Is writing only to publish a book?

some of my felted pieces

—–

So I abandoned my writing here on WP in order to pursue other creative expressions. Guess I was kinda bored with words. But not entirely restless. I dabbled for a bit in paint, wool felt, collage and learning the piano. None and all pursuits satisfied.

I also took shelter under a published poet, during this time, to gain feedback on my words. He addressed nine of what I consider some of my better poems and he suggested one was ready to publish. But where?

Yet, before I publish in a journal, I wondered, do I wait, sit longer with the other poems until they are publishable in the greater sense, by a jury of peers? Until the realization of the time problem and my ability to fix them. Or would the object lesson of editing render me helpless? Why should I consider putting twenty to thirty poems together in a chapbook? Then I think out loud “Why even allow the renegade poems to take my mind and heart hostage?

Friends and readers, I am still no further along this journey. I am unsure what to pursue full force. Do I saturate myself in pursuing publishing perfection or give up the destination? Do I stay with the map and follow the stars? Or abandon ship and set off on a new course? What should be my priority? All avenues would be ideal.

One thing is for certain, I look forward to indulging my creative expressions and see where I end up and sharing them here for awhile. My Instagram account has now been neglected. Cheers!

Happy creating, J✌🏼❀️🎢🎢🎢

The Ark Of Sanity

A reason to read (and reread) WP. If i needed a reason. Hell no, no need for reason when reading Ray. Just read.

The Ark Of Sanity

http://raynotbradbury.com/2018/11/09/the-ark-of-sanity/
β€” Read on raynotbradbury.com/2018/11/09/the-ark-of-sanity/

premeditated murder

you will speak
when spoken to

hollow tin cans
washed and stored
for emergency calls

the sacred wonder
to be visible
behind the jellyfish spine

i spoke
you heard no sound

soap scum
lines the rim
of my mind

careless words
left caressing sores
better left behind

lies
all of them

left you
before i was stolen
my soul ebbs

flows on
toward the echo
wedged inside

Interior Designer

And automatically, the words became sentences, with stems and petals. Forced from the fertile soil, stories grew arms and legs. They not only held her dreams but they carried her to lands far away.

People have no idea what’s going on in my head. Most days i wish i didn’t either.

Transformation

this weekend in Chicago is invigorating. it’s cold and light snow fell. ice crusts the shore. broken spaces release the energy.

being with another person is confining. we rarely agree because i am slow, quiet and want to savor the feelings the sounds and sights produce. he is fast, loud and out of touch. annoyed by everyone and everything. but i managed to make him wait in the snow while i took a few pictures.

i am tired but a good tired. i am existing in a sacred place.

this Chicago visit was to see Rodin’s sculptures at the Art Institute. i have not completely digested the experience. his sculptures pull so much out of me. the locked cage, broken open. infiltration welcomed.

while at the Institute, we decided to check out more of the contemporary art and revisit a few favorites.

Energy and motion made visible – memories arrested in space –Jackson Pollock

The Key Jackson Pollock, 1946

Part of the Accabonac Creek series and a prelude to his drip paintings.

Number 17A Jackson Pollack, 1948

this. being surrounded by art. it all makes me jealous. i want to paint. i imagine myself painting. i feel my body shifting, as i lift the brush. the canvas never stationary and neither am i. the color calling. my hips sway and i feel eyes watching me. i want to be bold but gravity keeps me from flying.

City Landscape Joan Mitchell, 1955

a close-up of the favorite place i would reside in Joan’s landscape. a happy place indeed. certainly lost but found to me. splashes of red, pink… orange. Enveloped by reality of black, white, grey, brown… blue.

yes, i am referring to myself. after all, borderline crossing is all about me. my willingness to share a glimpse of me, with you. tear a piece off and toss it. wait. scrutinize your intentions.

we all need order to heal the crags of depression that consume. perhaps we are all lost in Joan’s landscape. hanging around the wrong colors. worshipping the pain in our lives. i am learning to cross the river and enjoy the other side.

Do i dare

emerge from -shadows,

drink deep

from the well?

Wind clappin’

slappin’ my face

You offer -me

am i real?

a figment

of our imagination?

Wind clappin’

slappin’ my face

Drink deep -crimson

less the world

worn and heavy

rape your soul.

Wind clappin’

slappin’ my face

Save yourself.