Tag: creation

Creation

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

by Mike Flemming copyright

My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across this page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.
Enchanted by the hand that writes .
Bewitched by art,beauty alights
The script is like a music score
Through which we step as through a door,
Imagination’s home.
As,mysteriously, to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed ,
By rhythms of pen,of brush, of mind,
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand
The pen slows down,the hand grows still,
And ,just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone
Like dew dies in hot sun

Plato on drugs? I don’t believe it;I do believe it

PHILOSOPHY_AND_LITERATURE_01

http://becomingintegral.com/2013/09/19/was-plato-on-drugs/t

This is not a book but a blog.It’s really fascinating.not just th above article but for all its other thoughtful

discussions.If you are not a philosopher still many pieces are understandable to the general reader.

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What photos make good subjects for digital art?

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A first I  drew with Microsoft Paint Program.I did cats,apples and abstracts

I found Microsoft Paint by accident.I had not heard of, knew nothing  such things.I spent about a year and a half playing with it  especially when I had a few months of illness.I  made some abstracts and then a great many cat pictures.It made me realize it o.k to simplify.to do so;you have no choice with Paint And that what I really like drawing is two objects in relation like two cats or apples.I tried three cats as well.It has that advantage… you discover what you personally like to draw.Ideally I’d prefer watercolor or pastels but I had no class I could manage then,

Arty party

cat2 alone

 

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What will happen?

Naive art!

This is the family of three… a child has arrived

Cat is cross

 Moving on from Paint,I discovered Artweaver and Paint.Net both free.I experimented and found for transforming a photo  it’s good to use  photographss with  strong shapes and pattern  like trees,cracks in the pavement,gates,fencing,certain buildings,climbing shrubs  on a wall…..natural patterns

bus stop 6A tree trunk

Cracks in the pavement 3

Cracks in our pavement down the  end of the  street

Cracks in the pavement

Cracks in the pavement.It looks better in color

Cracks in the pavement 4

Here I used Paint to add birdlike shapes to the  previous image

The top image below is from a photo of a mosquito  bite on my thigh after I scratched it so there was a little blood

another insect bite 3

From my trees collection

6804453_22abec948f_a 2

6819924_f1126074c2_m brighter

What not to use.. don’t use photos with a large area in one color…even if it looks ok as a photograph

Apple tree and sunshineThe light here is a problem for using this in digital art… but it’s intriguing as it is

I found ignorance quite helpful in a way as I had no expectations…..which is very important I believe.

What makes a poem a poem?

When I was writing this,I could feel myself as a bird  up in the sky looking down at the earth,the hills and the lakes.And I still feel that now.However in my opinion it is not a real poem unless other people also feel something of that when they read it.I find it’s so easy to think you have written something good because you feel  so good  during or after the writing.But that does not mean it is good,objectively.I might feel good mixing up eggs, flour,sugar and butter but if I don’t know how to bake it will  probably not become a cake however good the making feels.I know it’s not exactly the same but I hope you can grasp the point.I suppose it might be true of love as well…Feelings alone are insufficient.

Here is a useful website

http://www.dailywritingtips.com/telling-a-good-poem-from-a-bad-one/

THE LARK

Freed from her trap
Bird soared into air,and hovered
And floated, resting;
And flew higher, singing as she flew,
And higher again,
Till there was only her song,
Left in the silence,
Trembling.
Up on the wide,stump topped hill,
I felt the lark inside my heart
And heard her singing.
And flying up with her,
I saw gold sun and silver moon,
Moors of heather ,and sheep grazing
Green hills,
And shimmering lakes,
Clouds ,sun and sky in watery mirrors.
And sang ,and dipped,and dropped,
And curled
Up the blue
Bright heaven, and rested
On the wind.
All that day
I was a lark singing.
I shall always have a vision of
A bird
That flew upwards,
Rejoicing and free
Into a deep blue sky, and high
And higher
Beyond high
Into a place, beyond eye even,
But music still sending.
I wish I were back on that heathery moor,
With the nibbling sheep and the bees sweetly humming,
Hearing again
The poignant song
Of the skylark,
A prisoner,freed by a magician,
From her trap,
So happy to be free,
So wonderful to see.
Do it again,
For me,

Oh,sweeter than confectionery

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Photo courtesy of Mike Flemming 2015.Copyright

Inside my mind I dream of gleaming pearls,
Caterpillars,snails with  swirling whorls.
I dream contented, all enwrapped;
With reverie and dream I’m lapped.
The inner seas will comfort me,
While gods open my eyes to see

Oh,sweeter than confectionery
Is my old   school dictionary.
The words whirl round and fall to shape
The sentences which my world make.
This furnishing is rich and strange
And magically self arranged.

Oh,sweeter than the love of man
Is reading works of poets long gone.
And feeling deeply their dark tides .
Upon which our boat may glide.
The sea infinite we float upon
Is the same warm sea the ancients swam..

Sweeter still is this spring air
And the blossom spreading fair.
We’ll drown our selves in grassy field
To the gods of poetry yield.
We’ll rise again and spring up tall
To grow more rich until we fall.

Trust begets perception

tWeeds or flowersI have become interested in virtue and perception.It began when I read  a littleAristotle about virtue being a habit.That was quite recent.Before that for many years I believed virtuous acts would follow from being able to perceive well.But when we are fraught our minds and eyes tighten up and so we perceive only what may be a danger to us.To perceive others well we need to be in a position to trust others and we need to feel secure.How is this possible?From my studies I read that our ability to trust begins with a trusted caregiver in infancy,[See” atttachment and loss “by John Bowlby reference to come] We may be able to become more secure later by good fortune,friendship and love.If not,I seem to get the idea that if we are insecure and nervous we cannot truly perceive others and they may be in the same position.If we are very afraid then virtuous acts may be hard to accomplish. The reason is obvious… when. we are concerned with  mere survival as a person , in that state what we do to others  may be impossible for us to consider.We cannot truly see them and so we cannot act well towards them except by good luck.Or if we are able to tolerate great anxiety,we may see better…. if not we are incapable…. Those whom we cannot see properly we cannot truly consider with feeling  and act on this feeling.We see them partly or mainly in terms of the fearful fantasies in our minds and cannot see them as  other and interesting.When we make a friend online we may feel safer but in fact we are more likely to misperceive them. When we are from a sad a or difficut background it may help greatly if we have some friends who might point out our errors if we trust enough to tell them.Or we may pretend to be hard and tough.Neither leads to virtue.If we trust God it may help but I believe we see God through the lens of our parents.. which is not good…depending on the parents. When we live in fear,we cannot see what is there before us.We cannot let go.We cannot accept grace and love nor give it.We will try to live by will power.Ironically people who are fearful inside can develop a shell of toughness and pride and so are not seen as vulnerable  and/or lovable.Tbey may seem frightening to others. This account may help to explain why politics is the way it is and also  we see that arguing is not persuasive when the other is not able to open up and see things more broadly.Arguing makes us tighten up and see less well.And it can be frightening too though some cultures find it more acceptable than others.

Here are some relevant blogs and articles

This author had a lot to say about perception…http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/obituary-marion-milner-1163951.html   http://susannanelson.wordpress.com/2014/03/02/happy-go-lucky/

http://glimpsejournal.wordpress.com/2014/05/11/the-real-bees-knees-stunning-micro-view-of-the-workers-behind-your-mothers-day-flowers/

Emile and his cat therapy:On the sofa with myself

Emile’s pyscho-analyst

As the new day dawned,Peter Fried.. that infamous psychoanalyst woke upto find himself in the washing machine yet again.He unwound himselfand crawled out.On the table was a note.
Dear Peter,
I washed up..hope you had a good night in the washing machine.Speak to you soon…Best wishes,Susan.

He moaned loudly at the prospect.Perhaps staying in Hampstead would have been better but he felt an obligation to spread his new therapeutic methods to the less civilized parts of Britain… such as Knittingham.But he had already met the most peculiar people who had caught him on their pan and would soon be eating him for dinner.
He looked out at the street… but there peeering into the window was Emile. the well loved cat
For,God’s sake Emile… why are you back here,he whispered.
I’d like to finish off your curry,Peter.
How kind of you.. please come in.
When Emile came in he jumped onto the couch.
You can’t eat it there,Emile,Peter said politely.
Well.. the truth is..I think I need therapy.Is it very expensive for cats?
I don’t recall anyone having treated a cat before.
This could make you famous,Peter.
Well,why do you think you need therapy?
I am suffering from a severe case of unfulfilled love.
You have problems with your lady cat friend?
No, no… the problem is I am in love with Susan.I dream of her every night.
And what are you doing in the dream?
What would you be doing,Peter..
I’m afraid the analyst must not reveal themselves,the cunning man responded rapidly as he blushed shyly.
And my second and more serious problem is that I am afraid I may be bisexual…I love you now as well as her.Is there any hope that i can return from neurosis to just the normal unhappiness of life?
Well, for a start I’d stop reading Freud..And let me ask Stan whether he is willing to pay for therapy.
Is it very expensive? asked the cast pensively
I let you use my washing machine free but he must pay for the soap powder.
What, are you going to give me washing machine therapy.
Well,it may be the best for you as the mud you lick from your fur may be affecting your brain.
Any other type of therapy?
Well, we might try Mindfulness or Meta-cognitive therapy.
That sounds very complicated.
Well,apart from that,you can keep busy , avoid coming  here and don’t touch  my best  suit…
But can’t you write a paper like Freud wrote about the Wolf Man? Emile enquired with a strange enchanting charm

Wow,Emile you are very clever but alas that does not make people happy as you are a mere cat.It causes envy in their souls.So just mew now and then and purr and soon you will find a lady cat to love,I feel sure.You must not free associate as we now know Freud was mistranslated and he meant, Fee Negotiate.That means fight over the money you pay.I am not happy as money is the root of much evil especially when it is stolen from the poor to  give to a witch or a wizard living in West Finnisterre or Doggerell.

And good night to you all and may God bless you all, some more than others

 

My hand is lonely

13:28:14

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Sometimes my hands curl up,
and other times,they open.
Then I feel the air;
My fingers relax.
I touch your hand;
uncurl it and press it to mine.
Palm on palm,it’s no secret
that palms connect to hearts.
In your face I see a hint of melancholy,
I feel it in my soul..
as if there was a secret connection..
thought how,I don’t know.
Somehow,touching, we create another soul,
Neither you nor I, but we……
Touching,need to be physical..
We know how a story can affect us that way.
What a gift to know we have touched someone…
In the heart.’s. most tender space.The place of love.
Both true and false,my palm is lonely.
Then I feel the caress of summer air..
To touch is to be touched
as one soul opens to another..
Vulnerable,human,loving,
Painful and illusory,like those dreams of childhood.
Now I go,first gripping, then loosening our hands.
Goodbye,we say,Goodbye

“Their beauty has more meaning” by Robinson Jeffers

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    http://www.patheos.com/blogs/daylightatheism/2008/03/poetry-sunday-xi/

    Yesterday morning enormous the moon hung low on the ocean,
    Round and yellow-rose in the glow of dawn;
    The night-herons flapping home wore dawn on their wings. Today
    Black is the ocean, black and sulphur the sky,
    And white seas leap. I honestly do not know which day is more beautiful.
    I know that tomorrow or next year or in twenty years
    I shall not see these things—and it does not matter, it does not hurt;
    They will be here. And when the whole human race
    Has been like me rubbed out, they will still be here: storms, moon and ocean,
    Dawn and the birds. And I say this: their beauty has more meaning
    Than the whole human race and the race of birds.

The Abingdon White Starling by Mike Flemming

http://home.btconnect.com/mike.flemming/WStarling.htm

This is written by an old friend of mine and contains some beautiful photos inclcuding one which looks like an angel

Arched like a fallen moon

Old man,bending over,
arched like a fallen moon
in a dark lilac November sky.
joy and pain wrestle my heart across the emptiness
and toss it up like a damp rocket
to fall in a hidden corner where mice live.
Would that not be a good ending,to be dust
to these little creatures nesting
in my chewed green twine and my tartan basket?
They have eyes and shiver in my hand when I rescue them
from the cat…
as any heart might.
Now night falls on the newspaper basket
where the damp Times and the Guardian mix into glue
and tomorrow the sun will rise
and it will just be the garbage
with no poetic undertones nor deathly hushes..
Heather and a silver light
you stand on a hill top like a god
looking over his domain.
Strong and now weak
it’s the humane condition
Everlasting life is too dangerous for humans.
Silent,motionless,home of beetles
bit by bit we fall away
into the mother soil
with cracked jugs and dropped coins
for a future academic to dig into.
Transparent hand touches me.
Who are you?

Stan fell in love with his cat

Sleepy afternoon

Stan fell asleep in front of the roaring fire.Emile lay across his lap.Emile was so limp he looked like a wet towel casually over the old man’s knees.It was Stan’s birthday but no party had been arranged.He was struck that Mary had not baked a cake..nor even bought one at the Co-op.
That was no surprise really as he did all the cooking including Bakewell tarts and Xmas cake,He was a versatile man who could also mend old radios and fix clocks that were stuck one time….usually th wrong one!
He also spent quite a lot of time giving statistics lessons to pensioners and making love with his blonde and busty mistress,Anne who lived next door.
He decided that being so near her was a big advantage given his age.
Suddenly he was awakened by chuckles and giggles,There were Mary and Annette holding a big iced cake and a pot of tea.The doorbell rang and in came all Stan’s friends from his Art class.Mary produced sandwiches and pork pies,sausage rolls and potato cakes.
How did you do this ?,he enquired dazedly.
We did it all in Annette’s oven.She has two so it was quite easy.
Mary was not jealous of Annette for Mary would rather read Principia Mathematica than go to bed with Stan.Apparently she was mildly autistic but she was happy doing maths as many of her co-workers had the same syndrome.
She did have one daughter whom she found hidden in a gooseberry bush in the garden.This was enough for Stan as he was 92.But luckily he did have a good
gold plated pension of £390 per month.
Everyone was having a fabulous time until Anne tried to light the candles on the cake.No matches could be found.
Ring 999,Stan called childishly.Mary obeyed and soon the ambulance drew up.In ran Dave the paramedic.
Is it your chair? he enquired wildly.
No,it’s this cake.We can’t light the candles on it.Shall we douse it in petrol?We have a jerry can full of it in the spare room.
That is very dangerous,he shouted.
Well,we are old now and need the car badly.Risk assessment gave us evens on the odds.

Dave produced a silver lighter and lit the candles.Then he conducted them all as they sang,”Happy Birthday” to Stan.Stan managed to blow out 90 candles before passing out on the rug.
Well,at least he didn’t break the chair,Mary said philosophically.
I wish he had,said Dave.I’ve got some superglue here.
Well,we do have a wardrobe that’s falling apart.would you like to mend it?
Sure,he replied gratefully.This is why we have the NHS!
We are here for you 24/7
Or come to A and E if you get a mouth ulcer or a cold sore.No problem is too small!

Stan came too on the rug with Emile beside him.He gazed deeply into the cat’s green eyes.
I think I’ve fallen in love with you,he informed the cat.
Will you sleep with me and let Mary have your basket.
Are we engaged,said Emile.
Definitely,said Stan.I’ll get you a golden collar with diamonds on it.
When shall we be married?
As soon as it’s legal,Stan answered honestly.
In the meantime,we’ll have to live in sin.
Then he fell asleep again with Emile in his arms.
What a lovely picture, cried the ladies.
Look at this.What a happy sight.
What love,what devotion.
How strange,what a commotion.
They’re in love,what emotion.
Don’t tell the Pope,we need caution

 

A true story we invent

No words of mine can potently display
the anguish and the joy that touch our lives;
yet all our ghostly forebears went this way
where words may pierce our hearts like sharpened knives.

No sentient being willingly at first
Accepts the pain that true perception brings.
Yet we must not take hearts to be a curse;
we need not flee from knowledge,though it stings.

Each day demands our thoughtfulness and love
from which all better action gently stems
each day the grace we have is just enough
as through the meta narratives we thumb.

For life’s but a true story we invent,
with passion and with purified intent

Houses built of gold and sin

Ante mortem let us trust

For in the grave we turn to dust
Yet in life the poor are cursed
Our treatment post mortem is just.

The worms and beetles care no more
For the rich than for the poor.
They are happy to devour
Bankers,despots,every hour.

Ante mortem, greed does win
Houses built of gold and sin
But God,who lives in each within,
Cares no more for gold thann tin

If post mortem we are judged
Why does the rich person grudge?
Why do we refuse to budge
Right until the final nudge?

Throw away your heavy goods
Live like daisies by the woods..
Fear not hurricane nor floods
As daises grow even in mud.

More dependent on all power
We trust in madmen’s city towers.
Yet One told us to live like flowers…
And enjoy this  life  but for an hour.

Perception is not privilege.
We each have the wits to judge.
See and note where you have smudged
What your creation would allege.

Post and ante, even now
The currents of our hearts allow…
The inner sea which has its flow
To take us where we need to go

A pool of light

photo1049_001

Their eyes drew me,
And their eyes draw me again
Into a pool of winter light
Golden from the low sun.
I swim in it
Like a hawk flows on the wind
Over the depths,
Of life.
Contained by a white china cup,
I’m your reflection now
Drowning in the slanting sunlight
Like a stone in a lake.
Falling deeper until I find
the creative mud
with which I mingle
no longer a stone
but a soft flowing stream of sensations
which meets with joy
the earth’s depths and presence.
And something new will grow

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Authenticity is invaluable

Jim Jarmusch

“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery – celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from – it’s where you take them to.”
― Jim Jarmusch
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He makes me wet my elf daily.

English: Logo of No Nonsense
English: Logo of No Nonsense (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
centre
centre (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

All the praise has gone to  my tongue.

I feel very reimbursed.

Can I ring whine,whine whine,please?

Can I test  the Samaritans?

My face was read and I was flown to the door.

I was so nervous I bled .

The doctor never whistles for me any more.

She said I was the test!

He said,he’s  never hated a woman like me before.

There is always that first rhyme.Chime.

Does your bladder  make you frown?

He makes me wet my elf daily.

I  deranged his new duvet on the bed.

He was totally lighted

He  fainted me quite  naked.

She found cotton bulls handy

I was disseminating.I rest my case.It was my time off

MUSIC: 200603-200803 Listening History Graph
MUSIC: 200603-200803 Listening History Graph (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

the runs

I am a rude model.

Is  it a portrait of  me as I might have dreamed?

Why do we get the runs when verbs take over?

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Hard Work Makes Successful Artists, Not Talent

Hard Work Makes Successful Artists, Not Talent.Photo1060 2

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Arms around each other

Some evenings,the sky turned pink
We were happy,lying in the grass
Watching the sun set.
Arms around each other.
Seemed like eternal life had come
Earlier than forecast.
Those weathermen are always wrong!
They need new training
In that timeless moment
In between two raindrops,
In between two tears.

Is writing poetry theraputic?

Here is a website which says so:

http://www.poeticmedicine.com/

Some people say it is but poets have a much higher suicide rate than any other  people/

I read:It is diagnostic but not therapeutic [Sylvia Plath]

I also read that writing to a strict form is more likely to help you then writing free verse…seems intriguing.I believe if you have suffered a lot in life,writing may bring it to the surface.Fiona Sampson in  The Expert Guide to Poetry Writing advises one to keep the phone number of the Samaritans to hand!That tells you a lot.I wonder what T.S.Eliot would say or Ted Hughes?What do you think?

THE KEYHOLE

Image

Sometimes I had my eye too close to the keyhole

    Pulled there by some force like gravity.
    I was gazing with a sharp but narrow focus
    into what I thought was the real.
    But the precision of my gaze
    left out the surroundings, the other doors and rooms
    that  I might have inhabited.
    As he came to me and opened his arms with no rancour,,
    so my eyes opened wider,I took in the new wide vision
    and left my crouched and aching position
    no longer attached like a magnet to your force,
    He was there with his sea eyes.
    He knew the human condition
    And how to inhabit a  conversation.
    Of course he’s had his wounds but never failed to feel
    for himself and others.
    In the night he went through in his mind’s eye the faces
    of his friends;holding them ,like he’d once held fragile rose buds
    when we were married,
    and asked silently for grace.
    The keyhole no longer seemed important
    I suppose narrowing the focus can keep out knowledge of pain..
    But the pain is atill there;
    I have always loved the word “Acknowledge.”

    And now I use it. I acknowledge this pain

Autumn love

 

Image

 After summer’s  sultry flowers,

 We get autumn showers.

 Winds that blow.

 Leaves that glow.

 ,Nature’s wealth is ours.

Harvest grain and harvest corn.

 All  our food from earth  is born.

 Warmth of sun-

 Ripeness come-

 Fruits and nuts adorn.

 Trees are turning red and gold

In the glancing sun.

 Leaning down I see your face.

 Autumn love has come

Does God get depressed?


 Bus view 3

[ From a photo using Artweaver]

If God had to rest on the seventh day,she must get tired.And if he can get tired then he might get depressed.Especially when she looks down on us here all fighting,squabbling and showing envy,hatred and malice
So,for God’s sake
BE GOOD

Rainbows flew from his hands

You have come here gradually,

From the whirling chaos of the dreaming infant

anchored by the maternal hand to earth

To your present adult state

Do not try to fly back to heaven today.
Be patient;your guides will,with no effort,
Teach you the patterns and the dance.
All you need is to be open and to trust,
For you have a place in the world
 We need your contribution.No-one else
Will see this world from your perspective.
And as you trust the chaos now,fear it not
Should it return.Every creative act
 involves the breaking of these barriers
by which we keep the chairs and tables
anchored into themselves.The patterns may break up
But new ones are somewhere near.Patience
 With this suffering is the only route now.
You cannot go back.Heaven comes only after
 You have grown roots into this earth,
Grown sunward,and travailed the storms
And stinging blows;have grown your flowers and leaves
 And let them fall.
Accept, The only way you can go
Is the earthly way.
You are part of us.
We love you.Our hands are reaching out
If you just lift your eyes.
In the Chaos,God danced and rainbows
Flew from his hands and tears fell from his eyes.
Those tears which fertilised the earth,
He wept, knowing of the pain to come;
And yet,he did not cease to dance

Enchantment

BLUE TREES

My old blue fountain pen allows

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush.

Enchanting through the hand which writes,

Bewitched with art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score

Through which you pass as through a door.

Imagination’s home.

As,mysteriously.to you, to me,

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,

By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.

They enter vision quite unplanned,

Like moths to flutter softly round

Fire joined heart and hand.

The pen slows down,the hand goes still

And just as dreams at daybreak will,

They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.

I almost caught that one

A more funny joke and less funny thoughts coming from that

“Two minds with but a single thought… how Newton and Leibniz invented calculus.”

I saw that jokey sentence somewhere but it’s funny only to people who know some history .

I find it very strange that quite frequently people in different parts of the world  invent or discover the same thing more ore less simultaneously………..this was true  long before people could share ideas on the internet.I believe that Charles Darwin’s Evolutionary theory was also invented by someone else and that’s what  pushed Darwin to publish it.Whether it’s true or not it has resulted in some dreadful consequences like Eugenics which was favored by Galton and influenced many minds[  of politicians] in Europe in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries with dreadful results…

Many of our discoveries have more than one face… like nuclear power.And now we need so much power,electrical and other to maintain our civilization such as it is now..Some people think we are nearing the end of this era…and some are bringing it on using post modernist thought which has links to Fascist thinking I read though I have never grasped exactly what it is.

 

Gina Lazenby interviews Stephanie Dowrick | Stephanie Dowrick

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