Friday, April 26, 2019
Thursday, April 18, 2019
The world is awash in political turmoil. Not just Washington, but the whole planet. It’s reaching out into orbit. And I have writing to do.
But, it’s springtime in Aztlán, the Wild West, the Southwest, my native region, my homeland.
There are those who see it as a vast, hideous wasteland. I feel sorry for them. They do not know what beauty is. Their lives are poorer for it.
It never really got cold this winter. Now the brighter light and warmer temperature snags my attention as I sit in front of the computer, trying to take care of business. I find myself getting out of my chair, and wandering out into the visual delirium.
My wife, Emily Devenport’s garden glows. She says I have a way with capturing light on flowers, but the truth is, it captures me. I see it, do a WOW that’s sometimes audible, then run to get my phone. I've learn that if I wait, the magic configuration of planet and star are lost.
Sometimes surrealism just happens.
Sometimes I find natural occurring abstract art. As Jackson Pollock once said, “I am nature.”
And people keep forgetting the cold, hard fact that flowers are plant sexual organs in a state of arousal.
Again, it's spring. Plants, lizards, and motorcycles are in full mating display.
Throughout Aztlán, as the chaos brews.
John Wayne stands guard over a Men’s Room, and a two-dimensional cowgirl hang with a bloated saguaro, as mythologies battle over the fantastic landscape.
And the world still grows more apocalyptic. Like the “In the springtime” at the end of Un Chien Andalou, with a man and woman buried up to their waists in the sand, being devoured by huge insects.
We need be like cacti who refuse to die.
Friday, April 12, 2019
Monday, April 8, 2019
If you squint your eyes, or enlarge the picture to ridiculous proportions, you can see three of my drawings and copies of High Aztech and Cortez on Jupiter.
Monarchs: Brown and Native Contemporary Artists in the Path of the Butterfly has taken wing again and landed a the Nerman Museum of the Contemporary Arts, on the campus of Johnson County Community College, in Overland Park, Kansas.
My stuff is there courtesy of Josh Rios and Anthony Romero. Once again, thanks, guys!
Meanwhile, here's a look at the drawings to whet your appetite.
Thursday, April 4, 2019
People often ask be, “Have you been doing any writing lately?” as if it’s something I only get to on rare occasions.
I answer, “Yes, all the time.”
Yeah, I work, I have family, and live a world of things that are forever demanding, or even commandeering my time and attention, but I am never far from writing.
It’s a never-ending battle, like the one for Truth, Justice, and the American Way. And it took me years to get to this point, I tend to stay on track, and always have a writing project or more crashing around my brain. I can’t help it, leave me alone, and I start taking things I’ve experienced and encountered, mixing them up, and making them into stories.
It keeps me from getting bored.
Also, you can’t be a writer unless you write. Funny how a lot of people don’t get that.
It does mean that I tend to write the scattered, jagged fragments, on the run, sessions at the computer augmented by bits done on my phone, on Google Drive.
There is the fear that my work will turn out too disjointed. Now and then the barrage of interruptions is so intense that I lose track of what I was doing. I’ve forgotten all about unfinished projects, only to find them much later while looking for something else in my files. I’ve found that a notebook--spiral, with lined paper, what used for on the run stuff in my pre-cyber days--works for reminding me of all that I’m juggling.
Like the short story (for an anthology, but I’m not saying anything about it right now, because it’s way too early in the complicated process) I just reached the end of. No, I didn’t “finish” it. I laugh folks who go on the social media and crow about having just typed THE END. That usually just means that a different kind of work has begun.
Looks like I left out a few things in this story (once again this is complicated, and would take too long to explain), and some scenes and dialogue could use some fleshing out.Now that I’ve read what I have, I can get to the final pick and shovel work.
It also turned out a lot more coherent than I was afraid of, considered the fragmentary way I wrote it.
The same can be said of my novel-in-progress, Zyx; or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin. In reading it over, I was glad to see that the story-making machine I’ve been building in my head every since those hours in grade school that spend daydreaming instead of paying attention to the teacher, works just fine, maybe it’s even getting better as I tinker with it into my old age. It’s not the big mess I was afraid it would be. It’s crazy, but has a structure, and I may even be able to finished by the end of 2019.
Ah! Delusions of grandeur! You can’t really be a writer without them.
But that’s another story.
And another interruption.