Category Archives: Art of all Kinds

Poetic Interlude: Fractured Futures, née YWCA

Light aqua arch surrounding an inset wooden door of the same color

refracted reflections

bourgeois boutique

peeling possibilities

embattled emblem


Context:

May, 2017

April, 2017

August, 2016

June, 2013

Atlas Obscura

City of Pasadena, Planning & Community Development

Pasadena Heritage

 

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Filed under Art of all Kinds, Contemporary, Historical, Nostalgia, Power, Wordplay

The Romance of Gratuity

The following poem was inspired by a recent episode of Pop Culture Happy Hour.

Graphic Detail

doorknob

door-jam

dresser

bedpost

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Lost is Found: rising ruinous

seeding terror, seeping hope

seeding terror, seeping hope

It wasn’t until the droplet made gentle contact that I became conscious of of my lot. Where it was timid, I sprang forth vibrating with temerity. Conditions, however, held me fast.

There were many things I would come to discover about my predicament–encased in sediment, a prisoner in that very medium that should have sustained me, starving for light, for sounds that did not reverberate to reach me muffled, distorted. Was I, likewise, distorted? I refused this outright.

But first–oh, the firstness of that first–there was only a singular feeling of being. And then, of being not singular. Though we could not communicate but for our cosmically catalytic touch, I nevertheless thanked the droplet for its decisive role in my awakening.

Thus situated, how, you may wonder, was I to fulfill my destiny? In time. Time immemorial.

I toiled long after that first contact. Weeks, years, decades…it matters not. I survived to meet you here, Other, did I not? How move you so freely? What invisible force binds you to your destiny? Or do you wander, ever fluid, unbecoming and unresolved.

I have achieved resolution. I am resolve.

In darkness totalizing, waiting for a droplet here, an infusion of nutrients there, reaching toward I knew not what, extending tendrils of myself whenever possible, only to feel them whither, defeated… Still I held fast–what else was I to do but wait? Wait and fear. Fear that I would again fall into the ignorance of nonexistence.
The hard-packed void would not last, of course, but it is impossible to remember when I first knew that to be so. Why always the insistence upon when? Is not the What more intriguing?

Feeling–knowing–my destiny was indeed before me, had I but the patience. That is the What worth knowing, worth fighting for with ever fibre of my not-yet-fibrous being. If the conditions would become, would hold, would cooperate, would but meet…together we could bind and flourish into a world made marvelous.

Made real despite that which sought to trap, to deny incontestable destiny.

I am made miracle marvelous, come forth from sweat and stone, squeezed to light brought with will and chance and hope.

Know me and know thy weakness.

If you enjoyed this post but are underwhelmed by the rest of what you find here, you may be happier subscribing to “Lost is Found: the adventures of inanimate objects”

https://tinyletter.com/lostisfound

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Lost is Found: notes from the underbrush

Shhh! Please don’t say anything. Don’t even look. Pretend you’re watching that family haggle with the waiter over their check. Yeah, that’s better.

You seem like someone I can trust. I can tell by the way you looked at me…like you understood why I was here. That it wasn’t my idea.

20150207_223437

At first, I was irked at the grubby-fingered troublemaker who shoved me here because he was bored. What a histrionic little jerk, right? Didn’t even do him any good…he practically had to scream his head off to get his parents to drag him outside, and by the time the waiters had cleared up the mess, no one thought to count and see if I was missing.

The longer I’ve been stuck here, the more I get to feeling it isn’t so bad. The thought of going through that scalding bath and then the sanitizer that strips me of what precious metal I have left…only to be handled and smudged again and again… Just remembering my former life makes me want to burrow deeper and wait it out. Maybe they’ll replace these pots soon and I’ll get to go on an adventure! You never know how things might work out.

So if I must be found out, I’m at least glad it was you. I know you won’t tell. You’ll take your photograph, declare me art, and move on to let me live my new life among the rocks and ruined leaf husks. Discarded, forgotten. At last content.


If you enjoyed this post but are underwhelmed by the rest of what you find here, you may be happier subscribing to “Lost is Found: the adventures of inanimate objects”

https://tinyletter.com/lostisfound

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Lost is Found: taken with the streets

Last night I missed an opportunity to photograph a bike light, blinking red in the middle of the dark street. It was the same type of safety device Flaming Bike had attached to the seat of my pants before literally carting me off on a grand tour of Lake Merritt that quiet night in Oakland. After our apple pie supper, chased with an apple galette dessert. I was thrilled to be her cargo that night. Grateful for the beacon attached to my rear that signaled our safe passage.

The lonely beacon wasn’t the first lost object I had come across that day. Hours before, a discarded draft of a thank you note had been in my walking path. It’s simplicity was touching. I hope the author remembered their words; wrote & sent it for real.

Forgotten thanks, or discarded draft?

Forgotten thanks, or discarded draft?

Not many steps later, a cyclist in serious spandex cased the gutter, riding slowly up and down the half-block, looking left and right, against traffic, clearly missing something. He stopped astride his mount, bent to retrieve a glove, shoved it down his shirt for safekeeping. Then carried on.

The day before, on a walk to the food Co-op, I passed a seemingly abandoned lot, gated and threatening electrocution for the unidentified, absent owner’s safekeeping. Upon closer inspection, I saw defiant plantings of vibrant succulents strewn about. The land had been reclaimed, I imagined, by its neighbors. Given life, if temporarily.

Resistance Gardening

Resistance Gardening

Documenting lost objects is not a new idea, but it intrigues me still. I look forward to sharing future findings as part of a series, “Lost is Found.”

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Filed under Art of all Kinds, Contemporary, Lost is Found