Posted at 11:09 pm , on October 27, 2010
Light light said the Word
was there not Spirit before
Matter came, though they say
the clay was molded first?
Light life blew the Breath
that condensed to make flesh
from the breast of the Earth
now the Mother of all birth.
There is always a serpent
hissing up your spine
all the way up
up to open your eye
the snake is divine
not a temptress but the fruit forbidden
branch leaves and root.
So you hunt burn it down
because you fear Truth.
Posted at 8:52 am , on October 27, 2010
The Entomologist’s Dream, Edmund Dulac, 1909
Posted at 1:48 pm , on October 26, 2010
Paraphrasing some iconic author whose name I can’t remember speaking to the Paris Review, great characters are not photographs – they come to life from scratch.
I do use sketches, drafts of portraits from the living, which I then try to mold and dress up according to their character potential. I’ll add wrinkles to their face, try to balance make up with scars, change their names & profession until there are but only traces of the original sketch. Sometimes I’ll even mash them up together.
When this process ends, they are no longer the individual in the portrait, but what I see of their essence – or of the parts of their essence that are relevant to a story. The monarch. The wise man. The wicked witch.
It is not a choice. The characters always seem to find their own voice through the fragile pencil marks and let me know who they really are in due time. They make me suffer with impatience but I think they take their time to build up confidence. It’s one thing to introduce yourself to someone – quite a different one to let them get to truly know you.
Posted at 2:13 pm , on October 19, 2010
All stories teach, whether the storyteller intends them to or not. They teach the world we create. They teach the morality we live by. They teach it much more effectively than moral precepts and instructions.
Philip Pullman, Carnegie Medal Acceptance Speech
Posted at 8:57 am , on October 18, 2010
Art work has been inspiring me more lately than other people’s writing.
Dautremer has the pastels and the wind & the red – oh, the red! – I’ve always seen.
Lots more here.
Posted at 10:02 pm , on October 11, 2010
it aches my love it
aches your silence
pressing against my chest
my flesh ripping open
wounds tiny and big
closing and healed
it burns my love it
burns flames and heat
scrapping the surface of
some inner organ the hidden
place where pain is felt
and I try my love to
keep my love above
the rage I feel as you
press your heel against
my open chest unwillingly
as it may be
my love it burns
Posted at 10:29 am , on October 1, 2010
Thank you BBC for showing me that Brian Griffin is more than a cartoon dog.