  Image Credit: Sarah Beth Jones |
FloCoiMo on Ad Hominem
Many of you probably already know that November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), in which thousands of writers around the world challenge themselves to write 50,000 words over thirty days. In some ways, Floyd County Imagination Month (FloCoiMo) is Floyd County's answer to NaNoWriMo, except rather than restricting the challenge to a particular word count, participants are restricted to, well, nothing. No guidelines. No boundaries. Just create something, and create it with abandon (30 poems, 30 pasta dishes, 30 photographs, 30 new dance moves, 30 scribbles on the side of your daily crossword puzzle). |
Founded by the Jacksonville Center for the Arts (in Floyd County), this bold experiment encourages artists to remove their filter and shoot their inner (not their actual) editor. Ad Hominem would like to offer our support, too, by cheering everything and everyone on. If you are participating in FloCoiMo, send your progress/photos/video/audio to [email protected], and we'll put it right here and offer our words of encouragement.
Want to learn more? Read a few words from Sarah Beth Jones, the marketing coordinator of Jacksonville Center for the Arts.
Want to learn more? Read a few words from Sarah Beth Jones, the marketing coordinator of Jacksonville Center for the Arts.
thirty days of art
meet the artists
kathryn loichinger
Kathryn Loichinger started FloCoiMo off with a fantastic idea for a photo series: she decided to arrange a cheese plate on day one of the event and photograph as it rotted into a gooey mess! The series is amazing, and you can find images of the food in various states of decay all throughout the page below. Somewhere in the middle of the month, however, Kathryn decided to show us other aspects of her creativity as well. We quickly fell in love with all her other work, too, such as the photos above.
Each of these is a snippet from a series entitled "Instruments of Love not Hate." Throughout, she thinks up simple items/images/themes which are portrayed everyday by the media in a negative and destructive light and I conveys them in a loving manner. The image of the book is actually a copy of the King James Bible, its pages turned in on Proverbs 10:12, "Hatred stirreth up strife: but love covereth all sins." It was inspired by an anti gay rights protest in Washington DC by a church congregation, and Kathryn writes that: "I always thought that God LOVED us all at least that's the message I spread."
The image of the hands, "Hands of Healing or Hurting," is a reaction against the images of violence in society that bombard us every day. Kathryn considers "our hands as healing instruments, not deathly ones."
The last is called "Words" (self portrait). Kathryn says:
This image was inspired by my own vicious words at times. I am consciously trying to build people up with words and not tear them down.
Each of these is a snippet from a series entitled "Instruments of Love not Hate." Throughout, she thinks up simple items/images/themes which are portrayed everyday by the media in a negative and destructive light and I conveys them in a loving manner. The image of the book is actually a copy of the King James Bible, its pages turned in on Proverbs 10:12, "Hatred stirreth up strife: but love covereth all sins." It was inspired by an anti gay rights protest in Washington DC by a church congregation, and Kathryn writes that: "I always thought that God LOVED us all at least that's the message I spread."
The image of the hands, "Hands of Healing or Hurting," is a reaction against the images of violence in society that bombard us every day. Kathryn considers "our hands as healing instruments, not deathly ones."
The last is called "Words" (self portrait). Kathryn says:
This image was inspired by my own vicious words at times. I am consciously trying to build people up with words and not tear them down.
coriander woodruff
Coriander Woodruff joined us on Day Five of the event, and we were instantly impressed. At sixteen years old, this home-schooled prodigy is adept at music (she's released two albums of electronica) and acting (check out The Adventures of Tom Sawyer if you happen to be in Southwest Virginia this December), and has also developed a recent interest in photography. Her work shows amazing promise, and we're convinced we'll be seeing her on the cover of a magazine sometime soon.
gerri young
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Gerri Young has shown relentless commitment to her daily FloCoiMo goals, but perhaps the most amazing thing is that every single piece she's produced looks as though it was carefully crafted over several days. The idea that such beautiful watercolors are completed in a number of mere hours is simply astounding. Throughout the month, Gerri has also proved herself to be accomplished not only with a paintbrush but with ink, felt-tip, pastel, etc. If it will make a mark on canvas, Gerri can create something beautiul, and often does. On the final day of FloCoiMo, she also surprised us by submitting a piece of beautifully written prose. Is there anything she can't do? I wouldn't place any money against her. You can access this prose by clicking on the image above.
Gerri's artwork is often accompanied by interesting anecdotes about the pieces' inspirations. Gerri had this to say about the piece above, which is called "Sacrifice for Freedom":
We visited a small abandoned checkpoint in eastern Germany last year. On the hill above the gate and across from a watch tower, a memorial to all who had died trying to escape stands in an open field. The falling man is flanked by flags designed by private individuals both lamenting the loss and celebrating the reunification. This painting is my interpretation of that ultimately uplifting place.
Gerri's artwork is often accompanied by interesting anecdotes about the pieces' inspirations. Gerri had this to say about the piece above, which is called "Sacrifice for Freedom":
We visited a small abandoned checkpoint in eastern Germany last year. On the hill above the gate and across from a watch tower, a memorial to all who had died trying to escape stands in an open field. The falling man is flanked by flags designed by private individuals both lamenting the loss and celebrating the reunification. This painting is my interpretation of that ultimately uplifting place.
mara robbins
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three amigas
It has been years since I have laughed as much as I have since I met you two. It’s easy. A tentative beginning, but with such potential—impossible not to be somewhat smitten with the latent lust for bacon and baking and what we see in each other that we often forget about ourselves. A savory safety net constructed out of tragedy and mirth, vanilla vodka, lemons, sugar bowls-- a haphazard surprise party for the birth of my how-can-you-be-thirteen-year-old, a candle for my father in the earth of your strong walking. This is how we roll: talking through syllables via a text message, midnight Facebook ramblings, the next page blank with patient anticipation. We fill the gaps that others do not notice; we notice both the grief and the elation, alleviate the scattered lack of focus when we can, and manage celebration amidst chaos and the things that choke us up. A single “breathe” enough to calm me. You help me see the things I cannot see when I am in the middle of perspectives I can’t own. Academic, urban, rural and eccentric as we are, the missive of appreciation merges with it all and makes it seem entirely subjective. Thank goodness there are moods and we can call each other on our bullshit when it comes, because I am terribly good at that myself-- the bullshit and the calling. Our lack of wealth is only about money and making it go where it needs to—you make me feel richer than I’ve ever been, not faking or pretending to be anything but real. I will put my arms around your shaking nervous shoulders, flirt with but not ever steal incorrigible husbands—amigas, be mine-- Apples to Apples and ‘shine to sweet shine. |
Mara Robbins may not have invented FloCoiMo, but she is the reason its artists appear here on Ad Hominem. An old friend of the editor-in-chief, Mara brought Sarah Beth Jones's wonderful creation to our attention and the bounty of art you see on this page is the result.
A talented and versatile poet, Mara challenged herself to utilize a different poetic form for each day of the event. If you take a few moments to scroll down this page, you'll see that not only was she relentlessly successful in this task, but that most of her "slapdash" creations are actually well-crafted, polished, promising pieces. Sometimes hilarious, sometimes tragic, but always beautiful, Mara's poems add much flavor to this wonderful FloCoiMo concoction.
A talented and versatile poet, Mara challenged herself to utilize a different poetic form for each day of the event. If you take a few moments to scroll down this page, you'll see that not only was she relentlessly successful in this task, but that most of her "slapdash" creations are actually well-crafted, polished, promising pieces. Sometimes hilarious, sometimes tragic, but always beautiful, Mara's poems add much flavor to this wonderful FloCoiMo concoction.
patricia woodruff
Patricia Woodruff proved herself as one of the most tenacious contributors to this project, not because she managed to submit one of her beautiful sketches almost every single day, but because she managed to submit one of her beautiful sketches almost every single day despite spending much of November on the road. Whether she was sketching roadkill foxes in diners or doodling fairies that came to her in the wee hours of the morning, Patricia always found the endurance to reach down deep and create something. Her work ethic, her imagination, and her willingness to drop "the filter" are all qualities that truly define what FloCoiMo was all about.
michele shoemaker
Michele Shoemaker's images are simply breathtaking, the world revealed through a new filter, full of surprising colors and textures. The images above are just a small representative sample of what you'll find below, as well as on her blog Epreuve.
As if that wasn't enough, if you peruse the page below, you'll also find a few easter eggs. From time to time, Michele also shares with us a bit of her writing, and though we don't have much, it's enough to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Michele is an incredibly well-rounded artist with an amazing aesthetic.
As if that wasn't enough, if you peruse the page below, you'll also find a few easter eggs. From time to time, Michele also shares with us a bit of her writing, and though we don't have much, it's enough to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Michele is an incredibly well-rounded artist with an amazing aesthetic.
lee chichester
Lee Chichester came to us late in the event, but we were very glad to have her unique contribution to the bonanza of art that is FloCoiMo. Lee is a master falconer and professional freelance writer, as well as the Development Coordinator for the Jacksonville Center. She's also written a memoir about falconry called Falcons and Foxes in the UK: The Making of a Hunter. She gets much of her inspiration from hanging out with the birds in the woods and fields on this unique plateau along the Blue Ridge Parkway of Southwest Virginia.
sarah beth jones
Sarah Beth Jones's contributions to this event are too numerous to list, but we should begin by mentioning the fact that she's the marketing coordinator of the Jacksonville Center for the Arts, the organization that founded FloCoiMo in the first place. All throughout the month, Sarah has composed incredibly polished and insightful editorials. She's also been blogging a little every day--in the spirit of the Thanksgiving season--about things for which she is grateful.
But most importantly, Sarah Beth Jones has been cheering everyone on daily, wearing multiple hats and filling the roles of cheerleader, lighthouse, billboard, and friend. If you like any of the art below, want to know more about the Jacksonville Center for the Arts, Floyd County Artists, or FloCoiMo events next year, Sarah Beth Jones would be a good place to start.
As for all of us here at Ad Hominem: SBJ, we salute you!
But most importantly, Sarah Beth Jones has been cheering everyone on daily, wearing multiple hats and filling the roles of cheerleader, lighthouse, billboard, and friend. If you like any of the art below, want to know more about the Jacksonville Center for the Arts, Floyd County Artists, or FloCoiMo events next year, Sarah Beth Jones would be a good place to start.
As for all of us here at Ad Hominem: SBJ, we salute you!
day 29: the penultimate update
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Welcome to the penultimate update, Day 29. It's hard to believe that it's almost over. Some days, the even has seemed to have dragged on forever, hasn't it? But right now, it seems like only yesterday that we heard about FloCoiMo from Mara Robbins, or that Sarah Beth Jones was filling us in on the details.
Today Gerri Young, who has been going strong since day one, sent in the image above. It's called "Mystical Forest," watercolor on rice paper, and she has this to say about it:
I got a bit tired of painting on the 2.5 x 3.5 inch format I promised at the beginning of the project, so I have expanded some of my pieces to slightly larger sizes or different shapes. Is there really only one more day to go for FloCoiMo?
It's true, Gerri, just one day left. But that doesn't mean it's the last you all will be seeing from Gerri, not by a long shot. I have a feeling we'll be seeing more from her soon...
Michele Shoemaker, another contributor of consistently beautiful artwork (across genres!), sends this untitled piece as today's offering:
Today Gerri Young, who has been going strong since day one, sent in the image above. It's called "Mystical Forest," watercolor on rice paper, and she has this to say about it:
I got a bit tired of painting on the 2.5 x 3.5 inch format I promised at the beginning of the project, so I have expanded some of my pieces to slightly larger sizes or different shapes. Is there really only one more day to go for FloCoiMo?
It's true, Gerri, just one day left. But that doesn't mean it's the last you all will be seeing from Gerri, not by a long shot. I have a feeling we'll be seeing more from her soon...
Michele Shoemaker, another contributor of consistently beautiful artwork (across genres!), sends this untitled piece as today's offering:
Image Credit: Michele Shoemaker
Finally, Mara Robbins, whose work has also been strong and consistent all month, gives us this powerful piece, "Poetification." We had a few problems trying to properly format it for the site (it contains footnotes), so we suggest downloading the document version (below) to see the poem as Mara intended. She also added a few words about the poem:
This is an organic form I invented two years ago when I began writing a sequence of poems for my father who had just been diagnosed with cancer. The initial sequence, Sixteen Days, chronicled the days between his diagnoses and when he began chemo and radiation treatments. With a vague memory of a teacher once mentioning that tercets are inherently unbalanced, I chose the three line stanza—feeling unbalanced myself as I tried to reconcile my emotions with my responsibilities. The stair-step formation of the line breaks gave me a feeling of downward motion and also provided a vessel to pour my thoughts and feelings into, since I felt I needed some structure to contain my unstructured ideas.
After he died ten months later, I realized the sequence was not finished. Sixteen Weeks explored grief and reconciliation as I slowly came to terms with parts and pieces of my loss and weathered the most extreme winter I have ever experienced. As I came closer to finishing that sequence, I began to explore the Buddhist concept of 49 days, which is the period of time the soul remains in this world before being released to the afterlife. When I recognized that the middle sequence of this collection needed to be Sixteen Hours, a close observation of the day and night in which he died, I resisted writing it for some time. Having the unbalanced yet firm structure of the form I had created for the initial sequence helped me get through the writing of that sequence, which finally came in one big rush of effort and was finished (a first draft at least) in about three days of nearly constant writing. The 49th poem, A Year Later, was not one I was able to write until a year had passed and I could find some hope amidst the abject heartbreak of the rest of the poems.
The epigraph on this poem is pulled from Hayden Carruth’s poem, “The Impossible Indispensability of the Ars Poetica.” I deliberately chose to quote this poem as I explored this form outside of its original context, because 49 Days both opens and closes with a different line from this poem: “It is a fluidity, a vapor, of love.”
poetification
The poem is not an expression, nor is it an object. Yet it somewhat/ partakes of both.
~Hayden Carruth
Arden, who had many lovers
and very few commitments, told me
that writing could easily be my primary partner
and I both rejected and latched
onto concept, rarely neglecting the solitary
solace of words, repetition with variation, like being
three and finding joy in running
from the woodstove to the closet, making
everyone else run too and counting to twenty
as you climb the hill, forgetting
your way somewhere in the teens. “But poems,
I told Arden, “do not rub your sore shoulders, they do not
know how to love you back.
They do not make you cinnamon rolls, tea.”
Love means love/ of the thing sung, not of the song
or the singing,1 he quoted. I could
not find the right context. So I made cinnamon
rolls, placed the kettle on the stove. When the water
steamed, we chose our flavor, and left
the poems steeping while we went swimming.
When I recall him it is summer. There is always a river.
A lost song finds my voice
and laments loudly, twirling swift
circles through the dropped heart of the day.
1 Robert Bringhurst, “These Poems, She Said.”
This is an organic form I invented two years ago when I began writing a sequence of poems for my father who had just been diagnosed with cancer. The initial sequence, Sixteen Days, chronicled the days between his diagnoses and when he began chemo and radiation treatments. With a vague memory of a teacher once mentioning that tercets are inherently unbalanced, I chose the three line stanza—feeling unbalanced myself as I tried to reconcile my emotions with my responsibilities. The stair-step formation of the line breaks gave me a feeling of downward motion and also provided a vessel to pour my thoughts and feelings into, since I felt I needed some structure to contain my unstructured ideas.
After he died ten months later, I realized the sequence was not finished. Sixteen Weeks explored grief and reconciliation as I slowly came to terms with parts and pieces of my loss and weathered the most extreme winter I have ever experienced. As I came closer to finishing that sequence, I began to explore the Buddhist concept of 49 days, which is the period of time the soul remains in this world before being released to the afterlife. When I recognized that the middle sequence of this collection needed to be Sixteen Hours, a close observation of the day and night in which he died, I resisted writing it for some time. Having the unbalanced yet firm structure of the form I had created for the initial sequence helped me get through the writing of that sequence, which finally came in one big rush of effort and was finished (a first draft at least) in about three days of nearly constant writing. The 49th poem, A Year Later, was not one I was able to write until a year had passed and I could find some hope amidst the abject heartbreak of the rest of the poems.
The epigraph on this poem is pulled from Hayden Carruth’s poem, “The Impossible Indispensability of the Ars Poetica.” I deliberately chose to quote this poem as I explored this form outside of its original context, because 49 Days both opens and closes with a different line from this poem: “It is a fluidity, a vapor, of love.”
poetification
The poem is not an expression, nor is it an object. Yet it somewhat/ partakes of both.
~Hayden Carruth
Arden, who had many lovers
and very few commitments, told me
that writing could easily be my primary partner
and I both rejected and latched
onto concept, rarely neglecting the solitary
solace of words, repetition with variation, like being
three and finding joy in running
from the woodstove to the closet, making
everyone else run too and counting to twenty
as you climb the hill, forgetting
your way somewhere in the teens. “But poems,
I told Arden, “do not rub your sore shoulders, they do not
know how to love you back.
They do not make you cinnamon rolls, tea.”
Love means love/ of the thing sung, not of the song
or the singing,1 he quoted. I could
not find the right context. So I made cinnamon
rolls, placed the kettle on the stove. When the water
steamed, we chose our flavor, and left
the poems steeping while we went swimming.
When I recall him it is summer. There is always a river.
A lost song finds my voice
and laments loudly, twirling swift
circles through the dropped heart of the day.
1 Robert Bringhurst, “These Poems, She Said.”
| ars_poetica-organic_form.rtf |
day 28
Image Credit: Michele Shoemaker
Michele Shoemaker returns to the visual arts today with "Pods," above. First across the finish line today, Michele commented that "this is what happens when I wake up at 5am and can't get back to sleep." While we're sorry she missed her beauty rest, we're sure glad she was feeling creative in the wee hours of the morning.
Next, Gerri Young continues to combine watercolor and felt tip to create amazing works of art. And as usual, "Anne's Feet" comes with a story that we here at Ad Hominem have come to enjoy just as much as the art itself:
One day a group of artsy, fun women met for lunch at Judy's wonderful home on the Blue Ridge. The perfect porch, the perfect view, the perfect mix of personalities. As I went around recording the day for possible art subjects, I noticed Anne's feet propped up on a chunk-of-wood foot stool and couldn't resist a stolen photo. Anne, thanks for bringing your laughter and your feet to the gathering. Judy, thanks for bringing us together. Let's do it again next summer!
Next, Gerri Young continues to combine watercolor and felt tip to create amazing works of art. And as usual, "Anne's Feet" comes with a story that we here at Ad Hominem have come to enjoy just as much as the art itself:
One day a group of artsy, fun women met for lunch at Judy's wonderful home on the Blue Ridge. The perfect porch, the perfect view, the perfect mix of personalities. As I went around recording the day for possible art subjects, I noticed Anne's feet propped up on a chunk-of-wood foot stool and couldn't resist a stolen photo. Anne, thanks for bringing your laughter and your feet to the gathering. Judy, thanks for bringing us together. Let's do it again next summer!
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Next, Mara Robbins is back with another beautiful poem called "Kirtan." It's an example of a seven-line, seven-stanza sestina, what she lovingly calls a "septima," which means "seventh" in Latin. She'd also like to give a shout-out to Kara Borum, "for helping me with the math puzzle for this years ago when I got stumped."
kirtan
The day was colder than November had offered
so far and the sun gave way early to other stars.
I had three hours to make a house wholly transform
into a sacred welcoming space for ritual celebration
which involved lots of sweeping and moving tables
from one room to another. Lennon made it happen
with me. We worked together well. The altars
went up last, at each of the four directions, an altar
for north, south, east, west—air, earth, fire, water. Offerings
to Buddha, Corn Mother, Yahweh, Kuan Yin on small tables
and ivy, feathers, stones, candle holders with stars
reflecting light onto the promise of celebration.
I was looking for love and ritual to try to transform
my darker mood, recent death and other happenings
clouding my perception of what’s real. I happened
upon a forsythia bloom, placed it on the south altar,
found myself ready for the escalating celebration
and lit the candles, abandoned obligation, offered
myself to music and breath and birth and stars.
Every internal discussion was quieted, tabled
for later, and earlier emptiness transformed
into a sure surrender to the transformation
I knew in my heart would surely happen
if I embraced my own small changes. Stars
filled the room and settled on each altar
and as the energy rose we danced, offering
ourselves as presents for the certain celebration
of the birth of our dear friend. Afterwards, tables
filled with curries and chutneys, dhal, more tables
appeared to hold sweet rice and hot chai, transforming
the room into a collective feast that offered
each other to the other with the love that happens
when you place care and compassion on the altar
of your own moon-mind and listen to the stars.
Every sense of sweet and sacred celebration
filled the house. Outside, we celebrated
approaching winter, found kindling under saw-tables
and made a new space to honor Belisama at her own altar
of the swollen sparking fire-pit transformed
into deep conversation that can only happen
when woodsmoke permeates your jacket and offers
a blanket against the cold beauty of the stars.
Orion appeared between the other stars
and the half moon rose like a celebration
of oranges and peaches in the happening
light. We moved the chairs and tables
back to where they came from, transformed
ourselves for Victoria into our own altar
where we could honor her presence and offer
our own version of celebration and transformation,
carrying our altars to where they could happen
and offered stars, scarves, all our love still on the table.
Next, not one but two pieces from Patricia Woodruff. The first is her submission from yesterday. The first is called "Shaman," which emerged as Patricia was doodling around and meditating on Venus of Willendorf and other ancient figures.
The second is called "Hand Vase," and comes with a fun story:
When I was a teen, at a church sale I found a cute little vase shaped like a hand holding a fluted vase. A year later, I found a larger one at a yard sale. Then a friend gave me a gift of a hand vase and a collection began. Now I have about 16 different hand vases. This is the latest addition to my collection, a gift from a friend.
 Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff |
 Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff |
day 27
Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff
It's hard to believe that there are only three days left in this wonderous FloCoiMo experiment. In that time, we've seen amazing photographs, such as Coriander Woodruff's example above. Sarah Beth Jones has shared her thoughts on art, life, and everything else. Gerri Young has proven time and time again that it doesn't matter if it's paint, ink, pencil, or pastel: if it will leave a mark on a canvas, she can turn it into something beautiful. Patricia Woodruff has shown amazing endurance to this project, finding time to draw even when she's on the road. Mara Robbins has moved us with her words, and moved, too, through an amazing variety of poetic forms, producing powerful, emotional work of excellent quality. Kathryn Loihinger has shared, among other things, her brilliant photographs of her brilliantly rotting cheese dish. And Michele Shoemaker, a truly talented photographer, has shown us that she's a switch-hitter, too, engaging us with samples of her writing, such as this narrative poem:
It is warm, and there is comfort
here. Is that not strange?
I am here, awake it seems
in this nest they made for me
with their hands, my brothers,
my father, my husband,
cutting into the hillside
pulling back the sandy earth
parting the roots of my favorite olive tree,
the one I came to visit everyday
from the moment I was old enough to walk alone.
In this place darkness is the shawl
I wrap around my body,
fragments of the sun find their way
between grains of sand until I feel
I am shrouded with the night sky.
And I can hear the voice of the wind
moving from hilltop to hilltop.
She tells me I have been here many days
that my breathing is of another sort of
moving in and out.
She wants to tell me a story;
a story she has heard
in the passage of air from lip to ear,
that one morning I woke
with the sun and the chickens
that my first thought was
as it had been for two handfuls of days
“will the baby come today”
and that I rubbed my hands on my belly
as it lay next to me, my body
curled around it, feeling it a part of me
but filled with a reaching otherness.
An otherness that was quiet now,
that was only the barest flutter
of presence, as if it slept.
And then I rose out of bed
and felt the first tugging pain,
and water flowed from me
to pool at my feet
that I looked into it,
thinking I could see myself,
thinking I could see the world turned
upside down, that this water
from inside of me held magic.
And did I remember reaching
for the old azure colored cup
my brother found in the ruins
of a village out in the desert,
a cup I kept by the bed, that in it
I caught a few drops as it trickled
down my thighs, that I imagined it full of stars?
And then she shifts the sand above me,
whispers of light soft with shadows
from an old lamp and the voices
of women, my mother, my husband's mother
my sisters, the village birth-woman, of their chatter
and laughter around me, and their sighs as hours
slipped from the day, and cries loud and soft,
mine and theirs and then prayers spoken over
and over, swelling and then fading as my ear filled
with the sound of falling
and how their voices left me and I was alone for a time
here and not here, with the tiny bounding light
that was and was not my baby,
that I recognized her as someone else, an aunt
I'd known in childhood, who gave me sugared dates
when I went to visit her. She didn't carry a baby's scent of
not knowing, she carried a fragrance from another place,
I told her to go, yet she wanted to stay nested in my belly
until the earth stopped moving. And so I whispered
stories of my cousin, in another village, and how
every time the moon grew large she prayed
her belly would swell as the moon did,
and I painted the village in the darkness,
gave it sky, and clouds, and mountains
and sheep among the olive trees, and sweet air
and my cousin's smile reaching down with
love plump arms and laughter and sweet milk.
And she left then, my aunt who was not my aunt
and no longer my baby.
And I came here, and I do not know
why I am here, or why I can feel the sun
and hear footsteps of sheep in the olive grove
above me. I know that my husband comes each day
I can hear his voice, telling me stories of the village
and my youngest sisters trails after him and they sit together.
And I know what will come for them, how it will be,
that as they sit one's sorrow will tie knots of itself into the other's
hair, they will call it love and be thankful that tradition
allows for a man to take his dead wife's sister as his wife.
What is now and what is here
is that I have lost the numbering of days.
At night when the sky cools to indigo,
the olive tree holds me close
in its roots and tells me
“What is a number without eyes,
or ears or fingers with which to count?
What is a day without talk, or movement
or shifting light? What remains is something
other than what the holy men know,
and how could they tell you if they did,
of its origin.”
Michele has a natural gift for imagery, and this is apparent throughout the poem. Does her photographer's eye enhance her gift for imagery, we wonder?
Next, an exquisite watercolor from Gerri. Her control, sense of composition, and wonderful use of color all come together in this one:
It is warm, and there is comfort
here. Is that not strange?
I am here, awake it seems
in this nest they made for me
with their hands, my brothers,
my father, my husband,
cutting into the hillside
pulling back the sandy earth
parting the roots of my favorite olive tree,
the one I came to visit everyday
from the moment I was old enough to walk alone.
In this place darkness is the shawl
I wrap around my body,
fragments of the sun find their way
between grains of sand until I feel
I am shrouded with the night sky.
And I can hear the voice of the wind
moving from hilltop to hilltop.
She tells me I have been here many days
that my breathing is of another sort of
moving in and out.
She wants to tell me a story;
a story she has heard
in the passage of air from lip to ear,
that one morning I woke
with the sun and the chickens
that my first thought was
as it had been for two handfuls of days
“will the baby come today”
and that I rubbed my hands on my belly
as it lay next to me, my body
curled around it, feeling it a part of me
but filled with a reaching otherness.
An otherness that was quiet now,
that was only the barest flutter
of presence, as if it slept.
And then I rose out of bed
and felt the first tugging pain,
and water flowed from me
to pool at my feet
that I looked into it,
thinking I could see myself,
thinking I could see the world turned
upside down, that this water
from inside of me held magic.
And did I remember reaching
for the old azure colored cup
my brother found in the ruins
of a village out in the desert,
a cup I kept by the bed, that in it
I caught a few drops as it trickled
down my thighs, that I imagined it full of stars?
And then she shifts the sand above me,
whispers of light soft with shadows
from an old lamp and the voices
of women, my mother, my husband's mother
my sisters, the village birth-woman, of their chatter
and laughter around me, and their sighs as hours
slipped from the day, and cries loud and soft,
mine and theirs and then prayers spoken over
and over, swelling and then fading as my ear filled
with the sound of falling
and how their voices left me and I was alone for a time
here and not here, with the tiny bounding light
that was and was not my baby,
that I recognized her as someone else, an aunt
I'd known in childhood, who gave me sugared dates
when I went to visit her. She didn't carry a baby's scent of
not knowing, she carried a fragrance from another place,
I told her to go, yet she wanted to stay nested in my belly
until the earth stopped moving. And so I whispered
stories of my cousin, in another village, and how
every time the moon grew large she prayed
her belly would swell as the moon did,
and I painted the village in the darkness,
gave it sky, and clouds, and mountains
and sheep among the olive trees, and sweet air
and my cousin's smile reaching down with
love plump arms and laughter and sweet milk.
And she left then, my aunt who was not my aunt
and no longer my baby.
And I came here, and I do not know
why I am here, or why I can feel the sun
and hear footsteps of sheep in the olive grove
above me. I know that my husband comes each day
I can hear his voice, telling me stories of the village
and my youngest sisters trails after him and they sit together.
And I know what will come for them, how it will be,
that as they sit one's sorrow will tie knots of itself into the other's
hair, they will call it love and be thankful that tradition
allows for a man to take his dead wife's sister as his wife.
What is now and what is here
is that I have lost the numbering of days.
At night when the sky cools to indigo,
the olive tree holds me close
in its roots and tells me
“What is a number without eyes,
or ears or fingers with which to count?
What is a day without talk, or movement
or shifting light? What remains is something
other than what the holy men know,
and how could they tell you if they did,
of its origin.”
Michele has a natural gift for imagery, and this is apparent throughout the poem. Does her photographer's eye enhance her gift for imagery, we wonder?
Next, an exquisite watercolor from Gerri. Her control, sense of composition, and wonderful use of color all come together in this one:
Image Credit: Gerri Young
elegy for jo burke
You stood on the porch of the Indian Valley house
20 years ago and told me gently that it was possible
we would not be the same sort of friends for a while.
That’s okay, you said, your hand on my shoulder.
I’d been crying. I flung my arms around you,
saying no, no, no, no, no, buried my face
on your shoulder. But you knew how trauma
reallocates, you could see my frantic usefulness.
My husband’s leg nearly severed by that white boat
of a car careening out of control, I functioned;
I cleaned his external fixators and made sure
he got his medication on time, tried to feed
him what food he could eat. I clung to you
that night but you were right—the friendship
shifted but was never the same. Not like the days
we learned lines in the Floyd Theatre Group
and you played the woman with the knife
in her chest, climbing up onto the stage
out of the audience, your timing impeccable,
or the New Year’s Eve parties you hosted
where the living room was filled with blues
musicians and you had to shuffle the drummer
so you could load up the woodstove.
And you were right. It was okay. With a calm
I have cultivated in myself ever since,
you showed up when we needed you
and gave us tools to communicate
when we were crazy with grief.
Last summer when my grandmother
died, we gathered to see everyone
from out of town, and Michael stopped
and picked you up on his way. I had never
met his girlfriend, and when you got
out of the car I thought: Wow, she looks
just like Jo Burke. Except it was you.
And you calmed me enough to play cards
and help pick corn and eggplant from Larry’s
garden; I was so glad they had brought
you along. Goose Creek runs down
to the foot of your house; once last summer
after bringing you some food Kyla and I drove home
up that winding road so slowly we could watch
the light play off the rhododendron
and the falling water, the stones. This mourning
I wake up after crying until I was blank
with grief last night and can see you
as that light, the cold November sun
that is warmer through the windows
is you. The jade tree. The Herkimer
diamond placed gently on the windowsill.
For the first time it makes sense to me
that you are still here, though I know
that is no comfort to your grandchildren.
Your arms reach further than this world can hold.
Your light shines brighter than this single sun.
Your eyes, deep with wisdom, promised me
that my mother and I would learn to be widows
together, and that love is always there
when you are open to receive it. Today I feel
your grace, your blessing, the ghost
of your gentle hand.
You stood on the porch of the Indian Valley house
20 years ago and told me gently that it was possible
we would not be the same sort of friends for a while.
That’s okay, you said, your hand on my shoulder.
I’d been crying. I flung my arms around you,
saying no, no, no, no, no, buried my face
on your shoulder. But you knew how trauma
reallocates, you could see my frantic usefulness.
My husband’s leg nearly severed by that white boat
of a car careening out of control, I functioned;
I cleaned his external fixators and made sure
he got his medication on time, tried to feed
him what food he could eat. I clung to you
that night but you were right—the friendship
shifted but was never the same. Not like the days
we learned lines in the Floyd Theatre Group
and you played the woman with the knife
in her chest, climbing up onto the stage
out of the audience, your timing impeccable,
or the New Year’s Eve parties you hosted
where the living room was filled with blues
musicians and you had to shuffle the drummer
so you could load up the woodstove.
And you were right. It was okay. With a calm
I have cultivated in myself ever since,
you showed up when we needed you
and gave us tools to communicate
when we were crazy with grief.
Last summer when my grandmother
died, we gathered to see everyone
from out of town, and Michael stopped
and picked you up on his way. I had never
met his girlfriend, and when you got
out of the car I thought: Wow, she looks
just like Jo Burke. Except it was you.
And you calmed me enough to play cards
and help pick corn and eggplant from Larry’s
garden; I was so glad they had brought
you along. Goose Creek runs down
to the foot of your house; once last summer
after bringing you some food Kyla and I drove home
up that winding road so slowly we could watch
the light play off the rhododendron
and the falling water, the stones. This mourning
I wake up after crying until I was blank
with grief last night and can see you
as that light, the cold November sun
that is warmer through the windows
is you. The jade tree. The Herkimer
diamond placed gently on the windowsill.
For the first time it makes sense to me
that you are still here, though I know
that is no comfort to your grandchildren.
Your arms reach further than this world can hold.
Your light shines brighter than this single sun.
Your eyes, deep with wisdom, promised me
that my mother and I would learn to be widows
together, and that love is always there
when you are open to receive it. Today I feel
your grace, your blessing, the ghost
of your gentle hand.
day 26
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Gerri never ceases to amaze us. Like a creative chameleon, she changes her medium, her voice, her style from piece to piece. It's a side of Gerri we haven't seen yet here at Ad Hominem, but this whimsical ink and felt tip, "Love," is one of our favorites. Thanks, Gerri!
This month, Mara Robbins has been changing it up a lot, too, except she's not switching mediums: she's on a grand tour of every poetic form known to mankind (or bust). Today, she offers up light-hearted words in a bit o' light-hearted verse: a limerick called "Alli's Birthday Tradition."
This month, Mara Robbins has been changing it up a lot, too, except she's not switching mediums: she's on a grand tour of every poetic form known to mankind (or bust). Today, she offers up light-hearted words in a bit o' light-hearted verse: a limerick called "Alli's Birthday Tradition."
alli’s birthday tradition
She wrote limericks on birthdays every year
and gave them to her friends so they could hear.
The sweet silly rhymes
worked most of the time--
sometimes sounded better than beer.
Finally, Patricia Woodruff chimes in with her Day 26 submission, "Cotton Boll." Drawing on the run once again, Patricia says that:
I made the most of my drive down to North Carolina by picking a "bouquet" of cotton and getting a nice subject to draw.
She wrote limericks on birthdays every year
and gave them to her friends so they could hear.
The sweet silly rhymes
worked most of the time--
sometimes sounded better than beer.
Finally, Patricia Woodruff chimes in with her Day 26 submission, "Cotton Boll." Drawing on the run once again, Patricia says that:
I made the most of my drive down to North Carolina by picking a "bouquet" of cotton and getting a nice subject to draw.
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 25
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Welcome to Day 25, everyone! Gerri Young kicks us off today with this beautiful piece, a combination of watercolor, oil pastel, and pencil called "Nude." Nothing like a little nudity to start the day off right!
We've never been able to create anything with oil pastel that didn't look like it was blended by a preschooler. Today, Gerri shows us that in the right hands, this mashup of the watercolor and the oil pastel creates a beautiful sense of texture.
Today, Mara Robbins also shares with us a list poem, or perhaps a couple of list poems. Whether it's meant to be two "stanzas," or two poems that have a conversation with one another, the dynamic between the two parts, "What Made It into the Car Last Night," and "What Did Not Make It into the Car Last Night" is just wonderful.
what made it into the car last night:
Three pumpkin pies, because they are custard and require refrigeration and there is no room in my fridge and it was not supposed to dip below freezing;
one leather jacket, because I did not want to forget it today, it is warm when there is wind and Cory bought it at the Outer Banks the New Years Eve we went hang gliding, so it both reminds me of having fun and feeling safe and of flying;
a gingerbread house, preassembled and ready to decorate, because my sister Rachel loves to make gingerbread houses and she may well be in labor around Christmastime since her due date was changed from December 21 to December 25 so we are roll-starting the holidays this year and trying to recall how to do the things we really enjoy;
butternut Squash, white beans, toasted walnuts, crispy sage, because it tastes so good and is so inherently simple, and yesterday at the restaurant Michael told me it was Tuscan, which is odd, since I found it to be distinctly local, except for the walnuts which are not black because I have yet to develop a taste for them;
poems thus far, because I am writing them every day, and the printed ones are only printed through the 20th, since I wanted to have them for Spoken Word Night, and my printer is not hooked up yet so I had to print them at Ellen’s house, and I have not asked her yet but I hope she will print out the series of poems for my dad and bring them later when she gets to meet my sisters for the first time.
what did not make it into the car last night:
Three pecan pies, since they came out of the oven right as I went to bed and therefore had to cool under a little mermaid towel overnight and I totally stole a pecan out of the very center before I had even made coffee and then pushed the others around the space so it still looked entirely intact;
a stuffed pumpkin, which was something my mother wanted to make but so far has not and I used corn and beans so it could be like the three sisters, like the corn mother, like we are the three sisters, and Anna with her long red hair is still asleep since she worked till 3 AM, bless her heart, and I hope it holds up in the oven because I plan to bake it later rather than now;
a small silver key, a gift for my lover that I could not find on Tuesday which was our one month anniversary so I plan to give it to her later when the time makes itself known and we find a few minutes to apply only to each other;
a change of clothes, in case I fall into the river;
a photo album, or maybe a few, of Thanksgivings past, and my father’s smile may make me cry, or Cory’s devious sideways glance, but that is okay, today, because there will be many arms and so much gratitude we will all spill over into each other and hold each other up, and laugh, and eat, and it will be cold, and there will be awkward moments, but mostly love and acceptance and a feast we can appreciate because we have weathered the ones we could not swallow. We will swallow. We will offer thanks. And we will have so many things to be thankful for, and about, and I will offer the very first prayer I have ever written, and thank all of you too for witnessing this creative explosion of expression.
Finally, Patricia Woodruff joins the fun despite spending another seven hours on the road. She's a traveling gal! This piece is called "Cornucopia of the Sea," which consequentially is our favorite kind of cornucopia:
We've never been able to create anything with oil pastel that didn't look like it was blended by a preschooler. Today, Gerri shows us that in the right hands, this mashup of the watercolor and the oil pastel creates a beautiful sense of texture.
Today, Mara Robbins also shares with us a list poem, or perhaps a couple of list poems. Whether it's meant to be two "stanzas," or two poems that have a conversation with one another, the dynamic between the two parts, "What Made It into the Car Last Night," and "What Did Not Make It into the Car Last Night" is just wonderful.
what made it into the car last night:
Three pumpkin pies, because they are custard and require refrigeration and there is no room in my fridge and it was not supposed to dip below freezing;
one leather jacket, because I did not want to forget it today, it is warm when there is wind and Cory bought it at the Outer Banks the New Years Eve we went hang gliding, so it both reminds me of having fun and feeling safe and of flying;
a gingerbread house, preassembled and ready to decorate, because my sister Rachel loves to make gingerbread houses and she may well be in labor around Christmastime since her due date was changed from December 21 to December 25 so we are roll-starting the holidays this year and trying to recall how to do the things we really enjoy;
butternut Squash, white beans, toasted walnuts, crispy sage, because it tastes so good and is so inherently simple, and yesterday at the restaurant Michael told me it was Tuscan, which is odd, since I found it to be distinctly local, except for the walnuts which are not black because I have yet to develop a taste for them;
poems thus far, because I am writing them every day, and the printed ones are only printed through the 20th, since I wanted to have them for Spoken Word Night, and my printer is not hooked up yet so I had to print them at Ellen’s house, and I have not asked her yet but I hope she will print out the series of poems for my dad and bring them later when she gets to meet my sisters for the first time.
what did not make it into the car last night:
Three pecan pies, since they came out of the oven right as I went to bed and therefore had to cool under a little mermaid towel overnight and I totally stole a pecan out of the very center before I had even made coffee and then pushed the others around the space so it still looked entirely intact;
a stuffed pumpkin, which was something my mother wanted to make but so far has not and I used corn and beans so it could be like the three sisters, like the corn mother, like we are the three sisters, and Anna with her long red hair is still asleep since she worked till 3 AM, bless her heart, and I hope it holds up in the oven because I plan to bake it later rather than now;
a small silver key, a gift for my lover that I could not find on Tuesday which was our one month anniversary so I plan to give it to her later when the time makes itself known and we find a few minutes to apply only to each other;
a change of clothes, in case I fall into the river;
a photo album, or maybe a few, of Thanksgivings past, and my father’s smile may make me cry, or Cory’s devious sideways glance, but that is okay, today, because there will be many arms and so much gratitude we will all spill over into each other and hold each other up, and laugh, and eat, and it will be cold, and there will be awkward moments, but mostly love and acceptance and a feast we can appreciate because we have weathered the ones we could not swallow. We will swallow. We will offer thanks. And we will have so many things to be thankful for, and about, and I will offer the very first prayer I have ever written, and thank all of you too for witnessing this creative explosion of expression.
Finally, Patricia Woodruff joins the fun despite spending another seven hours on the road. She's a traveling gal! This piece is called "Cornucopia of the Sea," which consequentially is our favorite kind of cornucopia:
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 24
Image Credit: Michele Shoemaker
Hello everyone, and welcome to Day 24. We begin today with a couple of pieces from yesterday that we missed, but that certainly deserve some attention. Take Michele Shoemaker's "Roses Under Snow," for example. This truly remarkable photograph is just one of many examples of Michele's amazing talent. Did she grow the roses too, we wonder?
Next up, another drawing from Patricia Woodruff. It's called "Corn Mother," and Patricia says:
Native Americans have tales of the corn mother, that thru her sacrifice of her body she provided them with sustenance for all time
Next up, another drawing from Patricia Woodruff. It's called "Corn Mother," and Patricia says:
Native Americans have tales of the corn mother, that thru her sacrifice of her body she provided them with sustenance for all time
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
Thanks for sharing "Corn Mother" with us! I'm sure we can all rest assured that she'll be bringing us sustenance tomorrow!
Next, Coriander Woodruff continues to "wow" us with her own creative achievements. She told us that in this photograph she attempts to capture the "feeling of being trapped."
Next, Coriander Woodruff continues to "wow" us with her own creative achievements. She told us that in this photograph she attempts to capture the "feeling of being trapped."
Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff
Gerri Young returns to her favorite medium with this next piece, "Morning Glory." Using watercolor and a touch of ink, she makes this very botanical image, which was painted on bamboo paper.
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Finally, Mara Robbins rounds off Day 24 with a Thanksgiving blessing for all of us who will listen. Her 24th submission is a triolet, and is called "Thanksgiving Prayer."
thanksgiving prayer
Allow us to receive the love that’s here--
abundance of fresh food and family--
and keep it in our hearts throughout the year.
Allow us to receive the love that’s here,
the care and the attention we hold dear.
It nourishes each branch of this strong tree.
Allow us to receive the love that’s here,
abundance of fresh food and family.
thanksgiving prayer
Allow us to receive the love that’s here--
abundance of fresh food and family--
and keep it in our hearts throughout the year.
Allow us to receive the love that’s here,
the care and the attention we hold dear.
It nourishes each branch of this strong tree.
Allow us to receive the love that’s here,
abundance of fresh food and family.
day 23
 Image Credit: Gerri Young |
the "jumbled" challengeYesterday, Gerri's beautiful image, "Jumbled," really reminded us how art often enters into interesting conversations with other art. Art movements spring up in communities. Artists create pieces in response to other pieces. And "Jumbled" reminded us of "The Figure Five in Gold," a painting inspired by William Carlos Williams's imagist poem, "The Great Figure."
We challenged the FloCoiMo community to respond to Gerri's painting with poems of their own, and wouldn't you know? Floyd County's own Patricia Woodruff stepped up and wrote this touching poem on behalf of her dyslexic son: jumbled It's so frustrating To be judged dumb, when it's the letters refusing to line up. Is it the world or me who is all jumbled? |
We also had a third participant in this challenge, our very own Mara Robbins. She wrote an Ekphrastic poem (see explanation below), also called "Jumbled."
jumbled
(Inspired by Gerri Young's Work)
Palimpsest of a printing press,
thick paper pushed
against a strip of potential
words, vowels heavy with anchored weight,
constant consonants placed creatively
so what we see is closer to what we imagine
twenty three days later.
Precise, these imprinting
devices, a revolution in old technology
that allowed so many books to roll off the line.
We could afford to bury Latin
in a shallow grave, digging up roots
and shaking off the soil
when we reach for our origins.
The capital C is a copy
of a contrast, a country, a crack
through this crazy county
colored in cinderblock
and creosote. Come to my coddling,
classical cry. Floyd folds
around the fleeting fiddle,
fixes a quilt to finish the figuring
and falls into a flourishing fling.
We are jumbled together:
—painters, poets, photographers—
all who archive their art
and mean to motivate many.
There is no path to pace,
no way to walk closer.
We merely sit with the images,
the daily drumbeats, the written
wisdom, tempting the trickle
into a frame, setting the paper
against our day by day deeds,
documenting progress
both by what we abandon
and what we seek to keep.
From Wikipedia: "Ekphrasis or ecphrasis is the graphic, often dramatic description of a visual work of art. In ancient times it referred to a description of any thing, person, or experience. The word comes from the Greek ek and phrasis, 'out' and 'speak' respectively, verb ekphrazein, to proclaim or call an inanimate object by name."
From Poets.org: "...More directly autobiographical ekphrastic poems...locate the act of viewing visual art in a particular place and time, giving it a personal and perhaps even an historical context. The result is then not merely a verbal "photocopy" of the original painting, sculpture, or photograph, but instead a grounded instance of seeing, shaped by forces outside the artwork. In such poems, description of the original work remains partial, but authors add to it aspects drawn from their own experience—the facts, reflections, and feelings that arise at the confluence of a work of visual art and the life of the poet."
This is a wonderful conversation through art. Thanks to Gerri, Mara, and Patricia for participating!
Patricia also sent along a few more gifts for us today. The first is her Day 20 piece, inked in so the detail is a bit clearer. The second is her Day 22 piece, titled "Season's Cheepings!"
jumbled
(Inspired by Gerri Young's Work)
Palimpsest of a printing press,
thick paper pushed
against a strip of potential
words, vowels heavy with anchored weight,
constant consonants placed creatively
so what we see is closer to what we imagine
twenty three days later.
Precise, these imprinting
devices, a revolution in old technology
that allowed so many books to roll off the line.
We could afford to bury Latin
in a shallow grave, digging up roots
and shaking off the soil
when we reach for our origins.
The capital C is a copy
of a contrast, a country, a crack
through this crazy county
colored in cinderblock
and creosote. Come to my coddling,
classical cry. Floyd folds
around the fleeting fiddle,
fixes a quilt to finish the figuring
and falls into a flourishing fling.
We are jumbled together:
—painters, poets, photographers—
all who archive their art
and mean to motivate many.
There is no path to pace,
no way to walk closer.
We merely sit with the images,
the daily drumbeats, the written
wisdom, tempting the trickle
into a frame, setting the paper
against our day by day deeds,
documenting progress
both by what we abandon
and what we seek to keep.
From Wikipedia: "Ekphrasis or ecphrasis is the graphic, often dramatic description of a visual work of art. In ancient times it referred to a description of any thing, person, or experience. The word comes from the Greek ek and phrasis, 'out' and 'speak' respectively, verb ekphrazein, to proclaim or call an inanimate object by name."
From Poets.org: "...More directly autobiographical ekphrastic poems...locate the act of viewing visual art in a particular place and time, giving it a personal and perhaps even an historical context. The result is then not merely a verbal "photocopy" of the original painting, sculpture, or photograph, but instead a grounded instance of seeing, shaped by forces outside the artwork. In such poems, description of the original work remains partial, but authors add to it aspects drawn from their own experience—the facts, reflections, and feelings that arise at the confluence of a work of visual art and the life of the poet."
This is a wonderful conversation through art. Thanks to Gerri, Mara, and Patricia for participating!
Patricia also sent along a few more gifts for us today. The first is her Day 20 piece, inked in so the detail is a bit clearer. The second is her Day 22 piece, titled "Season's Cheepings!"
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
Patricia isn't the only Woodruff who's been on fire the past couple of days. Coriander also submitted these two untitled pieces, both excellent examples of her wonderful photography:
 Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff |
 Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff |
Next, another block-print rubbing by Gerri Young. She had this to say about it:
This is part two to the piece from Day 22. This shows the whole type arrangement and was done with oil pastels on a Japanese paper. My friend is a genius in getting the wooden type to fit and come out squared! This experiment certainly gave me ideas for how to make more art from the type.
Image Credit: Gerri Young
day 22
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Greetings, everyone, and welcome to Day 22. Gerri Young starts us off by displaying her talents in yet another medium, as well as providing yet another interesting story behind this piece, "Jumbled."
Colored pencil and ink. We made friends with Mike and Marjorie Fenton of Ye Olde Press Prints in London, England. They bought out old printing companies as they converted to computer design, ending up with a nearly endless supply of wooden type sets, trays and cabinets, well used and covered in history. From there Michael gets creative, gathering complete sets of type into bars or arranging broken sets into mirror frames, tables, or wall art. This FloCoiMo piece was created by rubbing, transferring and coloring on a portion of wall art.
To us, this wonderful piece is reminiscent of a famous work of art, "The Figure Five in Gold," by Charles Demuth, which was inspired by a famous W.C.W poem, "The Great Figure"
Colored pencil and ink. We made friends with Mike and Marjorie Fenton of Ye Olde Press Prints in London, England. They bought out old printing companies as they converted to computer design, ending up with a nearly endless supply of wooden type sets, trays and cabinets, well used and covered in history. From there Michael gets creative, gathering complete sets of type into bars or arranging broken sets into mirror frames, tables, or wall art. This FloCoiMo piece was created by rubbing, transferring and coloring on a portion of wall art.
To us, this wonderful piece is reminiscent of a famous work of art, "The Figure Five in Gold," by Charles Demuth, which was inspired by a famous W.C.W poem, "The Great Figure"
the great figure
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city
Anyone care to answer the challenge to reverse engineer an imagist poem inspired by "Jumbled"? (We're looking at you, Mara).
Speaking of Mara Robbins, actually, here's her next masterpiece, a chai-ju called "Thinklessness"
thinklessness
If you believe
in the tangible,
what spirit
is found in secular?
Ritual seeks participants.
Making pies leaves less room
to theorize--
hands, flour,
dust of ripened wheat
strewn across the table
can be sacred
as the deepest prayer.
Our senses make space
to take in everything we use;
our uses are far less fragmented
when we know and act on how we feel.
Mara would also like to give a shout out to Michele Shoemaker, who made suggestions via Facebook chat as she composed the poem. Excellent work, Mara (and Michele, too).
Next, Patricia Woodruff's piece from yesterday, "Gall." Patricia has a good story about this one, too!
The bad news was that my car broke down, the good news is that I had my sketch book, so while I waited for the tow truck I got my daily drawing in. Sitting by a bush I spied a fascinating gall, so it became the subject of my drawing.
Speaking of Mara Robbins, actually, here's her next masterpiece, a chai-ju called "Thinklessness"
thinklessness
If you believe
in the tangible,
what spirit
is found in secular?
Ritual seeks participants.
Making pies leaves less room
to theorize--
hands, flour,
dust of ripened wheat
strewn across the table
can be sacred
as the deepest prayer.
Our senses make space
to take in everything we use;
our uses are far less fragmented
when we know and act on how we feel.
Mara would also like to give a shout out to Michele Shoemaker, who made suggestions via Facebook chat as she composed the poem. Excellent work, Mara (and Michele, too).
Next, Patricia Woodruff's piece from yesterday, "Gall." Patricia has a good story about this one, too!
The bad news was that my car broke down, the good news is that I had my sketch book, so while I waited for the tow truck I got my daily drawing in. Sitting by a bush I spied a fascinating gall, so it became the subject of my drawing.
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 21
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Hello Floyd County Artists and friends! Today is Day 21 of this event, and as we rapidly approach the finish line, we take time to thank all of the artists who have worked so hard to make FloCoiMo so special (and productive!).
Today, Gerri Young gives us "Pecan," a tree after my own heart. My father has a top secret recipe for some absolutely delicious pecan pie (which he once lifted off the back of a circa 1960 Betty Crocker box), and about this time of year he starts baking relentlessly until he has enough to share with everyone he knows.
Gerri's "Pecan" is even more beautiful than yesterday's "Ginko," which is really saying something. I could envision a whole series of these hanging around my house. Be sure and let us know what your going rate is!
Below, we have a different kind of submission from Michele Shoemaker. Having two times the endurance as your average human being, Michele is participating in FloCoiMo and NaNoWriMo simultaneously. You heard that right.
While we really dig her photographs, we're happy to have this little bit of variety to spice things up. The following excerpt, "The Archivist," might serve as a prologue, forward, or "trailer" for the larger work.
Today, Gerri Young gives us "Pecan," a tree after my own heart. My father has a top secret recipe for some absolutely delicious pecan pie (which he once lifted off the back of a circa 1960 Betty Crocker box), and about this time of year he starts baking relentlessly until he has enough to share with everyone he knows.
Gerri's "Pecan" is even more beautiful than yesterday's "Ginko," which is really saying something. I could envision a whole series of these hanging around my house. Be sure and let us know what your going rate is!
Below, we have a different kind of submission from Michele Shoemaker. Having two times the endurance as your average human being, Michele is participating in FloCoiMo and NaNoWriMo simultaneously. You heard that right.
While we really dig her photographs, we're happy to have this little bit of variety to spice things up. The following excerpt, "The Archivist," might serve as a prologue, forward, or "trailer" for the larger work.
the archivist
by Michele Shoemaker
Mid-nights’ street is as deserted as a fairy-tale’s castle. Watchful and silent, its edges strung with restless sleepers spun into their dreams. In one of its tucked away corners in the center of a rambling lawn grown wild with berry bushes and fox dens, a tiny house hides a tiny room tucked under its stairs. In the tiny room, at a tiny desk, a woman sits and writes with an old, old pen, dipped into a well of old, old ink. In an old narrow book, its pages yellowed and curling into its center, in a small neat hand, in ink the color of a deep, deep pool, she writes and writes and writes. She records all that is between the travels of the stars above and the scurryings of mice below. She records the precise angle of the shadow of lawn’s tallest tree, at 12:31pm precisely, Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. She sets down that on the last day of the last month of the last year of the last century, that singular night’s stars rode the horizon as if it were a wave breaking on a desperate shore. She writes of a young apprentice baker, his dark pants lovingly whitened with flour. Of how in the smallest hours of the morning, before he wakes to go and kneed the dough that has risen with the movement of the stars, fifteen mice gather beneath his bed to lift their noses towards his scent and kindle ancestral memories of prairie grasses so thick they obscure the sky. Across from the rambling lawn is a dark house on a small parcel of shriveled grass and bare earth. A tall man, a thin man with eyes of ice and iron, watches from the window above the stairs. Night and day, sleepless, he holds himself tight, his spine bent, his arms angled over his the hollow of his chest. Impeccably dressed in formal black and gray, lost to time and warmth and to what he once knew in the comfort of a fire and fine wine, of a good book. Now he is all rancor and grinding of teeth. She remembers him as he used to be. He despises her for it. And so he watches her count birds and measure the length of shadows. Watches the light come and go within the tiny house on the rambling lawn. He believes that he can hear the opening and closing of the door to the room under the stairs. He refuses to acknowledge that he once entered that room in wonder, refuses to acknowledge that he once felt wonder, refuses to acknowledge that he once felt anything at all but the cold, the bitting cold that is his constant and only companion. She remembers him as he used to be. Soft brown hair falling over a smooth wide brow, eyes the color of honey. Sweetness. He was sweetness. She was younger then, as young as spring, as young as crocus buds in their first year, in their first spring. And she records how he has changed. She recorded once, in a ledger long buried on a shelf behind a series volumes on the architecture of villages in southern Spain, she recorded how he left in the fall of a year when the leaves stayed on the trees until January. She recorded the exact time and day of his departure. She recorded the exact time and date of his return. She recorded the number of weeks that had elapsed, precisely 253. She recorded that on his return he did not cross the rambling lawn, that he did not quietly knock on the door, that he did not enter the tiny house. That he did not, he did not. And still, she remembers him as he used to be. And still, he despises her for it. |
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This next poem, "She's Trading her MG for a White Chrysler LaBaron" by Mara Robbins, sounds like it has an interesting story behind it (not to mention a Cake allusion?)!
she’s trading her mg for a white chrysler labaron (Written by full moonlight with Elliot's purple pen in a notebook Greta gave Mara by Noren Bonner and Mara Eve Robbins) Happiness does not last long—but contentment does if you will let it. The full moon dances with you as you don’t lose things. Pockets forgotten until they’re not. Behind us is peace, perhaps, too. But we are here, still, now, close to blessed, we two loons. On grass and gravel we mangles riffs from Cake songs and act like we’re three. When you were just twelve, you were lovely in your doubt. Doubt isn’t gone, but at bay, in the distance off far past our bright moon. We have been gorgeous for years, we are beautiful. The speculation fuels our in-your-face-ed-ness we never behaved like anyone thought we should; this dance took too long but it starts ringing around the moon, ring around the rosy, we fall down not to ash, to burn with what I won’t dare deem love. I already leapt into love, over my head, and dare you to dare my cynical friend who is finally smitten, struck for now, against my sense but with instinct pure as any I’ve ever had. This year, this month, this life outstanding—I see that here. You laugh and tell me “This is my real rebuttal,” (dueling prose poems forgotten for now) and drink the rest of my beer. |
day 20
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Welcome to the home stretch! It's Day 20, and we begin this morning with this beautiful ink and watercolor by Gerri Young, "Ginko." Gerry says:
I used to do larger ink trees in Germany, even sometimes sitting in the forest while doing them! Decided it was time to do another one and add a touch of color interest for a change. This one is a ginko, chosen because I love their unusual fan-shaped leaves this time of year.
The overall effect is quite beautiful, and we'd be interested in seeing some of her other examples! And even though it's a Ginko, does it stir up Christmas feelings for anyone else, or are we just getting eager for the Holiday season?
We're not the only ones starting to think of the holidays. Mara Robbins's next poem is called "Thanksgiving Eve"
thanksgiving eve
Nothing prepares us for morning
like a long night
sweet adjoining
stars, cold moonlight,
Orion poised with ready sword
to cut on through
what we move toward
or choose to do
once the sound of the risen sun
hits the window
and we have done
all that we know.
Finally, a yet another wonderful contribution from Patricia Woodruff. This one, "Luna Fairy," comes with an interesting story, too:
The inspiration started with the full moon and a photo I had taken of a Luna moth and then somehow it became an autumnal, leaf-strewing fairy. Sometimes the drawing takes control of the artist...
I used to do larger ink trees in Germany, even sometimes sitting in the forest while doing them! Decided it was time to do another one and add a touch of color interest for a change. This one is a ginko, chosen because I love their unusual fan-shaped leaves this time of year.
The overall effect is quite beautiful, and we'd be interested in seeing some of her other examples! And even though it's a Ginko, does it stir up Christmas feelings for anyone else, or are we just getting eager for the Holiday season?
We're not the only ones starting to think of the holidays. Mara Robbins's next poem is called "Thanksgiving Eve"
thanksgiving eve
Nothing prepares us for morning
like a long night
sweet adjoining
stars, cold moonlight,
Orion poised with ready sword
to cut on through
what we move toward
or choose to do
once the sound of the risen sun
hits the window
and we have done
all that we know.
Finally, a yet another wonderful contribution from Patricia Woodruff. This one, "Luna Fairy," comes with an interesting story, too:
The inspiration started with the full moon and a photo I had taken of a Luna moth and then somehow it became an autumnal, leaf-strewing fairy. Sometimes the drawing takes control of the artist...
day 19
Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff
Greetings, folks. Right now I'm locked in a high school, trying to be a beacon of light to the nation's youth. Actually, right now I'm locked in a high school trying to get a jump start on posting Day 19. No access to facebook, until tomorrow, I'm afraid, so excuse my temporary silence on that front. Hopefully, someone will take care of that business for me!
The photo above might be Coriander Woodruff's piece for today...or it might be her piece from yesterday. She sent it so close to the witching hour she's not really sure, so we'll say it's today's piece until we get another one, in which case it becomes yesterday's piece. At any rate, pretty, right?
Next, Gerri Young's cleverly titled "Hanging Around" has yet another interesting story behind it:
I bought a set of puppets from an antique dealer in Europe about 17 years ago. If what he told me was true, they are approaching the age of 97. Each body is about two feet long, showing their age with hair askew and a wonderfully worn patina to their wood. I was told they are Indonesian in origin.
The photo above might be Coriander Woodruff's piece for today...or it might be her piece from yesterday. She sent it so close to the witching hour she's not really sure, so we'll say it's today's piece until we get another one, in which case it becomes yesterday's piece. At any rate, pretty, right?
Next, Gerri Young's cleverly titled "Hanging Around" has yet another interesting story behind it:
I bought a set of puppets from an antique dealer in Europe about 17 years ago. If what he told me was true, they are approaching the age of 97. Each body is about two feet long, showing their age with hair askew and a wonderfully worn patina to their wood. I was told they are Indonesian in origin.
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Mara Robbins took yesterday's terza rima and turned it into a terzanelle today. She decided she wasn't done wrestling with the words yet, and prefers the terzanelle to the villanelle because of its different flow. Also, FYI:
A terzanelle is a poetry form which is a combination of the villanelle and the terza rima. It is nineteen lines total, with five triplets and a concluding quatrain. The middle line of each triplet stanza is repeated as the third line of the following stanza, and the first and third lines of the initial stanza are the second and final lines of the concluding quatrain; thus, seven of the lines are repeated in the poem. -from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
for those who mean well
After three weeks of quickening love, today
somebody said: Don’t let her break your heart.
I did not say what I know how to say
or react with anger or concern, though part
of me would like to simply be wished well.
I tell myself: Don’t let me break her heart
and trust her heart to know my own. I fell
in the time it took to recognize her eyes
and I would like to simply be wished well.
I fold laundry, finding that time will buy
wisdom if I wait. There are answers here
if formed in time—do you recognize my eyes?
The honesty we brush against is more sincere
than what we say. I choose her eyes, at one
with wisdom. We don’t wait. There are answers here
but a better explanation would be none.
So after three weeks of quickening love,
I chose to look her in the eye today
and say what I did not know how to say
Excellent adaptation, Mara. We're also very excited about her official Day 19 submissino, a prose poem entitled:
= It is quite possible that there are plenty of poems about moon =
perhaps moon is its own poem and those of us who keep gazing up as if we could read the reflection of our own faces have no idea what is truly being told = it is difficult to avoid rhyming = especially if you are eating ice cream or it is early summer = but close to winter moon can make you dizzy when the clouds move as fast as they did last night = like staring at the side of the ceiling fan so it slows from a blur to a single blade = moon tends to talk back in a language we barely recognize but long to study closer = just when we begin to internalize the verbs moon disappears and starts over again = there is nothing about rushing that moon understands = there is nothing about slowing down = pace yourself with the phases and all the poems seem necessary = moon passes no judgment on our cyclical similes = like there is a difference between coming up and going down = like light is light even when it is cold = though moon is drawn to bulbs and prefers daffodils to marigolds = perhaps rabbit ran an ancient race = spanning the line between truth and fact = we are pendulums and rarely notice how spaciously we swing = rattling around in our days = reaching for reasons in our nights = moon has no ocean in mind = just waves = and those of us who wave back = who measure moon in our minds like an riddle retold = over and over reaching to keep a piece of a particular moment = meandering around moon with settled methods = matching gravity to meteor showers as if it exists to anyone but us = perhaps moon is its own poem and those of us wave and gaze are naming our own dark names = nearing the light that moon sheds to swim across the recurring river = even the stream at noon whispers moon’s last identity = buckeyes floating towards the stones = moon does not distinguish between dream and vision = what is seen is seen and clearly depends on the clouds = closing around moon in the shapes of keys = spirals = dragons = there are dragons here = but moon feels no fiery scales = moon scales the sky with intentional intent = intending to present ourselves to ourselves in absolute uncertainty = we merely grow = hold what we form = form what we hold =
A terzanelle is a poetry form which is a combination of the villanelle and the terza rima. It is nineteen lines total, with five triplets and a concluding quatrain. The middle line of each triplet stanza is repeated as the third line of the following stanza, and the first and third lines of the initial stanza are the second and final lines of the concluding quatrain; thus, seven of the lines are repeated in the poem. -from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
for those who mean well
After three weeks of quickening love, today
somebody said: Don’t let her break your heart.
I did not say what I know how to say
or react with anger or concern, though part
of me would like to simply be wished well.
I tell myself: Don’t let me break her heart
and trust her heart to know my own. I fell
in the time it took to recognize her eyes
and I would like to simply be wished well.
I fold laundry, finding that time will buy
wisdom if I wait. There are answers here
if formed in time—do you recognize my eyes?
The honesty we brush against is more sincere
than what we say. I choose her eyes, at one
with wisdom. We don’t wait. There are answers here
but a better explanation would be none.
So after three weeks of quickening love,
I chose to look her in the eye today
and say what I did not know how to say
Excellent adaptation, Mara. We're also very excited about her official Day 19 submissino, a prose poem entitled:
= It is quite possible that there are plenty of poems about moon =
perhaps moon is its own poem and those of us who keep gazing up as if we could read the reflection of our own faces have no idea what is truly being told = it is difficult to avoid rhyming = especially if you are eating ice cream or it is early summer = but close to winter moon can make you dizzy when the clouds move as fast as they did last night = like staring at the side of the ceiling fan so it slows from a blur to a single blade = moon tends to talk back in a language we barely recognize but long to study closer = just when we begin to internalize the verbs moon disappears and starts over again = there is nothing about rushing that moon understands = there is nothing about slowing down = pace yourself with the phases and all the poems seem necessary = moon passes no judgment on our cyclical similes = like there is a difference between coming up and going down = like light is light even when it is cold = though moon is drawn to bulbs and prefers daffodils to marigolds = perhaps rabbit ran an ancient race = spanning the line between truth and fact = we are pendulums and rarely notice how spaciously we swing = rattling around in our days = reaching for reasons in our nights = moon has no ocean in mind = just waves = and those of us who wave back = who measure moon in our minds like an riddle retold = over and over reaching to keep a piece of a particular moment = meandering around moon with settled methods = matching gravity to meteor showers as if it exists to anyone but us = perhaps moon is its own poem and those of us wave and gaze are naming our own dark names = nearing the light that moon sheds to swim across the recurring river = even the stream at noon whispers moon’s last identity = buckeyes floating towards the stones = moon does not distinguish between dream and vision = what is seen is seen and clearly depends on the clouds = closing around moon in the shapes of keys = spirals = dragons = there are dragons here = but moon feels no fiery scales = moon scales the sky with intentional intent = intending to present ourselves to ourselves in absolute uncertainty = we merely grow = hold what we form = form what we hold =
Next, we have a new piece from Patricia Woodruff. According to her, the inspiration for "Valentine Victorian" is a photograph that quite literally is a gift of love:
When I was about 21, I got my photo taken at one of those dress-up photography studios. This was a Valentine's present for my husband.
When I was about 21, I got my photo taken at one of those dress-up photography studios. This was a Valentine's present for my husband.
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
Finally, Coriander pulled through! Her official, vivid, and very red Day 19 piece:
Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff
day 18
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
This is actually Patricia Woodruff's Day 17 submission, a symbol of abundance. Certainly appropriate for this November of Imagination! It's called "Corn Dolly." Thanks for sharing!
Of course, Patricia remembered to send her Day 18 piece as well. It's a good thing she did, as it's our favorite yet. It's called "Behind the Palm," and it comes from a photo she took of her daughter.
Of course, Patricia remembered to send her Day 18 piece as well. It's a good thing she did, as it's our favorite yet. It's called "Behind the Palm," and it comes from a photo she took of her daughter.
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
This next piece was inspired by an object that Gerri Young sees every day. The real-life counterpart of "African Gourd" sits in Gerri's creative space:
I bought this large gourd from an African vendor in Europe. The detail just goes on and on. All the light parts are cut away to natural gourd color. It sits right across from my art table so I see it every day.
I bought this large gourd from an African vendor in Europe. The detail just goes on and on. All the light parts are cut away to natural gourd color. It sits right across from my art table so I see it every day.
Image Credit: Gerri Young
A great subject, as well as a great result (as usual). You know what's sitting within view of our creative space? A coupon for Dick's Sporting Goods (expired), held against our filing cabinet with a blue refrigerator magnet.No wonder Gerri's more inspired than we are!
This next piece is one of the few images that we showcase that's not exactly...appealing. It is brilliant, however. Kathryn Loichinger continues her project: carefully documenting the day-by-day decomposition of this plate of once delicious-looking ensemble. This is it, seventeen days in:
Image Credit: Kathryn Loichinger
Of course, she felt bad leaving us with nothign but a rotten cheese plate, so she's also been kind enough to share with us a couple of photos from a completely different series. Absolutely stunning! Thanks for sharing, Kathryn.
day 17: day of the alliterative tardy tanka
Okay, it really wasn't tardy. Maybe we're just teasing. But today's title refers to Mara Robbins's Day 16 Tanka, which generated such a response that we wanted to give it a little space on our humble stage even though it arrived just as we were turning into pumpkins.
The poem in question is called "Tanka Tuesday":
tanka tuesday
Writing a tanka
was not hard for me, four years
ago, in class, hail
beating against the window.
It was easier to write
than to read ancient
novels about Buddhism.
It was easy as
counting on one hand, until
I reached seven syllables.
Tankas: what I write
when I do not have the time
to sit and wrestle
with all the many other
words, what keeps me noticing
language, attention
paid to word choice, image, brief
sips that can sustain
me through the less poetic
parts of my limitations.
It is interesting
seeing sun through syllables,
hearing who writes back,
tasting another’s language,
feeling what I can still feel.
FaceBook, a platform
for swift communication,
is the vehicle
providing the perfect form
to leap both forward and back.
We do not hold pens.
There is no paper, no tears
staining the PC
screen, no interpretation
of handwriting to go by.
Only our words, back
and forth, spanning centuries
of tradition, lost
arts found again through keyboards
and communicative friends.
If you care to, go
to my notes and read about
how I found tankas
in “The Book of Genji,” years
ago. I sent that book to
Michele. It was weight
I no longer need to carry.
Now I can lift more,
offering deliberate
calls, response—Tuesday tankas.
A remarkable tanka series indeed. Controlled, precise, smart. But what's even more remarkable was the conversation it inspired, if you can even call it a conversation. Perhaps "Tankasation" would be more appropriate:
The poem in question is called "Tanka Tuesday":
tanka tuesday
Writing a tanka
was not hard for me, four years
ago, in class, hail
beating against the window.
It was easier to write
than to read ancient
novels about Buddhism.
It was easy as
counting on one hand, until
I reached seven syllables.
Tankas: what I write
when I do not have the time
to sit and wrestle
with all the many other
words, what keeps me noticing
language, attention
paid to word choice, image, brief
sips that can sustain
me through the less poetic
parts of my limitations.
It is interesting
seeing sun through syllables,
hearing who writes back,
tasting another’s language,
feeling what I can still feel.
FaceBook, a platform
for swift communication,
is the vehicle
providing the perfect form
to leap both forward and back.
We do not hold pens.
There is no paper, no tears
staining the PC
screen, no interpretation
of handwriting to go by.
Only our words, back
and forth, spanning centuries
of tradition, lost
arts found again through keyboards
and communicative friends.
If you care to, go
to my notes and read about
how I found tankas
in “The Book of Genji,” years
ago. I sent that book to
Michele. It was weight
I no longer need to carry.
Now I can lift more,
offering deliberate
calls, response—Tuesday tankas.
A remarkable tanka series indeed. Controlled, precise, smart. But what's even more remarkable was the conversation it inspired, if you can even call it a conversation. Perhaps "Tankasation" would be more appropriate:
tankasation
Lezlie Hierholzer Ta tanka. Buffalo !
12 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person
12 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person
- Melanie Huber Someone should write some
tankas about buffalo
or about a tank,
because that would be epic.
Fish tank, gas tank or tank tank. 12 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person - Mara Eve Robbins A tank full of tanks
would be very heavy, plus,
does not mesh with pacifist
tendencies I have. Unless
you speak only of holding. 12 hours ago · Like - Mara Eve Robbins Now, buffaloes, though--
that has epic potential.
Buffalo and gasoline.
(a random haiku thrown in for good measure:) 12 hours ago · Like - Melanie Huber There was a woman
who crocheted a lovely tank
cover, she also
knitted gloves for guns, bullets
too had tiny little hats. 11 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person - Leigh Rainey it has rained on this
day for six or seven years
now and I am tired
of keeping face and acting
like these storms don't matter. 11 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person - Melanie Huber could a buffalo
be a tank? I think maybe
so, maybe should be
ta-tanka powered ta-tanks
tanka ta-tanka ta-tanks.11 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person - Mara Eve Robbins @Leigh:
After the rain stops,
turn your face to the new sky.
We can build our storms
into catalysts--being born
is rarely easy, you know? 11 hours ago · Like · 1 person - Mara Eve Robbins @Mel:
I want a bullet
with a tiny hat--now. NOW!
So crochet, woman.
Will I see you there tonight?
I hope so! I really do! 11 hours ago · Like - Heath Isimsiz (Color me impressed:
You would not need a crayon,
a magic marker,
or a paintbrush, as I was
already impressed by you.)
----------------------------------------
On Getting The Damn Paperwork Notarized And Filed
A legal matter,
dotted i's, cross-checked totals,
copies of receipts,
weighed down on me, pressing hard
as if making three copies.
Mailed it, certified,
just two ounces of paper,
but tons of worry,
Now who sings and strides carefree?
The party of the first part. 11 hours ago · Unlike · 2 people - Mara Eve Robbins Heath, I do miss you!
Having only met you once,
albeit a quite
auspicious once, I would like
to see you again soon, please? Yes.
(and I will try to be less distracted) 11 hours ago · Like - Heath Isimsiz Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
Twenty-six syllables left
to say just how much
I'm looking forward to it!
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! 11 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person - Patricia Robin Woodruff A thanks tanka
Fits so well in November
I would be grateful
If our armed forces could start
Crocheting bullet cozies. 11 hours ago · Unlike · 1 person - Elisa Shifflett In the green meadow
I imagine home with space
Someday where we'll live
I'd dance in the rain naked
But only in the summer 11 hours ago · Unlike · 3 people - Michelle Keenan The dirty laundry
seems like looming monoliths
while the week's clutter
beckons me from daydreaming...
It's time to get back to work! 11 hours ago · Unlike · 3 people - Deborah Weinischke I once danced naked
In the sweet rain so welcome
Singing cavorting
But it rained for ten long days
Now I'm careful when I dance. 7 hours ago · Like · 6 people - Michelle Keenan Naked rain dancing
seems to be a common strand
But the day is cold
I live vicariously
through the tankas of others.5 hours ago · Like
Too cool! Next, Gerri Young decided to play around with ink today. The subject of the following untitled piece looks like she's hiding something (at least, that's how she looks to us).
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Next, another beautiful photo from Michele Shoemaker. We're not sure what it depicts other than chaos and color and motion, we like to pretend it's some sort of rudimentary bat knocking a glass bottle towards an unseen assailant. Whatever it is, it's pretty. Excellent work Michele.
Image Credit: Michele Shoemaker
Finally, Mara's touching Day 17 piece, "For Those Who Mean Well":
for those who mean well
After three weeks of quickening love, today
somebody said: Don’t let her break your heart,
which did not give me pause at first. Delayed
reaction, not anger or concern, though part
of me would like to be wished well in a way
that trusted me to know my own new life starts
here. It is enough to know. I’ve been though hell
before; I recall how it tastes. And love?
I doubt they have a clue as to this time. I fell,
or perhaps I’m still trying to rise. My gloves
do not protect my hands enough from cold,
not when the wind blows like it did—it shoved
me off the road driving to work. I’m older,
and the time it takes to recognize my eyes
depends on where your vision’s been. Folding
laundry once I’m home, I find that time buys
wisdom if I wait. There are answers here.
I just don’t have to offer them—a wiser
explanation would be none. I’ve lost my fear.
It was the best thing I could choose to lose,
knowing that this loss could be a mirror
I finally gaze into. There are no clues
‘bout who is the most beautiful. We all are.
And I expect to read your mind; you use
so many words with semi-hidden scars
between them. Our hearts are almost broken
all the time; the mending makes them stronger
and more sure, like I am sure I’ve spoken
this before: I’m not afraid. How we feel
is bigger than the moment. I have woken
up to a last breath that was and was not real
but made me doubt my own for years. To trust
or risk took longer than you know; to heal
takes even longer, but honesty we brush
against is more sincere than what we say
or warn away. I choose to move, not to rust.
I chose to look her in the eye today
and say what I did not know how to say.
somebody said: Don’t let her break your heart,
which did not give me pause at first. Delayed
reaction, not anger or concern, though part
of me would like to be wished well in a way
that trusted me to know my own new life starts
here. It is enough to know. I’ve been though hell
before; I recall how it tastes. And love?
I doubt they have a clue as to this time. I fell,
or perhaps I’m still trying to rise. My gloves
do not protect my hands enough from cold,
not when the wind blows like it did—it shoved
me off the road driving to work. I’m older,
and the time it takes to recognize my eyes
depends on where your vision’s been. Folding
laundry once I’m home, I find that time buys
wisdom if I wait. There are answers here.
I just don’t have to offer them—a wiser
explanation would be none. I’ve lost my fear.
It was the best thing I could choose to lose,
knowing that this loss could be a mirror
I finally gaze into. There are no clues
‘bout who is the most beautiful. We all are.
And I expect to read your mind; you use
so many words with semi-hidden scars
between them. Our hearts are almost broken
all the time; the mending makes them stronger
and more sure, like I am sure I’ve spoken
this before: I’m not afraid. How we feel
is bigger than the moment. I have woken
up to a last breath that was and was not real
but made me doubt my own for years. To trust
or risk took longer than you know; to heal
takes even longer, but honesty we brush
against is more sincere than what we say
or warn away. I choose to move, not to rust.
I chose to look her in the eye today
and say what I did not know how to say.
day 16: coriander strikes back
Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff
So there I was, minding my own business. I was getting a few exciting new things together, our interview with Mike Doughty, former lead singer of Soul Coughing, and our featured artists of the week, Erin Ganaway and Larissa McGinnity, when, impulsively, I checked my inbox to find a Coriander explosion. No warning shots were fired! No foreboding messages. Just photograph after photograph, delivered out of a week of silence. Coriander's battle tactics are half sleeper cell, half shock-and-awe. Merciless and beautiful. I was so overwhelmed by this sudden burst of noise out of the silence, I've decided to dub today: Coriander Strikes Back.
You have to admit: it was well worth the wait. Coriander Woodruff is a clearly talented photographer, and we're excited to see whatever comes next.
In other news, Gerri Young is back with another amazing piece. Every day, Gerri continues to prove that she's as versatile as she is talented, and while she seems to prefer watercolor, one thing that is adbundantly clear is that she's better than us in any medium. She had this to say about the following piece, "The Mimes"
Ink, felt tip, watercolor. Came upon these clever mimes in Dresden, Germany. As the lights changed, the mimes changed to mimic the famous "Green Man" lights of eastern Germany.
In other news, Gerri Young is back with another amazing piece. Every day, Gerri continues to prove that she's as versatile as she is talented, and while she seems to prefer watercolor, one thing that is adbundantly clear is that she's better than us in any medium. She had this to say about the following piece, "The Mimes"
Ink, felt tip, watercolor. Came upon these clever mimes in Dresden, Germany. As the lights changed, the mimes changed to mimic the famous "Green Man" lights of eastern Germany.
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Next a wonderful piece from Patricia Woodruff, and a memory of one of her recent experiences:
This summer we got to the Philadelphia Rodin Museum. A wonderful, inspirational place full of the genius of Rodin. This is a sketch of one of his sculptures.
This piece, called "The Genius of Rodin," is a great example of Patricia's own talent:
This summer we got to the Philadelphia Rodin Museum. A wonderful, inspirational place full of the genius of Rodin. This is a sketch of one of his sculptures.
This piece, called "The Genius of Rodin," is a great example of Patricia's own talent:
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 15
Image Credit: Michele Shoemaker
Today, something miraculous happened. Maybe it happened as you wiped your hands on a rubber apron. Or punctuated a line or poetry, a tentative comma, lightly scrawled, or a period, decisive like a stab-wound. Maybe you dipped your brush in ruddy water. Maybe you smiled at the preview screen of your digital camera. But no matter how it came, for many of you it came today: the realization that you're halfway through this crazy FloCoiMo adventure.
While we'd hate to accuse anyone of saving up special surprises for special days, we received some phenomenal pieces today, the first of which is displayed in all its magnificence above: Michele Shoemaker's "Woodmoon over Woodwater." The name is mysterious and enchanting, as is the image itself. The shapes of familiar things are implied, but not quite given. The effect is truly beautiful.
Another delightful discovery this afternoon was Gerri Young's Day 15 watercolor, "Face in the Fire." Gerri says:
I made a mask from raku clay when I took Jayn Avery's slab clay class. To fire it, I took Steve Mitchell's raku glaze and fire workshop. As the mask was firing, Steve looked inside and saw this wild apparition staring back at him. We just had to record it!
By now, you'd think we'd have grown used to the outstanding quality of each of Gerri's pieces, but each new day she continues to fill us with wonder.
While we'd hate to accuse anyone of saving up special surprises for special days, we received some phenomenal pieces today, the first of which is displayed in all its magnificence above: Michele Shoemaker's "Woodmoon over Woodwater." The name is mysterious and enchanting, as is the image itself. The shapes of familiar things are implied, but not quite given. The effect is truly beautiful.
Another delightful discovery this afternoon was Gerri Young's Day 15 watercolor, "Face in the Fire." Gerri says:
I made a mask from raku clay when I took Jayn Avery's slab clay class. To fire it, I took Steve Mitchell's raku glaze and fire workshop. As the mask was firing, Steve looked inside and saw this wild apparition staring back at him. We just had to record it!
By now, you'd think we'd have grown used to the outstanding quality of each of Gerri's pieces, but each new day she continues to fill us with wonder.
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Our visual artists weren't the only ones to pull out something amazing today. Mara Robbins shared with us this wonderful poem, "Devices." It's an example of an aubade, which for those of you who don't know, is a poem about lovers separating at dawn. Her answer to Michele Shoemaker's "Nailed"?
devices
Writing free verse is like playing tennis without a net.
-Robert Frost
Anchored in the security
of contact, our phones
are calendars, alarm
clocks, entertainment--
having forgotten
how to simply sit and be still.
My pocket never rings.
There are only vibrations.
Occasionally a phantom
knocks—reminders
of communication so basic
I’d remember if I let myself.
Use anything you can
to keep hold of me.
Wrestle alliteration
from my mouth.
Trade my iambic heartbeat
for a galloping anapest
so I learn to dwell
in the formless, still forming
terms I cannot recall
when the sun places
warm hands around my waist
and pulls me into
a spectacular dawn.
I call
you to say: “Look
out the window—” Before my
first breath you ask if I’ve seen the
sunrise
yet.
-Robert Frost
Anchored in the security
of contact, our phones
are calendars, alarm
clocks, entertainment--
having forgotten
how to simply sit and be still.
My pocket never rings.
There are only vibrations.
Occasionally a phantom
knocks—reminders
of communication so basic
I’d remember if I let myself.
Use anything you can
to keep hold of me.
Wrestle alliteration
from my mouth.
Trade my iambic heartbeat
for a galloping anapest
so I learn to dwell
in the formless, still forming
terms I cannot recall
when the sun places
warm hands around my waist
and pulls me into
a spectacular dawn.
I call
you to say: “Look
out the window—” Before my
first breath you ask if I’ve seen the
sunrise
yet.
|
Next, Patricia Woodruff demonstrates that she will be stopped at nothing! Even though she has her hands full on the road, she looked up from her breakfast in a Pennsylvania diner to discover a mounted coyote head staring down at her from the wall. Where some people see roadkill, Patricia found a muse. She then made this sketch, presumably before paying her bill and hitting the open road again!
|
 Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff |
day 14
Image Credit: Michele Shoemaker
In addition to being a beautiful photograph, Michele Shoemaker's "Nailed" also takes the prize for Best Title For A Piece of FloCoiMo Art (so far). Taking a look at this exquisite work, it would be easy to assume that photography was Michele's medium of choice, but her real FloCoiMo efforts have been focused on writing her novel (She cranked out 2243 words yesterday!). Keep it up! Almost halfway there!
Next, another one-hour masterpiece from Gerri Young, "Dresden Courtyard Art." She had this to say:
My dear German friend Gerlinde treated us to a trip to Dresden for a farewell gift. For all its formal glory, Dresden has a bohemian neighborhood that is incredibly artsy and interesting. This watercolor shows part of one wall in a charming courtyard. The blue mosaic deer stretches over several windows, pointing the way to little shops and cafes. Surprizes are around every corner.
It reminds me very much of a remote cabin I once stayed in, built by a bunch of hippies. Forget whatever images that statement immediately evokes: it was beautiful, with adobe walls that were decorated in a fashion similar to this painting. Fond memories, and another excellent piece, Gerri. For those of you interested in learning more about Gerri Young, don't forget to check out her blog!
Next, another one-hour masterpiece from Gerri Young, "Dresden Courtyard Art." She had this to say:
My dear German friend Gerlinde treated us to a trip to Dresden for a farewell gift. For all its formal glory, Dresden has a bohemian neighborhood that is incredibly artsy and interesting. This watercolor shows part of one wall in a charming courtyard. The blue mosaic deer stretches over several windows, pointing the way to little shops and cafes. Surprizes are around every corner.
It reminds me very much of a remote cabin I once stayed in, built by a bunch of hippies. Forget whatever images that statement immediately evokes: it was beautiful, with adobe walls that were decorated in a fashion similar to this painting. Fond memories, and another excellent piece, Gerri. For those of you interested in learning more about Gerri Young, don't forget to check out her blog!
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Next, a nice little ballad from Mara Robbins, "The Ballad of Aaron and Katy." Based on a true story?
the ballad of aaron and katyThe night was dark, the hour was late,
a song still hung in the air. Katy’s car was parked far away She did not want to walk there. His stepfather’s Jaguar was full of friends, tequila, cups-- Aaron had to be talked into picking poor Katy up. The hour was late, the night was dark, but Katy was not tired. She went back to their house with them to drink and get more wired Aaron’s friend took Katy aside and said, “Hey, Aaron’s gay, you know, so he won’t make a move.” Surprised? She did not say. The night was dark, the hour was late, Katy needed to leave. She told the crew that they could come-- a cabin, a jacuzzi waited, deep in the mountain woods. No one felt like going except Aaron, who’d grown fond of her—thought it was showing. The hour was late, the night was dark, tequila all but drunk. When they reached the little cabin sweet Aaron was a punk. He placed his hand upon her knee and leaned into her hair. Katy did not know what to think to find him lingering there. The night was dark, the hour was late, they drank the last few shots, and Aaron took her in his arms he really thought her hot. She pushed him away, exclaiming: “Hey! But you are so gay!” Aaron laughed as he stroked her face, “I thought that’s what they’d say.” The hour was early, warm dawn broke but they did not notice, so wrapped up in each other’s arms so taken with the kiss. Ten years later they both still laugh at how they got together and yet they found a lasting love-- comfortable and weathered. |
day 13
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Gerri Young painted this watercolor portrait, "Tasha," from a photograph that she took of a friend's daughter. She says:
This watercolor portrait is of 13-year-old Tasha, the daughter of a good friend of mine in Germany. I took a photo of her during my farewell dinner in March and it was just perfect to use for a portrait. I knew it was successful when I sent it to her mom who loved it so much she got tears in her eyes when she saw it. Tasha is becoming quite an accomplished singer. She just performed both the US and the German national anthems at a public event on an American military base.
Amazing work as always, Gerri. We'll be on the lookout for Tasha, too. Maybe she'll grant us an interview before she starts winning Grammys.
Yesterday, we shot a message to Coriander Woodruff and asked for the photo that inspired Patricia Woodruff's "Angst." The evidence is undeniable: there's a lot of talent in this family!
This watercolor portrait is of 13-year-old Tasha, the daughter of a good friend of mine in Germany. I took a photo of her during my farewell dinner in March and it was just perfect to use for a portrait. I knew it was successful when I sent it to her mom who loved it so much she got tears in her eyes when she saw it. Tasha is becoming quite an accomplished singer. She just performed both the US and the German national anthems at a public event on an American military base.
Amazing work as always, Gerri. We'll be on the lookout for Tasha, too. Maybe she'll grant us an interview before she starts winning Grammys.
Yesterday, we shot a message to Coriander Woodruff and asked for the photo that inspired Patricia Woodruff's "Angst." The evidence is undeniable: there's a lot of talent in this family!
 Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff |
 Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff |
|
"Narrow Spaces" is a littany by Mara Robbins, not to mention her lucky number thirteen submission. There's comfort in the repetition, but energy and tension, too, as the two separated "things" (e.g. "fact" and "truth") interact.
And rounding out Day Thirteen is Patricia Woodruff once again, with a little bit of concept art. After looking through some stones of her jewelry-making friend, Barb Baur, Patricia designed the following necklace. Hopefully after Barb is finished with it, she'll send a picture our way so we can see the real-life version of "Celtic Necklace."
And rounding out Day Thirteen is Patricia Woodruff once again, with a little bit of concept art. After looking through some stones of her jewelry-making friend, Barb Baur, Patricia designed the following necklace. Hopefully after Barb is finished with it, she'll send a picture our way so we can see the real-life version of "Celtic Necklace."
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 12
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
 |
What a day! It's one of those where the list of things to do rolls all the way out of your pocket, down the hallway, and right into that nest the dust bunnies have been carving out under the stove. Some of us around here feel just like the subject of Patricia Woodruff's "Angst" must feel, pictured above. The drawing is based off of one of Coriander Woodruff's photographs. We'll try to get a hold of it and put it up here too, a little compare and contrast. Still, It's a beautiful drawing. Thanks Patricia!
Pictured to the left is yesterday's drawing, "Hickory Horned Devil." It was a little past our bedtime when she sent it, so we apologize for not getting it up before now. |
Next, a truly remarkable poem by Mara Robbins. She had this to say about her sonnet cycle "How 'Bout Them Apples":
In the interest of full disclosure, this is a revision. I really wanted to finish this poem, and it took a lot of work, so I devoted my composition time this morning to revision. I love this narrative, and will never forget sitting in the Protocol garage and talking about how great the story was, and Joey, who I did not know well enough at the time to know how gosh-darn smart he is, suggested that I put it in "iambic pentameter." A few days later this poem was born.
The fact that this is a revision is the last thing on our minds. It's hard enough to create beauty in a small space, where every word must be the right word, where the word economy is so delicate. To us, Mara's poem seems to sustain a small poem's focus over the course of seven sonnets. No small task. It packs a punch, too. Goosebumps, Mara.
how 'bout them apples
A sonnet cycle, which is like a motorcycle, only more dangerous
For Emily and Joey Kaylor
At first I thought that I could find a used
transmission to replace the one that mine
had worn until it loosed a finite grind.
No luck. The junkyards did not have one, true,
but I looked everywhere—online, including
Craigslist, Ebay—even the less reputable finds
turned out to be a goose. A chase. Too wild,
my driving, stubborn ‘bout my clutch that you
insisted gave me more control ‘round curves.
I listened. I was dumb. If I had bought
an automatic, year after you died,
this would have been a cinch. Too much to learn
too fast when I am not equipped and ought
to listen to my friend when given good advice.
I listened to my friend. He gives good advice,
and since rebuilding can take weeks or more
I went to Joey’s garage. He offered a loaner.
A big green van, had all wheel drive, real nice.
The day I dropped it off was cold, and twice
the temps had dropped so much that just to score
a bag of salt to thaw your driveway was a chore.
But then I did not know I had an accomplice--
and a job that Joey had no time for.
With a dented Blackberry—run over, he confessed
to me—I snapped shots of parts that Joey
wanted to sell, thus lowering the cost
of my rebuild. Damn good, since all the stress
of how I’d pay began to give me automatic
envy—don’t get me wrong, still love to shift,
but envy those who right or wrong love to insist
that manuals no longer are considered
in any way the end-all-be-all drive delivered
to the driver who just wishes for the best.
But hell. I love the smell of grinding rust
in the morning, and honestly appreciated
being there when classic rock emanated
from hidden speakers. And when you take the risk
of not being able to drive away? Well, sure.
Take as long as you want. No skin off my nose.
Turned out the clutch was fine which saved big bucks.
Trans dismantled, the parts were planned and ordered.
But then, subzero wind. Some were delayed, and those
in route were plagued by wrecks and delivery luck.
The routing numbers switched—a wreck, this luck,
though I was still convinced it was not bad.
A part from Maryland nearly made it but had
a hiccup in the warehouse, ended up sent back.
‘Bout then a Hummer hit the Fed Ex truck--
another bearing took another day. Joey was mad
but I was distracted by a flue fire and dad,
who only died a few months ago, the lack
of advice, so cold, stove pipes deteriorated,
up to my elbows in creosote but grateful
that Rick could help me get what I needed
and make it safe. I found that I related
to the grease and dirt and gas, a life that pulled
me back from yet another abyss. Indeed,
I think I’m back. An abyss averted though indeed
it was a struggle just to get by a few more days.
Snow on the ground for over a month, the way
the ice could sap your breath and take the lead
if you were not on top. I had to feed
the fire so much and load it tightly for the day
before I showed up for my job, to keep at bay
the cold. This winter sucks. But hey, I need
my car, I need the money. In truth, I hold
the feeling of being useful like the guys
who hold the wrench. Marlene, who went to smoke
outside with me even when it was too cold,
and Joey’s cool wife Emily helped me survive
the days when I would swallow hard so not to choke.
There are still days when swallowing will choke
me up. I’m still not fond of toast. “How ‘bout
them apples,” Emily said the day the spout
came off the gas can Andy used—a joke,
but no one knew there’d be a spill. I hope
the headache will not last once I get out.
I took the time to look the saying up and found
much less than I expected. The half-open
toffee apple grenades from WW1? Perhaps.
but someone else discounted that. The keys
got lost, but Joey posted pictures of M.C. Escher
lizards, the mobius face—rendered for his tatts.
There are more important things then these
small problems. Even when they feel wretched
they’re still small. Problems, even wretched ones,
are finite, don’t last, you solve them—or you deal.
I stopped by for my car. It still needed a seal.
In some ways I’ll be sorry when it’s done,
like I’m glad for the thaw, but damn, a shit-ton
of ice’s still washed up on the river bank, and real
mud, there’s just so much, sucks you right in, feels
‘bout like ice when you start to slide—that’s fun--
each time you drive, at least when the transmission
works. Next time I may have blown a fuse.
Next time I’m sure I’ll talk too much again,
though I find when I slow down to listen
the answer is replaced. I’m just rebuilding.
But first I thought that I could find it used.
For Emily and Joey Kaylor
At first I thought that I could find a used
transmission to replace the one that mine
had worn until it loosed a finite grind.
No luck. The junkyards did not have one, true,
but I looked everywhere—online, including
Craigslist, Ebay—even the less reputable finds
turned out to be a goose. A chase. Too wild,
my driving, stubborn ‘bout my clutch that you
insisted gave me more control ‘round curves.
I listened. I was dumb. If I had bought
an automatic, year after you died,
this would have been a cinch. Too much to learn
too fast when I am not equipped and ought
to listen to my friend when given good advice.
I listened to my friend. He gives good advice,
and since rebuilding can take weeks or more
I went to Joey’s garage. He offered a loaner.
A big green van, had all wheel drive, real nice.
The day I dropped it off was cold, and twice
the temps had dropped so much that just to score
a bag of salt to thaw your driveway was a chore.
But then I did not know I had an accomplice--
and a job that Joey had no time for.
With a dented Blackberry—run over, he confessed
to me—I snapped shots of parts that Joey
wanted to sell, thus lowering the cost
of my rebuild. Damn good, since all the stress
of how I’d pay began to give me automatic
envy—don’t get me wrong, still love to shift,
but envy those who right or wrong love to insist
that manuals no longer are considered
in any way the end-all-be-all drive delivered
to the driver who just wishes for the best.
But hell. I love the smell of grinding rust
in the morning, and honestly appreciated
being there when classic rock emanated
from hidden speakers. And when you take the risk
of not being able to drive away? Well, sure.
Take as long as you want. No skin off my nose.
Turned out the clutch was fine which saved big bucks.
Trans dismantled, the parts were planned and ordered.
But then, subzero wind. Some were delayed, and those
in route were plagued by wrecks and delivery luck.
The routing numbers switched—a wreck, this luck,
though I was still convinced it was not bad.
A part from Maryland nearly made it but had
a hiccup in the warehouse, ended up sent back.
‘Bout then a Hummer hit the Fed Ex truck--
another bearing took another day. Joey was mad
but I was distracted by a flue fire and dad,
who only died a few months ago, the lack
of advice, so cold, stove pipes deteriorated,
up to my elbows in creosote but grateful
that Rick could help me get what I needed
and make it safe. I found that I related
to the grease and dirt and gas, a life that pulled
me back from yet another abyss. Indeed,
I think I’m back. An abyss averted though indeed
it was a struggle just to get by a few more days.
Snow on the ground for over a month, the way
the ice could sap your breath and take the lead
if you were not on top. I had to feed
the fire so much and load it tightly for the day
before I showed up for my job, to keep at bay
the cold. This winter sucks. But hey, I need
my car, I need the money. In truth, I hold
the feeling of being useful like the guys
who hold the wrench. Marlene, who went to smoke
outside with me even when it was too cold,
and Joey’s cool wife Emily helped me survive
the days when I would swallow hard so not to choke.
There are still days when swallowing will choke
me up. I’m still not fond of toast. “How ‘bout
them apples,” Emily said the day the spout
came off the gas can Andy used—a joke,
but no one knew there’d be a spill. I hope
the headache will not last once I get out.
I took the time to look the saying up and found
much less than I expected. The half-open
toffee apple grenades from WW1? Perhaps.
but someone else discounted that. The keys
got lost, but Joey posted pictures of M.C. Escher
lizards, the mobius face—rendered for his tatts.
There are more important things then these
small problems. Even when they feel wretched
they’re still small. Problems, even wretched ones,
are finite, don’t last, you solve them—or you deal.
I stopped by for my car. It still needed a seal.
In some ways I’ll be sorry when it’s done,
like I’m glad for the thaw, but damn, a shit-ton
of ice’s still washed up on the river bank, and real
mud, there’s just so much, sucks you right in, feels
‘bout like ice when you start to slide—that’s fun--
each time you drive, at least when the transmission
works. Next time I may have blown a fuse.
Next time I’m sure I’ll talk too much again,
though I find when I slow down to listen
the answer is replaced. I’m just rebuilding.
But first I thought that I could find it used.
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Last, but certainly not least, is Gerri Young's submission. She had this to say about it:
This is another piece inspired by one of my instruction books. Original was done in oil by Tom Ross and called "Sonita." He said the child was Indian and the daughter of a friend. I did just part of the painting to study portraiture more and did it in watercolor, my favorite medium.
This is another piece inspired by one of my instruction books. Original was done in oil by Tom Ross and called "Sonita." He said the child was Indian and the daughter of a friend. I did just part of the painting to study portraiture more and did it in watercolor, my favorite medium.
day 11
11:11If we’re lucky, we begin our life with a true connection
and do not spend the rest of it learning to rue connection. Two leaves cling to the tree even once a frost has fallen until the wind descends to take the place they grew connection. The ground rises to greet them as they blanket fragile plants from further cold, changing—they re-drew connection. ‘Round then my world accelerates from fall to falling, lying in the leaves, encompassing this new connection. Venus rises before the sun, flickering within the spectrum of horizon, most of the trees half-dressed to woo connection. At last I can find Mara underneath all that’s fallen before, and trust what's hidden, not try to merely view connection. |
As we inch ever closer to the half way mark, we find ourselves continually amazed by the wonderful things that everyone has been producing. Today, we even learned something new. The poem above, Mara Robbins's "11:11," is an example of a ghazal, a Persian form that utilizes a refrain in a series of couplets. Had to look that one up, but now that we've added it to our dictionary, I have a feeling we'll be composing one ourselves sometime moon. Ghazal (pronounced "guzzle") means "talking to women," by the way. Interesting stuff.
Gerri Young's contribution today, "The Dancer," was inspired by another piece. Gerri had this to say:
While looking for ideas for my next artwork, I flipped through one of the many art instruction books I own and came upon the full version of the attached. I liked its freeness, something I need more of in my watercolor art. So here is my little slice of the original which was named "Interlude," and done by Sheryl Thornton at 29" x 21".
Gerri Young's contribution today, "The Dancer," was inspired by another piece. Gerri had this to say:
While looking for ideas for my next artwork, I flipped through one of the many art instruction books I own and came upon the full version of the attached. I liked its freeness, something I need more of in my watercolor art. So here is my little slice of the original which was named "Interlude," and done by Sheryl Thornton at 29" x 21".
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Michele Shoemaker also rejoins us today, and since she was working on images this morning, she decided to share something from her photoblog, a piece called "The Window." Just look at the beautiful composition:
Image Credit: Michele Shoemaker
day 10
Image Credit: Kathryn Loichinger
Day Ten, and we're a third of the way through this FloCoiMo jungle. We were pleased when Kathryn Loichinger sent us an update on a brilliant project she started at the beginning of the month. Kind of gross. But kind of beautiful, too, and definitely amazing work on Kathryn's part. Great job! (We should point out that this is actually a picture of the arrangement as of Day Nine, but it wasn't bacony enough so we decided it belongs here).
Below on the left, Mara Robbins answers our Acrostic Bacon Haikus with a little acrostic verse of her own, "Mixing up Words after Midnight." The poem was inspired by a late night conversation with her friend Melanie. Mara asked her if she'd read our agnostic bacon poems (we're not implying we don't have any, by the way), and hilarity ensued.
Below on the right, Gerri Young shares with us this impressive "Tree Man," beautifully crafted in watercolor and ink.
Below on the left, Mara Robbins answers our Acrostic Bacon Haikus with a little acrostic verse of her own, "Mixing up Words after Midnight." The poem was inspired by a late night conversation with her friend Melanie. Mara asked her if she'd read our agnostic bacon poems (we're not implying we don't have any, by the way), and hilarity ensued.
Below on the right, Gerri Young shares with us this impressive "Tree Man," beautifully crafted in watercolor and ink.
mixing up words after midnight
After too many tangles in a new sheet,
go silent for a moment. Nothing will make it better, even the oven, though I stir soup in a blue bowl sometimes, thinking that this moment is different because of breathing consciously, a mantra masquerading as a prayer. All day the weight of recent loss clung to you, feverish, and I ran where I could run around older, deeply ingrained anxieties shuffled through the lens of sleeplessness. Take heart, half believer. I accept kindness as accurate enough, the only cost I can afford, the only true collaboration. |
 Image Credit: Gerri Young |
Finally, Patricia Woodruff sent us a second piece she produced for the Young Actors' Co-op of Floyd's upcoming production of Tom Sawyer.
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 9: the bacon challenge
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Today began with seeing Gerri Young's day 9 submission, "Terracotta Ram," in my inbox and posting it to this FloCoiMo page. Somehow, while I was at work (no, running an art and literature review doesn't exactly pay the bills), Day Nine became The Bacon Challenge. And since Gerri was so inspired by this challenge that she created a whole second Day Nine submission, I felt obligated to follow suit, log back on, and make a few changes.
I don't think I need to hype up this next piece. Once you read the title, you should already have an initial impression of how awesome it is. Good job, Mara.
I don't think I need to hype up this next piece. Once you read the title, you should already have an initial impression of how awesome it is. Good job, Mara.
ode to baconYou are the sizzling crisp juiciness of salty flavor,
You are the cold strips of seasoning warmed into succulence, You are mornings made manageable with cast iron and spatulas, You are the essential ingredient in the omelet of love, You are the grease that drips onto Joey’s beard, You are the sprinkle of satisfaction on the most joyous pizza, You are the crumbling fatback of Rob’s open heart, You are the anaphora of every Sunday breakfast, You are the cradle of Sarah’s derivative tenderness, You are likely to snuggle up to lettuce and ripe August tomatoes, You are the secret to Emily’s subtle hidden smile, You are the answer and the question and the pontification, You are the only dream Ellen recalled in the morning, You are the vote in the universal election, You are endorphins that waft from the warming oven, You are better than a blanket to be wrapped up within. O bacon, I praise you, and consume you, my most cherished crispy cuddle-fare. My appetite will forever devour you. My love for you is deeper than the deepest skillet. Cleanse my palate with your most intimate zest and make me an instrument of your brunch. |
 Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff Patricia Woodruff also contributed to the madness with this image of Sir Francis Bacon.
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Once Mara's poem kick-started everything, things just kind of spun out of control. Sarah Beth Jones retaliated with this, "FloCoiMo: Essay for Bacon."
FloCoiMo: Essay for Bacon
My favorite farmers’ market to date is housed in the old armory across from the old baseball stadium in Greensboro, North Carolina. The Greensboro Farmers’ Curb Market. The aisles between the stalls are crammed together so that it is often a tight squeeze during the off-season, and a true challenge to anyone at all crowd-averse during the busy season. Like ants in a glassed-in farm, shoppers inch their way through the market in tightly defined rows, daring to stop at the stalls they seek while the people behind them groan and squeeze through what remains of the path. It’s worth it – for the faces that become friendly through the sheer force of weekly proximity; for the multicolored heirloom vegetables like Red Russian kale and Chioggia beets; for the unbelievably creamy goat cheese, made on a farm that truly embodies the full circle of life. Most of all, though, it’s worth it for the bacon, made from pigs that lived in big-sty bliss until that last day, cured in small batches and packaged by weight before being sealed into plastic bags. Ward’s Bacon. Ward sells eggs, too, and they’re perfectly lovely, but the bacon’s perfection exists in a sensory plane that is beyond the power of any combination of our 26 letters. Tamil, an official language of Sri Lanka and Singapore, has 247 characters and yet I can’t imagine that even within that depth of possibility, there is a combination that could aptly describe the pleasure of eating Ward’s Bacon. It is a bacon that ruins a person to the limp strips of marbled fat found on plates in greasy spoons across our great, bacon-loving nation. It makes the slices found on fast food hamburgers wither in shame and forces the fat, apple-smoked slabs found in gourmet markets to take a vow of asceticism after a cathartic realization of their coarse decadence. The argument could be justly made that my love of Ward’s Bacon is a holdover from my rebellious teen years, when I traded a childhood of Jewish dietary laws for a pseudo-vegetarianism that included fish and, when out of my mother’s devout eyesight, shrimp, crab and the like. Bacon came sometime around the first nibble of a pot roast that was cooling on my high school boyfriend’s counter. It had been five years since my last taste of landlubberly flesh. Fifteen plus years later, and I have not looked back. Indeed, I have looked forward, despite the wisecracks of my still-Kosher mother, who once opened the door of my first apartment’s refrigerator to find it bare except a bottle of tequila in the freezer and, yes, a pack of bacon in the fridge – not Ward’s, mind you. It would be years before my pork belly palate was trained enough to appreciate the subtle smokiness of Ward’s, the perfect balance of lean to fat, the textural variations, all delightful, that come of pan frying versus baking. Now that I live two hours from Greensboro, I sometimes go out of my way for a Saturday morning trip to the market, leaving early with my big cooler in the back of the car. I choose my packs by weight, selecting the heftiest packs first and working backward until I have enough for many weeks of Sunday morning breakfasts and a few crumbled strips to garnish soup. The proprietors of Ward’s have clearly tasted no bacon other than their own in some time; they find my excitement bemusing. They should sample some Hormel or Oscar Meyer. Just one little nibble of Smithfield’s shrink-wrapped excuse for cured goodness would remind them of how unique a public service they provide. Recently, I brought back packs for several of my closest friends, one of whom tried to thank me for the gift. I assured her that it wasn’t a gift – it was showing off. |
ad hominem's contribution: six ways of looking at bacon: acrostic bacon haikus
Below, on the hot
asphalt, bacon sings songs to
circling crows above.
Once, when I was five,
not yet having known joy, I
tasted crisp bacon.
A good man laments
killing his pig, but can still
enjoy eating it.
Saturday, bacon burns
untended as new lovers
sleep late, exhausted.
Hard brown stripes mingle
intermixed with flesh-white stripes
gathered for the feast.
Hard night? Try this trick:
Eat bacon. You'll be bolstered,
ready for the day.
asphalt, bacon sings songs to
circling crows above.
Once, when I was five,
not yet having known joy, I
tasted crisp bacon.
A good man laments
killing his pig, but can still
enjoy eating it.
Saturday, bacon burns
untended as new lovers
sleep late, exhausted.
Hard brown stripes mingle
intermixed with flesh-white stripes
gathered for the feast.
Hard night? Try this trick:
Eat bacon. You'll be bolstered,
ready for the day.
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This was Gerri's first submission of the day. She has this to say about this adorable (if smug?) little guy, entitled "Terracotta Ram":
This terracotta ram also has a ewe and a lamb in his family and they sit on the edge of the forest right behind my studio. They blend nicely with the fallen leaves and serve to remind me of the many trips I made to Italy where I purchased them in Deruta. As always, wonderful work. I wonder if I could paint as well as Gerri given a year, never mind a day? (the answer is no) |
 Image Credit: Gerri Young |
day 8
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Each day is a precious surprise, as Gerri Young's hand-colored print "The Gift" indicates. Gerri Young has been going strong since the beginning of the month, and her art serves as an inspiration to us all, both in terms of its beauty as well as the sheer endurance it must take to generate piece after consistent piece!
Another eight-for-eight artist, Mara Robbins, helps us to remember that sometimes gifts lurk in unexpected places. Since she challenged us to write a tritina, we retaliated by challenging her to answer Patrick S. McGinnity's short-short (which pokes gentle fun at the practicality of short-shorts in the first place) with a short-short of her own, since surely by now she was out of different poem forms to try. We should have known better than that. Mara responded by writing a kind of poem that is intrinsically tied to the idea of finding unexpected gifts: the found poem. It's called "Empty Toilet Paper Roll: A Found Poem" from Patrick S. McGinnity's "Wit's Soul": Read Patrick's story here. |
empty toilet paper roll: a found poemFrom Patrick S. McGinnity's "Wit's Soul"
He kept a battered, coverless paperback in the glove box, held something up as reverentially as if it were some saint’s shinbone. Voracious, omnivorous, entirely unprepossessing, he’d read anything.One couldn’t help but be touched, waiting for that tell-tale crinkle, that creasing at the corners, as if trying to read some distant road sign. Deconstructs the very universe of words, swelled like a great wave and broke upon the rock of his implacable ignorance It makes you reconsider everything you thought you knew about anything and everything you thought you were. I have to give it that. |
Finally, many would agree that the best part about gifts is giving them. In addition to generating art for FloCoiMo, Patricia Woodruff also lends her talents to the Young Actors Co-op of Floyd. The piece below is something she created for their upcoming show, and will probably be used for their flyers and programs.
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 7
which one will we choose
November is a joke; each punch line shifts
down to the quick. New morning, frost lifts and offers everything you ever craved as long as you’re willing to misbehave, to simultaneously be what you wish everyone else would be for you, and drift towards being who you are. The tempting gift of hibernation beckons, that warm, safe cave-- November is a joke. Wood smoke settles out of the wind, then lifts to rise and disperse in cold air. Old rifts and arguments do not apply. What’s saved is just what takes you by the throat—or bliss-- November is a joke. |
Has it seriously been a week already? At points, this month has dragged on, with each hour trudging slowly by (waiting for submissions, maybe). But then, all of the sudden its 25% finished, and suddenly Ad Hominem has a page teeming with beautiful, well-crafted art, such as Mara Robbins's Rondeau above.
At any rate, it is all of you artists who are making this month so incredible. Keep up the wonderful, wonderful work, and we'll keep sending your our love and our words of encouragement.
At the one week mark, someone is playing chords on the strings of the collective subconsciousness . We are thinking of our own origins, maybe the early stirrings of showing thanks. Gerri Young reminds us that in addition to NaNoWriMo and FloCoiMo, November is National Alzheimers Disease Awareness Month, and she remembers her mother who passed away two years ago last month in this stunning piece:
Image Credit: Gerri Young
Patricia Woodruff is also thinking of an important woman, her great-great aunt, Mary Kennedy. Nicely done, Patricia:
Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff
day 6
Image Credit: Gerri Young
A new day rises, day six of FloCoiMo. Is tomorrow a day of rest? Probably not, if you're a Floyd artist. Above is Gerri's sixth submission, "Angry Sun." She had this to say about it:
A little bit of sun for indoors on a cold day. Not sure why he is so angry, may be trying to frighten away the rain. Watercolor, ink, felt tip. Six days down, 24 to go! This project sure makes me think about art a lot! Will have a little album of mini pieces to show at the two FloCoiMo gatherings this month.
For those of you who've become fans of Gerri's over the past six days as we have, check out her blog A New Way.
We apologize in advance if we're slow on getting submissions up today. We have a busy one ahead!
A little bit of sun for indoors on a cold day. Not sure why he is so angry, may be trying to frighten away the rain. Watercolor, ink, felt tip. Six days down, 24 to go! This project sure makes me think about art a lot! Will have a little album of mini pieces to show at the two FloCoiMo gatherings this month.
For those of you who've become fans of Gerri's over the past six days as we have, check out her blog A New Way.
We apologize in advance if we're slow on getting submissions up today. We have a busy one ahead!
 Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff |
must be time to listen
On the way home from Radford
I tried to call you at least three times but I could hear only your voice, you could not hear mine even though my phone had four bars. I tried to call you at least three times and pulled over to send a text message when you could not hear me and even checked my email-- my phone had four whole bars and everything seemed to work fine while pulled over sending a text message except that I could not speak. When I checked my email there were too many words for everything to work out fine and I know it rarely turns that way except that when I cannot speak I tend to write more than usual and there are too many words to say out loud right now when it rarely turns the way I think it will, or want it to, so I tend to write more than usual about things I want to keep. All I could never say out loud for fear of losing what matters most I think, and will, and want to whisper quietly into your ear all the things I want to keep. Once I figured out I only muted the fear of losing what matters most I find the key to release my words and whisper quietly into your ear, but I could only hear your voice all the way home from Radford. "Must Be Time to Listen" is Mara Robbins's sixth submission, and a beautiful example of a pantoum. Is there anything she can't do? We look forward to whatever comes next. |
day five
Image Credit: Coriander Woodruff
On day five of FloCoiMo, Ad Hominem is extremely excited to introduce a new artist to the mix, Coriander Woodruff. Coriander is a talented photographer, actor, unicycler, stiltwalker, and general creative prodigy. At sixteen years old, she has released two albums of Electronica and has been acting for ten years, five of which she's spent as part of the Young Actors Co-op of Floyd.
We could go on and on about how talented we think she is, but we'll let her work speak for itself:
We could go on and on about how talented we think she is, but we'll let her work speak for itself:
 Day 4 |
 Day 3 |
 Day 2 |
 Day 1 |
Beautiful work, Coriander, good luck on your FloCoiMo experience, and keep sending your work our way.
We've also been blessed with the fifth consecutive piece from Gerri Young: "Pensive."
We've also been blessed with the fifth consecutive piece from Gerri Young: "Pensive."
Image Credit: Gerri Young
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Gerri's not the only one who keeps getting better and better. The fifth consecutive piece from Mara Robbins, "Letting Go," is poignant and sharp. We see now that Mara cleverly asked us to write a tritina so she could then turn around and put us to shame:
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letting go
Does it surprise you that I remain
attached to open doors that could close if I let them? The sound of your name still sounds nothing like your name as it was once spoken, though the main difference has to do with windows, close ties, and the ability to finally forgive closed minds, accepting they are not my own. Name an opening that honestly does not remain: I remain close to the sound of your name. |
dancer
 Image Credit: Patricia Woodruff Patricia's fifth piece, "Dancer." She hopes to turn it into a watercolor soon. We'd love to see it when she does!
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And now, for a differnt kind of FloCoiMo submission. The following is an excerpt from Michele Shoemaker's blog Epreuve. Thanks for sharing!
inevitabilities
It is firmly November now, the 5th day. The sky is heavy with the winter that is coming. No snow yet, not quite cold enough for that but chill enough for the furnace to blow warmth over us in the night. Cold enough for wanting warmth tucked all around.
The creative mad dash is well under way, three writing sessions and some photography. It is also proving fruitful in unexpected ways. Earlier while I was out walking, I realized that two lines of my life are intercepting, the need to be creative and the need, first felt a few months ago, to look into all the corners of my existence and take stock of what is there. And then? and then the sorting and selling and putting away and giving away. I have a strong, almost urgent need to discern what is essential to me at this stage in my life so that I can focus on that and release the rest to whomever might desire it. Initially it involved literally cleaning out every drawer, closet, cupboard, book shelf, nook and cranny where all the minutia of my life might be accumulating. Then came the figurative, or at least the not so visibly solid, habits of mind. Which include ways of thinking, seeing, feeling, believing. What brings me to open, what causes me to close. A much trickier pile of sortings. This aspect of the task bring with it with mixed feelings, excitement and clinging, no lack of fear and some embarrassment, and a queazy feeling of the bottom potentially falling out as I loose to the fates what may have held me up for decades. That urge and the following of it got waylaid by the trip to Canada, the smothering heat of summer, work and the whatnots of every description. This creative mad-dash is re-sharpening my focus. There is no time for silliness or lollygaging since I have to write, I have to get out there and photograph something worthwhile…Because I said I would, publicly, in front of several dozen people, most of whom don’t know me. Not that it matters whether they know me or not, they still heard me, as did the sky above my head and the earth below my feet. So the big clean, as I took to calling the “taking stock of everything” is on again. And again the trepidation, the little fears, the excitement. Another event that is sharpening my focus is my reading of a good little book by Doris Lessing. It is called collectively “The diaries of Jane Somers” having published using the name “Jane Somers” as a pseudonym. The first story, there are two in the one volume, deals with the complex and often times trying, friendship that develops between the main character and an elderly woman. The woman’s condition, extreme poverty, illness, no friends or family, has led me to consider my own elder years which at 49 don’t seem so far away as they once did even a few short years ago. And this question, anxious and searing, of “what will I be doing, how will I be living when I am nearing 75, 80, 85…” this, this really sharpens the focus. It makes us look deep into our lives, at the choices made, good and ill, and the ones to make, and how complicated it has become and for what, and often such a waste of time, energy, money. And what would I do, very possibly what will I do, if or when my circumstances, humble as they are, are reduced to even more humble ones? Would I, will I, have the grace of Buddha to take it in stride and not yearn needlessly for what is no longer, or what could be different and thereby only bring suffering into my own life and into the lives of those I encounter? So now I look around myself, at myself and ask, do I need all of this? Do I need 6 kinds of tea? Ten sweaters? Three hundred books? Twenty-five t-shirts? Do I need to buy and sell and have and want and ask and bitch and moan and pursue this path, keep this way of thinking, hold this grudge? Do I? Do you? |
Sarah Beth Jones is the marketing coordinator of the Jacksonville Center for the Arts, and therefore one of the major reasons that this wonderful creative explosion has been happening at all (the other reason being, of course, all of the hard work of you talented artists who keep making things!).
In addition to being one of the foudners of FloCoiMo, Sarah is also participating as one of its artists. She had not intended to include any of her work here, but recently she was so moved by an exhibit that she felt compelled to polish up the following editorial and share it with us. "Fallen, an Instillation by Jane Hammond" is Sarah's first work to appear on Ad Hominem, though we hope it's not the last. We were honored and delighted to include it.
In addition to being one of the foudners of FloCoiMo, Sarah is also participating as one of its artists. She had not intended to include any of her work here, but recently she was so moved by an exhibit that she felt compelled to polish up the following editorial and share it with us. "Fallen, an Instillation by Jane Hammond" is Sarah's first work to appear on Ad Hominem, though we hope it's not the last. We were honored and delighted to include it.
 Image Credit: Sarah Beth Jones |
fallen, an instillation by jane hammond
FloCoiMo 2010
November 5, 2010 Roanoke, Virginia, is a 45-minute drive north of our town of Floyd, but because it is in a valley at the bottom of Bent Mountain, folks around here say they’re driving down to Roanoke. My husband and I drove down to Roanoke yesterday. My primary goal had to do with work, but rarely do we go to the valley without stopping into the Taubman Museum. The two-year-old art museum is perched at the edge of downtown, its glass and metal buttresses in sharp contrast against the stylize brick buildings constructed from the mid-19th to mid-20th centuries when Roanoke was a thriving railway hub. |
Having purchased a family membership, we’re motivated to see every exhibit that passes through its five rotating galleries (the other four are permanent exhibits: paintings, portraits and a display of designer handbags where I enjoy the display structure even more than the bags), but there was one exhibit in particular that I was determined to not miss: Fallen by Jane Hammond.
In 2004, a year after the U.S.’s invasion of Iraq, Hammond began collecting leaves, vibrant in color and fallen from their summertime perches. She scanned them at the peak of their autumnal color-change before beginning a laborious process of printing and shaping, so that the final sculptural objects mimic the original leaves perfectly in size, shape, color, thickness and texture. The recreated leaves show decayed tips, insect-gnawed perforations and all of the other discolorations and textural changes that happen throughout the life of a leaf. Each sculptural leaf, once completed, is inscribed with the name of a single man or woman, a member of our military who has likewise fallen. Unlike the leaves, they fell prematurely and at their prime, taken down by gun fire and IEDs, slain for whatever patriotic or economic reason that led them to enlist in our armed forces.
In 2005, the exhibit opened with 1,511 leaves. Hammond makes new leaves weekly and adds them to the exhibit monthly, wherever it is on display. The gallery in the Taubman, empty except for the low platform on which the display rests, a book of the names of the fallen and a journal for the shared reflections of visitors, holds over 4,300 inscribed leaves. Four thousand three hundred leaves, even though spread along a 25-foot platform, still overlap, jumbled together, some names visible, some invisible because the leaf is upside-down or because the freshly fallen have obscured the first fatalities, gone five, six, seven years now.
These leaves, like these bodies, were not meant to be raked up and disposed of neatly. And yet reports of casualties are swept to the back pages of news media as though so many hotdog wrappers swept into the trash after a Memorial Day picnic.
“Operation Iraqi Freedom” may have officially ended according to White House soundbites, but as long as American men and women continue to fall in
the Iraqi desserts and villages, Hammond will continue to add leaves to the pile, and the exhibit will remain an open wound.
I stood in the gallery, overwhelmed by the leaves but unable to keep from imagining how the display would grow if we added Iraqi casualties and those from the allied countries who joined the invasion. I imagined it growing with every broken heart of every family member or friend who had a loved one replaced by an inscribed leaf. The display grew in my imagination until I couldn’t take it anymore and I buried my face in my husband’s neck and cried.
I imagine Jane Hammond sitting in her studio, painstakingly sculpting each fragile memorial, dedicating her time and artistic efforts to remembering the people that we forgot even before we dropped our tax checks in the mail. We count the loss to our budgets when we should be counting, as does Hammond, the bodies that those monies create.
In 2004, a year after the U.S.’s invasion of Iraq, Hammond began collecting leaves, vibrant in color and fallen from their summertime perches. She scanned them at the peak of their autumnal color-change before beginning a laborious process of printing and shaping, so that the final sculptural objects mimic the original leaves perfectly in size, shape, color, thickness and texture. The recreated leaves show decayed tips, insect-gnawed perforations and all of the other discolorations and textural changes that happen throughout the life of a leaf. Each sculptural leaf, once completed, is inscribed with the name of a single man or woman, a member of our military who has likewise fallen. Unlike the leaves, they fell prematurely and at their prime, taken down by gun fire and IEDs, slain for whatever patriotic or economic reason that led them to enlist in our armed forces.
In 2005, the exhibit opened with 1,511 leaves. Hammond makes new leaves weekly and adds them to the exhibit monthly, wherever it is on display. The gallery in the Taubman, empty except for the low platform on which the display rests, a book of the names of the fallen and a journal for the shared reflections of visitors, holds over 4,300 inscribed leaves. Four thousand three hundred leaves, even though spread along a 25-foot platform, still overlap, jumbled together, some names visible, some invisible because the leaf is upside-down or because the freshly fallen have obscured the first fatalities, gone five, six, seven years now.
These leaves, like these bodies, were not meant to be raked up and disposed of neatly. And yet reports of casualties are swept to the back pages of news media as though so many hotdog wrappers swept into the trash after a Memorial Day picnic.
“Operation Iraqi Freedom” may have officially ended according to White House soundbites, but as long as American men and women continue to fall in
the Iraqi desserts and villages, Hammond will continue to add leaves to the pile, and the exhibit will remain an open wound.
I stood in the gallery, overwhelmed by the leaves but unable to keep from imagining how the display would grow if we added Iraqi casualties and those from the allied countries who joined the invasion. I imagined it growing with every broken heart of every family member or friend who had a loved one replaced by an inscribed leaf. The display grew in my imagination until I couldn’t take it anymore and I buried my face in my husband’s neck and cried.
I imagine Jane Hammond sitting in her studio, painstakingly sculpting each fragile memorial, dedicating her time and artistic efforts to remembering the people that we forgot even before we dropped our tax checks in the mail. We count the loss to our budgets when we should be counting, as does Hammond, the bodies that those monies create.
day four
Image Credit: Gerri Young
This is Gerri Young's day four submission, "Clump White Birch," which is done in ink with watercolor overlaid. She says:
This little piece has given me the courage to next do the whole tree trunk in larger scale. The real deal sits in Mansfield, Ohio, near my sister's house. I discovered it on a neighborhood walk and went back later to photograph it. The whole yard is a garden paradise, lovingly tended, with this tree as the crowning victory of many years of efforts. If its branches could talk, they would spin tales of children playing, pets running and people sitting under their spread in laughter and in tears.
With such a consistently wonderful collection, we look forward to seeing whatever comes next!
This little piece has given me the courage to next do the whole tree trunk in larger scale. The real deal sits in Mansfield, Ohio, near my sister's house. I discovered it on a neighborhood walk and went back later to photograph it. The whole yard is a garden paradise, lovingly tended, with this tree as the crowning victory of many years of efforts. If its branches could talk, they would spin tales of children playing, pets running and people sitting under their spread in laughter and in tears.
With such a consistently wonderful collection, we look forward to seeing whatever comes next!
Photo Credit: Patricia Robin Woodruff
Patricia made this one for wickermanburn.org, and it's our favorite yet. Good work! Also, we apologize for originally posting "Poetry Grows on Trees" sideways. If it makes you feel any better, it looks good from many angles!
mountain light jewelry blogCarly Burke is participating in FloCoiMo by pledging to blog every day (no easy task...good God, we should know!) Check it out here:
http://mountainlightjewelry.wordpress.com/2010/11/04/collaboration/ |
intensity of initiationWe began with messages and an invitation to lunch, not a date, exactly, and you’d never dated a mother
before. I was writing tankas on my phone. My car song reminded me of my childhood gymnastics teacher, Joy, and I had not thought of her since, oh, maybe February. I took a minute to find the withered apple that had rolled behind my seat and threw the apple into the weeds beyond the parking lot before lunch. You showed up on time; I was early, and like February daffodils I began to bloom even though my mother always lamented the snow that dampened our joy about spring as it warmed and the flowers began to sing even though they often forgot their song. My hand was sticky with the car-lost apple; I wiped it on my sleeve. After 12 minutes the joy was unmistakable—we’d barely ordered lunch and I could not stop smiling. Your mother might not accept me right away, ‘February’ had yet to be recorded onto the first CD, ‘February’ by Dar Williams—when Kari played that song for me in March I cried and when my mother shook her head—but no. I plucked that apple from my mind and by the time we’d finished lunch I walked outside on clouds, so filled with joy, so eager to engage and protective of that joy it never occurred to me that February ever existed. There was only you, only lunch, only the wide awakening of mind and every song that clutched my heart clutched hard, every apple I ever peeled spelled your name. But as a mother, I had to leave too soon and do what mothers do—retrieve my daughter, sublimate my joy, unaware of your letter or poems yet, I picked apples during those two days to wait until ‘February’ was playing from my ghetto walkman and the song carried me to our first kiss. I forget to eat lunch. Your mother will love me come February when we’re still filled with joy and the song of apple dumplings drowns out our lunch. "Intensity of Initiation" is Mara Robbins's fourth submission for FloCoiMo. Shouldn't this be getting harder and more exhausting? Because it seems to us that Mara's submissions keep getting better and better. This is by far our favorite so far. Hey, we're suckers for narrative poetry. |
tritina for mara robbins
After yesterday's sestina Mara challenged us to write a tritina, a kind of variation of a sestina using only three words which repeat themselves over nine lines, then line up ever so perfectly in the tenth. We were only too happy to oblige.
My friends and I speak about
Tritinas like this:
They are dead long before they end.
By studying the ends
of each of the first stanza's lines, the ending is about
as surprising as a commercial break. I'm not happy about this.
Do I have a solution to this?
If you want your Tritina to have a surprising end,
try cheating. That's what I'm talking about.
So how about this: Hitler.
My friends and I speak about
Tritinas like this:
They are dead long before they end.
By studying the ends
of each of the first stanza's lines, the ending is about
as surprising as a commercial break. I'm not happy about this.
Do I have a solution to this?
If you want your Tritina to have a surprising end,
try cheating. That's what I'm talking about.
So how about this: Hitler.
day three
Photo Credit: Kathryn Loichinger
As day three rolls around, a new FloCoiMo artists continue to join us on Ad Hominem to showcase their work. The first, Kathryn Loichinger, had this to say about her FloCoiMo pledge:
I have chosen to do a 30 day/30 photograph minimum of this fruit/cheese display for the Floyd County Imagination Month project of creativity. My intention is to watch this beautiful display disintegrate into a beautiful decaying mess. I thought it appropriate to mimic the season of dying and replenishment unto the earth. I was inspired by an installation at the Taubman Art Museum called "The Cardboard Bernini" in which Mother Nature will ultimately destroy the creation. I was also inspired by a recent photo of a compost pile - nothing extraordinary but beautiful in its own right. I too will return this display to the earth where it will be able to nourish once again.
I am however having difficulty rationalizing the fact that I have purchased these items only to watch them go to waste. But this is a true metaphor for all things we in our own lives let go to waste that at one time or another should have been utilized - this could be knowledge, an important life lesson we have forgotten, etc. We make
these "wasteful" rationalizations without even realizing it on a daily basis so I find it rather perplexing that I'm having difficulty with this idea.
Let death be ushered in by new moldy life!
We think the idea is fantastic, and look forward to some beautiful, if icky, pictures to come. Great work Kathryn!
I have chosen to do a 30 day/30 photograph minimum of this fruit/cheese display for the Floyd County Imagination Month project of creativity. My intention is to watch this beautiful display disintegrate into a beautiful decaying mess. I thought it appropriate to mimic the season of dying and replenishment unto the earth. I was inspired by an installation at the Taubman Art Museum called "The Cardboard Bernini" in which Mother Nature will ultimately destroy the creation. I was also inspired by a recent photo of a compost pile - nothing extraordinary but beautiful in its own right. I too will return this display to the earth where it will be able to nourish once again.
I am however having difficulty rationalizing the fact that I have purchased these items only to watch them go to waste. But this is a true metaphor for all things we in our own lives let go to waste that at one time or another should have been utilized - this could be knowledge, an important life lesson we have forgotten, etc. We make
these "wasteful" rationalizations without even realizing it on a daily basis so I find it rather perplexing that I'm having difficulty with this idea.
Let death be ushered in by new moldy life!
We think the idea is fantastic, and look forward to some beautiful, if icky, pictures to come. Great work Kathryn!
 October 31st |
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The second artist to join us today is Patricia Robin Woodruff, who divides her time between her mountain retreat in Cameron County, PA and the creative Mecca of Floyd, VA. She is one of the artists who helped found the Floyd Artists Association and its gallery. Why is FloCoiMo an exciting part of the month ahead for Patricia? She told Ad Hominem that:
I'm delighted to be participating in FloCoiMo because it is helping me over a fallow period. I have had several months of mono induced weakness that prevented me from participating in our weekly drawing group and, indeed, any other art. But I thought, "I can at least do some sketches from the couch!" So my goal is to do at least a little sketch every day.
I think we all know what it's like to try to create when we're drained, but Patricia can serve as an inspiration for the rest of us. The piece below, "Poetry Grows on Trees," is actually her work from day two, but it was also our favorite. Her days one and three pieces, "Winter King" and "Tilo" are beneath that. We'll let you guess which is which.
Photo Credit: Patricia Robin Woodruff
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Below is Gerri Young's third submission "My Paint Box." No pressure or anything, Gerri, but you're on a roll!
Photo Credit: Gerri Young
day three haiku
Thin pencil sketchings,
Or fruit rotting on a plate-- no small endeavors. Love, Ad Hominem |
FloCoiMo #3: haiku
There are no more clouds
to bridge this bitter divide between choice and loss Mara Robbins's third submission. It even contains a kigo (we think).
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day two
the window
 Image Credit: Gerri Young "The Window" is a snippet from a printing proof pulled this week as part of a larger project involving little houses, and marks Gerri Young's second day in a row of producing something I'd like to hang up in my house. 2.5x3.5" watercolor paper with the proof paper mounted with glaze.
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...and ad hominem's contribution
Today, we dedicate this sestina to the participants of FloCoiMo.
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FloCoiMo sestina
November seems an odd time
to add something else, with midterms barely sealed away in manila envelopes, and thesis papers in the trunk of my car whispering, "Grade us. Come on. It was you who thought this was a good idea in the first place. You who threatened children to get us in on time." And they're right. I guess. So I whisper, "Okay! Enough!" And then grade them. Or else I write a sestina. Is it procrastination? Or am I a paper lantern, which even a tiny flame carries away? If I could find a way to answer that question, you, my friends, would be the first to know. I'd call the papers, The New York Times, Or I'd bury it in a bottle, for someone else to unearth, years later, or to stumble upon with my cane, with eyes like whispers. Even from our graves we whisper. Is that what compels? Creation as a way to echo long after? To tell someone else that you love this, or that she loves you, or he hates her except, except, one time, just once, when her paper- thin skirt clung to her paper- white thighs, and the wind whispering the scent of her hair, vanilla and thyme, into his nostrils, and the daiquiris, and maybe he got carried away? Is that why creation? Is that why you write sestinas instead of something else? There is nothing else, no thesis paper, no stack of things before you whose whispers should keep you away from creating what demands to be created. Not this time. You don't ask the lantern, Why not someone else? Why not some other time? You don't ask the paper lantern to fly. There's already a flame there, whispering away. |
day one
as fall edges towards winter
In life there are these patterns that recur--
like leaves that shift their way to gold from green and we reflect the way we are with what we were even when we do not wish this to occur. It’s easier to linger in the moment that is seen in life to be the pattern that recurs than to push through dormancy, assured that it will pass and when the shoveling subsides we will reflect the way we were with what we are—the slight but conscious blur between the eyes at night and dawn that brings a life with these new patterns that recur with variations. The ones we choose to learn and to cultivate with study as we lean on our reflections of the way we are and were will come to be expressibly the nurtured changes that we keep when saying what we mean. In life there are these patterns that recur and we reflect the way we are with what we were. |
by mara robbins
Mara Robbins is an old friend, talented emerging poet, not to mention the one who brought FloCoiMo to Ad Hominem's attention. She kicks off FloCoiMo with this wonderful Villanelle, "As Fall Edges Towards Winter." Hopefully it is the first of many beautiful poems to come. Great work, Mara!
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maple leaf with hole
Wow, what a beautiful way to kick off the month! This piece, Maple Leaf With Hole by Gerri Young, was created by affixing the leaf to watercolor paper using decoupage liquid, giving it a leathery appearance.
Gerri Young's goal is to do one 2.5 x 3.5" piece every day for 30 days, and we wish you the best of luck. Keep 'em coming! Gerri Young has studied a variety of mediums in Ohio, Rhode Island, Virginia, Germany, France and Italy. She has worked in oil, acrylic, fresco, clay, ink, pencil, stained glass, basketry, textile, paper pulp painting and collage. She has most recently concentrated on watercolor, inspired by two talented instructors in Europe. She has pieces in private collections in Germany, Virginia, New York, Texas and Ohio. She has exhibited at the Jacksonville Center for the Arts in Floyd, Va., where she is a member and currently has two pieces included in the Floyd’s View exhibit in honor of the 75th anniversary of the Blue Ridge Parkway. She is also a member of the Blacksburg Regional Art Association in Virginia. Gerri has studied with Rita Marlier, Jayn Avery, Kate Anderson, Narashamsa Isaya and Steve Mitchell of Virginia; Monica Perrin and Annie Taillemite of France; and Monika Werle and Teresa Comeaux of Germany. |
 Maple Leaf WIth Hole |
 There are some good books in the background, too. Is that Edward Falco's Acid Stories? |
still life with pumpkin
Finally, just to show you that not everything you create has to be quite as beautiful and polished as Gerri and Mara's work, I present for you "Still Life With Pumpkin," an orange cake that my wife and I baked to mourn the loss of October (we also may be using it to bribe students into writing poetry).
Am I pledging to bake a cake every day for thirty days? Well, no. But I will do something creative for all of you FloCoiMoians each day, my own little personal act of cheer leading in appreciation of all of your brave efforts. So keep making, everyone, and if you have something to share, send it our way: [email protected] |
