09.18.2019 | tm leonard Glimmering cube of melting ice
Language of chopsticks
Incense smoke curls
Passing reflections
In death’s mirror
10
Street photographer works the image
Subject - light- composition
Move like a ninja
Geometry angles
Follow the light
Performance art
09.11.2019 | tm leonard "Black and white are the colors of photography.
"To me, they symbolize the alternatives of hope and despair to which mankind is forever subjected.
"Most of my photographs are of people; they are seen simply, as through the eyes of the man in the street. There is one thing the photograph must contain, the humanity of the moment.
"This kind of photography is realism. But realism is not enough—there has to be vision and the two together can make a good photograph. It is difficult to describe this thin line where matter ends and mind begins."
- Robert Frank, photographer, 1924-2019
09.10.2019 | tm leonard “’I did that,’ says my memory. ‘I can’t have done that,’ says my pride, and remains adamant. Finally memory gives way.” - Nietzsche.
The interpreter in the left brain strings experiences into narratives. A novelist in our heads. A novelist called memory ceaselessly redrafting the short story we call “My Life.”
Writing and telling a story is all about detail and realising the significance of the insignificant.
"Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public." - Goethe
...In both Irish and Welsh myth and saga, the art of foretelling the future is an essential part of the story. More often then not, it is to escape their fate, prophesied by the Druid, that leads the protagonists into adventures which inevitably lead them to the fate they seek to avoid.
...At one point, the narrator irreverently criticizes the author and the book, saying: "You've slapped together travel notes, moralistic ramblings, feelings, notes, jottings, untheoretical discussions, unfable-like fables, copied out some folk songs, added some legend- like nonsense of your own, and are calling it fiction!" - Soul Mountain by Gao
"I want to know one thing. What is color?" - Picasso
Mother's SHARP TONGUE
Inside Moleskine notes. Hiding under the bed. Slick. No answer. Locked door. Suspicious? More like stupid idiot. Pick up the remains. Tell me a story.
They hope for a lot. They get a little. She disappears. The tease does her job. Just enough desire and temporary distraction - stay down! - no getting down - just enough stimulation as the skinny dude hears her speak - now it's ok.
She's stacked everything on the floor at the end of the bed. This was a dream her uncle told her in the village. "Daughter, you need to be careful in the city. People will cheat you. They are clever. Don't let emotions control you - be reasonable - cold as ice when it comes to business. If you sleep with strangers, know where the exit is."
His scary story imagined a monster under the bed - whispering secrets to her before she fell fall feel asleep.
You have to love a stranger's stupidity, noise, sad face, confusion and chaos. Did he mention irony and entertainment value? So much for a fundamental shift in consciousness. Dying of boredom. Buried with boredom's memory.
Throw the sunset away with syntax. Treat silence with elegant love, respect and dignity.
The orange yellow moon rose.
Is a rose a moon?
How does the moon rise into a black voice of emptiness?
Into endless pyramids of joy with the beauty of simplicity?
Where do butterflies go at night?
Saigon
09.5.2019 | tm leonard mid-day is the least busy time
frisked down by guys at security - they may have been from Ghana or Somalia or Ethiopia
but I suspect Congo or Zaire as their dialect was distinct
they are young and laughing at the never ending task
waving detector wands over people
and the one waving me is young & angry & exasperated
at having to do anything so far removed from his
land, culture, family, his brothers and sisters carrying water
on their heads in cracked plastic pails from deep distant wells
drying in the heat of perpetual summer’s drought
his tie is askew and his white shirt
against his thin black neck
is frayed and his blue blazer looks severely uncomfortable on his frame
and the Asian security woman
says the woman screening bags
doesn’t know
what a harmonica is so I pull it out in the key of D
ask if she would like me to play her something
she says yes so I play a few blues riffs on automatic pilot
she laughs as passengers flow around
mothers manage baby carriages - three tired tiered birthday cakes with burning candles
their long lonely joyful responsibilities
the music stops
I bag the harmonica and take the escalator down
to the train watching Hispanic woman mop the floor as
women in furs and designer jewelry wait impatiently
for the train to Concourse ABC...
the train zooms through tunnels like amusement park rides
with silver spinning windmills in cement walls
whirling wind tunnels
people get off and on
a White woman with her Black husband holds her child
his black curly hair all ringed around small ears
husband looks bored and she is not sure
in her heart
if she made the right decision
they are flying east to see her folks
he never smiles and they share no words
09.1.2019 | tm leonard Yes, poetic words from Grow Your Soul, a self-published book of poems, ramblings and journal notes from Laos.
You can hear a taste of wisdom.
Thanks for listening.
