PARCHED

We sweat.
You say,
It’ll be fun to round the canyon
separately & wave at one another from
either side so we set off from touching to inches apart then
repelling onto divergent paths
You grow
smaller the further we go

Abhorring empty space, the driest wind blows
in like an airborne rag & sops
all moisture locked up in
bottomless clouds

Muffled moans from your matted
lips speaks for you under the painted
sky. The less you say, the more
I hear how deep the chasm goes

You stand a desert monolith-
the ledge on my side straining forth to
meet again the ledge on yours yet stretching
stones can never breach the gulf
fixed between, carved by rushing
waters

My echoed words ring out, ring
out to riddle the fog in the valley below where,
lost in distance, they fade.
Even with the hollow mile between you
read my thoughts if not my lips they
clinch tightly to your walking stick and
travel onward

My hope like tumbled boulders pierces the
membrane of cliff & air, plummets, plunges,
falls to the base of the gap exploding into
red-earth fragments to litter the canyon floor with
shrapnel prayers. Empty clouds descend to mingle with uprising
dust of clay eating you, your silhouette, devouring
the ghost of you obscured & swallowed whole

I thirst.
The last lonely drop from my little canteen burrows
into the tip of my tongue and I step-by-step
continue my trudge beneath the baking sun thinking
many thoughts which all end in the truth-
I’ll need more water soon

PURPLE [the sequel]

Purple
the color of bruises
inflicted with intention
or without
pulses with heat
at the onset

But purple melts away
with time
fades to green around the edges
Healing feathers out.
yellow creeps in-
distills
into lovely
scars

Raised memories of
the purple
that once burned
so brightly
signaling
unexpected trauma
at the impact site.

Ground zero for:
chances taken,
risk calculated as worthy,
pain deemed worth receiving,
wounds welcomed into a life
Regardless
of how much
they might hurt
in the end

Purple’s flipping over
into other form
bookend expressions
Yin & Yang
balancing out the red
& the blue
in between

The two that eased
quite close
but could never
completely
disappear

The dash between
two purples
as something:
recorded in journals,
documented in photos
transcribed
on
blank paper

Details growing fuzzy
like the border
of a bruise
the farther they
venture out
from the center
of
the wound

To toss a glance back
over a shoulder
wince, cry, remember-
long for, smile, cringe-
savor, revisit, miss-
cherish

Like long-lost bruises
painted over
with
virgin skin

CORNERS

Do you only feel the closeness of me-
to me-
when I’m there to touch,
be touched?
When I leave-
turn a corner-
do I vanish, disappear
from you
altogether?

Do your thoughts wander off
to things we’ve done-
things we’ll do?
Are there ruts in your memory-
a trail of where I’ve trod-
that you return to time & again
to walk in,
to remember-
me
when I’m miles afar & away?

Do you think of:
my feel,
my sound,
my smell,
my taste?

Does a slideshow play when you close your eyes?
Recounting scenes of two characters
sharing
a common set?
Or does the screen go blank & fade to black?
Does the seat fold up behind you?
As you leave the theatre half forgetting:
most of what you saw,
half of what you felt,
the lines we spoke so well?

Do you think of me like I think of you
once my scent
on your collar
has faded?
Can I hope? Can I dream?
That when our fingertips part that
I haunt your waking moments
as the thought of you haunts mine?

Do I drift from you like clouds in the sky
over the mountains & out of your sight?
- cease to exist -
Do you write my name high enough in the sand
to avoid the lapping
waves
of the tide
that want so strongly to wash
me
away?

When I’m gone-
do you notice something missing?
Does it cause a little sting
in tender places?
Or am I merely a wispy dream
you forget upon waking-
a vague shadow of a thing
you wish you could recall?

Do I get to linger near you
once swallowed up by the hungry night
of other lives lived separately?
Or is the ghost of me forced
out of the house
until the next time I
draw near
and peek around
the corner?　

Interview with Jeff Bell

Jeff Bell is a musician & visual artist currently living in Mansfield, OH. He is a key member of YelloWall Collective. He has been performing music for 15 years and, between his former band & solo projects, has put out12 CDs . He has been a visual artist for 10 years. I sat down with him in the square across from his downtown loft where we shared a smoke & explored how music & art collide in his life.

GypsyLuc: Can we start off by you sharing about the different facets of your artistic/creative life?

Jeff Bell: My art ranges from making djembe drums, mandolins & guitars to odd prototype instruments which are mostly unsuccessful but fun to do. Then there is painting, drawing, sculpture, playing, singing, songwriting & all aspects of composition.

GypsyLuc: Knowing you for a year & a half, I think it’s safe to say that music is very important to you. In addition to the actual music, your artworks usually have a musical theme. What is it about music that speaks to you?

Jeff Bell: More than anything it is probably just the freedom of expression. With art you have to have stuff & have to use just that one material. With music you can do it with almost nothing - with the simplest instruments even.

GypsyLuc: What is the nature of your relationship with music? Would you call it love?

Jeff Bell: No, I wouldn’t call it love because I think love is mostly an emotion or state of mind or feeling. I’d say I’d probably call it an obsession - something I have to do. It’s like checking the door lock two or three times before you leave. It’s more like a sickness than an emotion. Maybe like a disease… It’s sort of a relationship/obsession in some ways.

GypsyLuc: How long has this obsession with music been going on?

Jeff Bell: Since the age of three - as soon as I could climb up on the piano bench. I grew up with my grandparents. My grandma was a music teacher & probably 60 students came through there in a week.

GypsyLuc: If you see an artwork or hear a piece of music you created 15 years ago, how do you respond to it?

Jeff Bell: It depends on the piece. Obviously, some things from the past you like & are still attached to for a long time. Some things you knew you weren’t going to fall in love with when you finished them - although you still feel a connection to it regardless. You realize you were still honing your craft at that time.

GypsyLuc: What percentage of songs have you written which have never made it out to a public venue? How many artworks have you completely painted over?

Jeff Bell: Maybe 25% of songs I’ve written have never been heard publicly. As for paintings I’ve completely painted over - the number is low! Maybe 2 or 3... I don’t do that often because it’s just something you shouldn’t do. I’d scold myself for that! That would be one more painting you would have.

GypsyLuc: You recently quit your day job. Why was that? Was it difficult?

Jeff Bell: I’ve never had a lot of day jobs. If I do, they last for a while, but it’s always about the music! It’s always been about music. After 15 years of traveling & touring, I quit the band I was in to take some time off. I got offered a job building carrousels. It was great but it was easy to let that go. Music somehow always pays better. If you compare it to a day job, working 40 hours per week, you can make that in one night with music. It makes it hard to say yes to any day job.

GypsyLuc: While working for ‘the man’, how did you ensure you still had time for creative pursuits?

Jeff Bell: I only worked two days a week! I made sure when I took that job that it would be part-time. I don’t choose one or the other. I made that choice a long time ago. I decided that if I took day jobs I would keep it to a minimum.

GypsyLuc: What progression or changes have you seen in your materials, methods & subject matter over time?

Jeff Bell: It’s true that with any medium you work with you gradually go up & hit plateaus. It’s never a steady climb. With music, you notice your playing & songwriting getting better. Your wordsmithing gets better over time. With art, the more you think about it - the easier it is to come up with better ideas.

GypsyLuc: When performing or creating are you ‘present’? Are you aware of your audience & surroundings or do you go to some other place?

Jeff Bell: Both. There are times when I’m painting or creating art of some kind & I get lost. That right-brain-switch just happens & I get lost. When performing you’re aware of your audience most of the time. You can be thinking about what you might do for the rest of the evening, where you’re going to eat, sex, anything. There are times, when it going well, that you get sort of lost.

GypsyLuc: If you had to lose your hearing or your eyesight - which would you choose?

Jeff Bell: Oh man! That is an unfair question! Those are my only two options? How about half of both? If I had to choose I’d rather be blind. I could still play music & still perform. But, I’d need a chauffeur…

GypsyLuc: What current projects or goals do you have in the works?

Jeff Bell: As for projects: I’m finishing a CD. I’m getting ready to finish the writing & begin the recording. There are always some paintings coming up on the list & probably some wood sculptures. As for goals: more traveling for music - more so than the last year or two. The South is always nice. I’m hoping to get into the Woodchoppers Ball up in Kent where they pick 10 acoustic guitar players from around the Midwest.

GypsyLuc: What would be the ultimate setup for you as an artist/musician?

Jeff Bell: Hell! I think I might already have it right now. It would be a situation where if you do work a day job you don’t work much & can devote, say, 95% of your time to art. That’s probably most artists’ dream situation. But, I’m not sure most people know what that is. From talking to some people, I’m not sure they would even know what to do with that time.

GypsyLuc: So let’s say that you are in that dream situation right now. How long can you remain content in it?

Jeff Bell: I think forever pretty much! Even in a dream situation I might switch media, play for awhile, go back to art. Yeah. Pretty much forever.

GypsyLuc: You possess multiple talents. Do you consider yourself to be any more gifted than the next guy?

Jeff Bell: Hell no. Hell no! I think everybody has attributes or excel in certain areas. It may not be art or music. There are a lot of people who can do things far better than I can do them!

GypsyLuc: Any last words? Is there anything you want to toss out - one last song - before this show comes to an end?

Jeff Bell: Not really. I’m not a soap-boxer. I’m not political. I don’t really take a stand on a lot of things. I’m much happier to live life & not get too serious about any one individual situation.

Check out www.myspace.com/jbellguitar to hear Jeff’s music, book a show or find a listing of places where his art is on display.

Smediums: TAI Intro

Smashing the proverbial bottle of champagne on the maiden voyage of The Artist Interview, John Hargis kicks off his column by interviewing his alter-ego, GypsyLuc.

John: You’re one of the talented writers that have come onboard with TAI. Can you unlock the meaning behind your column’s title?

GypsyLuc: Smediums. It’s a word that splices ‘small’ & ‘medium’. A friend of mine uses it to describe pants that hang a little too short. It speaks to those times when a person has too much leg for not enough pant. Growing up we called them ‘highwaters’.

John: How does that idea fit into the concept of an Arts magazine?

GypsyLuc: As an artist, I am always dreaming, creating & experimenting with just one more thing - a new medium, a novel idea, the latest creative challenge. It’s sometimes hard to squeeze it all in - to wring out enough moments in the day to make it all happen. It’s like I need 32” long pants but have to fit it all into a pair of 30” smediums.

John: So, Smediums will present interviews with artists on how they find the time to integrate the arts into their lives?

GypsyLuc: Exactly. I’ll be focusing on how artists in Central Ohio weave creativity into the fabric of their day-to-day existence. We all have distractions, commitments & constraints that drag us away from creating. I want to discover the thrust behind the passion, the tricks, techniques & methods - whatever magic there is - to keeping art a priority.

John: You’ve got your fingers in a lot of things yourself: full-time job, three hour daily commute, taking care of wife & kids, creating & marketing your art, writing, open mics, serious involvement in YelloWall Collective… How do you find time for it all?

GypsyLuc: It’s tough, no doubt. It comes down to art being a necessity in my life. While it might be possible for me to exist without it, I definitely can’t thrive that way. I’m equal parts planner & opportunist. I reserve Wednesdays & weekends for art creation. I set deadlines & hold myself accountable to meet them. I sketch at work during meetings & conference calls, refine ideas in my head around the clock, record writing snippets on my cell phone while driving. I reject other opportunities in order to carve out space for art. Sleep is optional at times! Plus, I have some amazing artistic friends who inspire me & push me to keep creating in the midst of the melee.

John: Is it going to be even more difficult to squeeze a monthly column for TAI into an already jam-packed schedule?

GypsyLuc: It’ll work out. The ideas are exploding in my head already! I’m excited about meeting with other artists & passing on the stories of what they’re currently into, why they choose to create & how they make the time. Hopefully, our readers can glean some wisdom & scraps to lace into their own lives. Writing is art. I strive to make time for art. And, in the end, what’s wrong with having a little more leg poking out of the bottom of my smediums?

One Breath [an anniversary poem]

The calm blows
through us
when we share one breath.

Living on common air.
mirror in mirror in mirror
Occupying identical space
in life-giving
moments.
Breathing in
mutual wind.

Ignorant bliss.
unaware
of the times we:
inhale,
exhale.
Miles from:
this place,
one another.

Sustained by the breeze:
right here,
right now.

Mouth-to-mouth:
two beings,
one breath-
inseparably
intertwined
and alive.

Cryogenics

It's warm & thumping
-perhaps too strongly-
So I carve a hole in the snow
cold & wet on my fingers
and cover it over
to muffle the beating.

Sleeping until the day
you're ready to dig it up
and feel it still
swollen with heat
in your hands.

POEM: Purple

We both know it's purple
That's just the color it is
For the longest time you would call it reddish-blue
or warm-indigo at best
You'd go no further

But yesterday -
Yesterday
you called it "violet" (in quotation marks)
You tip-toed all the way to "violet"
That's as close as you'd come

Someone - and we don't know who -
Someone
took a drop of blue
took a drop of red
set them down softly
into the watery glass

And the colors swirled
wrapped 'round one another
played & danced until they both disappeared
Red infusing the blue with itself
Blue infusing the red with itself

They connected quick together
like chromosomes
like the warm embrace of two old friends
like sunset kissing nightfall
like Legos locked down tight

We both know it's purple
That's just the color it is
And while I call it that in my secret thoughts
My lips are slow to part & say it
waiting until the one day -
The one day
when the quotation marks fall off
to clink on the ground
and the sound of "violet"
swirls into purple

POEM: Powdered Metal Flower Petals

vertical vortex laid horizontal
for ease of entry through bi-fold doors

portal petals sliding open reveal the liquid warmth inside
waves parting, whirlpool tugging
pulling me down to the depths of its lair
womb-like cave of sparkle treasure
trough of treasure chest

glimmer silk like moistened jewels
wrap around the deep-sea diver
bubbles forming - causing fins
to reach extension, fan out wide
straightened curves of tangled leisure
meshed with work & sweat of brow

stamen feathers soft as iron
swab formations on the wall
hang on stalactite for my stalagmite
thrust out poison in the well

with a quiet resolution
dilute the masculine solution
with pollen dust like cirrus clouds
sweet onset of the bends & angles
the quiet pause of rock formations
new dimension roof ripped off

the powdered metal flower petals
dissolve the vortex
kiss it closed

POEM: Between Earth & the Moon

Her coming foretold on tattooed skin
She passed between Earth & the moon
Carried on wings of comet tails
Inking the sky with wet light

Trajectory drawing a paper-thin ring
Wrapped ‘round the sun at high noon
We tried to turn eyes but failed
Transfixed by ecliptic, elliptic flight

Fire & ice hang like stones ‘round her neck
Flowing in ribbons which tie back her mane
Her song birthing stars as she dances along
Trailing a pathway behind

Gravity-bound & held firm in the womb
Young souls leap with hope at her words
Rippled & tilting & lilting & lulling
Her subjects to gaze on her beauty by night

And quick as she came she moves on to another
Land. World. Universe. Time.
As we suckle the memory of transient things
Which pass between Earth & the moon

POEM: Strange-Thought Fella

We don’t know ‘bout that strange-thought fella
Importing new-fangled ideas
Big city ways in our closed-gate village
Too much weight in that thinking of his
‘cause it makes our traditions cave in

a witch in the kitchen
cooking up a brew
smells to high heaven
of outsider stew

To the pitchforks & torches!
Hunt him down, Strip his skin
Draw & quarter, Tar & feather
QUICK! Homogenize him!

We tried so long to break his spirit
Conformity shackles, whips & chains
To beat the wild outta the stallion
Wash the black outta the sheep

But every lashing sliced thin air
Every flogging failed
He somehow passed through the midst of us
A buttered-up pig slipping right through

The truth we only whisper when the doors are locked
His scent left a stain on our town
That our wills & rituals can’t clean
We cry sometimes that he’s gone

that strange-thought fella
we loved to hate

POEM: The Anti-Nothing

What lingers on the other side of nothing?
What squirms in the pit
Where blackholes dump their trash?
Spew their collections?
Bury their loot?

Slippery lip
Where the universe spills over its edge
Into somethingness
Anti-nothingness
Perfect newness

Colors hum there
Matter, mass
Fresh amoebas
Foreign, congealing
Into new music, novel mist

That random place where anti-dust & anti-heat
Implode & churn out anti-light
Anti-matter springs, unfolds
Anti-worlds & anti-words
Anti-poems, anti-songs

Anti-planets, anti-suns
Ante up in the anti-space
Where Auntie Em looks down in black & white
Swabbing the head with an anti-rag
Dipped in antique water

Anti-thoughts in the anti-mind
Swim around in the anti-time
Where far & near are upside down
Anti-pulsars spin around
In retrograde

The anti-wormholes are antebellum
Post-apocalyptic felons
Anti-war & anti-peace
Anti-teeth in anti-jaws
Speak anti-rules & anti-laws
While living anti-true & false

Pooling up & cooling down
In the land where life creates itself
To shake the known with quasar-quakes
Giving birth
On the inside of everything
Nothing included
Nothing reborn
As something

ASHES ON WIND

As wood turning to ash
he makes nothing out of something
Something that would not be
if he hadn't imbued it with life
then drawn it away
releasing its power
A sweet nothing blown on the wind

Oddly enough
He hit it on the head
hammer on tentpeg
Spiking our kinship to the ground

It's a good note to leave on
to pack up the things
that don't really matter
Douse the fire
Pull the stakes
Watch as the tent floats to the ground
And move on

He's moving on now
Sideways step by sideways step

It looks as though
he'll never return
or pass this way again
With a map or without one
'Cause the clouds call his name
as they call others' names

But he-
He hears them
and follows

Perfect Scents

I love catching random scents on the wind
Doesn't happen a lot in the wintertime
But today
In the chill
I caught one

I hunted the archives
Trying to place it
It was close to - but not exactly like - freedom
Not the wave-your-flag, America-rules-the-world kind
But a deeper sort

And it had a tinge of love
Not the hard-core-passionate-sorry-excuse-for-love
But something more intimate
Softer

Like
The smell of another on your clothes
Remaining after a lingering hug
Or the aromas that only poke their head out at Christmas
The sweetness of new rainfall soaking into the afternoon
Fresh snow
Warm nights
The touch of light on a lovely face
Carressing with elegant fingers

I savored it
The rare taste of the perfect morsel
Stroking the tongue
Reminding me that beautiful things
Still desire to be near me

And I loved it
This visitor passing through
In the wintertime

Snowfire

A house catches fire in the snowfall
Orange on the swirling of the air
Heat reflected warm upon crystals
Smoke entwining fog entwining sky

Snowflakes into raindrops into vapor
Sizzle on tongues of painted light
The hot & cold of found & lost desire
Turning lukewarm to cool into ash

Uncloneable

Love like the womb of a great red star
and the folk that fill up days with life
and some move on like blazing suns
and banners flap atop the upright sticks

The micro & macro have merged into cosm
with the happy/sad feeling of feather touching softly
the wonder & the meaning of bubbles kiss'd with frost
to gather all the people onboard the shortest bus

Mouth can't find the words to place a name upon
what heart is feeling
what scent is carried on wind
what handle needs a sword

To hover in the space between
the place within mysterious skin
tattooing words in foreign tongues
as life turned upside down

The hoped-for incarnation of a dream unheard aloud
when lock & load at nightfall is a gentle wave goodbye
to all the hungry teardrops hidden hot behind wide eyes
underneath a top hat brim

The golden egg like cocoa beans unbrewed inside the pot
woven from a spinster hand swathed in crimson rope
as sister fabric pieces come together in the loom
and crown the head like flower children's light

As if to ever pass this way or choose this way again
a perfect time alignment
a once-forgotten day
of red stars falling through the black & landing in the palms

A finger string of brightest blue to mark the fourfold slide
from there to here in endless loop
from binary orbits above the clouds
yet close enough to flow through veins with ease

Pole Party Performance Project

So, I would like to have left the veil of mystery on a little longer but...

After the Telegraph Forum article: http://www.bucyrustelegraphforum.com/article/20091106/NEWS01/911060306&referrer=FRONTPAGECAROUSEL

& someone posting a link to the online photos in the article's comment section...

I guess a detailed explanation of the Pole Party Art Installation in The People's Republic of Bucyrus is warranted. Here's the full story - from the artist...

It was time for an art installation. Since I moved to The People's Republic a little over a year ago, I felt that my new hometown would be the perfect place.

PLAN 1:
My original idea was to wrap poles in the city from downtown - the usual location of the Brat Fest- to the fairground venue it called home this year. There was a lot of negative chatter around town about the move & I wanted to make that physical connection between the two places - show that even with a change of scenery, & a different 'feel' to it, it was still the Bratwurst Festival. Unfortunately, the idea came to me too late to actually execute it in time.

PLAN 2:
Since I got a the donation of a bolt of bright orange fabric, I thought the black/orange color scheme would work well around Halloween. Thus, the Pole Part Performance was born.


EXECUTION:
I measured a few poles to get the average circumference, created 3 pretty time-intensive stencils & cut the fabric. Then, I began spraying the pieces with a little help from some friends. Then, on 10/24, I got together some of my creative folk - artists, musicians, poets, a tattooist, vocalists & our kids, etc for dinner & a public art project.

We split the city into thirds. Next, 3 drivers volunteered to chauffeur. We drew names to form the teams & set out w/ 60 pieces/banners/posters/panels/images. Armed with hoodies, masks & staple guns we swam out to distribute free art around the community.

Pole selection within each area was left up to the individual team. We set the goal of balancing residential & commercial areas. Some locations were planned ahead while others were just randomly placed as the creativity led. We fanned out & made it happen, taking a few photos along the way. Afterwards, we returned to the mother ship & laughed & shared & celebrated as we viewed a slide show of the night.


INTENT:
First of all, 'malicious' is not my thing. More of a lover than a fighter... Contrary to many popular theories heard around town [as far as I know...] there were no aliens, occult members, a specific band, heroin users, al Qaida, gang ruffians or stupid kids involved in the process. It was simply an art project intended to peak curiosity, cause people to pause & take note & [hopefully] regain a sense of youthful wonder for a moment in time. [??Mission accomplished??]


MEANING:
Images: I chose tentacled sea life for a reason. [I love that some people interpreted one of the creatures as a rooster, though!] I wanted to pop a question in the minds of the discoverers. Why sea life? Why a squid/octopus/nautilus? After all, we're quite a bit inland & sea life doesn't really belong here...

Arrows: The arrows were added as an extra bonus! These made the project participative & interactive. One could follow the arrows and see where they led. There was no intentional rhyme or reason in the placement, so the randomness would take a follower wherever the arrows happened to direct. [Thanks to all those that took a chance & followed the arrows! You got the point! And wasn't there 'life' in the process?]

DEEPER PURPOSE:

So why even do it at all? I wanted to get community members to think for a moment. I have always wondered if 'Lower Lifeforms' truly have the ability to think, calculate, wonder, have true consciousness. Do they know what they're doing or do they simply respond to natural stimuli?
- "Oh, light - swim over there."
- "Cold - must move."
- "Touched something - eat it."

Often, I believe we humans fall into the same cycle - the same invertebrate mindset. We swim along reacting to external stimuli without really feeling, living, thriving...

What if - for an instant - I could help the inhabitants of The People's Republic of Bucyrus to cross into consciousness? What if, through 30 hours of work & $10 worth of supplies, I could entice them to see, ask questions & breathe fresher air for a time?


THOUGHTS:
Although I'm new to town, I am aware of the plant closings in the area. I have friends & family who have experienced layoffs from local businesses. We can respond to that stimuli as
- "Makes sense. Automotive industry struggling."
- "Sucks. Move on."
- "Hungry. Where food?"
- "Bills. Need help"

But what if - instead - we asked deeper questions? What could we do to turn this area around economically? How can we approach this problem creatively & affect change upon it?

- "What if we created industry that would set little Bucyrus apart in the Midwest as the leader in a new capacity? A breakout industry"
- "What if we tapped into the coming demand for clean energy & started manufacturing windmill blades or rechargeable batteries or the infrastructure needed to power electric cars?"
- "What if we reinvented the mobile home & began manufacturing 2-story models, round ones, 2-story/3-story round ones?"
- [Insert your own living, breathing, creative idea here]

Hopefully you get the gist. The old paradigms have changed. This part of the country has experience in manufacturing. If we're gonna stick with that - then let's set the example. Let's think creatively on what that would look like in the new economy w/ the changing culture of the world. How do we get in on the ground floor of what's coming next?

Back to the tentacles...
Each of the 3 images selected have 'arms/hands' of a sort. I could have used sponges or sea urchins or coral or slugs... I chose animals with the capacity to grab, to hold, to manipulate, to work with their 'hands'. We can dream & hope but we must also put our hands to work to make things happen.


CONCLUSION:
So, the Pole Party Performance Project was/is:
- A free public art installation
- A distraction from the mundane
- An opportunity to wonder again
- An opportunity to wander again :)
- A challenge to revamp who we are as a community

Perhaps we're floating downstream with the current. Perhaps it's time to fight against the tide. Perhaps it's time to recognize the stimuli & not just react to it, but affect change upon it.

Thanks for participating! The conversation has started...

~GYPSYLUC

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COMMENTS? WANT TO BE INCLUDED IN FUTURE PROJECTS?
email: hesaidfollowme@hotmail.com
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myspace: www.myspace.com/gypsyluc

INTERESTED IN SEEING MORE ARTWORK?
http://www.etsy.com/shop/gypsyluc
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=117793&id=656233114&l=07f51c00d7
Matters of the Art - Bucyrus
Mansfield Art Center - Mansfield
Kenosis Gallery - Mansfield [Solo Show opening Thursday 11/12 - Details Upon Request]

ANTIWAROTIC PEACE COMPOUND [APC]

Many experience discomfort during the first few injections of the Antiwarotic Peace Compound [APC]. The body - accustomed to recurring bouts of injustice, war, violence & needless confrontation - initially rejects the ‘invader’ cells. Only after much upheaval of ingrained organic paradigms can the system begin to accept the serum. Slowly, however, the biochemical regeneration will take root, multiply within the DNA of the host, work its magick & precipitate the anticipated internal transformation. As the new sensations burn through one‘s being, intense feelings of euphoria may result. Unfortunately, this effect can be surprisingly temporal. For the time being, anti-peace relapses are especially common in those with a family history of prejudice or elitism. Researchers are still perfecting a more comprehensive cure. Until such time as a viable & permanent antidote is formulated, the APC serves as the preeminent antiwarotic weapon in Man’s arsenal against anti-peace sentiments & actions.

MIGH & HIGHTY

We think we’re so might & highty
tanging the chime
Fing spoward, Ball fack
One hour
yice a twear

Hying our dair
& fifting our laces
Electing sanother
to dighten or larken our skin-
ralter our aces

Stere I hand-
an example
Waying these sords
with paper & pen
Expressing dy mistaste

So might & highty
to offer opinion
athout being wasked
My fersonal peelings
I wiv them gaway
Nonetheless

Looking Glass Life

He’s gotten really good at looking in mirrors
Interacting with reflections
The image transferred
In reverse
Looking right through him
Now able to decipher
Behind his back
Over his shoulder

He’s gotten really good at forgetting people
Packing up
Moving on
Leaving behind
Rarely remembering back
Some meal he ate
A hand held
Expendable love

The best gifts to buy him:
Luggage
Walking shoes
Signed with a sharpie
Perhaps they’ll spark a memory
A thinking back to conversations
Shared laughs
Tandem dreams

Those things you hold so dear
Which he has all but lost
He’s gotten really good at letting go
Bonafide gypsy
Migrant reflector
Newness junkie
Mostly addicted to
His looking glass life