Cities and Memory have a new project up which includes my photography! Check it out to find a fascinating random connection between art and sound, evoking a sense of place from images anchored to a specific location inspiring sounds that know no bounds.
I love it when a plan comes together. Wander through the memories and sounds…or scroll down to Scotland to find my Orkney picture.
On the town (NYC naturally) with the QoE at the Met, in the park, sharing Amity, and a drink with Katya. More pix on the ‘book.
My Wandering Uterus: tales of traveling while female
Edited by K. A. Laity, Foreword by H. Byron Ballard, Cover design or artwork by S. L. Johnson
List Price: $14.99
5″ x 8″ (12.7 x 20.32 cm)
Black & White on White paper
BISAC: Travel / General
My Wandering Uterus
A diverse treasure trove from women across the globe and from every walk of life!
This book contains memoirs, stories and poetry about the experiences of being a woman on the road — the joys, the perils, the lessons, the changes. From spiritual pilgrimages to forced evacuations, in pursuit of opportunity or to escape from the past, travel broadens the mind — and broads’ travel writing will delight your heart!
Rouze up, O Young Men of the New Age! set your foreheads against the ignorant Hirelings! For we have Hirelings in the Camp, the Court & the University, who would, if they could, for ever depress Mental & prolong Corporeal War.
William Blake, Preface to Milton
I have had some insight into a revision I need to make to my novel Hire Idiots. I’ve neglected to make clear the important role played by quislings.
Quislings are the reason the neoliberal effort succeeds. The hard-line zealots would get nowhere without them. They help normalise, apologise and internalise the reframing of education as assessment. Their efforts to ‘not make waves’ allow the system to drown in mediocrity. It’s always easier to ‘go with the flow’ in the short term, but the long term effects are deadly.
I’ve had more insight in recent years about my inability to conform to neurotypical conventions. Despite accusations, it’s not a pugnacious desire to ‘think outside the box’; it’s a kind of blindness. I can’t see the box.
William Blake: Apollyon Attacks Christian, Pilgrim’s Progress
The SpeakEasy dames are hosting Ione’s Dream Festival this week: check it out on Facebook. Here’s our Sunday poetry offering by Wendy Goldberg; I think it’s got just the right touch of melancholy for an ending.
We’ve had a wonderful time sharing our writing, music and art. Keep dreaming, remember refill the well, and as the dames would surely tell you, make sure someone’s got your back while you dream.
Perhaps it would be like no poem would ever be forgotten,
if we remembered every dream we ever had.
The day would be as surreal as the night,
populated with a memory that does not exist,
a narrative running counter to the light.
Would people say in the café, wiping sugar off the table
I am a flyer or I dream of water?
Would lovers whisper sexual non-sequitors
about images that abandon all sense of plot?
Perhaps those taboos would go silently unshared,
and if nightmares could not be broken with the day,
we might keep those secret yet.
But, we would remember all —
from an angel in the deep midnight womb
telling us the mind of God
to our last twilight vision in sickbeds
where dreams glide away like a grey sky
sliding its palms on an endless, still sea.
As we breathe at night, we breathe in day
like the way we dream
about the dead in that first year of grief.
Instead, mornings have merciful hands,
wiping a fogged-up mirror, and we see
the same story we keep telling ourselves.
The SpeakEasy dames are hosting Ione’s Dream Festival this week: check it out on Facebook. Here’s tonight’s entry by singer-songwriter Julie Beman:
“Memory This” is a song about two dreams, but it also sounds dreamlike due to various production choices made during development and engineering.
The song opens with a mellotron, moody and wonky; its sound is a staple of both science fiction and prog rock and its “out-of-tune-y-ness” serves to destabilize. The piano brings in a feeling of being grounded, but only until the vocal, awash in reverb and delay, introduces a dream. After four lines the vocal splits into elaborate harmonies. As all of the parts are sung by the same person, there is a hall-of-mirrors quality to them; one person has multiplied into many. Strings are typical dream-fare. Panning moves the sound in space, denying it an opportunity to “land.” The song ends with an improvisation, an act of creation that will happen only once, much like a dream.
The SpeakEasy dames are hosting Ione’s Dream Festival this week: check it out on Facebook. Here’s today’s entry by Karen Ponzio in poetic form: find her as @kptheword on Twitter and Instagram and on Facebook.
Ode to Dreaming
What do you do when you cease to dream?
Do you walk the streets endlessly,
Drink large quantities of wine, whiskey,
Or some other magic potion sweet
Search for a wild woman, make her your queen,
Feed her sugar fresh from your lips
As she lies back upon the green grass
Of your mountain bed,
Stir her guts up with promises
Of passion in pink and red
Comfort her when she breaks instead?
Is there comfort in anything if it isn’t taken
To its end?
Is death the only comfort left?
Must you pretend that life is the better choice
Knowing it is not a choice at all?
Must you fall over and over into the same hole
Hidden in plain sight
Or is the hole one of your own making
Where other worlds awaited you,
Jewels, gold, a dragon’s lair,
A sorcerer’s stone
A hiding place for an alien force
Though no escape from the torture of knowing
You were mostly alone?
Would you then try once again
To close your eyes at night
And see what transpires
Without judgement of what is
Wrong or right,
Without begging her to tell you something
Anything to keep you from hearing
The stories of your own plight
Buried deep within your troubled mind?
Would you let your queen get her beauty sleep,
or do you feel the need to wake her
And ask if she had claimed your love as well as
How much do you expect her to take?
Do you even know what love is?
Do you have anything left to say?
Let what you love break if it has to
And love it anyway.