Oranges, Part Two: First Love

Here's the second installment of my poem Oranges for Three Loves (Part I is here). I'm trying to do a better job of balancing the flow, imagery and word play. I too often sacrifice on the first. I have an idea for another related drawing that I'll try to post before Part III.

II. Striped Dawning

Home on morn's edge, a first love he soon sights
her narrow white face with blush-dabbed features,
the tall swab of swirled scarlet hair atop,
a bobbing tongue that bounces into view

At striped dawning, he, perhaps too eager,
reaches into his bag with halting hand.
An under-ripe gift he blurts out to her,
offered wholly careless, green-tipped, unpeeled

She takes it, and rolls it in slender hands
thumbs inspecting it, a bit misshapen,
bumps and crevices around knobby stem...
no fruit for her, nose upturned, she walks on

Unraveled

Fruitful picking

I've been working on my poem "Oranges for Three Loves," and what started out the very simple seed of an idea has blossomed into something a bit over-grown. The plan is to present it in four parts, the first of which I finished the first draft of today. It will likely require some more pruning, but I think it's shaping up.

Oranges for Three Loves
By Francis Scudellari

I. Picked Night

To steal a-way: three oranges for love
he was instructed by cackling voices
over time become vague though sharply plucked
and sealed in wide-mouthed, boyish memory

So, this picked night, he stalks storybook rows
of stubby trees that squat stacked in a maze
pulled straight by tender hands to hide riddles --
a patchwork of endlessly seamed sameness

Aided by a sickle moon's pointed glance,
he hasty harvests three waxy-lit fruit;
The feather-leafed branch loosed, snapping skyward
As juicy hope drops neatly in his pouch

La Vita Oscura

In his La Vita Nuova (The New Life), the Italian poet Dante describes emerging from the dark forest of his early dissolute life to be guided to a more moral existence by his dead love Beatrice. It's a great piece of art, and an interesting framework for a collection of verses.

I've never led anything resembling a dissolute life, in fact I've toed a pretty conservative line in the conduct of my quotidian activities. Beyond an occasional beer at divy bars, I don't dabble in too many vices. That said, I haven't found much reward in this upright and uptight lifestyle.

So it got me thinking ... yes, always a dangerous prospect. Maybe I need to pull a reverse-Dante and explore the wonders of moral dissolution. I could even write a collection of verses called La Vita Oscura (The Dark Life) that describes my slow dissent from shiny plained turpitude to shadowed lands of vice. Of course, first I need to locate a dark-spirited guide for the endeavor ... my Malatrice. I'd prefer that she be living, however.

Too clever by half?

I've been a bit overwhelmed by real life, and only able to retreat into my imagination for a few short breaks, so updates to this blog are going to be slow in coming for a little while.

I do have three poems in various stages of incompletion, and I also have a quick question to pose to you dear readers: Do you think the title "Oranges for Three Loves" is a bit too "clever"? Also, do you even get the reference? I already have a companion sketch in mind, in case that influences your answer.

Fun in the fourth dimension

This poem is a bit of an experiment, and also a kind of a mental break for me. I hope the playfulness comes across...

Spacetime becomes molasses
By Francis Scudellari

Her words, I love you, dropped
a red marble planet
thumb-shot and rolling ... smack-
dab in my middle path
slow-dragging spacetime down
with its wavy weight's pull
the stop-motion churning
and turning it viscous
greenish yellow-green goop
that oozes round my legs
accordion wobbly
with each fractal footfall
till my heart-thickened thoughts
relatively rebound
and sling-shot, this pupil's
dilation speeds ahead
to future visions of
happiness densely packed
in a singular whole's
matter-slurping moment

Springtime growth

It's been quite a while since I posted a drawing, and the blog seems a bit dull without them. So, here finally is my latest. I think I like it better than the poem (Metamorphosis) that inspired it. The colors have a Springtime feel, and I'm definitely in need of that brightness.

Resurfacing

I finally feel fully back mentally, and as such I was able to finish the last three stanzas of my Metamorphosis re-write. I'll try to do some more catching up in the next few days. Below is the new conclusion, and you can see the whole thing on my main site here.

... Ashen arms time-tied into criss-crossed bow
unfold and stretch in open-palm seeking;
scarlet freckles, at long last bared, flare up,
bulge out, burst forth in pollen dusted blooms

Blush-tipped fingers petal-spread to attract
a noon-day sun's lurid stare, its stark heat
that bubble boils her inner crimson sap
till its smoky sighs vent through wax-flapped wrists

The hot blooded steam up-borne on breezes
intermingling in changeling-pregnant clouds;
where gathered droplet children patient wait
to be released and reborn, not themselves

Work in slow progress

The re-write of the poem Metamorphosis is proving a much slower slog than expected. I've managed to get the first three stanza's closer to the way I want them, but they're still not perfect. The last three are a jumbled mess. Maybe tomorrow...

Metamorphosis
by Francis Scudellari

Change engendered with mythic suddenness,
as if sprung from strange god's familiar touch --
whether for fleecing lust or lancing pride --
a re-purposed Daphne, her life transforms...

Crowning, walnut-stained strands turn thickened vines
that whip outward, crackling bud ends a-twirl
to loosed-leaf wrap around her trellised bed
and eager bind her to this dreamed waking...

A bony cage once rubbery encased
dons barky layers -- brittle, gray-notched sheets
that spiral-drop down and scratch uncoiled toes
seeking worm-led passage through soft black soil...

(to be continued...)

Speeding back up to frantic

I'm feeling a bit more myself today, and the bad news that accompanies this good news is time has sped back up to its normally frantic pace. Of course, having lost two days to recuperation, that also means I'm  woefully behind on things both bloggy and non-bloggy.

Looking back with fresh eyes on my last poem Metmorphosis, I've decided it needs more than just a few tweaks. So, I'm currently engaged in a more radical than anticipated re-write. On the positive side, I've decided to create a drawing to go with it.

The lesson I'm slowly learning is: I need to pay less attention to artificially-imposed deadlines and recognize those occasions when the words just aren't flowing as freely. That will become even truer as real life continues to make greater demands of me. And in the midst of a spiralling economy, it's hard not to heed those calls.

When time-space turns to molasses

A late winter varietal virus is currently coursing its way through my bloodstream. My immune system is working feverishly to subdue the intruder, but still hasn't quite gained the upper hand.

One of the strange symptoms of this virus is its ability to warp my sense of space and time. Accustomed short distances stretch out into vast planes. The passing of minutes that flashed by so quickly earlier in the week, now crawl in a slow-motion creep.

It might just be that the full-body ache and sapped energy have affected my perception, but that's less interesting to read. New posts may be time-delayed going forward.

Mythical transformations

Here is my latest poem, which again takes inspiration from a classic myth — the story of Daphne as told by the Roman poet Ovid. I struggled a bit with the ending, and I'm still not quite satisfied with it. I've also been trying to pay more attention to spoken rhythms. I may yet re-write parts of it. 

Metamorphosis
By Francis Scudellari

With mythic suddenness, as if
set upon by a god's whimsy--
for deep lust or petty anger--
a reposed Daphne she transforms.
Her crowning, walnut strands thicken,
vine outward, a loosed-leaf wrap round
trellised bed, budding ends a-twirl
to bind her to this dreamed waking.

A too-soft heart become bark-clad
thrusts fibrous roots downward, thirsty
gray coils that seek wormy passage
through black soil, to moist tiers below.
Four fleshy limbs harden, turn to
knotty stalks; skyward-bent, pale shoots
freckled with bulging pods that flare
in pollen rich scarlet bursting.

Broad petals splay wide to attract
noon-day sun's lurid stare, its heat;
Liquid thoughts made misty, to sigh
up-swept words, and gathered clouds seed.
Her essence in droplets returns
to mother long forgot, and feeds
a self-less spring cycling; her growth's
exquisite pain subsides to peace.

Simply dashed off

My time has been a bit constrained the past few days, so I'm trying to rein in the scope of my creative endeavors for this weekend so I can get stuff up more quickly. This drawing, for example, was pretty simple to execute, and I'll try to generate my weekly poem along similar lines. I'll give a heart-felt huzzah to whoever can guess the inspiration for the sketch.

Sorry for the silence ...

I've been swamped with work trying to get out the latest issue of The Urban Coaster, which is the community newspaper I help publish. Now that it's officially on its way to the newsstands of my neighborhood, I can press ahead with my other commitments

I should have both a drawing and a poem ready for you in the next couple days.

Too much information running through our Web?

I take time out from endeavors of the creative kind, to issue a brief rant....

The title of the following article from February's Wired may seem counter-intuitive, but that's exactly why it's such an interesting read:

Clive Thompson on How More Info Leads to Less Knowledge
... After years of celebrating the information revolution, we need to focus on the countervailing force: The disinformation revolution. The ur-example of what [Stanford Historian Robert] Proctor calls an agnotological campaign is the funding of bogus studies by cigarette companies trying to link lung cancer to baldness, viruses—anything but their product. ...

Click the title to read the whole piece; it's worth it. It's also a concept I've been talking up to my friends for several months now: giving people easy access to wrong information is just as harmful as blocking their access to the real kind.

There's been a tremendous proliferation of sites and e-mail blasts dedicated to spreading rumor, innuendo and out-right lies in order to attack the innovative ideas that threaten the profits and outdated worldview of the status quo.

There's more of a need than ever for a healthy public skepticism, and the ability to filter authoritative news sources from manipulative ones. Without that, we may find ourselves retreating into a new Dark Age. Speaking of which, I'm overdue for another of my philosophical posts.

Not letting a sleeping poem lie

This is the latest poem I'm working on. I may yet make some minor changes to it. It jumped the queue, as my pieces sometimes do, past the poem I alluded to a couple posts back. It's an invention with no particular inspiration, just vague impressions that had been floating about my imagination.

These recurring deaths
By Francis Scudellari

These recurring deaths brought down by
drowsing shade, Hypnos who nightly
stalks him, catches him, carries him
away to puzzle-piece landscapes;
odd bits jammed together, seeming
crudely fit with hasty fingers...

Time again dropped 'neath paint-smear sky:
purple-black dotted with pink-white.
A speckled canvas further smudged
by thick-limbed clouds that hover over
claw-hammer trees, screw-top bushes;
hills' sparse stubble he stumbles through...

As he chases familiar shapes,
shifting glimpses of strange beings;
their vaguely human faces topped
with twisted horn or ragged mane;
misshapen escorts who lead him
across rock shoulders, mossy backs...

Toward a close-cropped clearing where,
gathered with shepherding eyes, they
watch him, welcome him, offer him
sips from stick-carved ladles and spoons
they dip deep in green, soupy streams
to coax him to forgetfulness...

Weak-willed, he drinks serenaded
by an elemental chorus;
some airy, some hot, some mildewed,
all mismatched voices borne aloft
on ancient tongues whose wings beat
a steady pulse, that brings him back ...

To panderer clock's up-swept hands
pushing the rhythmic details of
a new waked sun's rosy allure;
her plying whispers that draw out
his sharp-splinter want for a day
when evening's pause never ends.

Improbable transformation

This is a second drawing inspired by the dream that prodded me to write Trapped Ghost. It should also form the basis of a future poem, but that may take me a week or two.

Looking for an opening

Below is my halting attempt at the opening lines for a poem that I've been struggling to finish over the past several weeks. Generally, I try to write the beginning and closing stanzas first. Then, it's easier for me to create the story arc that connects the two. This is a bit of a different style for me, so I'd appreciate some feedback on the first few lines before I get too much further into it. Stay tuned also for a drawing that should be ready to post by tomorrow.

I. Love
Words long lost in her mind's murky reverb,
until she discovers them, tucked inside
a tar-black disk's wax-spun groove she pulls from
once-stiff paper sleeves stacked in messy piles

The neighborhood newspaper biz

This post is a bit out of character, as I don't like to delve too deeply into my non-creative activities on this site, but I also don't want to sit idly by and allow someone to mischaracterize what I do either.

For those who don't know, my friends and I started a new community-based newspaper. It's meant to open up the channels of communication in a diverse neighborhood where information doesn't always flow freely. It's a publication with a distinctly progressive voice, which will become apparent when you see this week's lead story on Naomi Klein's discussion of the financial bailout.

The paper is called The Urban Coaster, and it's beginning to get some attention. CommonDreams.Org just featured the Klein story on its national site and brought us a huge influx of new readers. Unfortunately, with the good always comes some bad. There are those in the community who don't want to see a publication succeed that gives voice to alternative views.

Ours is a strange little neighborhood, where a group of very vocal folks try to shout down anyone who disagrees with their self-aggrandizing agenda. They do this to compensate for the fact that their opinions only resonate with a small minority. Some have blogs that they use to bully others into silence, and they often do so in the most reprehensible ways. Actually, I guess that really isn't much different than the tactics of certain Fox News "personalities."

I don't want to dwell on their negativity too much, and I think the vast majority of people in the community will respond to our positive message much more than their vituperative posts. It's just a shame that some feel the need to resort to the most petty of personal attacks in order to promote their views. I'm not going to stoop to their level.

To blog, or not

I'm still struggling mightily to figure out the raison d'etre of this site. I've tried to post a variety of writings, and art, but I don't know if that material is better left to my eponymous site (FrancisScudellari.Com, if you haven't been paying attention). A blog is a strange and different animal. It thrives on daily posts and prefers journal-style entries. I get bored talking about myself though, and blogging is much more of a self-indulgent exercise than jives with my personality.

As I quite literally still figure out what I'm doing with my poetry and illustration, I find myself taking much longer to produce pieces. So, there is a lag between posts. I don't know how much that matters to folks, but I tend to get antsy whenever I haven't posted in a few days (and this post is a prime example of that).

I'm also internally debating whether I should be posting poetry on the web at all, or if I'd be better served trying to send the pieces out to various publications in hopes of reaching print. The egalitarian in me likes to share what I write freely, but so far that methodology hasn't really served me very well — at least based on the general sense of apathy its received with (excepting all you wonderful folks who've commented over the past couple years).

Right now, the inclination is to keep on with the keeping on — but with the understanding that updates might become less frequent. If that changes, you'll be the first to know.

Trapping a dream

This is the poem about the dream that inspired my drawing A hungry ghost. I have another drawing and poem that should be posted soon, and which also come from that sleeping mind-trip. Please stay tuned ...

Trapped ghost
By Francis Scudellari

Raised. On a mirrored slab
inch by inch he glides, spins
up, pulling against straps,
un-willing what binds him,
slow propels him toward
thrice blinking, blurred halos,
the whir of saw-tooth gears,
uncanny steel fingers
bent posed, purposeful:
his many-armed surgeon...

Cuts. His half-conscious mind
knowing but not feeling
the sting of numbed pink flesh;
laser pin pricks tracing
patterns, deep-stenciled shapes
to draw from dead tissue
a thick-brow, brown golem.
Its emerged-eye stare fixed
on the steel-teat mother
as she spills her static...

Milk. Grabby-claw hands, take
greedy-fang bites, feasting
on pulsed bits beamed across
an electric blue stream.
This raw, imagined food
real enough to entice
its once bone-gripped belly
to red-swell large, and fill
a machine carved gap, where
his trapped ghost is growing...

Poetically pondering fate and transparency

Here is my latest poem, a day later than I planned. Circumstance and a mild virus conspired against me. As always, feedback and constructive criticism are much appreciated. This came together pretty quickly once I settled on the Three Fates motif (with thanks to Alicia for that inspiration).

Transparent (To Alicia)
by Francis Scudellari

Her life on a spindle,
slowly spins out, into
a too delicate thread;
knowing if not caring
hands weave in odd patterns
to make a broader cloth.
They bleach it, bony white.
They stretch it, transparent.
They dab it, fine-dust it
with mixed pigment palette--
butterfly-wing powders,
a bright-hue camouflage.

Over measured, hungry
days, rude visitors come.
They bump, up against her.
They feel, to fill a lack.
They smudge, her covering tints;
continue on, smugly
clap fatty hands, to rid
themselves of rubbed-off bits;
her color haphazard
pilfered now, then carried
off on indiff'rent breeze--
whorled wisp, smoky sparkling.

In sunset's cutting hour,
Atropos' polished blades
casting an orange light,
she senses herself fade
to too pale shade, the years
of so many touches
leaving a lone, small speck--
a bluish smear. She waits,
still, so unsure, whether
to fear the next visit
or hope, to meet that fate,
who puts the colors back?

Questioning people's motives

This is the second in my series of "thinking out loud" posts loosely grouped under the banner of Toward a 21st Century Ethos. The ideas are laid down here with broad brush strokes, and the devil will most certainly be hidden in the details.

Never one to take small bites when chewing on a subject, today I try to tackle the question of what motivates people and the need to build a social economy not centered around profit and greed. To discuss economics might seem off-topic, but I would argue that how a society functions at its most fundamental level and the behavior it encourages cannot be compartmentalized from the ethics we preach in church or at home.

In our capitalistic society, no ideal is enshrined as highly or protected as thoroughly as the right to private property and profit. Our legal system was constructed to preserve it. Our myths and metaphors revolve around it.

Our cultural icons are rugged individuals who thrive on self-reliance to achieve great material success. They disdain weakness and collective action. Yes there are many exceptions, but the general storyline still runs through most of our pop-culture mythology. These are ideas that arose from and suited the needs of industrial capitalism.

Some may try to argue that as a "Christian" nation, our ethics are actually informed by the New Testament. And on an individual level that may be true, but it's not the behavior that is expected or rewarded by the prevailing social order. In fact, I would argue, that the lessons taught by Christ are often in direct opposition to those encouraged by our society.

Despite the fact that Jesus repeatedly assailed greed as a motivating force (see Matthew 19:23-24, as just one example), many Christians seem to wall-off their religious beliefs as separate from their economic ones. This is usually rationalized with Christ's own words "render unto Caesar." The meaning of those words is ambiguous, but many take it as an implicit endorsement of maintaining a split personality in our secular and spiritual lives. It may be that he was renouncing participation in the economy at any level, but I'm not here to argue his intention.

I'm also not here to argue against the separation of Church and State, which I completely agree is a vital component of our democracy. What I am here to do is argue for better aligning our social behavior with our ethical beliefs, and there are plenty of common moral principles that span the plethora of our different spiritual traditions.

Here are just a few that I think most of us can agree on: ensuring an equality of opportunity for all to contribute; serving the greater good; rewarding honesty and accountability. Our current system fails at those things in most instances. Naomi Klein, who I saw speak just last night and who is the author of The Shock Doctine, does a better job of documenting specific examples of that than I ever could.

What I would like to do in this essay is provoke people to begin to question whether the social system built up around profit and private property still suits us in a day and age when advances in technology are rendering their pursuit not only obsolete but damaging to our further growth.

There is no argument that as a social system, capitalism served some very well. I firmly believe, however, the beneficiaries of its largesse are a rapidly shrinking minority. I'm also convinced that the corrosive influence of profit-seeking as the prime motivator in our society is undermining the integrity of all our essential institutions: medicine, education, government, and beyond.

There is also a very dark cynicism to the ethos of capitalism. It feeds a myth that human beings are essentially lazy and corrupt, and that they can only be motivated by the promise of fulfilling their most selfish material desires. My experience, and I'm guessing yours too, is that most people are on the whole good-hearted and giving. They are motivated by a desire to contribute to their communities and better the situation of their families. They want a purpose in life, and to belong to something greater than themselves.

What could arise in place of a profit-based economy? I think the glimpse of an answer was provided in Pekka Himanen's book The Hacker's Ethic. It describes a culture where people are motivated by respect and recognition among their peers. These hackers (the term did not originally hold its current pejorative sense) collaborated on open source projects, not to win great riches, but to establish their reputations. Because of the collective work of so many talented indivduals, they also created much stronger products than their proprietary competitors.

How much more successfully could a society function that did not limit how its members could contribute their talents, and that did not impose false rationing of resources in order to preserve an opportunity for the few to profit at the expense of the many? It's a matter of giving up our allegiance to old and outdated ideologies, and of looking at the world with the fresh eyes of a newborn. We do have the ability to make radical changes in the way we live, but we still lack the political will.

The trends of automation, digital communications, and open-source software and hardware (check out this interesting Wired article) are pushing the cost of manufactured goods further and further down. They're reducing the possibility of profit through any but the most artificial of means. This may seem like a scary proposition, but it's also a tremendous opportunity. It offers us a chance to remake ourselves and our society. But first we need to acknowledge the moment for real change that stands so clearly before us.

The flapping wings of half-formed ideas

Suddenly I find myself beset by the flapping wings of too many half-formed ideas. It could be the straying focus of a mind forced into mid-winter isolation. Or it could be a newfound need to obsess over details. But it's become much easier for me to begin projects than to bring them to completion.

My list of in-progress items includes three poems in various stages (working titles: Turn tables, Transparency, and A Hungry Ghost); the rough sketch of a new drawing (tentatively called New Life Sprouting); an outline of the next installment in my series of philosophical essays (Questioning people's motives); plus the very slow to resuscitate next chapter of my short story Belly.

It will help me finally grasp the annoying buggers if I publicly set a deadline for myself. So, I'll commit to completing the essay by tomorrow. And I should have Transparency ready by the weekend.

A hungry ghost

This bit of weirdness was inspired by a recent dream. It would take a very long post to put it in context, so I won't bore you with the details. I'm trying to build a poem around it and the line "a hungry ghost in me, machine-carved." If I'm going to have strange dreams, I may as well use them as fodder to fire off some art.

A mutating light

This poem evolved quite a bit over the course of the past few weeks. Two of its lines were taken from recent drawings: Thin-Fingered Dawn and Aura Spilling. The original working title was "Mr. Sunshine," but it and the overall mood moved away from my first too-personally indulgent impulses to something much more lyrical — at least I hope so.

The sweetness of light
by Francis Scudellari

His early, yellow years
marked by a restless gaze
this thin-fingered dawn that
passing quickly, gently
taps so many strangers
shoulders clad in new day's
rosy hope, his own vague
wishing deep-pocket tucked
close to a youthful heart:
one face returns the smile

His middle, muddy days
ever-creasing, hands held
up to blue-straining eyes
a pale, tulip-cup cap
to direct his wheeled mind
that sprays silver droplets
into shadowy nooks
a knobbed spigot of light
he endlessly spins to
capture the dust-mote dance

His dying, desert hours
golden aura spilling
from a low, lone-struck wound
his self-inflicted flow
that forms three-pronged puddle
that slow-spreads, swallowing
the too-loved particles
long ago cast, outward
waving spores to carry
this infecting sweetness

An update, and two thank you's

I wanted to very quickly let you know that my Zazzle t-shirt arrived, and I am quite pleased with the printing of the image. I still have to see whether it holds up to laundering, but I can honestly say it's a very nice product. I'll upload more designs to my Zazzle Shop soon.

I also wanted to extend a brief thank-you to two lovely bloggers who bestowed awards on me (not so) recently. Daisy Bookworm  and Ellie Blunt (aka The Transparent Hypnotist) both gave me the Butterfly Award. I really appreciate the recognition, and I apologize for taking so long to acknowledge them. I recommend you check out their extremely well-written and interesting sites.

I have a drawing and poem still to post for the week, so don't stray too far over the weekend. With more arctic chill on its way here to Chicago, I think I'll be spending a lot of time in front of the computer screen.

When stark outlines get fuzzy

This is the first in the series of philosophical essays I promised under the very broad and probably too self-important sounding banner of Toward a 21st Century Ethos. Because I don't want to write chapter-length posts, I'm skimming the surface on most of this. I hope what's under-treated will be fodder for the comments.

I admittedly chose to start with the topic that has only recently begun to shape itself in my mind. The outlines of my argument may appear vague and shifting, but that fits well with the subject I'm trying to tackle here.

The human mind seems to have an obsessive compulsion to neatly order the universe. We place the objects around us into tidy classifications, perhaps in order to convince ourselves we've mastered the world we live in. We especially like to stick these everyday things, and even each other, into numbered boxes. The problem is that sometimes the objects don't fit very easily, and we have to shave off a layer or two of truth in order to get them to squeeze into their assigned compartments.

Take as examples some very simple categories that are widely accepted, even though improved science and more accurate measuring devices have proved their inaccuracy. From childhood we learn there are nine planets; five senses; twenty-four hours in a day; and 365 days in a year.

Working in reverse, the precise measurement of a day (one earth rotation) is actually 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 4.2 seconds. That's not an amount that can be captured very easily on the face of a clock, however. This error in our neat 24-hour rendering of a day of course ripples through the measurement of our year, and we tack a leap day onto our calendars (not exactly) every four years to even things out.

The number of planets that wheel their way around our Sun might actually be eight, as some have demoted Pluto to asteroid status. Or it could be as many as eleven, if you insist on including the maybe-asteroid and its brethren in the Kuiper belt (see the Wikipedia summary of the controversy).

As far as our senses, without even raising the possibility of ESP, some scientists believe we should include proprioception (a combination of self-orientation and location) as a sixth. There are also those who are actively working to hack the ways we receive stimulus from the world, so one day we could, for example, see with our taste buds (see Wired Magazine article Mixed Feelings).

Beyond such accounting tricks for worldly things, we also like to label and define each other. We group people and stereotype them, and kid ourselves that we can "know" them based on such superficial characteristics as occupation, gender and ethnicity. If I remember my Jean Paul Sartre correctly, and I probably don't, part of it arises from a frustration over not being able to ever fully understand what's in the mind of the other. Unable to accept that reality, we distort it and reduce the other person to a parody of themselves.

The human mind is, obviously a very complex thing. Not only are individual personalities much messier than any categories we can hope to try to group them into, they can also contain traits that we normally view as contradictory. The idea that two opposites can co-exist in a single entity is a particularly challenging one for most of us.

It's much easier to come to terms with an unsubtle universe of clear divisions; constructing a worldview based on black-white, either-or, right-wrong, and us-them paradigms. The more nuanced conception that multiple, sometimes contradictory traits can exist in one person seems to threaten our too-secure sense of who we are, and how we fit into the world.

This may seem a bit of a leap, but what if we take the concept even further and extend it beyond the physical realm to that of ideas. The literal and the metaphorical, for example, are always treated as contradictory, but what if Genesis and evolution weren't viewed as mutually exclusive truths? It's a subject I tried to delve into in one of my very early posts here: The Serpent, the Tree of Knowledge and Evolution? What if hidden within the poetic imagery of the forbidden fruit is a seed of truth about how our consciousness actually evolved?

Can Science and religion on some level be reconciled? What about the teachings of the various religions we view as contending for a single truth? What I'd like to suggest is that these "opposing" truths haven't been reconciled not because they can't be, but because it requires us to extend ourselves beyond our usual comfort zones. It means putting aside the petty desire to prove one "side" superior to another, and instead do the hard labor necessary to win a fuller understanding of reality. It means putting our common humanity above serving any narrow ideology.

It might seem like I'm making an argument for a relativistic truth, but that's not quite accurate. What I am trying to say is that we, the world and the universe are so immensely complex that our limited mental capacities aren't able to wrap themselves around the entirety of it all. Individually, in fact, we may only be able to grasp a small piece of that complexity.

Uniting those billions of pieces collected by each of our receptive minds, however, gets us much closer to a comprehensive view. As technology allows us to link up more easily and gather these fragments into a whole, that becomes a very real possibility. That's a discussion for a future post.

Knitting wheel: an unfocused mind

Slightly late, here's this week's poem. I'd normally explain the particulars of the inspiration, but I think that might skew the reading of it. Let's just say that too much time spent alone in an apartment can affect the mind in strange ways.

Knitting Wheel
by Francis Scudellari

My minded eyes
reluctant too
slip
out of focus
into slumbers
rise
with their numbing
blue, inward rush
hang
on half-hearted
dusty, dull blades
pull
me up, against
a ceiling's cut
light
knitting wheel rays
spinning golden
thread
to make, a sleeve
to warm, a chilled
hand
white fingers, that
beckon, icy
crawl
my spine, trip on
my dreaming, a-
spark
these mindful eyes
reluctant a-
gain
let go, focus
sharpen, thought a-
wake
blurry thresholds
slow-fading, a-
way

Be Zazzled

I interrupt this blog's normal programming for a very brief commercial message. As you may have noticed, I've added a widget in the sidebar for my new Zazzle shop. It's a way to "merchandise" my art work, and I'm hoping the images actually transfer well to the medium of a T-shirt. I've ordered one for myself, and will give everyone a recommendation either way once it's delivered. If it works out, I'll also add a lot more designs.

I'm working on a new poem that should be ready later today, in keeping with my weekly commitment ... darn new year's resolution!

Eye on the future

My friend JD left a very thoughtful comment in response to the post on my recent feeling of disequilibrium. He rightly challenged me on something that I should have never done: portray a personal opinion provoked by individual circumstance as a universal truth.

Contrary to what my statements may have implied, I am not opposed to spirituality. It's a trait that I believe lies at the core of who we are. I do have serious objections to organized religion, which I feel uses our innate inclination toward spirituality to control rather than free us. Most major religions were created under much different social circumstances than we have now. They have, in my opinion, become so intertwined with the status quo that they can't help but oppose any movement toward legitimate social change.

Of course religions aren't the only entities standing in the way of our progress. Corrupt governments, greedy corporations, and unaccountable financial institutions have also proven quite capable of making out very well while keeping us running in place. We're facing a worldwide economic meltdown, while these various mis-leaders play Nero and fiddle on amid the destruction.

I suggested to JD, half-seriously, that it might be interesting to have a dialogue to find common ground between my penchant for chaos theory and his belief that there is an organizing force in the universe. Going even further, I'd actually like to begin that conversation with a series of posts on the question: How do we arrive at an ethos for the 21st century? I'd also love to broaden it out to as many of you as would like to participate.

People around the web have been discussing the Law of Attraction for some time now. It's usually done within the context of attracting a mate or making money. I like the concept, but not the customary application. What if, however, we used the same method (listing out the characteristics we're attracted to) to conjure the future we want for our society?

I've long been an advocate of the idea that we get the future we imagine, and I hope this series of posts will be a small first step toward conjuring the future I want for the world. The ideas I'm going to discuss are in no way original. They are the synthesis of years of reading and conversing, and I'll borrow heavily from sources to which my memory can't manage the proper credit. If you know of a book or website that goes into much more details on these subjects, please do leave a comment.

This is of course very ambitious of me, and I'm not delusional enough to believe that I have a monopoly on the truth. It would help greatly if people fill in the gaps where needed, especially those with expertise in the areas discussed. In an ideal world, I hope there's even occasion for all of us to meet up face-to-face and have a more robust conversation. I know that things will only change with a groundswell of activity at the grass-roots, and the first step toward that could be finding a way for people from around the world to get together and talk about what we need.

Here's a short list of posts that came directly to mind, which I'll try to tackle over the next few weeks:

• Seeking to resolve not exploit contradictions
• A respect-based economy: removing the corrupting influence of the profit-motive
• Divesting ourselves of unnecessary things
  
• Openness, transparency and collaboration
  
• Grass-roots, direct democracy
• A non-anthropocentric universe
• One mind: piecing together the mosaic

These are meant to be wide-ranging philosophical essays, as you can tell. I'm sure that the posts will take the form of me thinking out loud, and I expect to be challenged often when I stray too far from other people's experience.

Before I dive into it, I might just take a stab at the "law of attraction" game on a much more personal level and try to solicit your help in identifying my ideal new occupation. Oh, and there will still be the weekly poems and drawings to keep us amused and distracted.

Auric Spill?

Back to my normal programming... I spent a lot of time tinkering with the colors on this one. It's still not perfect, but what is? I want to call it Aural Spill as in someone's aura bleeding out, but that adjective technically means "related to hearing."

The adjective Auric relates to gold, which is a little closer but not correct either. If there are any linguists out there, please let me know what the correct adjective form for "aura" is. I think I'm going to try to go back to more figurative illustrations, as these abstracts can be quite exhausting.

Finding a selfish balance

Warning: This post is a piece of potentially over-indulgent navel gazing. If that sort of thing annoys you, skip it and stay tuned for the upcoming much more audience-friendly drawing.

As you may have noticed, I've been in a bit of a funk lately. I can best sum up the anxiety that I've been feeling as the product of a general disequilibrium in my life. This unbalanced state is also a condition that plagues the macro-organism within which I currently function, or at least am supposed to.

What I'm trying to say is, I don't think I'm alone in the unsettled feeling. In fact, I'm pretty sure the same maladjusted orientation is rippling through the general population as the tidal wave of societal dysfunction builds.

Getting back to the problem with me though, and I know that's why you're here, I can broadly attribute my failings to an imbalance in the way I approach relationships. I've always been a very selfless person, and contrary to conventional wisdom that's not really a good thing.

I do have a very strong sense of self, don't get me wrong, but I lack the ability to effectively communicate who I am to those around me. I'm also terrible at gauging how others perceive me, and that causes an awkward over-emphasis on making sure they like me. This leads to one-sided relationships where I try to do too much and ask nothing in return.

I had a conversation last night with a friend of mine about fate and chance. She tried to convince me that everything in our lives, including the connections we make with others, happens for a reason. It's something I've heard often, but I've always had difficulty embracing it. Chaos theory makes much more sense to me.

I do believe we're attracted to certain people for specific reasons, whether it be the inclinations established through our early-life relationships or something hard-wired into our DNA. Not all of these patterns are positive, however, and sometimes the "meaning" we take away from them is a lesson in our own self-destructive tendencies.

The universe and its grand interplay of matter and energy is, after all, essentially indifferent to our individual comings and goings. If the path we embark on is to be purposeful, it's up to us to chart the course. It can't be left to some vague sense that a god, angel, or guiding spirit is shepherding us along the way.

Bringing this full circle, the point is that I need to be a bit more self-aware and self-centered or the repeated missteps will take me too far down the wrong road. It's not that I'm going to stop caring for others. It's that I need to take care of myself first in order to continue to do so. I may seem more self-absorbed, less accessible, and overly inward-focused but right now that's the only way forward toward balance.

A single hair ... strange inspiration

This isn't the poem I originally intended to post today, but the other two I'm working on still need some time and thought. I dashed these lines off in a few hours, as I'm sure it shows.

The poem was inspired by the most mundane of moments: the sight of a single dark hair (my own) raised against stark white bed linen. I don't know why it captured my attention, but it did and here is the result.

A single hair
by Francis Scudellari

A single, coarse black hair
by mere Chance, or Fate's hand
(who can say?) now plucked from
the anonymity
of a fielded likeness
then, on swirling current
carried till interest
or energy ebbed, and
it was sudden dropped — here
blindly, perhaps, drifting
down in tighter circles
onto a uniform
bed of white, itself new
found in significance
an ebon strand raised there
on unlike surroundings

Seeing other cities

Eventually all relationships grow stale, and after 28 years together I'm beginning to think it's time to move on. Chicago and I have had a really great run together, but it's not really working out for either of us any longer.

We each have a share of the blame to shoulder, and she's got some pretty big ones to pile on the criticism. I looked the other way when she hung out with friends of questionable character and threw money around on superficial baubles. I stuck it out through the frigid times when I had to retreat into my apartment until she warmed to me again.

Admittedly, I wasn't pulling my end as well as I should have; especially with the tax base dwindling each year. I did some flirting with other locales, but never anything serious. To tell the truth, her individual quirks became less and less endearing. They began to grate on my nerves to the point where I lost interest.

We're holding each other back. So, if there's a metropolis out there looking for a fun new citizen to add to her ranks, you can reach me here. I prefer large public transportation systems, some nice greenery and cozy neighborhood bars. A growing economy would seal the deal. Feel free to send a photo, but I can also look you up on Google Earth.

In other news, I'm working on my poem-a-week resolution and should deliver on that promise (for better or worse) tomorrow.

Thin-fingered dawn ...

That's the name I came up with for this drawing, and it may become a line in my next poem (at least some variation of it). I'm a little hesitant to name abstracts, because it influences what others see in them. It's definitely a departure from the previous illustrations, as far as coloring. Thanks to all who commented on the last post. The majority verdict was "no" on Ad-sense, but "yes" on Helium and Project Wonderful.

To add sense, or non-sense?

I've long been wary of including paid advertising on this site. First, I probably don't generate enough traffic to make it worth anyone's while. Second, I've always been quite fond of that story of Jesus chasing the merchants from the temple, and this blog is my sort-of sanctuary.

I have given a small amount of ad space out to friends who have books and sites to promote (and will continue to do so as requested), and there are the pseudo advertisements for the various social networking sites to which I belong. So, I'm not completely "commercial" free.

All that said, I am curious about Google Ad Sense, and I'd like to get some real-world feedback regarding how, and whether, it works. To you fellow bloggers out there who use it, please leave a comment about your experience. To everyone lese, please let me know what you think of those sites that you visit that have it, and whether you even notice.

My biggest fear is that it will promote content I don't approve of. And I've heard tell of pittances for payouts, which wouldn't justify my taking the chance.

Speaking of self-promotion, I'll have a new drawing up soon ... I promise.

Focused on structure

Continuing the "new year, new optimism" theme of my last post, I'm feeling the need for a few blog-related resolutions (prodded by similar efforts I've seen on some friends' sites).

It will start with a commitment to much more focus and structure in my daily routine. I've learned over the life of this blog that the more consistently I write, the better the output.

With that in mind, I'm committing myself to at least one new poem a week. I'd also like to finish two new drawings in the same span. In addition, I'm going to resuscitate the short story Belly that I abandoned in its crib last year.

Not a very exciting post, I know, but it helps to "go on record" with the details. I do have a new drawing in the wings, which I'll decorate with a much brighter color-scheme to reflect the new attitude.

Meet the new year, same as the old year?

As the metaphorical bells tolled in the year 2009 the other night, I greeted the man-made demarcation of a new planetary cycle with the usual mixture of hope and anxiety.

There was the hope that individually, and as a society, we'll find our footing in a new, positive direction this year. This optimism was of course beset by the well-found fear of falling into the previous patterns of self-defeating missteps and backsliding.

As my last poem likely indicated, I've been feeling a bit painted into a corner lately. It was a trap I set for myself, but with the silver lining of a forced reckoning. There's nowhere to go but up, and I'll need to sprout wings to get there. The good news is, I feel the nubs now pushing their way out through my shoulder blades.

I spent most of New Year's Day in deep meditation and emerged with a fixed resolve, and a clearer sense of purpose. One way or another, I can't finish 2009 the way I'm starting it and I'm dedicating myself to entering 2010 from a better place.

The details of that narrative arc are yet to be determined, but I'm finally giving up on the previously imagined ending of a Deus Ex Machina hand reaching down to rescue me from above. It's time for me, and us, to recognize and nurture the seeds of change growing from within.

Hoped-for payoff

Here's the payoff on that tease of a post I did two days back. I tweaked the first stanza, and then took the poem in a slightly different direction than I originally intended. And I finished it in time for New Year's, which I hope will give me many reasons to be resolved.

Purgatory
by Francis Scudellari

I am wedged, ever so un-
comfortably between too
pliable becoming and
a stone-hardened was: Stuck

Through a piggish present, slow-
roasted over lukewarm flames;
Blue, stubby tongues that lick a-
way my black, greasy drips: Sins

He, She, You, Someone counts, in-
dexes with hidden names locked
in musty drawers; dark acts some-
times only intended: Thought

Clouds of form-shifting, milk-
puff fingers that reach, caress
their glassy lid, collect, and
fall dewy dropped back down: Wait

In-pooled, murky hands that palm-
press this thick-boxed bottom till
spidery cracks appear and I
slip out, into: Tomorrow.

Embracing my unholy side

I discovered this interesting quote attributed to my namesake saint on a religious brochure piled in among the free lit at the local café:

I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.
— St. Francis of Assisi

Then it hit me like the clichéd lightning bolt: Perhaps the problem is that I haven't been unholy enough. I may just need to embark on a lot more sinning before God deems me worthy of becoming his instrument. Everyone loves a reclamation project.

The nice guy act certainly hasn't gotten me very far. It could be time to turn over a new, darker leaf and head into the shadows. I think I now have my New Year's resolution.

Creative limbo, an update

I've got ideas for four different poems jostling for primacy within my head. One, Turn-tables, which I mentioned a couple weeks ago, hasn't developed much further since its initial growth spurt. Part of that is the unfortunate result of holiday and other life distractions.

Two others are still just twinkles in my mind's eye, with no real sense of identity beyond their draft titles. I'm not sure that they'll even make it out alive, but they're trying very hard to push their way through.

And then there's this last one, Purgatory, the idea of which came to me very suddenly this evening. It will probably outpace the others to make it to the light of day first, but I want to let it percolate a little longer. I will leave you with this tease of a first stanza though ...

"I am" wedged, ever so
un-
comfortably between
too
pliable becoming
and
a very hardened was

The song running through my head

Songs often run through my head unprovoked, but as Christmas wraps up for another year I have a particular tune that predictably resurfaces within my synapses for the occasion. It's John Lennon's "Happy Christmas (War is Over)" and it's a song that I wish more people would associate with the holiday.

If you truly honor the religious teachings of the man who lends his name to this holiday — a man who is also known as the "prince of peace" — you should do everything in your power to foster the golden rule that he preached surpassed all of the ten commandments: "Love your neighbor as yourself."

I dedicate this video to the incoming Obama administration, and I pray that they'll heed John Lennon's and Yoko Ono's words ... "War is over, if you want it." It's time for us to wage peace, not war.

Belated, Candied Christmas Wish

It's the day after Christmas, and five days into the latest Doodle Week, but tardy soul that I am, I'm just getting around to recognizing both on this blog. Day Two's theme was Candy Cane, and here's my take on that holiday fixture. I hope everyone who celebrates it out there had a wonderfully festive Christmas!

A layered wave

This isn't the best image of it, but I like the drawing itself quite a bit. The name is probably a little misleading, but for me there's something tidal about it. Maybe it's the rippling blue that is intermixed with the harder-edged surfaces. With that said, as always I toss it out to you to better define.

Crash course in scurvy prevention

As further proof of the often pathetic state of my life, here I sit on the night before Christmas Eve eating oranges and listening to my iTunes (I do love the Flaming Lips).

The fruit is all I currently have in the fridge, but that's good as I need to make a dent in the large gift basket my mother sent before it spoils. I also had a nice walk around the neighborhood earlier, which is strangely deserted either because of the never-ending snowfall or the holiday.

I have a drawing that I'll post after midnight. I like it a lot, and I spent quite a bit of time layering the colors, so I hope you do too.

Random musing between flakes

My mother likes to remind me occasionally that I was born in the midst of a blizzard. It may not seem such a big deal in the Midwest where I currently reside, but in the DC area they don't happen that often.

As I trudge through the quickly accumulating snow today, I think back to that storm which I've only experienced through re-telling, and find a magical beauty in it. The borrowed memory becomes even more poignant, when I realize how fleeting these moments are.

Within hours (maybe longer considering the city's current budget crisis and cut backs to snow removal), the plows will come by and push the unbroken plain of white into uneven piles stained black, brown and gray by the sprayed salt and belched exhaust.

There's a metaphor hidden in there, which I'll leave you to dig out.

Buon compleanno a me: another year in the books

Tomorrow marks the completion of my 45th year breathing this atmosphere. I have every expectation that my 46th ride along the earth's regular solar revolution won't be dull, and if the universe decides to smile (or frown), it may even be fate-full. 

I have a strong hope that circumstances — personal and global — are flowing together in such a way to propel me in a new direction (physically, mentally and spiritually), but then again, I thought the lottery was a sure thing the other day.

Drowsy inspiration

I'm trying to develop more of a narrative voice in my poems. This one started out from a very simple personal experience ... laying in bed with the covers pulled over my head while music wafted in from the other room. I put that moment into a much different context, and abstracted it from myself by sharing it with a third party.

Cocoons
by Francis Scudellari

Sleep-nestled in
perhaps
she unfolds too
comfortably
in-woven tales,
cocoons
self-spun over-
long ago til
head-to-toe rapt
her mind
swings to-and-fro
up-tethered with
a single strand

The silky pod
floats some-
time jostled by
sing-song voices
snake-tongued sirens
seeming
unattached
that each day drift
in, try to lure
her out
with their stories
of fabled lands,
distant faces

Yet, warmly tucked
within
her soothing dreams,
she sleeps on not
eager to join in
clockwork
worlds, their storybook
readings of love
instead waits for
her own
free-form scenes to
outside unfurl
on painted wing

Clowning around with a governor

This is my perhaps sophomoric attempt to portray my state's now famously clownish Governor. I contributed the cartoon to The Urban Coaster newspaper, which on this week's front page will urge the state legislature to immediately begin impeachment proceedings against Mr. Blagojevich.

An odd bit, undeveloped

I'm-
material
as a ghost who
passes over,
through barren and
busy worlds, each
footprint too slight,
my outlined frame
too misshapen,
for the tended
masses to not-
ice

Back to blogging

I'm still trying to find the right balance in my use the two personal websites that I'm currently maintaining. This site has gone through a few iterations over the two and a half years it's existed, but I think it's time to return it to its original bloggy nature.

My eponymous site (FrancisScudellari.Com) will become the primary location for my creative endeavours, and I'll amply plug those from here. I'd like to transition Caught In The Stream toward shorter, more prosaic posts with insight into the process of birthing my poems and drawings. Basically, it will be a place where I think aloud. I'll also toss in some seeming non-sequitirs. It may or may not work.

I'm currently working on a poem entitled "Turn-tables: A cylcical movement in four parts" that I hope to have ready in the next few days. A successful outcome is however still in doubt.

Stoic pose

This is another in my sereies of winter weather inspired abstract drawings. I'll probably be posting quite a few more the way the season is going here in Chicago.

Grotesque

I was pretty worn out when I drew this. I'm sure that affected the content of the illustration, if not the quality. I'm interested to see the interpretations of it. 

Gray surfaces

The wintry weather has put me in a gray mood. I think I may continue experimenting with gray-themed drawings for a little while.

Vanishing, LIght

Sometimes I struggle with my writing, and other times the words come together very quickly. This poem came in a quite literal flash of inspiration one morning.

Vanishing, light
By Francis Scudellari

Her face, remembered but,
For this moment, not-named
Features searched, caressed by
My gentle-touched recall

Her smile that beams, knowing
Stares, meant for these eyes,
Where wait, in-part secrets
Of loved not, to explore

Then-with blinking open
Of my dreaming mind
She, so quick, vanishes
Silent to early morn

This feeling, its darkness
Ever dissipating

A Doodled Winter in Passing

Between the holiday, newspapering, and poetry writing, I failed once again to keep up with Doodle Week. I can't let the whole week slip by without contributing at least one drawing, so here's my very quick and simple attempt to capture the season of Winter.

In-colored streams

I struggled a bit with this drawing ... hence the lag in posts over the past week. It's a bit harder for me to deal with complete abstractions. This was very loosely inspired by the line "In colored streams" from my last poem Demented.

A bloggy thanks giving

Honoring the U.S. tradition of giving thanks on this day, I'd like to express my appreciation for all you wonderful folks who regularly read and comment on this blog. The continued interest and very generous feedback have served as a great motivation and inspiration to my odd brand of creativity.

I'd also like to offer a special "thank you" to Jena and Deborah who have given me blog awards recently. From Jena, whose productivity on several blogs (including Gewgaw Writings) and Helium makes me feel like quite the writing slacker, comes the Butterfly Award. From Deborah, who is the motive force behind the Climate of Our Future blog to which I contribute, I received the lovely Lemonade Award.

Temporary dementia

This is the poem I've been working on. It was a bit of a struggle, and I may still revisit it. There's not much biographical in it, other than a few loose-stitched scenes from a recent dream. 

Demented
by Francis Scudellari

From a mind's sharp cycling,
His life spun through;
Then reels forward to now
In colored streams;
Faces, at first static,
Thinly sprinkled
Bits of dust, laid afar
Are raised timeless
In eddies' swirl; Gathered
Up; Loose-tear glued
To feature-smoothed spheres, then
By thought storms flung,
Strike thick crystal landscapes;
Punch-out windows:
Perfect round glimpses of
The backing black

Each impact slow-stretches,
Sudden shatters
His scene-cracked mirror; Shards,
Paper-fold hinged,
On jagged wings fly up,
Cutting skyward;
Each fractured flap captured
Stop-frame motion;
Gravity freed, vapor
Tails wag behind;
Their glass-voiced cries echo,
One-note alarm,
Ring present-trapped ears; Pull
Him disordered
To this world; Awoken
For one moment

Sorry for the delay ...

I apologize for the lack of posts this week. I've been hard at work putting together a website for my friends' and my latest venture ... a new community newspaper called The Urban Coaster.

The website is up and running, but the print edition won't debut until next week. Of course, you'll have to live on the far north side of Chicago to get your hands on it (or ask me very, very nicely to send you one). Be sure to check out the "horoscope," which was penned by yours truly and reveals a little different side of my personality.

In the mean time, I'll have a new poem called Demented ready to share in the next day or so ... how's that for a tease.

Bled me grey

Sometimes I feel like I need a good blood-letting. Since there are no leaches handy and I'm quite fond of keeping my real blood inside my body, it's much easier to pretend via a drawing. It did help exorcise some self-conjured demons that had infected my soul. Note: Just to be clear, this is in no way meant to endorse or make light of suicide. If it gives that impression, I apologize. I am a strong believer in art as therapy.

Weightless, I walked

I'm in a bit of a dark mood. Maybe it's the weather, but more likely the pressing on of days too much alike with no clear change in sight. I have a drawing whose title inspired this, and I'll likely post it tomorrow.

Weightless, I walked
By Francis Scudellari

Weightless, I walked

Impatient through

This darkly steep,

Thorn-rapt thicket

With each step, passed

Over careless

A world of wrongs

Un-lived, never

Committed, just

Imagined but

Razor-sharp when

Limned, they bled me

Till ghostly, grey

Leaving, no mark,

Only a faint

Memory of

Pale words spoken

To, for no-one

Straight to Jasmin's Heart: A guest post

Jasmin Causevic very graciously invited me to write a guest post for his site Jasmin's Heart. I took the opportunity to review the few lessons I've learned about the creative process over the past two years of blogging. The piece is entitled Lost in a Dream Logic.

Here's an excerpt:

I saw more power and beauty in ambiguity than clarity. Rather than trying to control the impulse to create, I had to give in to it. The unconscious mind did a much better job of directing my hand, and my eyes.

Read the full article here

A bit of catching up ...

For those who have yet to check out my new website, it now includes the complete catalog of the poems I've posted here ... numbering a surprising 90 in all. I still cringe a bit when reading through some of the older ones, but I hope that's a good indicator of growth.

I've also added the ability to comment on the site, so there's a degree of interactivity. The web address is FrancisScudellari.Com.

I also wanted to share a photo from my trip to Ohio. It's a group shot of the "Chicago Six" (from left to right: Charles, Katy, Danny, Terry, me and Jim). We'd like to send out a big thank-you to the wonderful folks in Parma and Strongsville who so graciously welcomed us into their homes. We hope to return the favor if you're ever in Chicago.

Toxic mimic

This poem was very loosely inspired by an environmental piece I saw a few months back on the blog Eco-Friendly Life and Toys. The post features a video clip of writer Derrick Jensen discussing the concept of toxic mimics. I highly recommend watching it, especially since I didn't depict the concept very well below.

Toxic mimic
By Francis Scudellari

(Be led …)

To this reed-choked pool
I'm drawn
With liquid murmurs
My face
Reflected, once-clear
Lines warped
By bubbling decay

(Belong …)

On rippled surface
I seem
Closer. With each breath
My lack
Spreads. Circling worries
Carried
By weak-willed current

(Believe …)

In the brown-tinged glass
I bend
To watery shade
Fingers
Twisted black branches
Reach out
For a sighted hope

(Be loved …)

As teary phantom,
I view
This lonely image
All worth
Grown monstrous, over
Time held
In, tightly, my own

Dona Nobis Pacem ... a day late

Yesterday was the Blog Blast for Peace, which I missed despite my best intentions to participate. Inspired by Mimi, the originator of the Dona Nobis Pacem (Grant Us Peace) globes, November 6th was a day in which the desire for peace rippled through the blogosphere.

Never one to let the calendar stand in the way of a good idea, a day late I'm posting this original drawing I did to commemorate the occasion. I call it Terraforming Peace.

We'll return to our regular programming after this brief political message ...

I'm just back from my trip to help Barack Obama carry Ohio (which he did, in case you didn't see the news), and I wanted to very briefly share a few thoughts on the experience.

Four of my friends and I traveled from the electorally secure city of Chicago to Cleveland, a toss-up territory on the shores of lake Erie. There we met our good friend Katy, who had been helping to organize the campaign in the area for five weeks. A rough-around-the-edges group of guys dubbed the Chicago Boys and the Chicago Crew, we were welcomed enthusiastically and immediately put to work out in the neighborhoods.

It began with a methodical canvassing of suburban Parma to tip the minds of those who hadn't yet decided and to motivate those who had. It ended, in the last few hours before the polls closed, with a mad dash through the streets of an impoverished area of Cleveland to make sure that everyone there had exercised their right to vote.

There are many stories to tell (and I'll gladly share them with anyone who asks me over the next days, weeks, months and years), but no amount of words can adequately capture the whole experience. Most memorable was that shared moment as the large group of local volunteers and staff nervously watched the returns around TVs and computer screens on Tuesday night. First came the news that Pennsylvania had gone to Obama, and shortly after that the giddy announcement that Ohio was also projected in our column. 

As more states were called with the closing of polls in the Midwest, we all began to realize what we had accomplished. I'll never forget the tear-streaked faces mixed in among the smiles as Obama secured the needed 270 electoral votes. Handshakes, hugs and kisses abounded as a tremendous wave of emotion washed over all of us in that office -- a scene that I'm sure was played out in countless places across the nation. 

There was a tinge of sadness that we Chicago Six couldn't be home for the big celebration in Grant Park, but it was more than compensated for with the sheer joy of watching Obama's acceptance speech at a local bar surrounded by a group of committed community organizers (and yes, after much serious dismissing of that occupation at the Republican Convention, there was some vindication here). 

Although Obama's victory is a very big, progressive step for our country and the world, it is in many ways just the first foot forward on our long and very challenging journey together. Amid the many positive memories we bring back with us from Ohio, there are also the bracing ones of naked racism discovered in some homes whose doors were opened to us. It is a reminder that there are still minds stuck in the rut of antiquated ideas, and we need to reach out and pull them into the future.

That said, this election proves that most Americans are tired of the empty ideological debates and the childish name calling. They're sick of the politics of a past where race and religion were used to divide and distract us from the tasks at hand. Beyond its already well-documented historical significance, Obama's victory is the triumph of a politics of pragmatism. We have much to do, and we can no longer afford to shunt those responsibilities onto future generations.

Individually, we need to do the hard work of organizing the communities where we live. Members of a thriving democracy don't wash their hands of their responsibilities after visiting the voting booth every four years. They dirty those hands digging in to make sure that the people we've elected are keeping the promises made to uphold the constitution and protect the public interests. Let's use this moment to come together as a nation to guarantee that this truly is the fulfilment of that long-sought and hard-fought dream of a society where we're all judged based on the content of our character.

Gone electioneering

I'll be neglecting this blog for a few days as I depart early in the morning to get out the vote for Obama in Cleveland. Having embarked on my first out-of-state canvassing trip to the Buckeye state earlier this summer, it makes for a tidy ending that my personal 2008 political voyage winds up back in Ohio.

To put us all in a Cleveland state of mind, I'm posting this video of Randy Newman's tribute to the city on the Cuyahoga. There won't be any burning rivers this week, but it could be quite the shining moment in US history nonetheless. We volunteers certainly plan to be "all on fire."