetting's locked vault

Treasured meaning
Now only found
In not knowing

Interactive Exercise

My last drawing (A votive extinguished) provoked some interesting interpretations, so Jena from Gewgaw Writings suggested that I let my readers name this next effort. Here's your chance to come up with a fitting moniker for my latest multi-colored, amorphous slab. After you've all had a go, I'll post the story behind the sketch, and we can compare my inspiration to your responses.

An apology, an update, and a poem

I apologize for the long lapse between posts, but sometimes real life and work can make greater demands on my time ... and from a financial perspective, that's a good thing.

Also, I've finally taken the plunge and bought my own domain. My hope is to turn the soon-to-be-unveiled, self-named site into a repository for my various creative endeavors. Once it's ready, this blog may revert to its original form as a place for personal essays and social commentary, but stay tuned.

In the mean time, here's the much-awaited (I hope) companion poem to the last drawing.

A ragged suitor

By Francis Scudellari

A ragged suitor dragged, by time not love,
To this altar, his waning flame carried
In crack-cupped hand, a shaky, blue-veined shield
Raised up against stillness dispelling drafts

A lack-clad minister re-called, he casts
Meager light into deep-throated darkness,
Among flickered shadows glimpses, not god,
Not man, an untried path hidden between

Unprotected, preyed on by sudden gust,
Musty air mingling with his own moist breath,
A last exhaled sigh, his votive extinguished,
Acrid black curls drift up from bent, singed wick

Trickled stream of pink wax, glacial flow, fills
Crevices of reflex-clutched hands, preserves,
In translucent shell, the now spent casing
His soul discards as, burned off, it leaps free

A votive extinguished

Very basically, this drawing is of a hand grasping a candle. Both dripping, the flesh and wax intermingle. All possible prayers have been spoken, and perhaps heard. Their separate flames are extinguished in one breath, and they harden into a single form.

Basking in my blogged biography

My dear friend and fellow thinker/artist/writer/blogger Hanna has done me the inestimable honor of presenting a short retrospective of my life and work on her site. For those of you who, like me, prefer to boil everything down to the bare essentials, this is the perfect way to get acquainted. It's a kind of Cliffs Notes to yours truly.

Get up to speed here: Ti presento un amico americano

Of course, you'll need to be able to read Italian to understand it, but I'm here to help translate anything you can't on your own ... just leave the troublesome passage in this post's comments. I'll return to my regular programming once I've finished basking in the glow of your attention.

Bodkin Between: Strange inspirations

It's been a while since I posted a poem, and this one may reveal the desperation of my sometimes searches for inspiration. The title comes from a reCAPTCHA prompt — one of those annoying but necessary little anti-spambot devices used to moderate blog comments. I actually like reCAPTCHA because it doubles as a way to leverage human eyes to help decipher bits of text computers have difficulty scanning.

The phrase in question — Bodkin Between — struck my fancy because of its Shakespearean overtones ("bare bodkin" appears in Hamlet's most famous soliloquy). I used the conceit of a heart as an indecisive dagger to build this verse. It obviously owes a small debt to the bard's great tragedy, although I hope you won't hold it up for inspection against the blinding light of those classic lines.

Bodkin Between
By Francis Scudellari

His heart borne as bated bodkin between,
Its once sharp edge, from youthful age hammered,
Dully cutting ever inward, kept close,
Not bared, buried in leathery layers

Awaiting a proper moment to strike
Out words, act, whether for anger or love,
From thickened air, carve himself a likeness,
But pausing, fear-full of blood stains, his knife

Rather stabs a path in pointed retreat,
Disused, each passing day withdraws deeper
Till embedded beyond his prying reach,
He casts without only his daggered stares

Dull cutting

This is a drawing that I may revisit. It didn't turn out quite the way I wanted. As you might be able to tell by the title's hint, it was inspired by a pair of scissors. It evolved into a squid-like creature.

Bloggers Unite For Human Rights: Get Up, Stand Up

Today, the social networking site BlogCatalog asks its members to participate in a blogosphere-wide event called Bloggers Unite for Human Rights.

Never one to refuse a blog challenge, especially one with a goal of building social awareness, I'll toss my conscious thoughts into the mix. I'm a bit out of practice with prosaic posts, so forgive me in advance for what may prove a long-winded and meandering screed.

This blog began its life as a device for me to use the act of writing to make sense of the varied cultural stimuli regularly cascading down on me. As I came to realize that others out there in the ether were doing a much better job of critically analyzing contemporary art, media and world events, I switched my focus to more personal writing, poetry and then drawing.

Reverting back to my blog's origins in order to serve today's cause, there are two streams of images haunting my mind as I type this. The first is the humanitarian crisis in Darfur. A local hangout, the Heartland Café, recently hosted an amazing touring exhibit entitled "The Children of Darfur" that features the work of renowned photographer Ron Haviv. It's impossible not to be moved by these revealing shots of the harrowed but defiant faces of West Darfur's youth as they go about their daily lives.

Unfortunately, I can't find any information on the web that indicates where this is headed next. I did find an older article detailing the show's opening at the UN headquarters: UNICEF launches photo exhibition dedicated to children of Darfur . And this one about its stop in New Orleans this past April: Amnesty International Brings 'The Children of Darfur' Photo Tour to New Orleans.

To keep apprised of all the latest developments regarding Darfur, be sure to regularly visit my friend Cooper's blog Darfur: An Unforgivable Hell on Earth. It's a great place for information and concrete ways to help solve the crisis, through both charitable assistance and political activism.

The second inconvenient monster gnawing at my conscience right now is the film When the Levees Broke, Spike Lee's amazing documentary about Hurricane Katrina. This is a must see for anyone who has fallen back into the complacency of believing, a few scant years removed from that disaster, that humanitarian crises can't happen here in the land of plenty. I see no evidence that we as a nation have done anything to redress the criminal neglect of the poor and disenfranchised left floating for days on those fetid floodwaters. Nor have we made any attempt to ensure that it never happens again.

And that brings me to the final point of this human-rights themed ramble: Building awareness is great, but it's only the first step in the journey toward real change. A planet full of aware individuals won't solve the many and persistent problems facing humanity. Awareness needs to be combined with political will and grass-roots organizing. After we inform ourselves, we need to share that information and collectively act on it. That's how social movements are born.

Another past feature of this blog was the posting of favorite song lyrics. Fully embracing the spectrum of its former being, I leave you with the video and words from a great Reggae call to action.



Get up, stand up
(Bob Marley / Peter Tosh)

Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight!

Preacher man, don't tell me,
Heaven is under the earth.
I know you don't know
What life is really worth.
It's not all that glitters is gold;
Half the story has never been told:
So now you see the light
Stand up for your rights

Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight!

Most people think,
Great God will come from the sky,
Take away everything
And make everybody feel high.
But if you know what life is worth,
You will look for yours on earth:
And now you see the light,
You stand up for your rights

Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight! (Life is your right!)
Get up, stand up! (So we can't give up the fight!)
Stand up for your rights! (Lord, lord!)
Get up, stand up! (Keep on struggling on!)
Don't give up the fight! (yeah!)

We sick an tired of the bs games -
Dyin' 'n goin' to heaven in-a Jesus name
We know when we understand:
Almighty God is a living man.
You can fool some people sometimes,
But you cant fool all the people all the time.
So now we see the light (what you gonna do? ),
We gonna stand up for our rights! (yeah, yeah, yeah!)

So you better:
Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight!

Doodle Week: Facing Madness

Doodle Week comes to a maddening close with the theme doodle mad. My drawing is a depiction of literal disorder, which is the state in which my thoughts inevitably find themselves. A special thanks to Claire and Laura for organizing Doodle Week and giving me a chance to share my peculiar brand of unbalanced indulgence with a wider audience.

Doodle Week: Figured Abstraction

The theme for Doodle Week's Day 6 is doodle abstract. Typically my abstracts start with a figure that I break down into unrecognizable twists and blobs. For example, the following drawing started out life as a dagger before succumbing to the inevitable deconstruction.

Doodle Week: Flight of Fancy

Doodle Week Day 5 dawns and I'm tasked with doodling a daydream. My imaginings often involve flight — real and metaphorical — so I offer up this drawing of a fantastic wing. I don't know if it will actually get me off the ground, but I'll look cool wearing it.

Doodle Week: Flowery

It's Doodle Week Day 4, and that necessitates a flowery drawing.

Doodle Week: Pet Project

For the Doodle Week Day 3 theme of doodle animal, I chose to sketch my pet pug Albert. Not that Albert would ever pose, but he let me examine his expressions long enough to capture that special look of sadness mixed with indignation. I'm not sure what happened to his right paw, but it seems to have swelled up on the journey between real life and my brain. Oh, and he's not really blue.

We interrupt these doodles: Check out my guest post

L.S. King invited me to do a guest post on her N*tranced blog about my most recent techno-fascination: The Technological Singularity. Here's a short excerpt ...

Both Vinge's bleak and Kurzweil's rosy interpretations are predicated on the "universal law" that knowledge undergoes exponential growth. Some dispute that, but it's hard to argue against the widespread feeling that we're being propelled into uncharted waters by a seemingly constant flow of innovations. As more and more advances occur, and apparently disparate fields (biology, genetics, robotics, artificial intelligence, nanotechnology, etc.) begin to converge, we could reach a tipping point after which rapid-paced changes cascade down on us.

If you'd like to take a break from the doodling, please check it out. And in keeping with Doodle Week, she even included my self-portrait doodle with the article.

Doodle Week: Monstrosities

It's day two of Doodle Week and the suggested theme is "doodle monster." I'm quite fond of drawing strange creatures, so I did a bonus sketch for the occasion. I think they're both pretty good natured monsters, but the first has a pretty ravenous appetite.

Doodle Week: Self Portrait

Doodle Week has officially begun, and here is my initial contribution in keeping with the first day's theme of "doodle you." It's not a very accurate or flattering self-portrait, but I'm still fond of it.

Firmly rooted

By Francis Scudellari

Firmly rooted, she hugs once wormy earth
A fine-creased face buried in pitch black soil
With twirled trunk of a tongue unfurled to taste
Minerals absorbed since first youth's feasting

Twelve twisted limbs intermingle, enfold,
Form fibrous knots, heaped in full-spread circle,
Each fingertip burrows toward droplets,
Tantalus fruit, seeming drawn to new depths

Her underbelly a clutch of gnarled veins
Red, blue, beating with unseasoned cycles,
Robust rhythms learned centuries ago,
Become broken, now faded to murmurs

Her slate-gray back of hardened bark, sharp ridged,
Exposed till parched, scaly, randomly splotched,
Pocked by lichens, leaching precious moisture,
A constant creeping coat that gives no warmth

Green fur filling intricate crevices,
Overtaking memory's hollow stores,
Nooks carved out with accumulated years,
Notched markers of a past too soon forgot

Her self-contained web finally ebbing
With each gulped breath, spirited essence launched
Into saturated sky, our progress,
Time's precipitate retreat to new life

Rooted