Thoughts what been swirling in my head like motes of dust:

[capri0mni]

Imagine the following lines to be swirly and curvy, rather than straight across:

I've recently realized I haven't read any fiction that was written in the last twenty years.

O_o

I think this is, in part, because I haven't done much reading on the toilet since I moved to this house 16 years ago -- I rush to the toilet having to go, without turning on the light, then I'm stuck on the toilet with no windows, and all the light switches on the farthest walls away from me... It's a drag (In the house where I grew up, in every bathroom, there was a big window over the toilet, so you could read, or do the crossword, by natural light).

Throughout my high school and college career, there were several dystopian/horror novels I was required to read as part of the curriculum:

Fahrenheit 451
The Lord of the Flies
1984
The Red and the Black (okay, technically, this is not a dystopian novel, but the whole message is society is F***ed up because people suck, and there's nothing you can do about it -- Oh, how desperately I wanted to NOT read it)

...I can't think of one Utopian novel ever discussed or assigned for class...

Why are dystopias considered more serious/realistic/worthy of study than utopias?

Why I believe dystopias are just as skewed and unrealistic as utopias:

Even in the darkest periods of human history, when life was short, and full of sickness, pain and death, people still put pretty designs on their dishes, and hair combs. If, even in the midst of the Bubonic Plague, people find value in creating art, then surely, no society could be entirely miserable.

So... yeah... Why? Why is warning against horror seen as more important and worthy of consideration than imagining what perfection might look like, if we could get there? We will never reach that spot (probably), but shouldn't we at least look in that direction, so we know where to start heading, so we can get a bit closer?

I'd also like to point out two things:

Roses come in all sorts of colors (except blue). And the slight pink tinge to these lenses I'm wearing is prescription (cuts down on eye strain from the computer monitor).

Comments

[capri0mni]

Lamp near loo?

I'd love that... but all the wiring and outlets are, at minimum, twelve feet away from the darkest little corner where I sit and stare at the wall (balance, or rather lack thereof, requires me to sit "sidesaddle"). I am starting to wonder if one of those clip-on reading lights would work, and if I could somehow mount it to the wall beside the toilet... but I fear their durability / battery life would leave me wanting.

A miner's helmet, perhaps? ;-).

(make it a poem?)

I was thinking it was time for me to write a new poem... and it might be good to write something before I tackle my last Art Garden</cite piece... :-(

[spiralsheep]

I nearly suggested a head-torch or a reading light but they tend to move out of reach whereas floor-lamps stay put. Although if [whatever] is attached to the book you're reading and the book is near the loo or taken everywhere with you...?

Is there a theme for your Art Garden?

[capri0mni]

Is there a theme for your Art Garden?

There's always a theme. This time, since it will be the final one, ever, the theme is "Harvest"... And I am torn between wanting to write something New and Utterly Epic, and wanting to submit something I've already written -- namely, the final poem in my "Monster Challenges" series:

THE MONSTER CHALLENGE: SEARCH FOR MEANING

In looking down upon my naked self:
My lap, my scars, my hands, and crooked feet,
My posture's slant, my elbow's inner bend,
I sometimes wonder what it means to see.
This "looking at myself from where I am"
Is not at all like looking at a stone.

The words that echo through my memory
From all the languages I've heard -- or seen,
Like forest leaves that shift in every wind,
Their shadows hide -- disguise -- the things I see.
It's through this tangled forest I must go
To find my truth, and know just what I am.
There is one word-- it catches like a thorn.
And though it stings, I trace its twisted growth.
I find a path, and there I find the root:
That "monster," once, meant "Creature Born Deformed,"
(Something like me?), "a Warning From the Gods--"
One shadow pierced. This light can answer fear.
And here's the fruit: it's heavy -- rich with seed.
I'll plant one for myself, and start anew.

I mean, on the one hand, this last Art Garden will be my last chance to rise to this particular annual challenge to write something brand new.

On the other hand, however, this one poem kind of hits a perfect "Final Art Garden" Thrice-Perfect score:

1) Its central theme is the power of language, and the impact of the memories of all the stories and poems absorbed through the years. On this particular night, every audience member and fellow writer will be meditating on that exact experience, so they'll be particularly receptive to that point.

2) It's final image, is, in fact, one of harvest -- and the knowledge that the end of one journey is the start of something new.

3) Irene has been urging me for several years to be brave enough to present something autobiographical, rather than sticking to my comfort zone of writing metaphorical fairy tales... especially since, as the only person in the group with a physical disability, I can reveal a unique experience that no one else can ... I've always demurred, precisely because of this last point. But this last Art Garden will also be my last chance to say something really personal and honestly revealing to this whole group (including people who come sit in the audience, but have never been up on the stage). And it might be a good way to say "good bye" -- especially since it also draws on the fairy tale image of the Deep Dark Wood, and connects the make-believe to the autobiography (maybe).

So, I don't know... I was thinking of emailing Irene and asking her about the possibility.

[spiralsheep]

I think you should write something new then choose the best piece, i.e. the one you most want to perform there and then, and maybe print some hand-outs of the second piece?

[capri0mni]

Well, that's not how the Art Garden works; It really is more like a print literary magazine than your usual poetry performance nights... It just happens in a theater instead of on pages which are mailed to people.

Each author is personally invited to submit something written on the theme ahead of time, and then Irene O'Garden (the Editor/Publisher) selects which pieces will be included and arranges them in a certain order so that each piece links to the one before and the one after... And no one knows, until they arrive to perform where they will be in the lineup. Which is why I want to suggest the possibility of performing "Meaning" with Irene, now...

But you're right about going ahead and writing something new, also...

[spiralsheep]

Ah, I'd forgotten the pieces were selected by someone else.

In which case, if the piece I wanted to share wasn't the one selected (or maybe even if it was), I'd print it as a Farewell To Art Garden fanzine with illustration(s) so it'd look more like a greetings card with a "cover" image and message inside (and, if you're interested feedback, an unintrusive email address somewhere). But then I wouldn't be participating in an event like the Art Garden in the first place, heh. You could hand it to people as "my business card". ;-)

Yay for new poems. \o/

[capri0mni]

*Nod*

That's why I've been confident about claiming my Art Garden pieces as "published works," even if there is no hard copy available for sale. They've gone through the same vetting process that they would have if I'd been submitting them to a print magazine for the last 23 years. People have paid actual money to hear the piece I've composed for the evening, and I've been paid actual money for the work of composing it (not much, mind, but actual legal tender)... And yes, Irene has also asked me to rewrite and resubmit pieces. But I wouldn't make such a claim for something composed for an open mic night...

It might be a new essay, or story, too... ;-)