take art where you may

Somehow I have to kick a bit of creativity from my backside (or frontside–I’m not picky as to the origin) by Thursday. I’m going to exhibit with a diverse group of artists for Greenville’s First Friday art series, and I’m thrilled. The space on Pendleton Street is raw and gritty as my favorite Gulf-plucked treat: oysters.

I can feel a new painting seeping in. Yes, there it is–the urge to create–mysterious and compelling as the Indian Pipes at which we stooped to marvel near Craggy Pinnacle. The Corpse Plant and I have much in common. This wraith sucks nutrients from a fungus which sucks nutrients from a tree. In return, it offers its translucent brilliance to the world above.

I crouch, mesmerized at bells curving swanlike toward the rich, black earth in an ephemeral grace. The spindly ghost plant begs for the slightest caress, and I offer a fingertip along the slender neck, a whisper of a touch in praise–the touch I reserve for newborns and butterfly wings.

I, too, function at a level of parasitism as I feed vicariously on all the ideas of all who’ve come before. I rearrange common ground until it sounds fresh and appears interesting (to me). The nature of creativity, like Indian Pipes, remains delicate, best discussed in hushed tones.

Them bones finally going to walk around. Give me some damn purpose, some soul I can share!

confessional

this cathartic outlet allows an outpouring of refined stream-of-consciousness writing. with spell check and an internet at our disposal, we create an identity for ourselves–a collective and singular binarized system of self-promotion which strays from self-awareness. our internet identity/image functions as an alternate existence on a shared continuum. identities are immortalized in the internet, stored in dormancy but never forgotten. but can you really convey “who” you are, intricacies-warts and all, in text and images? we project our ideal selves through the internet. the more i move between days, the more i understand humanity and technology as a grand sociological waltz, prancing above egocentric curiosity.

Bird’s Eye View

Anemic late-afternoon sunlight twists, chokes

through the rhododendron tanglewood

as you pull me upward.  Birdbone hand clasps

January-cold hand.  You crow about your

mountain crest, laced with gods, at odds with the sky.

This view will stagger, you promise.

 

I stagger to the top, panting, squinting, afraid

to open my eyes fully to an unforgivable vista,

spiked with arthritic, spindly trees.  Distant,

odd smoke stacks puff empty as promises

into a blanched sky.

 

My ashen breath comes in shallow, empty puffs.

You point, but I cannot hear you beneath dead spindles of air.

Tanglewood writhes upward; branches beckon like gods,

whispered promise of flight.  You clench tight;

my hand is cold beneath yours

and twisted as a crow claw.

the glorified brontosaurus

Othniel Charles Marsh, a Professor of Paleontology at Yale University, described and named an incomplete (and juvenile) skeleton of Apatosaurus ajax in 1877.

Two years later, Marsh announced the discovery of a larger and more complete specimen at Como Bluff Wyoming—which, because of discrepancies including the size difference, Marsh incorrectly identified as belonging to an entirely new genus and species.

He dubbed the new species Brontosaurus excelsus, meaning “thunder lizard”, from the Greek brontē/βροντη meaning ‘thunder’ and sauros/σαυρος meaning ‘lizard’ and from the Latin excelsus, “highest, sublime”, referring to the greater number of sacral vertebrae than in any other genus of sauropod known at the time. (Wikipedia)

Marsh’s head swelled to the size of a juvenile apatosaurus when he unearthed the now defunct brontosaurus.

Here I am as a dinosaur in case you were wondering: