Interview of the Departed Soul

Image: "Departed Angels" book cover, available at Amazon.com

“So it is that Departed Angels is necessary reading for anyone wanting to understand the legacy of Jack Kerouac. It offers “revealing glimpses” into an American prose saint who never yawned, wrote, or painted a commonplace thing.”
~ Douglas Brinkley (b. 1960) American author and a professor of history at Rice University; from the Preface of “Departed angels: the lost paintings,” by Jack Kerouac, Edward J. Adler.

“Lost boy!- -depart! do not haunt my soul, I have done well forgetting you.”
~ Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) from “On the road: the original scroll,” by Jack Kerouac; edited by Howard Cunnell.

“Goddamn it, FEELING is what I like in art, not CRAFTINESS and the hiding of feelings.”
~ Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) from The Paris Review Interview, 1966, in the book “The beats: a literary reference,” by Matt Theado.

“When the impulses which stir us to profound emotion are integrated with the medium of expression, every interview of the soul may become art.”

~ Hans Hofmann (1880-1966) German-born American abstract expressionist painter.

When profound emotion is manifested through art the result is that we feel the soul of the creator. The author Dinah Maria Mulock once said that “an author departs, he does not die” and I think authors or artists who live and create with the most feeling are the ones who leave the deepest imprint on our souls.

These artists FEEL; and they feel deeply. Many led lives of great highs and lows. The stereotype of tortured artist was birthed through stories of great personal pain and hardships – Kerouac, Hemingway, Plath, Dostoyevsky, Cobain, Kahlo, Poe, Van Gogh, Thompson – to name a few. Interestingly, the term "stereotype" derives from Greek στερεός (stereos) "solid, firm" + τύπος (tupos) "blow, impression, engraved mark" hence "solid impression”. [wikipedia]

Departed souls who left a solid impression.

How I would love to interview them all.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the interview of the departed soul.

Hemingway walked the vascular streets of Paris
Frayed his mind with their details
Carried words like blood to the heart
Kerouac danced with his ancestors
Tattered history and illumination
Shot up in the veins of Paris
Were shadows to appear

With fluid for words

I would fill this vessel and carry-on.

~for more thoughts on Departed, please visit this week's One Single Impression
~for more thoughts on Interview, please visit this week's Sunday Scribblings

Elusive Truth and Shame

Photo: Down the Road, taken by JP, Seattle, Oct. 09

"The enlightened man calls himself: the animal with red cheeks. How did this happen to man? Is it not because he has had to be ashamed too often?
Oh my friends! Thus speaks the enlightened man: ‘Shame, shame, shame – that is the history of man!’ And for that reason the noble man resolves not to make others ashamed: he resolves to feel shame before all sufferers.
Truly, I do not like them, the compassionate who are happy in their compassion: they are too lacking in shame."

~ Friedrich Nietzsche, (1844-1900) German philosopher, from “Thus spoke Zarathustra: a book for everyone and no one” by Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, R. J. Hollingdale.

“In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after Truth.”

~ Mahatma Gandhi, (1869-1948) the pre-eminent political and spiritual leader of India during the Indian independence movement.

The Truth of life, has been the subject of many a philosopher, theologian, scientist, artist and the quest of many scholars.

We are all students in this study of Life. And in our studies, objective truth seems an elusive matter. Does it even exist? Or does it constitute itself in a moment in time, only later to be reincarnated in another form?

In the history of civilization we have held certain truths to be self evident, but even so, the interpretation of those truths makes them inherently elusive. In this country our Declaration of Independence asserts that it is a self evident truth that “all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

This philosophy has been notoriously elusive in application. Who are “all men?” Are they white men, do they include people of color, women, or gay and lesbian people … who is included and more importantly, who is excluded, and how are they excluded.

How do we reconcile our shame and complicity when the truth of our ancestors is discovered to be a lie? What do we do with injustice today? Do we remain happy in our compassion or are we motivated by our shame?

Here in Washington State we are fighting to ensure that same sex families maintain their right to visit each other in the hospital, take family and medical leave when a loved one is seriously ill, and have insurance coverage.

"Referendum 71 is a ballot referendum that asks Washington state voters to re-confirm the expansion of domestic partnership rights and obligations in Washington's originally limited domestic partnership legislation. The expansion (SB 5688) was signed by Governor Christine Gregoire on May 18, 2009. Proponents of holding the referendum hope to head off same sex marriage, by rescinding the expansion legislation." [wikipedia]

Can we quiet the rhetoric and listen for the truth. Is it shame or fear or self-loathing that promotes intolerance and inequality?

Today’s poem is dedicated to the Elusive nature of truth and the Shame of compassion without action.

History is a tap root
Stealing deep waters to survive
at another’s expense

Hard and pungent
Compassion is a well
of sorrow and shame

Truth like varnished wood
slept through the years
Such a simple thing: not waking.

Register to vote. And, if you are a Washington State citizen, vote to Approve Ref. 71. Peace, JP/deb

Junk to Create and Conquer

Photo: Autumn Junk, taken by JP, Seattle, 10.09

“To invent, you need a good imagination and a pile of junk.”
~ Thomas A. Edison, (1847-1931) US inventor, scientist and businessman

Now hung with Pearls the dropping Trees appear,
Their faded Honours scatter’d here and there.
Behold the Groves that shine with silver Frost,
Their Beauty wither’d, and their Verdure lost.
Sharp Boreas blows, and Nature feels Decay,
Time conquers all and we must Time obey.
~ Benjamin Franklin, (1706-1790), US author, diplomat, inventor, physicist, politician, & printer; from “Poor Richard, 1745. An Almanack For the Year of Christ 1745”

The leaves are falling since Autumn walked in with his boyish sandalwood hair, rust woolen trousers, and cashmere scarf flowing amber woven thoughts. His breezy presence belied the intensity of emotion he wore beneath the surface.

Time demanded his entrance and he would not disappoint. Now dropping trees scatter their 'faded Honours' which lay in discarded piles, bits and pieces, the junk of speckled dreams.

Summer kissed him goodbye and Winter held her cool, pale arm out for him to take.

Today’s poem is dedicated the junk that serves as ingredients to create and conquer.

When the green disappears
The riot of yellow, red and orange
Collide like the temple of an emperor
Crimson

These days are not heavy, nor
Light they are painted scenes
In a Universe we invent
Water

Shapes stone and bathes the world
When the sun disappears
I will hold your gray like moon
Light


~for more thoughts on Junk, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings
~for more thoughts on Conquer, visit this week's One Single Impression

First Kiss Descent

Photo, Lumen, taken by JP, Seattle Jul '09

“The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship of two people much more strongly than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender.”

~ Emil Ludwig, (1881-1948) German writer and journalist

“Entry, descent and landing are very complex, and a lot of things have to go correctly. That's just part of the risk associated with the mission.”
~ Richard Cook, operations project manager at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory, speaking about the Mars Polar Lander, Dec. '99

I remember our first kiss. I remember the energy, the music in my head, the thrill (which will never be gone) and the surrender … the relinquishment of control.

A lot of things had to go correctly for this to happen.

When we fall in love the “entry, descent and landing are very complex …”

When I fell the entry was paved with lessons learned; which turned out to be very good because we had a rapid, ear-popping descent. But baby, now we’ve landed and the earth has never felt firmer.

And I’ve never felt (simultaneously) lighter and more grounded.

Tonight’s poem is dedicated to descending into that first kiss of surrender.

no reverse thrust here;
I am
Buoyant

with desire

velocity is no capitulation
but your eyes are

falling leaves

inventing amber and luminance
wanting for tomorrow
dripping

through today

there is no past here
we are

we. are.

we
are

sidewalk dreams
landing


For more thoughts on First Kiss, visit this week’s Sunday Scribblings.
For more thoughts on Descent, visit this week’s One Single Impression.

Friends & Lovers

Photo: Fry it up in a Pan, taken by JP, Seattle, Sept. 09

“All colors are the friends of their neighbors and the lovers of their opposites.”

~ Marc Chagall, (1887-1985) Russian-Jewish artist, born in Belarus and naturalized French in 1937.

“Colors, like features, follow the changes of the emotions.”

~ Pablo Picasso, (1881-1973) Spanish painter, draughtsman, and sculptor.

“I asked him if he did not feel, as an artist, that a solid but yielding substance like cheese went naturally with a solid, yielding substance like bread; to eat it off biscuits is like eating it off slates. I asked him if, when he said his prayers, he was so supercilious as to pray for his daily biscuits.”
~ Gilbert K. Chesterton, (1874-1936) English writer; from “Alarms and Discursions” (1910)

“Wine and cheese are ageless companions, like aspirin and aches, or June and moon, or good people and noble ventures.”

~ M. F. K. Fisher, (1908-1992) American U.S. culinary writer and autobiographer; from her introduction in “Vin et Fromage: An Odyssey for Wine and Cheese Lovers,” Scavarda & Sater (1981)

This week’s Sunday Scribblings’ prompt is Cheese … that lovely derivative of milk that has hundreds (or thousands) of incarnations. James Joyce called cheese milk’s “corpse” in his novel Ulysses; but I prefer Chesterton’s tongue in cheek homage to cheese in his aptly titled chapter, Cheese, from “Alarms and Discursions.”

I miss cheese.

Cheese and bread. Cheese and wine. Cheese and cheese.

My partner and I are on a six-week vegan diet. No cheese. After the six week’s we can reincorporate (small) portions of cheese. The other day we let ourselves “slip” and went out for dinner … I stuck to the no-meat part of our regime, but decided to splurge and have a goat cheese and zucchini quesadilla. Sadly I got b.a.d. cheese. Which resulted in a very unpleasant 16 hours of e.f.f.e.c.t.s. of bad cheese.

Now I’m not missing it so much.

This week’s One Single Impression prompt is Colors. The colors of our current diet are vibrant with veggies, beans, legumes and fruit. These vibrant colors are the friends (and sometimes lovers) that dance on our palates.

With the change in our diet I appreciate more the colors of our food and take delight in different combinations and hues.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the foods that keep us vibrant.

Tribal gourds; fleshy orange; leather potatoed membrane
savory. pigment. skin.

Red lusting tomatoes; bruised purple boysenberries
vine. trees. earth.

Swollen ovary zucchini blossom; red nippled legumes
stems. seeds. buds.

Lily white onions; sturdy firm spined lettuce
bulbs. veins. leaves.

Rainbow nourished flesh; sun ripened skin
body. i. love.

Hungry through the Fog

Image: Mme Matisse: Madras Rouge (The Red Madras Headress), Summer 1907, Oil on canvas. Barnes Foundation, Lincoln University, Merion, PA, USA

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

~ E. L. Doctorow

“Derive happiness in oneself from a good day's work, from illuminating the fog that surrounds us.”

~ Henri Matisse

“Even the rich are hungry for love, for being cared for, for being wanted, for having someone to call their own.”

~ Mother Teresa

“If our history can challenge the next wave of musicians to keep moving and changing, to keep spiritually hungry and horny, that's what it's all about.”

~ Carlos Santana


Aren’t we all driving through the night in fog, some of us with the headlights off, some on low, some on bright … all of us trying to see.

Trying to move.

Trying to arrive.

And through it all we are hungry. Hungry for love. Even if we don’t know it. Even if we define it a million different ways. Hungry for the love of the soul. For the love of God. For the love of flesh. For the love of tenderness. For the love of acceptance.

Hungry.

Through.

The Fog.

To paraphrase Carlos Santana, it is our history to help the next generation remain hungry and passionate about life. We can do this by setting the example.

Stay hungry.

Keep your high beams on.

Tonight’s poem is dedicated to the fog and the hunger.

You were sleepy in early morning light.
You were sweet like adagio strains.
You were berried red and yellow cautioned.
You were hungry under the surface.
You were walking rain and smiling fog.
And I was everything
That you
Were.

Peace and love,
JP/deb

For more thoughts on Hungry, visit this week’s Sunday Scribblings.
For more thoughts on Fog, visit this week’s One Single Impression.

Tattoo Thirst

Photo: My Tattoo (from a Pablo Neruda sonnet), taken by AG, September 2009

“Tattoos are like stories - they're symbolic of the important moments in your life. Sitting down, talking about where you got each tattoo and what it symbolizes, is really beautiful.”

~ Pamela Anderson

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace. My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

~ from “Body of A Woman”, by Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, first published in Chile, 1924

This weekend's prompts include "Tattoo" over at Sunday Scribblings and "Thirst" at One Single Impression.

I got my first tattoo earlier this year. It is symbolic. It is another step in my journey. It is a part of me; authentic, expressive and speaks silently of my story. It is an identifier. A marker. A commitment. To her. To me.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the story of quenching the thirst.

My fingers were regrets
hollowed
trees dying in rivers of moss
before the sun of your smile turned them rushes
growing on infertile soil

My words were gnarled roots
tangled
in the dusty underbrush of nettled dreams
before leaves with little feet
parted the way

You possessed a structure
that raked me clear
flattened and widened corridors
quivered with drenched waters of heaven
before
before

my fingers were regrets