Chengdu: Bookworm Literary Festival
Participants past and present in the Bookworm Creative Writing Workshop will read on Wednesday March 19 as their contribution to the Literary Festival.
At the Workshop we do two kinds of writing: at each session I introduce a special short writing exercise, which the members do on the spot, after which each person reads his or her piece of writing. The listeners then comment on each person’s writing, asking questions, making suggestions or just giving a personal response.
The second type of writing is a longer story, done over a period of nine weeks. Currently the story we are writing is entitled THE STORY OF AMANDA CRIMSON. Each week I announce a new chapter title. Chapter One, for instance, is “Red Lipstick.” Everyone uses the same chapter title but beyond that each story is unique. The chapters are loosely rather than tightly joined but in the ninth week we draw the story to a conclusion. Shortly thereafter I introduce a new story title, and again each week provide chapter titles.
On the 19th, members will read something from one or the other of these two forms of writing. Some chapters in the long story are quite short and suitable for oral presentation. The weekly exercises are limited to a page, maximum. We hope to encourage anyone interested in improving his or her writing to join us at the weekly meeting. All kinds of writing and writers are welcome. The workshop is not restricted to poetry or fiction: the emphasis is upon writing per se. This enables anyone to benefit, even from attending a single session. Each week we focus on an aspect of good writing practice.
We usually begin with a question period, dealing with any particular problem someone may be having in writing.
Writing is a rather lonely form of artistic expression. Having a chance to meet other writers, and to get some immediate response to one’s own writing, as well as make responses to other people’s work, is a unique and important opportunity. The atmosphere at the Writing Workshop is open, friendly, informal and informative. Come join us and see for yourself!
Allen Sutterfield
Friday, February 29, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
GRENDEL'S POND
News fom Chengdu
BOOK LAUNCH March 5, 2008: GRENDEL’S POND
GRENDEL’S POND is the fourth in a series of small chapbooks comprised of selections from THE CITY OF WORDS, an epic work of more than 5,000 individual texts. There are 38 texts in Grendel’s Pond: there are poems, prose pieces, and pieces of writing which do not fit easily into any categorical genre. I call all the works ‘texts’ for the very simple reason that any piece of writing is literally a text, and there are many varieties of verbal expression in THE CITY OF WORDS. It is the writing itself, the language, that is the important part, not the category!
Grendel is a monster in the early English epic BEOWULF, the fiend whom Beowulf fights and kills. Grendel lives underwater in a fen or boggy pool, into which Beowulf plunges in pursuit of the monster. Their battle occurs underwater in this pool. The title refers to the choices a poet must make in pursuing his craft. While it’s convenient to think of the pond as a symbol of the Unconscious (personal and collective), I also have in mind the ordinary external world, whose surfaces must be plumbed to get at any kind of truth. There are plenty of monsters in both places. The poet here is seen as someone actively engaged in conflict, not a mere commentator on or describer of events. This engagement is largely invisible, just as Beowulf is fighting unseen by human eyes. The most valid poetry comes from the depths, and anyone seriously engaged in the effort to create poetry is entitled to a share of the epithet ‘heroic.’ Beowulf succeeds in slaying Grendel, and re-emerges from the pond, having freed the inhabitants of that area from terror and suffering. Successful poetry also liberates us, the readers, if only by reminding us of a larger, more heroic world than that of ‘the daily grind.’
Robert Bly’s very perceptive book IRON JOHN is a kind of echo of Beowulf, in that Iron John is discovered living at the bottom of a pond.
He is brought to the surface by a less dramatic hero than Beowulf but still a very effective one. Iron John is immediately imprisoned in the local town, but eventually escapes, helped by the young son of the King. Ultimately Iron John reappears as a “Lord of Life’, having emerged from a kind of enchantment that had imprisoned him in the pond. This is a primary aim of poetry itself: to wake the reader from the drowsy humdrum repetitive rounds of everyday existence into a sudden awareness of a world one does not usually see or think about but which is there all the time. The poet shares the same world we do, but he or she lives in it differently, beneath the surfaces most of us take for granted, and because of this ceaseless interactive struggle “in the depths,” poems emerge with the power to propel us, even if only for a moment or two, into that more real place we usually describe as ‘dreamland.’ The Poet’s dream is the dream of the Real, and the poet’s touch wakes each of us into a world of the ‘really Real’ . These vivid moments enable us to return to our ordinary tasks and involvements with a fresh sense of ourselves, and a more productive, satisfying relation to all those around us. Poetry places us in touch with a larger feeling of both self and world. It is in that sense I find it a ‘heroic’ human action.
Grendel’s Pond is dedicated to a close friend of mine, who lives in Montreal, Canada. We met in 1983. I was hosting a weekly poetry reading series, at an art gallery. Brian was a scheduled reader for a Saturday night in late October. He arrived on time but alas, the weather was cold, wet and windy, it was a Saturday night and no one else came by! Brian and I spent a couple of hours talking, and I re-scheduled him for a later date, that proved much more successful. This is an example of the many disappointments any poet is in for, in seeking connections with the ordinary world. The poet soon learns to accept the loneliness of the poetic effort. It was Brian who, several years later, introduced me to Robert Bly’s IRON JOHN, on a trip we made to New York City, where among other things we attended a poetry reading in an apartment in Greenwich Village. Our own poems were well received by the people gathered there, all of whom were very creditable poets themselves, though unknown to the public at large. This, too, is part of the loneliness of the poet’s life.
Best wishes to all readers of GRENDEL’S POND! May each of you find in it a gleam or two of the ‘really Real.’
Allen Sutterfield
BOOK LAUNCH March 5, 2008: GRENDEL’S POND
GRENDEL’S POND is the fourth in a series of small chapbooks comprised of selections from THE CITY OF WORDS, an epic work of more than 5,000 individual texts. There are 38 texts in Grendel’s Pond: there are poems, prose pieces, and pieces of writing which do not fit easily into any categorical genre. I call all the works ‘texts’ for the very simple reason that any piece of writing is literally a text, and there are many varieties of verbal expression in THE CITY OF WORDS. It is the writing itself, the language, that is the important part, not the category!
Grendel is a monster in the early English epic BEOWULF, the fiend whom Beowulf fights and kills. Grendel lives underwater in a fen or boggy pool, into which Beowulf plunges in pursuit of the monster. Their battle occurs underwater in this pool. The title refers to the choices a poet must make in pursuing his craft. While it’s convenient to think of the pond as a symbol of the Unconscious (personal and collective), I also have in mind the ordinary external world, whose surfaces must be plumbed to get at any kind of truth. There are plenty of monsters in both places. The poet here is seen as someone actively engaged in conflict, not a mere commentator on or describer of events. This engagement is largely invisible, just as Beowulf is fighting unseen by human eyes. The most valid poetry comes from the depths, and anyone seriously engaged in the effort to create poetry is entitled to a share of the epithet ‘heroic.’ Beowulf succeeds in slaying Grendel, and re-emerges from the pond, having freed the inhabitants of that area from terror and suffering. Successful poetry also liberates us, the readers, if only by reminding us of a larger, more heroic world than that of ‘the daily grind.’
Robert Bly’s very perceptive book IRON JOHN is a kind of echo of Beowulf, in that Iron John is discovered living at the bottom of a pond.
He is brought to the surface by a less dramatic hero than Beowulf but still a very effective one. Iron John is immediately imprisoned in the local town, but eventually escapes, helped by the young son of the King. Ultimately Iron John reappears as a “Lord of Life’, having emerged from a kind of enchantment that had imprisoned him in the pond. This is a primary aim of poetry itself: to wake the reader from the drowsy humdrum repetitive rounds of everyday existence into a sudden awareness of a world one does not usually see or think about but which is there all the time. The poet shares the same world we do, but he or she lives in it differently, beneath the surfaces most of us take for granted, and because of this ceaseless interactive struggle “in the depths,” poems emerge with the power to propel us, even if only for a moment or two, into that more real place we usually describe as ‘dreamland.’ The Poet’s dream is the dream of the Real, and the poet’s touch wakes each of us into a world of the ‘really Real’ . These vivid moments enable us to return to our ordinary tasks and involvements with a fresh sense of ourselves, and a more productive, satisfying relation to all those around us. Poetry places us in touch with a larger feeling of both self and world. It is in that sense I find it a ‘heroic’ human action.
Grendel’s Pond is dedicated to a close friend of mine, who lives in Montreal, Canada. We met in 1983. I was hosting a weekly poetry reading series, at an art gallery. Brian was a scheduled reader for a Saturday night in late October. He arrived on time but alas, the weather was cold, wet and windy, it was a Saturday night and no one else came by! Brian and I spent a couple of hours talking, and I re-scheduled him for a later date, that proved much more successful. This is an example of the many disappointments any poet is in for, in seeking connections with the ordinary world. The poet soon learns to accept the loneliness of the poetic effort. It was Brian who, several years later, introduced me to Robert Bly’s IRON JOHN, on a trip we made to New York City, where among other things we attended a poetry reading in an apartment in Greenwich Village. Our own poems were well received by the people gathered there, all of whom were very creditable poets themselves, though unknown to the public at large. This, too, is part of the loneliness of the poet’s life.
Best wishes to all readers of GRENDEL’S POND! May each of you find in it a gleam or two of the ‘really Real.’
Allen Sutterfield
Thursday, February 21, 2008
BOXES
Copyright©2008-Allen Sutterfield
In 2006, in Toronto, I began placing my texts in wooden teaboxes I bought at the many Dollar Stores in that city. I replaced the 20 teabags with 20 texts, but included one teabag also. The idea was, to enjoy a text or two while having a cup of tea! These proved quite popular but since it was a very labor intensive project, I produced less than 50 that summer, all in the wooden box format.
When I returned to Chengdu this past summer, it suddenly occurred to me that ANY kind of container could potentially be used in the same way. Packaging is a conspicuous part of modern commercial life. It was no problem to suddenly find I had all kinds of good containers for my texts. Pasteboard teaboxes, of course, were a convenient starting point but, lightbulbs, toothpaste, Kraft Dinner, mosquito killer, printer cartridges, ballpoint pen pack, film cartons, cigarette packs (which a friend gave me, I don’t smoke!), the list goes on and on. So I began selecting and packing texts in all the different kinds of packages. I call this series “MAKER’S DOZEN.” We have the expression in English “Baker’s dozen,” which refers to the number of cookies or pastries you get at the bakery. An ordinary dozen is 12, but a”baker’s dozen” is 13. So I put 13 texts in each package. I began with very small packages which made 13 an attractive number but I kept the same number for even larger packages for the most part. The wooden teaboxes, a few of which I brought from Toronto, still have 20 texts, however. Another variation is Chopstick covers: I found they accommodated a pair of texts very conveniently, so there are 2 texts in each chopstick cover. Longer story texts I placed in special bags, and called them “Bag-o-Tales,” to pun on the French bagatelle, referring to a trifle or a certain kind of game, and, more obliquely, to the ’baguette’ or long slender loaf of bread.
Thus, I will have a “Bag Launch”, not just a “Book Launch.” A first, actually, since I did not have an official launch of the teaboxes in Toronto. This is very much in keeping with my aims as a writer and visual artist. My primary aim is to establish nexes or “meeting points” or “connecting points” between art and everyday actuality. All of us do endless shopping. By placing my poems and texts in familiar product containers I seek to make writing as available and convenient as any other product in the mass market. Not that writing or creating is itself a “mass market” item or activity, but because the mass market is a common feature of contemporary urban society. I do not think poetry or creativity is well served by remaining aloof from the marketplace. Quite the opposite! I would prefer to find poetry right alongside face creams and breakfast cereals and jello boxes in any grocery! This is a direct slap at that unfortunate development in the past that placed poetry and art on a high pedestal knowable and approachable only by an aristocratic few. I do not wish to make writing or any other art devalued or undervalued by locating it in the marketplace. Rather, the reverse. There is no danger to art itself, real art will always require real sacrifice on the part of those who produce it. But the accessibility of the products of art is an entirely different matter. I think art can only benefit by being more readily viewable and available to humans at large. Artists are notoriously marginal in economic terms in modern life, in Toronto as elsewhere. Most live on or below the poverty line. Greater accessibility could alleviate this problematic aspect of the artist’s life. By reducing the distance between creative work products and mass market items, art itself comes closer to all people, it becomes a visible and potent presence in the everyday world. I think this can have very positive results for both artists and public.
So, I say welcome to Sabrina’s Country Store, specializing in texts by Adze! Have a look round and buy some texts, to store alongside your groceries and toothpaste once you get home. Let art be a part of your everyday world—you won’t suffer for it! You might even come to enjoy things in a way you never thought of before!
That’s the key word: Enjoy!
Allen Sutterfield
In 2006, in Toronto, I began placing my texts in wooden teaboxes I bought at the many Dollar Stores in that city. I replaced the 20 teabags with 20 texts, but included one teabag also. The idea was, to enjoy a text or two while having a cup of tea! These proved quite popular but since it was a very labor intensive project, I produced less than 50 that summer, all in the wooden box format.
When I returned to Chengdu this past summer, it suddenly occurred to me that ANY kind of container could potentially be used in the same way. Packaging is a conspicuous part of modern commercial life. It was no problem to suddenly find I had all kinds of good containers for my texts. Pasteboard teaboxes, of course, were a convenient starting point but, lightbulbs, toothpaste, Kraft Dinner, mosquito killer, printer cartridges, ballpoint pen pack, film cartons, cigarette packs (which a friend gave me, I don’t smoke!), the list goes on and on. So I began selecting and packing texts in all the different kinds of packages. I call this series “MAKER’S DOZEN.” We have the expression in English “Baker’s dozen,” which refers to the number of cookies or pastries you get at the bakery. An ordinary dozen is 12, but a”baker’s dozen” is 13. So I put 13 texts in each package. I began with very small packages which made 13 an attractive number but I kept the same number for even larger packages for the most part. The wooden teaboxes, a few of which I brought from Toronto, still have 20 texts, however. Another variation is Chopstick covers: I found they accommodated a pair of texts very conveniently, so there are 2 texts in each chopstick cover. Longer story texts I placed in special bags, and called them “Bag-o-Tales,” to pun on the French bagatelle, referring to a trifle or a certain kind of game, and, more obliquely, to the ’baguette’ or long slender loaf of bread.
Thus, I will have a “Bag Launch”, not just a “Book Launch.” A first, actually, since I did not have an official launch of the teaboxes in Toronto. This is very much in keeping with my aims as a writer and visual artist. My primary aim is to establish nexes or “meeting points” or “connecting points” between art and everyday actuality. All of us do endless shopping. By placing my poems and texts in familiar product containers I seek to make writing as available and convenient as any other product in the mass market. Not that writing or creating is itself a “mass market” item or activity, but because the mass market is a common feature of contemporary urban society. I do not think poetry or creativity is well served by remaining aloof from the marketplace. Quite the opposite! I would prefer to find poetry right alongside face creams and breakfast cereals and jello boxes in any grocery! This is a direct slap at that unfortunate development in the past that placed poetry and art on a high pedestal knowable and approachable only by an aristocratic few. I do not wish to make writing or any other art devalued or undervalued by locating it in the marketplace. Rather, the reverse. There is no danger to art itself, real art will always require real sacrifice on the part of those who produce it. But the accessibility of the products of art is an entirely different matter. I think art can only benefit by being more readily viewable and available to humans at large. Artists are notoriously marginal in economic terms in modern life, in Toronto as elsewhere. Most live on or below the poverty line. Greater accessibility could alleviate this problematic aspect of the artist’s life. By reducing the distance between creative work products and mass market items, art itself comes closer to all people, it becomes a visible and potent presence in the everyday world. I think this can have very positive results for both artists and public.
So, I say welcome to Sabrina’s Country Store, specializing in texts by Adze! Have a look round and buy some texts, to store alongside your groceries and toothpaste once you get home. Let art be a part of your everyday world—you won’t suffer for it! You might even come to enjoy things in a way you never thought of before!
That’s the key word: Enjoy!
Allen Sutterfield
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Unforgettables
Copyright©2008-Pat Lamont
Much of what we hear is easily forgotten,
But every now and then,
A brilliant thought precious as a diamond
Is given to us to remain forever unforgettable.
Much of what we hear is easily forgotten,
But every now and then,
A brilliant thought precious as a diamond
Is given to us to remain forever unforgettable.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Allens "LIST"
CHENGDU- February 2008
Hi Della,
Just back home after three days with friends for Chinese New Year; got my first cold of the winter this week so that also slowed me up a bit. About books: did I send you previously the "List" of books from my notorious "1967 LIST" of 420 books I wrote down at that time I intended to read? I have since read more than half on the list, and have rounded up about half of the remaining ones--that was fun last summer in Toronto, going to bookstores with the List! and buying anything and everything that was on it. I have plenty with me to keep me busy for quite a while but any book on the list is always welcome. Some I want to read more than others of course but ALL are to be read eventually. I hope to finish the whole 420 by the time I'm 75, ten years from now. That's an average of 2 titles per month, in addition to ALL THE OTHER reading I'm interested in of course! As for Brown's LIFE AGAINST DEATH... is a book to be read and reread many times, not just dashed through and marked off a list. It was NOT on my list in 1967--wish I'd read it then! But it no doubt would not have affected me the same way it did last Spring. The main task I have for the Literary Festival is getting a new chapbook printed in the next four weeks---I'm scheduled to do a book launch on March 5, and you are scheduled to read and do whatevere on March 19, as part of the Writing Workshop Evening. So do bring a few copies of your book or books, and I'd advise bringing the ACTS trilogy, in case some publishing chance happens to spring up. Anyway I'd like to see it again and even have a copy of it, so we can always photocopy it if you have it here.
Hi Della,
Just back home after three days with friends for Chinese New Year; got my first cold of the winter this week so that also slowed me up a bit. About books: did I send you previously the "List" of books from my notorious "1967 LIST" of 420 books I wrote down at that time I intended to read? I have since read more than half on the list, and have rounded up about half of the remaining ones--that was fun last summer in Toronto, going to bookstores with the List! and buying anything and everything that was on it. I have plenty with me to keep me busy for quite a while but any book on the list is always welcome. Some I want to read more than others of course but ALL are to be read eventually. I hope to finish the whole 420 by the time I'm 75, ten years from now. That's an average of 2 titles per month, in addition to ALL THE OTHER reading I'm interested in of course! As for Brown's LIFE AGAINST DEATH... is a book to be read and reread many times, not just dashed through and marked off a list. It was NOT on my list in 1967--wish I'd read it then! But it no doubt would not have affected me the same way it did last Spring. The main task I have for the Literary Festival is getting a new chapbook printed in the next four weeks---I'm scheduled to do a book launch on March 5, and you are scheduled to read and do whatevere on March 19, as part of the Writing Workshop Evening. So do bring a few copies of your book or books, and I'd advise bringing the ACTS trilogy, in case some publishing chance happens to spring up. Anyway I'd like to see it again and even have a copy of it, so we can always photocopy it if you have it here.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
From: THE KUBRA BIRD
TEXT 269
copyright©2007 Allen Sutterfield
8:5A a.m. Oct. 18:
6 hours sleep but somehow I'm perky and peppy and more resolved than in a long while. Immediately went out front to "read the weather" and turn off the lights, beautiful sunny crisp morning awaited! Splashes of gold and orange as the sun lit up the trees across the street. Clear sky and cool clarity everywhere. The weather is always a surprise emerging from this basement. Dreams of Mullah Nasser Eddin prepared my resolve, I guess! I can't recall particulars but I seemed almost to be a current representative of that esteemed hodja.
One story I was either writing living dreaming telling or listening to was called "The Man Who Needed Stamps" or, "Hidden Resources." The Mulla was getting no mail because he had no moolah for stamps for letters he wanted to write to his many friends. He decided to "concentrate in public", i.e., protest and meditate at the same time, by taking up a position on the steps of City Hall. After a couple of hours a policeman approached, asking to see his permit to sit there. Naturally the Mulla had no such thing, and was surprised to find such a requirement, being a wellknown citizen of the place. "Well you at least have to have your birth certificate, bring me that and I will accept it as a temporary permit you do have a birth certificate, don't you?" "Of course I do!" he shouted and rushed home to obtain the document.
The Mulla kept all his papers, both trivial and important, in a huge trunk in a small room next to his bedroom. Before locating the birth certificate, however, he carne across all the letters he had received in the past, he kept everything of that nature, and he began to look at all the different handwritings and names of correspondents, some of whom he'd all but forgotten. Then he noticed the stamps, still intact, because he always opened the envelopes carefully and neatly. Many of the stamps had not been cancelled by those sleepers working in the post office! He immediately chose all the envelopes with uncancelled stamps, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, made a pot of tea and simultaneously steamed free all the stamps.
While drinking the tea in the small garden out back, sitting at a wooden table where he had often written and read letters, he at once wrote to a dozen of his friends, assuring them that whatever it was that they might think they needed on any given morning, that thing they probably already had, if only they knew where to look for it. True, it often required another person to occasion their looking, but that person was sure to appear, if only they concentrated on the actual problem at hand.
copyright©2007 Allen Sutterfield
8:5A a.m. Oct. 18:
6 hours sleep but somehow I'm perky and peppy and more resolved than in a long while. Immediately went out front to "read the weather" and turn off the lights, beautiful sunny crisp morning awaited! Splashes of gold and orange as the sun lit up the trees across the street. Clear sky and cool clarity everywhere. The weather is always a surprise emerging from this basement. Dreams of Mullah Nasser Eddin prepared my resolve, I guess! I can't recall particulars but I seemed almost to be a current representative of that esteemed hodja.
One story I was either writing living dreaming telling or listening to was called "The Man Who Needed Stamps" or, "Hidden Resources." The Mulla was getting no mail because he had no moolah for stamps for letters he wanted to write to his many friends. He decided to "concentrate in public", i.e., protest and meditate at the same time, by taking up a position on the steps of City Hall. After a couple of hours a policeman approached, asking to see his permit to sit there. Naturally the Mulla had no such thing, and was surprised to find such a requirement, being a wellknown citizen of the place. "Well you at least have to have your birth certificate, bring me that and I will accept it as a temporary permit you do have a birth certificate, don't you?" "Of course I do!" he shouted and rushed home to obtain the document.
The Mulla kept all his papers, both trivial and important, in a huge trunk in a small room next to his bedroom. Before locating the birth certificate, however, he carne across all the letters he had received in the past, he kept everything of that nature, and he began to look at all the different handwritings and names of correspondents, some of whom he'd all but forgotten. Then he noticed the stamps, still intact, because he always opened the envelopes carefully and neatly. Many of the stamps had not been cancelled by those sleepers working in the post office! He immediately chose all the envelopes with uncancelled stamps, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, made a pot of tea and simultaneously steamed free all the stamps.
While drinking the tea in the small garden out back, sitting at a wooden table where he had often written and read letters, he at once wrote to a dozen of his friends, assuring them that whatever it was that they might think they needed on any given morning, that thing they probably already had, if only they knew where to look for it. True, it often required another person to occasion their looking, but that person was sure to appear, if only they concentrated on the actual problem at hand.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Life against Death
Della, Everything you say makes me feel you will enjoy LIFE AGAINST DEATH all the more when you finally do have a read! It is not what you think, and as for the "psychoanalytical meaning of history" and all those heavyweights, don't worry, Brown is very articulate and quite down to earth about EVERYTHING. That's one of the book's many appeals, at least to me. A suggest once you find a copy, you needn't read it straight through, just look at the chapter titles and start with one you find interesting. That's the way I read it last Spring, and it worked better than previous attempts where I started on page one. I hope my enthusiastic recommendations do not have the adverse affect of making you expect too much and be too easily dismissive of what he writes before having a chance to absorb it. Anyway, even to search for a book can be an adventure! Keep me posted. I'm rereading it at present so we can talk about whatever whenever. I finally have a few days off but extra energy did not arrive with the holiday I'm afraid. If you send me an address where you'll be I can mail off a copy of WORDSWORLD to you in Vancouver and you can read it down by English Bay or in Stanley Park! Enjoy. Allen
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
September in Chengdu
Della! FINALLY am once again online, first time since returning a month ago. ANYTIME you want to come to Chengdu will be great, I'd love to see you. I'd also like to visit you sometime in Brisbane, I'm getting the "see other places" itch pretty seriously. Of course China itself is a world I have not yet seen much of, strange to say, so I'll begin HERE, but definitely would like to travel 'Down Under'. Now that my computer is again "connected" I hope to get back into my own work and to explore with you some of those "latencies" suggested at various times last winter Did I send you a copy of WORDSWORLD? (My chapbook, most recent?) I think not, so I'll send it too... What about your own writing and your own blog aspirations? Let's RESUME somehow, despite the many lapses and interruptions and impossibilities! I'll start, by sending you something shortly. I'm planning on inviting one of my classes here October 8 for a Thanksgiving party, we meet on Monday afternoons anyway. My best class, this term. I have lots of things it would be interesting to talk with you about, if we ever can resume any regular exchanging. Did you look for Brown's LIFE AGAINST DEATH…?
And please check on this disturbing report for me: someone told me the May Wah had burned or been burned to the ground. I'd like to know, sad though any confirmation would be. If you're at Main and Hastings, go into The Golden Horse (also known as the Marilyn Restaurant) and say hello to Eva, who'll be at the cash, one of my best friends (she and her whole family) if you say Hello for me she'll give you a Hong Kong tea free, I betcha! Wish I could visit Vancouver with you… Allen
And please check on this disturbing report for me: someone told me the May Wah had burned or been burned to the ground. I'd like to know, sad though any confirmation would be. If you're at Main and Hastings, go into The Golden Horse (also known as the Marilyn Restaurant) and say hello to Eva, who'll be at the cash, one of my best friends (she and her whole family) if you say Hello for me she'll give you a Hong Kong tea free, I betcha! Wish I could visit Vancouver with you… Allen
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Song of the Car-Tire-Swan
I’m an icon of Australiana, more famous than the big banana, a monument on all the highways, I even snooze on forgotten byways.So the revolution goes on and on, but not for me, I’m never gone. I’m just stuck here on these eternal verges, a prisoner of my carnal urges.
You see, I spied a girl swan down the lane, she looks quite pliable and not too plain. She could be a Bridgestone, Dunlop or better, if she was a Michelin I’d send a French letter.
I’d like to fertilize an egg in her 14 inch belly but with my kind of luck, we’d hatch a Pirelli. So here I loll in unrequited lust as deflated as the day my inner tube bust.
As for that 50’s wannabe, the plaster duck, us Latex brotherhood reckon they suck. If they were out here where the rain doth pelt, the chalky bastards would probably melt.
Not sure how I got into this situation, probably a case of over inflation, Guess I just happened to be down on my tread, back in the day when petrol had lead.
Thus we sit here like rubbery figures, impervious to the traveller’s sniggers. Inscrutable guardian of things kitsch and homely, never dull, but by God its lonely.
© 2006 Fred Olsen
Saturday, September 01, 2007
A Harem? No way...
My friend, AV, from Brisbane has a visitor from Vietnam, a beautiful young woman named Lan. I asked how goes it? And he replied:Lan is very quiet, I find it hard to know what she wants or how she feels. It is getting me ready for living with Asian women. They are different to western people in some ways. You probably guessed I have issues communicating with women as I am usually on a different wavelength. I also have issues communicating with men but they tend to be a bit more transparent.
Me: “Asian women??? Do you mean a harem???
I wouldn’t mind a harem but it probably is not worth the downside hassles. Maybe????I was thinking along the lines of serial relationships which are more the normal practice in western society and also as a generalization about a group sharing - hence the term used. I had not given it a lot of deep thought. I do value freedom a great deal. My life may not be great from everybody's point of view but I do have enormous freedom, freedom to me represents great and reasonable resources. I don't have to worry about living my life to keep someone else happy or to live by their judgments. I am a person who does not want much but freedom, different experiences and ideas. I also want to live in my perception of - in harmony with nature - whatever that is.
Contributed by AV
The Harem Servant by Paul-Desire Trouillebert 1874
Just Because I'm Blonde...
Dear Diary,Last year I replaced all the windows in my house with the expensive double-pane energy efficient kind. This week, I got a call from the contractor who installed them. He was complaining that the work had been completed a whole year ago and I hadn't paid for them.
Hellloooo, just because I'm blonde doesn't mean I am automatically stupid. So I told him just what his fast talking sales guy had told ME last year ....namely, that in ONE YEAR these windows would pay for themselves!
Helllooooo? It's been a year! (I told him.) There was only silence at the other end of the line, so I finally just hung up...He didn't call back. Guess I won that stupid argument.
- Contributed by AV from Brisbane -
- Contributed by AV from Brisbane -
Friday, August 17, 2007
Patricia's Poems
If you wake one morning early
When the frost is on the ground
And you hear a sound of crakling
Or see diamonds all around
You may be watching Ice Maidens
As over the snow they bound;
Then, look, and listing carefully
For they make so little sound.
If a brightly shining rainbow
Seems to move across your glance,
It could be a flash of tiny wings
Soft shimmering in a dance;
If you're allowed to see them
Its not just "happenstance"
Think carefully, and make a wish.
It could come true perchance!
Copyright1996- Patricia Lamont
When the frost is on the ground
And you hear a sound of crakling
Or see diamonds all around
You may be watching Ice Maidens
As over the snow they bound;
Then, look, and listing carefully
For they make so little sound.
If a brightly shining rainbow
Seems to move across your glance,
It could be a flash of tiny wings
Soft shimmering in a dance;
If you're allowed to see them
Its not just "happenstance"
Think carefully, and make a wish.
It could come true perchance!
Copyright1996- Patricia Lamont
Reicarnational Paradox
>© 1987 Patricia Lamont
How well do I know you? That I cannot say, I only know I knew you long before today,
I don't know when I knew you, I only know I did... But where and when - how long ago is very neatly hid.
How long shall I know you? I cannot say for sure, I knew you then - I know you now and I shall know you more!
When you are young and I am old, or the other way about - our paths and fates will inter-wind all around - and in and out.
The upside-down and downside-up of lives are most amusing, we cannot know, when who was who, which I find most confusing.
We really don't know who is whom, or where who was before - but only whom we are now is what we know for sure.
And yet - I know I've known you and that is why I say, I knew you then - I'll know you when... as I know you today.
Monday, August 13, 2007
As One Poem
©1997 Sook Ryeo Kang
a very special poet
Mid – 40’ –
The Decade of No Temptation.
Fighting with the black, difficult days
woman vomits the chaotic words from her heart.
She begins to write, writing wet with teardrops.
in my grieving heart
my pain stays
even though your dying leaves me free
I don’t appreciated
my passion has not cooled
I cannot calm my missing of you
the long night is white
If the sun rises twice a day
can that be two days?
I write, the time goes faster,
so I can go to you more quickly.
I want to fly to you as one poem.
The Decade of No Temptation.
Fighting with the black, difficult days
woman vomits the chaotic words from her heart.
She begins to write, writing wet with teardrops.
in my grieving heart
my pain stays
even though your dying leaves me free
I don’t appreciated
my passion has not cooled
I cannot calm my missing of you
the long night is white
If the sun rises twice a day
can that be two days?
I write, the time goes faster,
so I can go to you more quickly.
I want to fly to you as one poem.
Note: In Korea a - white night - signifies a sleepless night
Monday, April 23, 2007
From Kia-Ora Coo-ee
The magazine for ANZACS in the Middle East
June 1918
OF POETS
Where the tracks are hard and dreary, the tracks are long and dry,
The tropic sun a-beating down from out a cloudless sky;
There's naught to see but sand, at times you'll maybe see a clump
Of palm-trees-it's no wonder that the. camel's got the hump.
A never-ending stretch of sand, to where the sky and land
Meet in line of blue and brown, and poets say it's grand !
But did those blinking poets live as we’ve been forced to live?
If not, then let them have a go, and then their version give.
If poets had to rise at dawn, and feed a blinking horse;
If poets had to eat our grub, plain bully beef, of course;
If poets rode beside us when the way was dry and long;
Arid liked it, let the Poets go and ring their blinking song.
But poets stay at home in ease, and travel not afar
To where the way is lighted by a pale, unwavering star.
They never scorch or swelter, at the desert never swear;
The reason why's not hard to find, they never have been there.
Now when you hear a poet rave of “ Vast encircling sands,
Whose magnitude is circumscribed by cloudless azure bands
Of Heaven’s vault”, his poesy’s imagination grows;
Just think of all those scorching sands, and bash him on the nose.
Palestine June 1918 By- "TWENTY-TWO".
June 1918
OF POETS
Where the tracks are hard and dreary, the tracks are long and dry,
The tropic sun a-beating down from out a cloudless sky;
There's naught to see but sand, at times you'll maybe see a clump
Of palm-trees-it's no wonder that the. camel's got the hump.
A never-ending stretch of sand, to where the sky and land
Meet in line of blue and brown, and poets say it's grand !
But did those blinking poets live as we’ve been forced to live?
If not, then let them have a go, and then their version give.
If poets had to rise at dawn, and feed a blinking horse;
If poets had to eat our grub, plain bully beef, of course;
If poets rode beside us when the way was dry and long;
Arid liked it, let the Poets go and ring their blinking song.
But poets stay at home in ease, and travel not afar
To where the way is lighted by a pale, unwavering star.
They never scorch or swelter, at the desert never swear;
The reason why's not hard to find, they never have been there.
Now when you hear a poet rave of “ Vast encircling sands,
Whose magnitude is circumscribed by cloudless azure bands
Of Heaven’s vault”, his poesy’s imagination grows;
Just think of all those scorching sands, and bash him on the nose.
Palestine June 1918 By- "TWENTY-TWO".
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Aridity of the Soul
Hi Allen
Another month has passed and I am getting closer to nothing at all... probably caused by South-East Queensland's lack of rain. Water reservoirs are down to critical levels and "level 5" water conservation laws came into effect.
Australia Dries me up...
I intended to do some work on my never-successful WEB SITE project, but something always interferes... lately it has been my sister's garden, ( lack of water? ) flower-beds look like abandoned graveyards and the vegetable patch is now covered with pebbles... I would pour cement over the yellow grass... which reminds me that the annoying buzz of lawn-mowers is not heard as often as in the past...
How are you doing? I have read that China knows how to create rain-clouds. Can you send me the recipe??? Love you always, Della
Della,
Aridity yes is not the most fruitful of environments. HOWEVER, if you can "turn it into words" ( as ' aridity of the soul' does ) you might be able to evoke a rain cloud for yourself! Surely the extremes of climate can be a poweful stimulus to verbal mind, creative effort---
I know, I know, " easy to say " such things--- but, what have you got to lose? Take the Arid Season by the horns and make speak! Try translating all those "dryings-up" into word pockets that themselves will be " water in the desert" for future readers or even present day readers.
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom," a wise man said. Consider all the extremes, and rate the desert amongst them--is it your least favorite choice? Would you prefer Labrador winter? Siberia? Or monsoon India?
Today is the last day of winter here---summer, there. Hope you get some MOIST relief soon!
love, Adze
No Relief... After a 10-year drought words are as difficult as late, late, late solutions... The eminent PM of Ozland Mr. John Howard himself discovered words don't come easy, all he had to say was: pray for rain... Do you suppose he meant prey to God? God gave intelligeence and then retired above the clouds to observe how long smart politicians take to figure it out... The politicians threaten the farmer's water supply will be cut off if the Lord does not fill dams and replenish dwindling river waters... Meanwhile tons of water are allotted to the constructing of mega -building and city-crossing traffic tunnels, while the icreasing population must flush the toilette once a day, and water the garden with the few drops collected in a bucket while taking a flash shower. Desalination plants are too expensive and citizens repeatedly refused recycled sewage, even if passed through the process of reversed osmosis. But we do not enquire why ten years of drought passed without concrete solution, we do not not talk about the prospect of $10.00 for a kilo of brown onion or a bag of carrots, we talk about the war and sending more troupes to Iraq... We can do without fruit and vegetables as long as there are politicians who serve as heroes for the big guns of other nations...
Another month has passed and I am getting closer to nothing at all... probably caused by South-East Queensland's lack of rain. Water reservoirs are down to critical levels and "level 5" water conservation laws came into effect.
Australia Dries me up...
I intended to do some work on my never-successful WEB SITE project, but something always interferes... lately it has been my sister's garden, ( lack of water? ) flower-beds look like abandoned graveyards and the vegetable patch is now covered with pebbles... I would pour cement over the yellow grass... which reminds me that the annoying buzz of lawn-mowers is not heard as often as in the past...
How are you doing? I have read that China knows how to create rain-clouds. Can you send me the recipe??? Love you always, Della
Della,
Aridity yes is not the most fruitful of environments. HOWEVER, if you can "turn it into words" ( as ' aridity of the soul' does ) you might be able to evoke a rain cloud for yourself! Surely the extremes of climate can be a poweful stimulus to verbal mind, creative effort---
I know, I know, " easy to say " such things--- but, what have you got to lose? Take the Arid Season by the horns and make speak! Try translating all those "dryings-up" into word pockets that themselves will be " water in the desert" for future readers or even present day readers.
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom," a wise man said. Consider all the extremes, and rate the desert amongst them--is it your least favorite choice? Would you prefer Labrador winter? Siberia? Or monsoon India?
Today is the last day of winter here---summer, there. Hope you get some MOIST relief soon!
love, Adze
No Relief... After a 10-year drought words are as difficult as late, late, late solutions... The eminent PM of Ozland Mr. John Howard himself discovered words don't come easy, all he had to say was: pray for rain... Do you suppose he meant prey to God? God gave intelligeence and then retired above the clouds to observe how long smart politicians take to figure it out... The politicians threaten the farmer's water supply will be cut off if the Lord does not fill dams and replenish dwindling river waters... Meanwhile tons of water are allotted to the constructing of mega -building and city-crossing traffic tunnels, while the icreasing population must flush the toilette once a day, and water the garden with the few drops collected in a bucket while taking a flash shower. Desalination plants are too expensive and citizens repeatedly refused recycled sewage, even if passed through the process of reversed osmosis. But we do not enquire why ten years of drought passed without concrete solution, we do not not talk about the prospect of $10.00 for a kilo of brown onion or a bag of carrots, we talk about the war and sending more troupes to Iraq... We can do without fruit and vegetables as long as there are politicians who serve as heroes for the big guns of other nations...
Saturday, December 30, 2006
from: RAIN MOTH
Flight
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
and so I fly
against the unfamiliar unknown sun
pinions rush to bind
my rushing blood
a tree is such a simple thing
a cloud moving over the sky
a couple walking by
towards a song indarkness
sometimes the light blinds
brings down the flight
like stones into the sea
In the Midnight Hour
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
This sun so round
And perfect in its sky
Golden wheel on which you and I
Turn with our special sound
This bay this azure oval
Hiding nothing from the eye
Rolling ever in beveled motion
Open and un-sly,
This breeze profound
In the naked trees,
Along the ground
Among the leaves
Disturbs me to
A writing table
In the midnight hour
When I am unable
To be with you
To see with you
The things love should allow.
Cold, I need you with me now.
against the unfamiliar unknown sun
pinions rush to bind
my rushing blood
a tree is such a simple thing
a cloud moving over the sky
a couple walking by
towards a song indarkness
sometimes the light blinds
brings down the flight
like stones into the sea
In the Midnight Hour
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
This sun so round
And perfect in its sky
Golden wheel on which you and I
Turn with our special sound
This bay this azure oval
Hiding nothing from the eye
Rolling ever in beveled motion
Open and un-sly,
This breeze profound
In the naked trees,
Along the ground
Among the leaves
Disturbs me to
A writing table
In the midnight hour
When I am unable
To be with you
To see with you
The things love should allow.
Cold, I need you with me now.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
New Year Resolutions
“I will read from the first book picked at random from my book shelf…” I said to myself hoping for inspiration. “2007’s approaching and I have not made even the smallest list of New Year Resolutions.” I closed my eyes, meditated for a moment, my hands caressing the treasured rows. The book I blindly chose was not too big or small, its surface new, firm, as smooth as satin, I brought it close to my face, I felt its freshness and detected a subtle fragrance of sweet citrus…
I opened my eyes and read the title: “We miss each other even when we are together” a collection of poems by Sook Ryeo Kang. Originally written in Korean her poems were translated into English by the collaboration of Allen Sutterfield and Jong Nan King.
Like seeking scent in a field of wild flowers, in Sook Ryeo Kang’s poems and the excerpt from the Authors Preface, I discovered my new year resolutions.
JUDGING
©1997-Sook Ryeo Kang
Some of us are generous in judging, others are stingy.
Whether beautiful or poisonous, we say “That’s life.”
Even pursuing beauty our greed makes us suffer.
We want to be wild flowers but we do not leave our familiar gardens.
I don’t want to hurt others with my judgments.
I want to have a mind free of judging.
AS WIND PASSES
©1997Sook Ryeo Kang
we don’t see what we should see.
We open our mouth: words flow eloquently,
Yet we don’t say what we should say.
We open our ears: sounds surround us
But we don’t hear what we should hear.
If we see properly we miss what we should not see:
It’s a lucky day.
Sometimes no response Is the best thing to say.
Often the best sounds are those not heard.
I’d like to live with eyes that know how not to see.
MIRROR OF THE MIND
©1997-Sook Ryeo Kang
In other minds
what colors reflect?
Late at night
I look at the reflection
in my mind’s mirror.
Dusty haze,
“residue of a busy life.”
I look again, intently,
embarrassed at my easy justification.
Spoken words –
they should be morning light.
I fold my handkerchief
carefully cleaning
mirror of mind
From the Author’s Preface:
©1997-Sook Ryeo Kang
“I don’t want to stumble over the pebble in a foolish way. We must let go of things in our past and even things of the world in our present. A new fullness is possible when we have empty hands. I want a life that is full in a way that is independent of things – full in emptiness.”
Friday, December 15, 2006
Christmas Lights
To Jesus of Nazareth
In the frosty garden of the night the moonlight whitens rooftops, glittering silently with the silent Stars.
I am here with night thoughts listening to the cold motion of he night; listening to the city sleep, knowing down the road, here and there, on old Vancouver streets there are Christmas lights, because it’s Your birthday…
Christmas lights and children with a million Christmas dreams because tonight is Christmas eve, the little Saviour’s birth Night.
…the lovely fright’nd girl and her devoted man, the old wise Kings… the bleating sheep, the words he gave the world to keep:
Love ye One Another… let the little children come to me, be good neighbours… treasure friends… yes, there are Christmas lights glowing down the streets…
Christmas Lights December 24/95
©2006-Richard Carlton
…Cathedral bells and city traffic, frosty breaths and winter jackets,Christmas parcels and tired feet, and windows lit with Christmas trees; Carol songs, that Christmas glow, maybe turkey and some mistletoe, a fire’s cheer, a glass of ‘nog and treasure of the hearts of home.
So many Santas when Christmastime comes all sharing their loves to make dreams come true, yeah all round the world a trillion hearts shine all giving something to somebody’s lives; So hang up the holly! sing out a tune, have a great Merry Christmas! it’s all up to you…
In the frosty garden of the night the moonlight whitens rooftops, glittering silently with the silent Stars.
I am here with night thoughts listening to the cold motion of he night; listening to the city sleep, knowing down the road, here and there, on old Vancouver streets there are Christmas lights, because it’s Your birthday…
Christmas lights and children with a million Christmas dreams because tonight is Christmas eve, the little Saviour’s birth Night.
…the lovely fright’nd girl and her devoted man, the old wise Kings… the bleating sheep, the words he gave the world to keep:
Love ye One Another… let the little children come to me, be good neighbours… treasure friends… yes, there are Christmas lights glowing down the streets…
Christmas Lights December 24/95
©2006-Richard Carlton
…Cathedral bells and city traffic, frosty breaths and winter jackets,Christmas parcels and tired feet, and windows lit with Christmas trees; Carol songs, that Christmas glow, maybe turkey and some mistletoe, a fire’s cheer, a glass of ‘nog and treasure of the hearts of home.
So many Santas when Christmastime comes all sharing their loves to make dreams come true, yeah all round the world a trillion hearts shine all giving something to somebody’s lives; So hang up the holly! sing out a tune, have a great Merry Christmas! it’s all up to you…
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Australian Kristmus Pudding
Put 1 ½ pints milk, 1 ½ sqrs. chocolate or 3 tablsp. Cocoa in saucepan and bring to boil, add 4 dessertsp. gelatin (.Davis) and stir till dissolved, add sml. cup sugar and stir. Remove from fire, and when thickened add essence vanilla, ½ cup prepared dated, ½ cup raisins, few figs (if liked) and shredded almonds, ½ cup muscatels. Turn into mold which has been rinsed in cold water. When set turn out and decorate with holly and serve with whipped cream or custard.
From: The CWA Calendar of Puddings, 1930
From: The CWA Calendar of Puddings, 1930
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
A String of Lights
Christmas Morning Dec25
snowy-cold, brilliant sunshine
It flickers there on the stage of memory… laughter gleams scraps and scenes, the music of someone else’s life… And one by precious one, friends leave the stage of life… flicker out like a candle in a lonesome window… like string of coloured lights and vanish into endless, nameless Time, taking with them each one a little bit of youth’s sweet golden glorys, old love story, the feeling of the times… leaving those who’re left to watch the Morning the faint gold lilac of the dawning and memories that fade out into time like a string of coloured lights. /
©2006-Richard Carlton
snowy-cold, brilliant sunshine
It flickers there on the stage of memory… laughter gleams scraps and scenes, the music of someone else’s life… And one by precious one, friends leave the stage of life… flicker out like a candle in a lonesome window… like string of coloured lights and vanish into endless, nameless Time, taking with them each one a little bit of youth’s sweet golden glorys, old love story, the feeling of the times… leaving those who’re left to watch the Morning the faint gold lilac of the dawning and memories that fade out into time like a string of coloured lights. /
©2006-Richard Carlton
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
The Antipodean Pagan
Anonymous Posting on a Brisbane Notice-board
“Oh, Kristmus is for kiddies.” Thus he piously intones while laying in the beer and wine and grub and maybe cones. He smiles anticipation of the coming Kristmus treat of warbling ‘Winter Wonderland’ in summer searing heat and singing songs of sleigh bells where the snow was never seen.
And there’s no heathen custom that could be quite so obscene as guzzling pud and turkey while the temperature is soaring, collapsing then as from every pore the perspiration’s pouring!
I try to point out to him that learned scholars say Jesus wasn’t born in winter. There is not a way that shepherds fed their flocks at night in freezing cold December.
It was the time for taxing by the Romans, you remember and they weren’t quite so stupid as expecting folk to travel in winter’s bleak conditions and on roads of roughest gravel.
The scholars know what time of year each sundry course of priest their duties in the temple kept, so there is not the least small shred of doubt that Christ was born (your patience thus permitting), September – Feast of Trumpets Day – so faithful, apt and fitting.
But ev’ry Yuletide custom is as pagan as can be. I’d shock you if I told you all about the Kristmus tree.
I tried to tell him all of this. Alas he isn’t listening, he is living in a dream world
Thinking what he does is Christian.
“Oh, Kristmus is for kiddies.” Thus he piously intones while laying in the beer and wine and grub and maybe cones. He smiles anticipation of the coming Kristmus treat of warbling ‘Winter Wonderland’ in summer searing heat and singing songs of sleigh bells where the snow was never seen.
And there’s no heathen custom that could be quite so obscene as guzzling pud and turkey while the temperature is soaring, collapsing then as from every pore the perspiration’s pouring!
I try to point out to him that learned scholars say Jesus wasn’t born in winter. There is not a way that shepherds fed their flocks at night in freezing cold December.
It was the time for taxing by the Romans, you remember and they weren’t quite so stupid as expecting folk to travel in winter’s bleak conditions and on roads of roughest gravel.
The scholars know what time of year each sundry course of priest their duties in the temple kept, so there is not the least small shred of doubt that Christ was born (your patience thus permitting), September – Feast of Trumpets Day – so faithful, apt and fitting.
But ev’ry Yuletide custom is as pagan as can be. I’d shock you if I told you all about the Kristmus tree.
I tried to tell him all of this. Alas he isn’t listening, he is living in a dream world
Thinking what he does is Christian.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Early Morning in Chengdu
©2006-Allen Suttefield
Ha, Daylight! So thick is the cloud even daylight is late this morning. The rain, however, falls as it will; Water drops tap each awning in dark or light.
The concrete floors of the rising building glisten wetly: At present open to the sky they will soon be ceilinged never again to receive the rain until the roofs are destroyed.
In ancient Chengdu floors of new buildings also felt the rain, and construction was delayed by the same gathered clouds.
There! The first clang of dropped metal, like a bell announcing: the work day begins. Voices quickly follow unseen below and Friday, wet Friday takes place in the work week.
7:30 A.M.
Ha, Daylight! So thick is the cloud even daylight is late this morning. The rain, however, falls as it will; Water drops tap each awning in dark or light.
The concrete floors of the rising building glisten wetly: At present open to the sky they will soon be ceilinged never again to receive the rain until the roofs are destroyed.
In ancient Chengdu floors of new buildings also felt the rain, and construction was delayed by the same gathered clouds.
There! The first clang of dropped metal, like a bell announcing: the work day begins. Voices quickly follow unseen below and Friday, wet Friday takes place in the work week.
7:30 A.M.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Allen's Text 22 - The Law of Seven -
copyright©2006 Allen Sutterfield
“If there were no Law of Seven, everything in the world would go to its final conclusion, but because of this law everything deviates. For instance, if rain began it would go on without stopping… if an earthquake began it would go on indefinitely. But they stop, because of the Law of Seven, because at every missing semi-tone things deviate, they do not go by straight lines.“At the same time, the Law of Seven explains that, if you know how, and at what moment to do it, you can give an additional shock to an actave and keep the line straight… We must learn how to keep these octaves from deviating, how to keep a straight line.”
“If there were no Law of Seven, everything in the world would go to its final conclusion, but because of this law everything deviates. For instance, if rain began it would go on without stopping… if an earthquake began it would go on indefinitely. But they stop, because of the Law of Seven, because at every missing semi-tone things deviate, they do not go by straight lines.“At the same time, the Law of Seven explains that, if you know how, and at what moment to do it, you can give an additional shock to an actave and keep the line straight… We must learn how to keep these octaves from deviating, how to keep a straight line.”
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Allens Text 2
cpyright2006-Allen Sutterfield
And so we started off then, right there, without a second thought, without a false step. There was only one way to go, and that was the way we were going!
Surely the world was trying to hang itself BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD but what matter? We were OFF, and that was ALL!
Now a death lay by the roadside like a black creosote coffin, yes a railroad tie was width ways across, small green stems, it could have been no more than the second week of spring, were issuing from the earth all round it,and there were the ancient whistles of trains in the air, whistles not heard in years, not heard in lives. The sky was one of those you start off by IN YOUR DREAM, nothing less than perfect, and not a jot more. For we were step in step towards --our destination!
The journey was underway, and not even a death by the roadside, not that black box nor its creosote incense were cause for more than a glance. There was nothing in it anyway -- the trees held more! For there was a slight wind, just the warm sort of breeze you feel behind your shoulders when you SET OUT. Yes it must have been April in certain latitudes, we didn't notice, for once we didn't see a single calendar, not even in barbershops. It was spring and we were already several steps down the road, with a doff of the hat to clouds and a wrinkle of regret that passed over the surface of our hearts and off again into nothing and that was that. No we had no postage stamps, no envelopes, no pens, no writing pads. It was our beautiful REVOLT.
It was a Jacob's Ladder journey and we were ready.
Allen's "City of words" Text 23
© 2006 Allen Sutterfield
what if
in some secret sea
where no gull cries
and no shore lies near
what if
on such secluded sea
I call to you in angry truefear
and you do not choose to hear?
1 comments:
Brian Campbell said...
Interesting to see Allen's work up in your blog. I've told Allen that the blog format would be a good way to present his text/visual series.Allen, your texts are as lively and airy as ever, alacrity also begins with A and its NO COINCIDENCE, I send you this note as via long-distance boomerang all the way thru Australia and back. I hope you are well...
what if
in some secret sea
where no gull cries
and no shore lies near
what if
on such secluded sea
I call to you in angry truefear
and you do not choose to hear?
1 comments:
Brian Campbell said...
Interesting to see Allen's work up in your blog. I've told Allen that the blog format would be a good way to present his text/visual series.Allen, your texts are as lively and airy as ever, alacrity also begins with A and its NO COINCIDENCE, I send you this note as via long-distance boomerang all the way thru Australia and back. I hope you are well...
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Buddhist Thought
Being vigilant of the three doors of karma is to remove the conditions for three poisons to grow, the three doors are - Speech, Action, Thought.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Heroe's Never Die
Heroes never die…
Their bodies loose that common texture known as life
while a thousand times enriched by death, their quintessence lingers on.
A hero’s fate is not to die in bed, conquered by old age,
a hero’s destiny is the battlefield, not diabetes or Alzimer’s disease.
Their bodies loose that common texture known as life
while a thousand times enriched by death, their quintessence lingers on.
A hero’s fate is not to die in bed, conquered by old age,
a hero’s destiny is the battlefield, not diabetes or Alzimer’s disease.
Go, go brave man, warriors deserves a sudden death.
On a sharp bend, a Daytona coupe careened --slamming into a tree--
so was earthly existence snuffed for Aussie racing car driver
Peter Brock.
And Death kept watch each time Steve Irwin kissed a tiger,
toyed with scorpions, swam with sharks, or hunted crocs.
Though a hero fears it not, he’s aware of his companion’s presence,
invisible, mysterious, well-known yet unknowable, haunter, not hunted,
feral essence never tagged or captured for the zoo. That’s Death!
To a car-crash or the barb of a black stingray, unconquered heroes
freely yield, by Death immortalized, rejoicing in Elysian Fields
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Steve Irwin - Thanks for the Memory -
Stevo “WOW what a little beauty” you were to this country and state,The Sunshine Coast will miss hearing that Aussie larrikin say “Crikey Mate,”
Everyone loved you because you were a typical Aussie bloke,
Very willing to make people laugh with a typical Stevo joke,
Everywhere you went as a proud Aussie in your khakis,
Internationally you will be missed by all over seas.
Reptiles and conservation is what you will be remembered for,
Without doubt it’s that ocher Australian in you that made us proud and adore,
It won’t be the same Australia without you Stevo, you brought us so much joy and pleasure,
No doubt you will be remembered as our greatest national treasure.
Text- ©2006-Clayton and Beck
Sunday, September 03, 2006
649 ( The Lottery Ticket )
When I heard the news that my friend got a win for 649 I went out of the room without thinking.
Where Can I go? I wondered, and walked down the street. I stopped in front of the lottery ticket vendor.
“Please buy me. I sell the happiness.”
The numbers were trembling. The numbers were dancing--- Temptation!
I chose 6 numbers with intensity: 9,16, 23, 27, 41, 44 They looked like a treasure island.
That night I had a dream. The shining sun and the full moon were hanging in the clear sky.
Next day I checked for the winning number. Not one of mine was right.
I went out to the lake to hide my embarrassment. I had expected to win.
The sun and the moon which I saw in the dream hanging together in the dark sky---
I could not see them.
©1995-Jong nan
Where Can I go? I wondered, and walked down the street. I stopped in front of the lottery ticket vendor.
“Please buy me. I sell the happiness.”
The numbers were trembling. The numbers were dancing--- Temptation!
I chose 6 numbers with intensity: 9,16, 23, 27, 41, 44 They looked like a treasure island.
That night I had a dream. The shining sun and the full moon were hanging in the clear sky.
Next day I checked for the winning number. Not one of mine was right.
I went out to the lake to hide my embarrassment. I had expected to win.
The sun and the moon which I saw in the dream hanging together in the dark sky---
I could not see them.
©1995-Jong nan
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Rainy Afternoon
©1999-Richard Carlton
All the debris that’s left of love’s attraction
old happy photographs, a happy song
a ring perhaps,
thoughts that won’t be gone…
the ghosts of our old satisfaction.
And in the dawning of a bright new day,
sometimes it’s good to sweep the past away,
not unremember’d but
still treasured with our old sweet laughter
in a special place set apart.
On some rainy afternoon
every now and then,
we’ll look through our box of souvenirs…
The old dancecard,
the smile we loved the camera kept for us,
no one can blame us if we shed some sudden tears
we all know however brave,
underneath there beats the longing heart.
All the debris that’s left of love’s attraction
old happy photographs, a happy song
a ring perhaps,
thoughts that won’t be gone…
the ghosts of our old satisfaction.
And in the dawning of a bright new day,
sometimes it’s good to sweep the past away,
not unremember’d but
still treasured with our old sweet laughter
in a special place set apart.
On some rainy afternoon
every now and then,
we’ll look through our box of souvenirs…
The old dancecard,
the smile we loved the camera kept for us,
no one can blame us if we shed some sudden tears
we all know however brave,
underneath there beats the longing heart.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Allen's "The Bookburner"
( Text 172)The Bookburner: "I'll tell you a secret: that book is no longer here. I burned it."
"But you loved it!"
'”I burn one each month."
"Is it always the one you love most?"
"No, not always."
"Why though? Why? It was beautiful--"
"I burned it carefully ...page by page."
"Did it hurt?"
"Not while it was burning."
"Does it now?"
"That book is a beautiful memory, it's a part of everything I do now. To burn a book was hard, the first time, I cried, and I didn't even like the book, in fact disliked it. The second time I chose one I did like, not one of my favorites of course. It hurt. But gradually, after that, book by book, I did it more simply, ritually. Without thinking or feeling very much. Then: I burned the beautiful book. Only yesterday. We merged bloods in the burning, 'fires of purification' if you wanta get gooey about it. Whoops--loss of voice there, come back. So. Yes. I burn books. But no one else knows. My brother preferred live things and burned ants in the sun, with a magnifying glass, large, large in my keeping...."
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
Monday, August 14, 2006
Allen's Text 3899
means is a a pocket of past
even this is cheating
but to sit down and
COMPOSE
your real, that’s something
think about it if you can
you are a little hunk
hung in a dark web
where certain lines intersect
one of your functions
(is that the unpoetic word?)
to do this, sit down and compose
your real
like a cat on piano keys
romping giant floors of dark
here you sit
while the comets whiz
not far away
jostling the web’s great lines
as the millennia go like seconds
my age come upon me like the hooves of long ago
pounding on a door someone had locked
so the sparkling electron
one could say this moment was
takes the page/with the wording
and it’s going on that does it/when you least suspect
it’s an easy mind
can follow no trail
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
even this is cheating
but to sit down and
COMPOSE
your real, that’s something
think about it if you can
you are a little hunk
hung in a dark web
where certain lines intersect
one of your functions
(is that the unpoetic word?)
to do this, sit down and compose
your real
like a cat on piano keys
romping giant floors of dark
here you sit
while the comets whiz
not far away
jostling the web’s great lines
as the millennia go like seconds
my age come upon me like the hooves of long ago
pounding on a door someone had locked
so the sparkling electron
one could say this moment was
takes the page/with the wording
and it’s going on that does it/when you least suspect
it’s an easy mind
can follow no trail
©2006-Allen Sutterfield
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