Your Voice, or, To The Bone - A History, An Explanation, A Process, A Poem in Progress

It's been a really, really, really long time since I sat down and wrote anything creatively.

Since October, roughly.

Initially I was invigorated by the success of the Call and Response show at the Canvas. I was immensely proud of the show, and especially proud of what I was capable of when I forced myself to work. Immediately, all these ideas for projects I had over the years percolated back up to the surface, no longer seeming like impossible dreams. New ideas and avenues sprung up before me.

But first, I needed a little break.

Although we had started working on the project during the early summer, I didn't really start producing work in bulk until August or September, and then I was frantically working at every possible moment. I don't know why, but my juices never seem to flow until the gun barrel is nestled comfortably, expectantly against my temple. We were literally still hanging portions of the show up until the 4 pm opening on First Friday. So after that last-minute-break-neck flurry of work, I felt I deserved a bit of break. And then I would push on.

That break ran about 6 months. The further I got from the show, the harder writing seemed to be. I'm not sure who said it, but I am sure I have been told many times that writing is like a muscle - to have it working properly and working as hard as it can, you have to exercise it. Instead of regularly jogging around the block, my writing muscle decided to flop on the couch, flip on HBO, and plow its way through Haagen-Dazs and Doritos.

Now I am trying to get back into the swing of things, and just like exercising, the first laps are the roughest. But at least I am back out on the track.

Donna and I have been talking about doing a second installment of Call and Response, so that's where my writing head has been at lately. I've been thinking about the pieces that we did before, and specifically the ones where I love the concept behind the piece, but feel like my writing didn't hit where I wanted it to hit. I'm going back and retooling these near misses, trying to get them into the shape that I wanted them to be the first time. I don't know if they will be incorporated into the next show, but if nothing else the retooling will at least satisfy my inner critic.

The one I come back to the most was called "The Singer" in the Call and Response show. This one was - and is - very tricky for me to get just right.

Those that know me well know that I have Strong Feelings About Music, and this piece is an ode to all my favorite singers - Billie Holiday, Thom Yorke, Bjork, Tom Waits, Joanna Newsom, Jonsi Birgisson, Amanda Palmer, Devendra Banhart... I could go on for quite a while.

Some of these singers are well respected for their voice, while others of them are usually written off. You could make a case against almost any one of these individuals for not being a technically good singer, and you would be right. Some of them have a limited range or no range at all, some can't stay in key ... all of this is true, but I don't really care.

What matters most for me is passion and believability. If they can bring those two assets to the table, I'm sold. I don't know how everyone else sees it, but I don't see passion as just belting out every note. A seductive whisper or a playful, bouncing line can have just as much passion as a soaring high note or a desperate howl, if it's in the hands of what I would call a gifted singer. Give me Jeff Mangum - or Amanda Palmer for that matter - belting out "Two Headed Boy" with every ounce of guts and conviction they have over a pitch perfect American Idol any day.

So with all that said, it's been very hard for me to capture that sentiment, that feeling that they all stir in me, in a creative way that I am satisfied with. Here's how the effort turned out for Call and Response:

"His voice is the sound of raw nerves, burning and exposed in the open air. I can taste his feeling, can feel the grit of his song in my teeth."

It felt like a good seed, and it worked well enough for the show, but I didn't feel like I was done with it yet. For one, it excluded all the female singers that move me, by virtue of personal pronouns used. So I started brooding on it, flipping it over and over again, trying to think of what I was going to do with it, but mostly ignoring it during my long vacation from writing.

I finally started to do some real work on it today:

The pictures above were taking with my phone, so you'll have to bear with the quality. No one ever gets to see my works in progress like this, either, which makes you Very Special, just like your mother always said.

Anyhow.

The first thing I did was cut out the masculine personal pronouns, and just started scribbling gibberish that came to mind when I was thinking of particular singers, or their voice in particular songs. Then I started cutting out bits that didn't roll right, or scratched again and again till I found a word that fit. I questioned one section's existence, circled one I felt was important but that I was unsure of how to incorporate. Then I started numbering them in the order that I thought they should run.


The following is what I have come up with so far. The title is now probably "Your Voice" or "To The Bone"

_ _ _

Your voice skips
through puddles, through fields
chirping, unashamed
bursting with innocent power.

Your voice swims around me
like silky smoke
steamy, seductive,
teasing towards release.

Your voice is a knife
slipping effortlessly
through skin,
through flesh,
through nerves,
through blood,
to the heart, to the bone.

I can taste the grit of your song in my teeth.

_ _ _

It still feels like a good start, and it still doesn't feel 100% done. I really like the "raw, exposed nerve" part from the previous draft and today's note, but I haven't figured a way to work it in yet that feels right. And I am not sure about the last line, either. I am inching closer, though.

Of Obsolescence

Over the last couple of months I have rediscovered my love of analogue cameras, thanks to Lomography. Long story short, they are company built on their love and production of lo-fi plastic lens analogue cameras in the style of those found in the Soviet Union a couple decades ago. The above photos were taking with my Lomography Colorsplash 35mm with Fujifilm 400 speed color negative film. The flash has a wheel built into it that can hold several different color gels, so you can tinge your photos with green, blue, orange, red, etc. You can see more of my Colorsplash experiments over here.

I recently picked up a Lomography Holga that also has a colorsplash flash. I haven't developed the first batch of black and white film I shot yet, but it is my new favorite toy, and it is ridiculously lo-fi. It's essentially a box with a flash and lens. Advancing the film depends entirely on me paying attention to the dots and numbers coming up in the view pane - no automatic safety stops when the next frame is loaded. Its technically a 120mm camera, but you can make all sorts of temporary modifications to the Holga to make it photograph on smaller sized film. I have gone into a gleeful little frenzy over my lo-fi toys, stocking up on color slide, red scale, and black and white film to play with over the coming weeks and months.

I have been really bored with photography for a long time, mostly due to the prevalence of the digital camera. Sure, digital is way more convenient and you can do some things you can never do with an analogue camera. But digitals can also take a lot of the fun out of photography by doing a the work for you. I enjoy the process of loading in the film, the possibility of light leaks, of never knowing what you're going to get until the film is developed. It forces you to commit to the moment, acknowledge the possibility of mistakes and pray for happy accidents.

Lomography ups the ante for me by allowing the user to do a lot of the manipulation of the image in the camera and the development process itself - colored flashes, multiple exposures, building panoramic shots blind by counting the clicks of the advance wheel, cross processing film in the "wrong" chemicals, and using many different forms of filters, splitters, and lens. I am in love with the lo-fi look of the shots, the over-saturation of color that seems to come out of almost every camera they produce. These pictures pop with life and character. Lomography has gotten me excited about photography again. As they say, the future is analogue.

Great Success

With some last minute scrambling, the First Friday opening of Call and Response went much better than I had expected. The Canvas was packed from the 4:30 opening until the 7:30 change over to the live show from local band One Aisle Over. Many great conversations with local artists, writers, and art appreciators were had, and many of the piece sold and have continued to sell at a steady clip. We even had the last minute addition of a live guitarist for background music, who offered their services the day before the show opened. I didn't catch his name, though...

It was great fun and a great encouragement to have such a wonderful response to my first real airing of my work in public. I immediately began to brew all sorts of other plans for shows and projects to produce, now that I have successfully gotten myself over the first big bump in the road.

Pictures will come soon, I promise. In all the excitement and sleep deprivation, I failed to bring my camera to capture shots of the visitors, or an close ups of the show. Donna grabbed a few on the Canvas' camera, but we have just not retrieved them yet.

Right. Now to get cracking on new projects! Things to watch out for: short story collection by yours truly, and some hand made graphic short stories, both of which (hopefully) will be available for sale at the Public Market during Thanksgiving weekend. I am splitting a booth with Donna, Misty, Josh, and Olga, all makers of fine and various bits of wonder. Donna and I are also discussing doing a assemblage/collage show sometime next year.

Right. Quit distracting me.

Rough Drafts for October Exhibit

Below are some rough drafts of my contributions to the October show Donna and I are doing at the Canvas. We decided to a back and forth exchange, where I would write some really short stories/images/poems/etc. and she would then illustrate them, and she would produce drawings that I would then write about. Most of these are new, except Currents, which is an excerpt from Dancers. I'll probably put some more of these up as I amass ones that I like, and you can expect a big update with photos and such when the show goes up in October.

Snowbirds

The Snowbirds are perhaps one of the more peculiar of migratory species. Though they persevere through much of their adolescent phase, it is often not until the middle to elderly phase of their lifespan that are able to sustain prolonged flight from the colder regions to warmer climes. Perhaps even more peculiar than this delayed migratory phase, is the complete lack of vital necessity to their travels. Perfectly capable of forging for sustenance and shelter in the cold winter months, and often long past their reproductive stage, they never the less expend vast sums of their resources in order to spend a few months in warmer weather.

Bonfire

The air is sweet with wood smoke and filled with the pops of burning pine and chatter of the scattered circle of friends sipping from plastic cups. Someone strums their guitar to the steady beat of the waves on the beach.

Folk Fest

Drinks and drinkers slosh through the packed bar, feet stamp out a frenzied joy on the crowded dancefloor, as the bluegrass band churns through chorus after verse after chorus. The air is hot and humid and celebratory, stark contrast to the cold drizzly April night outside.

Cabin Fever

Symptoms may include: dizziness, claustrophobia, sense of purposelessness, drowsiness, insomnia, acts/states of dementia, listlessness, aggressive mood swings, poor choice making. Treatment: Certain pharmaceuticals are available both over the counter and by prescription to relieve or suppress symptoms. The disease seems to go into remission upon the patients’ removal from the outbreak location, but tends to flair up again shortly after their return. There is no known cure for this disease.

One More for the Road

The night is cold again, but the warm hands of whiskey pushes you forward. The fine icy rain cuts through your thin jacket, but the lacy fingers of cigarette smoke beckon you on. You tip in and out of the bars along the main street, trying to find that last one for the road. And the warm hands of whiskey pushes you forward, and the lacey fingers of cigarette smoke beckon you on.

Currents

They swirled and spun alone before the band, ease and muscle memory stepping into their places. Communication broke down to the pressure of eyes and the trailing of hands on flesh; messages were tapped out across the telegraph wires of skin. Bodies became waves, steps and spins became thoughtlessly dynamic; they rode their own currents.

No Dreams

No Dreams

Last night
I had no dreams.
No fine figment fingers
Followed my spine,
Only pillow-soft embraces.
No Dali escapades,
No fevered Bosch inventions
Punctured my blank black sleep.

Entry #3: Small Sacrifices

Here's a rough draft of a poem that I have been working on. I got the idea after I sliced the tip of my thumb off while fixing potatoes, and called it a sacrifice for breakfast. This is the only bit that I am satisfied with so far -


Small Sacrifices

A small boy
stood up on a
bench in the park
and toppled down
face first in the path
the pebbles splitting
the forehead, opening
the third eye, anointing
the sidewalk with blood.
Since my infancy, I have spread
small sacrifices across the surfaces of the world.

But is it Art? #2.1 He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss) - final sketches and finished piece

Here's the last few sketches for the newsprint man and woman, and the final and framed piece. The show goes up tomorrow at the Silverbow.

But is it Art? #2: He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)

He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss) Sketches + approx. 1/2 of finished piece

Here are some sketches and what I have completed so far of "He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)", my piece for the AWARE at the Silverbow in April. Stay tuned.

But is it Art? #1: Creation Story

"Creation Story" Watercolor & Ink * Me with "Creation Story" @ the Canvas

Just a quick post about my piece in the March PULSE show at the Canvas here in Juneau. Now it's time to go work on another piece called "He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)" for AWARE's April show at the Silverbow. I'll post pics of that piece when there's something to show.

Poem #1: The Closest I Get to Magic

This is an older poem, probably originally written around June 2005. Edited again today.

"The Closest I Get to Magic"

purple music from flesh tasting mouths;
this is the closest I get to magic.

secrets are revealed clumsily, hastily.
quick, in one motion,
rip away
all fear, all modesty,
like a bandage.
lick, love, learn new intimate openings.

trace circles on tight, cool skin
inscribe mysteries along the notches of the spine
taste a few more drops
of whatever makes you thirsty:
one last long salty suck from the sea.

run your hands over warm flushed flesh
bathe yourself in the afterglow
spread it across your landscape in palmfuls,
touch the slightly jutting bone of your hips -
and remember.

I dream
of future days, of looking back,
of how I will see you:

timid eyes and smile; curled coyly beneath sheets;
hungry, fasting flesh;
how I tasted you
and your perfect imperfections;
the shades of color
that flowed across your skin -

the shades of color
that flow across your skin
as your eyes move
across this page.

Entry #2: Untitled Stony River Project, Part 1

"No matter what happens, no matter how loud someone is poundin' on the door tonight, don't let them in. OK?"
I stared blankly at John. He stood in the door of the classroom, keys in hand. This night, Friday night, was the first time anyone had locked up the school.
"What's going on?"

* * *

Wednesday morning in Stony River started the same as the rest of the mornings had that week in early April, at least as far as I could tell. I woke up at 6am in the high school classroom, the sun only just beginning to stain the snow and sky a soft pink. I tied my sleeping bag into an awkward little roll with a bit of rope, carried the giant red pillow back to the resource room, and went to the kitchen to make some tea and instant oatmeal, the smack of my bare feet echoing in the dark and empty gym as I passed through. I ate standing at the double basin sink, spooning Quaker Oats and sipping Lipton and powdered milk while I read the school lunch menu for the umpteenth time.
At 8 the students began to trickle in, usually in pairs or groups of three. The students were never all that talkative, especially in the morning, but there was something different about their silence today. Their conversations were carried out only in short whispers, their movements only the bare minimum to prepare them for the day. I wanted to reach out to them, to strike up a conversation, but they were guarded and reserved on even the most mundane of topics with me. I understood why, too. I was from outside the village, a student teacher out on a week-long rural exchange - another white visitor in a town of Yupik relatives, used now to seeing people like me pass quickly in and out of Gusty Michael K-12 School. The odds of me being able to draw the students out on what seemed to be troubling them were nonexistent.
My host teacher seemed to notice something was up too. John sat his desk, occasionally watching his students over the top of his glasses as he sipped at his thermal mug. He watched but said nothing, and he asked no questions.
Our answer came with the Troopers that afternoon.

* * *

Alaska State Troopers Press Release of Thursday, April 12, 2007
Any charges reported in these press releases are merely accusations and the defendants are presumed innocent unless and until proven guilty.
Location: Stoney River (sic)
Case number: 07-27299
Type: Assault II
Text: On 04-11-07 at about 1200 hrs. Bethel AST received information that Roman M. Lubczonek, 49 of Stoney River (sic), was stabbed in the abdomen with a 11 inch kitchen knife by his wife, Virginia in Stoney River (sic). Investigation has revealed that Roman, Virginia and Pete Zauker were drinking alcohol when Virginia became upset when Roman refused to share what alcohol was left. Roman was laying on a bed when Virginia left and later returned with a kitchen knife and stabbed Roman in the abdomen. Roman was transported to Anchorage for medical attention. Virginia was arrested and remanded to the Yukon Kuskokwim correctional center for assault II, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. Received and posted Thursday, April 12, 2007 10:40 AM

* * *

"You remember that guy who got stabbed the other night?" John asked, scratching his beard with his keys.
I nodded. After the Troopers had come and gone, John had filled me in on what he had heard.

* * *

A friend found Roman Wednesday morning in his bloody cabin, using the little remaining alcohol as a painkiller. Roman told his friend and the Troopers that it was all an accident, that Virginia had been cooking and he just ran into the knife.
"Which is just a bunch of crap, honestly," John said. "For one, who is cooking at 3am? For another, it's not like he just got poked in the belly with a paring knife. This was a big knife, and it came at an angle, like it was trying to get under the ribcage." Said John, adding the appropriate interpretive motions with his fingers to the commentary. "How do you accidentally run into a kitchen knife with your belly and and end up with it pointing at your heart?"

* * *

"Well, Roman's back in town and he's trying to stir up shit. It looks like he brought back some alcohol with him, because he just showed up our place drunk as a skunk, demanding to know who called the Troopers on his wife. The little shit started making threats toward Wayna and I, and then he wandered off with his buddies on his sleds. If that little shit wants to start something he can go ahead and try it! I've got my hand gun, so I'm not too worried about some little punk like him."
I nodded, and then looked out the wall of windows to my right, completely lacking in curtains or any other way to block the view. It wouldn't matter how much I ignored any pounding on the doors. If someone just walks by that side of the school, they'll see me camped out along side the bookshelves, and it would be all over.
"If you don't mind, John, I'd like to stay over at your place tonight."
John nodded. "That's fine. As a matter of fact, you might want to see if you can fly out a couple of days early. Life's certainly not going to get much better around here any time soon, and I think that you got a pretty good taste of the conditions out here."

Old Favorites #1: Dancers

The banjo player moved away from the huddle near the vacant drum kit, back to his beer bottle and center stage. The bassist waited in the background, adjusting the position of her instrument. The mandolin player and the guitarist drifted in from the left and the right and from their own bottles. The banjo player clasped his hands behind his back and leaned into his microphone.

“This next song is an ol’ Stanley Brothers tune, called ‘She’s More to be Pitied.’ It’s a waltz, so we expect to see some dancin’ on this one!”

The band counted themselves in and their music spun away, notes and chords sliding over and against one another as if stumbling through water. In the crowded bar the boisterous clatter continued, the patrons wrapped in smoke and beer and laughter. Sharp cracks of billiard balls punctuated the intimately earnest conversations of the drunk. Clumsy hands clapped shoulders of friends and strangers; lopsided smiles leaned across unsteady lips.

“Too much beer and wine, too many good times…”

The twanging vocal harmonies of the banjo player and the guitarist straddled the din of the bar. Their music transformed into a shell, a skin to shield the revelry.

A woman near the band rose from a table and extended her thin, lined hands to the man she was seated with. His smile saturated his grey-bearded face as he stood and followed her to the middle of the pinched dance floor, their hands twined together. She turned to face him and they laced their arms around each other, slipping off into the stream of sound.

“She needs to be loved not despised…”

They swirled and spun alone before the band, ease and muscle memory stepping into their places. Communication broke down to the pressure of eyes and the trailing of hands on flesh; messages were tapped out across the telegraph wires of skin. Bodies became waves, steps and spins became thoughtlessly dynamic; they rode their own currents.

“She once was the belle of the ballroom, she’d a made some man a sweet wife…”

An audience stumbled into existence around the edges of the dance floor, sucked in by the dancers’ undertow. Easily enraptured, the audience watched the dancers shed decades with twists of spines and the precise placement of feet. Strands of hair and folds of clothing became animate, their embraces echoing the deliberate motion of famished fingers and eager eyes. Her dust brown dress meandered through spins and twirls, caressing the calves of his boot-cut jeans.

“The lure of the honky-tonk wrecked her young life…”

The mandolin shimmered and clattered over the top of the other instruments, the player shaking every last note from his instrument as he wrung its slim neck. The inebriated audience hooted and clapped, their glassy eyes turning to the action on stage.

His eyes never left her as he led her into one last slow twirl, the ebbing tide of the music washing them closer together. She let her head come to rest on his shoulder as they shuffled slowly in each others arms. The band gently pulled themselves back in, winding down to the final notes.

“Too much beer and wine, too many good times…
The lure of the honky-tonk, wrecked her young life…”

Applause spurted from the crowded bar as last note drifted into the rafters. He pressed her fingers to his mouth; the audience returned to their busy conversations. She smiled, gliding back to the table, his hand at the small of her back.

The banjo player took a long pull from his beer. He pushed back his black trucker cap, wiping his sweaty brow across his sleeve. The guitarist and bassist stood by the dormant drums, bringing their instruments back into tune. The mandolin player crouched at the side of the stage, engaged in the spidery business of replacing a broken string. The banjo player pulled his cap forward, gulping from his beer bottle. He slid back to the microphone.

“Well, it looks like the mandolin is out of commission for the moment, so we’re gonna do a little banjo tune for ya…”

Entry #1: the sun is shining but the rain is coming

Below is my first entry, a very rough draft of "The Sun is Shining but the Rain is Coming." It needs a lot of work, but I imagine a more polished version will turn up on here one of these days. As it stands currently it moves way to fast and shallow for my purposes, but the magic is always in revision for me. It's a story that I am working on in response to this painting by Misty, which I helped her name:

The Sun is Shining but the Rain is Coming (Oil Painting)

“Where are you going?”

“Out. I just need to go for a walk.” I said, not looking up as I tied her shoes.

“Your dad is going to be home from work soon.” Mom said, leaning against the frame of the kitchen doorway.

“I know.”

“I just put the chicken in the oven.”

“So I’ll be back in an hour and a half, ok?” I snapped as I stood up from the stairs, pulling on my worn out red sweater.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just need to get out of the house for a while.”

I grabbed my backpack and Discman off the floor and slipped out the door before my mom could get in another word. I shrugged my backpack on my way down the driveway and on to Brandywine Avenue. The early autumn sun was warmer than I expected, so I pushed the sleeve of my sweaters up past my elbows. I slipped on my headphones, and Blur’s self-titled album chugged to life by the time I hit the corner onto Ticonderoga.

By the time I hit Strawberry, most of the stress and restlessness that had been building up all afternoon had a melted away, and I was mouthing along to “Country Sad Ballad Man.” By “Your So Great” I was on Jewel Lake and a straight shot to Carrs.

When I got to Carrs, I made a beeline for the drinks section, picking up a bottle of Coke without stopping to look around. I went two aisles over and spent the minimum time it took to find the shelf with the roll of Spree candy. I grabbed two rolls and headed back out, taking my inaugural sip of soda as I went through the automatic doors. The secret to a successful shoplifting expedition is to not be secretive; you need to walk out the door like whatever you are carrying rightfully belongs to you.

On the way back home I decided take a turn on to W. 88^th and to Chinook Elementary. The playground was empty as I crossed to the sledding hill, lonely in the September evening. I laid on my back at the summit for a while, letting Blur play itself out as the weakening autumn sun tenderly warmed my face. On the horizon, dark moody clouds crouched on top of the Chugach Mountains. I closed my eyes, relaxing as the increasingly crisp breeze pushed around me.