music

i know the music 

but for got the words

he said playing in shadows

at life's little intersection

feeling binary code chords 

as a child

seeing anxiety

carry curiosity

with courage

passed through 

 

typewriter man

My office is outside the postal building. I am fast, clean and efficient.

People show up. They ask me to write a letter. They talk. I write. 

Sure I say. I roll blank white 8x11 paper into my heavy duty, all purpose magic machine and off we go!

Dear _______,

I am in Trabzon. It is on the Black Sea. It's really blue green. It's big, deep and cold. I don't know where the color Black came from. Perhaps from a lack of light or enough photons.

It is famous for hospitality, fish, jokes and ancient stories. 4,000 year old stories include pre-Greeks, Romans, Laz dialects, Marco Polo, Thespians, Ottomans, Herculean tasks, romantic voyages and 15 (anxious) brave intrepid university students majoring in medicine and engineering practicing for English speaking tests this week after having developed personal courage to open their head heart and mouth. Say ahhhhh.

I am lucky I found a writer. He is lucky I needed help to get it down now and try and make sense of it later. It was an overcast day and, as you can see he was free. I like free don't you? He was so happy to meet a complete perfect stranger he wrote down his name and address on a clean white envelope so I can send him this picture.

It's grainy. Don't ask me why. It's the camera's fault. Maybe the ISO was too high, in the 800 range. It's about 52 KB here and now. The texture and subject and composition is ok. It's not going to win a Pulitzer Prize for photojournalism I can tell you.

You get the picture.

What else can I tell you in this letter? I already mentioned the weather. It was overcast but mostly blue sky. It rained one afternoon. Clouds assembling for a meeting gathered above southern mountains. They opened their release mechanism and gave us poor humans a drenching. Weather threw in some thunder for good measure teaching us a lesson in auditory significance. Someone said the sky gods were bowling.

Makes sense to me.

Other than weather the food here is various and tasty; fish, cheeses, olives, fresh bread, meats, lentil soups, tomatoes, manti-ravioli, salads and, can you believe it, they grow cabbages bigger than children. If I grow up I die said one cabbage patch kid. No lie butterfly.

After paying for all these words I will buy an envelope from the writer and then walk into the post office to stand in line for a couple of centuries and hopefully get a stamp.

I hope they have one with orchids.

The writer can scribble my General Delivery return address on the back so you can pen me a word. I'll be happy to hear from you. 

Take care of the broken walnuts.

Love,

Orphan

By Austin Kleon

Austin Kleon, an artist, writer, observer and thinker gave a talk about what he wished he'd heard as a young creator.

He expanded his ideas and wrote a book: Steal Like an Artist

He said: This book is me talking to a previous version of myself.

These are things I’ve learned over almost a decade of trying to figure out how to make art, but a funny thing happened when I started sharing them with others — I realized that they aren’t just for artists. They’re for everyone.

These ideas are for everyone who’s trying to inject some creativity into their life and their work. (That should describe all of us.) Reposted from Brain Pickings.

Steal Like An Artist on Amazon.

class is in session

once upon a time there was a continent, country, classroom

it looked like this

thousands of hungry children

hungry to learn and play with organic language

streamed through shuttered light

passing wood worn habitats of humanity

taking a seat

they opened their head

they opened their heart

they opened their mouth

Molecules & Alex

"We drove around today seeing places, just following the road. It was really great. This is a wonderful place,” he said glancing over women and men in Ronda drinking at tables along orange walls in candlelight shadows.

“Hey,” he shouted, “I’ll give you something for your tales. Then I’ll be in it.” 

“Ok, however my editor red lines garbage.” 

“You won’t believe it but I work with a multinational company, in one of their Liverpool labs. I use computer programs to create and analyze various molecules in detergent.”

“Detergent?”

“Detergent. This is how it works. Some molecules are attracted to dirt. They adhere to it, they seek it out. Others like water. I assemble various atoms and molecules and see what they do. I introduce them to the materials and see how they react.”

“Fascinating.” 

“Yes and I get paid to have fun. They pay me to create these experiments.”

“So, it’s like you are an artist using the computer to create a canvas, painting molecules?”

“Exactly!” he yelled, blasting enthusiasm over a hip hop rap bass back beat. “You can put that in your story.”

“Perhaps. Readers may find your work interesting, especially the part about Americans being transparent. I worked in Area 51. There was a nuclear reactor. I knew physicists there.

"They were trying to reduce fifty-five million tons of leftover radioactive material like Technetium-99 from seeping through the water table into the Columbia river. Others developed hydrogen fuel cells for alternative energy sources. I’ve never met a physicist working with detergent.”

“Wow, I know TC-99. It’s deadly stuff. They’ll never get rid of it. They’ve created a hell of a problem for future generations. Anyway, yeah it’s pretty cool working with these detergent molecules. And now we’re here.”

He took a breath. 

“Did you know that the world is made up of 98% helium and hydrogen? Well, the remaining particles of atoms, a very small part, is life and inside these atoms a very small part of that is intelligence. The rest of the pyramid is garbage. Tell your editor to take that out!”