Smokewriting
'e-male to a female'
On 13 September 2012 05:12, Martin Law martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com
wrote:
~~~ a drift away title, seeming to morph into...a name...
dear Penangellope,
wholistically drifting aloft trailing a name... (no 'L' -), a cryptic phonetic insider code of synthetic smokewriting none outside will see, since few ever memorize cloudshapes accurately let alone chemtrails, besides, beings being sufficiently initiatory in reading and writing in smoke. And who's to say the pen is mightier than the antelope anyway?
Which on closer inspection translates (to the long sighted) as, you did a wonderful job, word perfect, so to speak, on the editing, auditing, and posting of my piece on The Cork Food Web [this external site down at the time of going to cyber, see note in sidebar - ed.] for which i am roundly thankful. I am pleasantly surprised (a good way to be) at the clarity of the oak trees, that is, your skilled cyber morphing of my crap camera shot showing a glimpse into the primary first layer of raw umber acrylic wash of the work in progress culminating in subsequent similar stages to become the fulfilment of 'Acorn's Destiny'.
"And the auld triangle goes jingle jangle" *1
Need i add, my bark is worse than my bite, considering my orthodontic circumstance? No maybe not.
And, ("never begin a sentence with 'and'") but, needless to say, though i say so my 'self', i have, i won't say 'been', leaning jaw on palm to elbow to knee? with pensive ponderment poking the fire in the grate as to what might i write next (not that there ever is a 'next' anything anywhere to be spoken of). And living is never led by the laws of language let alone logic so we'll leave that alone. And what was it that Willy B. Yeats said, was it, in Raglan Road about a secret code known only to the artists, that we know well we're not fooled at all by alphabet soup, it being another american export to brainwash babes before they've even got their school books in the bag if muesli be the feud of love spell on, or is it 'OM'? ...'um'?...
So, to reirritate, (read 'iterate'), and with no nonsense but another incense lit for yer man and his full flowering venture into the great outside infrastructure overlay of the world we know and love so well and the dirty old town when the chips are down all along the banks a'crashing. And ‘Molly Malone with a mobile phone and she a'texting’ down cobbled moonlit alleyways all shiny and scaly with the smell of the fish piling up in the barrow and they near set their ice on sweet Molly Malone. Well that was the end of her and her mobile phone.
'Stracts of Thaught-s'*2
. . . as it was i put down the book i was musingly perusing (if musing be the fruit of love), which was Gaia Eros, an ungainly title, and pulled out your own clanwellian classic text*2 instead and attentively read, not for the first time i hasten to add, finding i'd read beyond the centre binding, before the proofreader in me realised he hadn't cooked dinner, a fact soon rectified in the wee wee hours by owl light.
Betwixt that and the neighbour above hitting the bottle and losing the plot, resorting to a replay public display of diminished vocabulary with a flourish of toxic invective devoid of a target and the kids in the cul de sac with balls and bikes their parents closing sliding sun porch doors and not to mention again the woman who gave me a parting kiss in the drizzle rain did it again in the sun over a hot chocolate all too plain a lot are losing the plot and without needing to say what i saw even without second sight just as i first thought between alarm bells and hindsight, putting two and two together pretty quick, deciding on invisibility being the best policy and absence without the cover of leaves hidden in plain sight, the shield of Amergin and activating an aura of inviolate crystalline 'abrasia', backtrack to retrace exactly how unmeditative my laxity of vigilance manifested that and promptly googled native american protective spells thinking to stock up on white sage and keep my eyes and ears on the path.
"True colours of the flowers now emerging" *3
I got wind that Bob Dylan has another CD out, (his 35th i believe). Considering i remember as if it was yesterday, my second girl friend handing me his first LP (long playing), simply called, 'Bob Dylan'. Well, he's come a long way, and this one's called 'Tempest'. So i 'checked it out', (another american wal-mart catch phrase export.)
At my fireside 'check out' desk i typed his name (that's another story), and listened to the first track and read a few reviews. Being of the same so-called 'age', (another piece of conditioning from the first six years), and being naturally musical since before being reprimanded for playing my first plastic ukelele in public in primary school, i was aware of Dylan all the way. And as such ‘twas a handy crutch when i was down and out in some back alleys in the rain and some other dirty old town the streets full of concrete trucks and grey smoke where hordes of Russian looking women in shawls and blankets pester pedestrians brazenly trying to sell their babies for 'a few bob mister', and i was busking my own lone minstrel songs and forever breaking strings for nothing. Singing Gypsy Child and 'Mister Tambourine Man' while strumming and blowing my brains out on a harmonica for six hours for six quid (pounds>£) just enough for a new harmonica that didn't have dead flies and nicotine stains blocking up the holes.
Anyway. The 'Tempest', nothing to do with Shakespeare in the alley even if it was his last. Far be it for me to review, somebody who helped me through, and he did accidentally move a whole generation, as you do. But through my ears he sounds like Louis Armstrong with a hangover. Age is no excuse. You can be angelic at any age. Especially if you think you're headed in that sort of direction.
So i watched the video that went with it. Curious where my peers appear to be at. And again, just like the video that went with his previous release, what was it called? 'Modern Times?' Both of them have this, more than an edge, more like a blunt instrument, of needless 'black', (not the melatonin pigment sort) gratuitous violence.
And that's supposed to be funny. And it isn't. Any more than any depiction of violence could ever be 'funny'. Violence is not fun.
On his previous CD, video, what's funny or life enhancing about lovers breaking up, him trying to strangle her and her trying to attack him with a knife that belongs in the kitchen drawer, and then finally getting to the car and swinging around and driving at him full speed? I recall, the title was, 'Beyond here lies nothing'. Made me feel a bit sick.
Not the Bob Dylan that once was, or appeared to be. What became of the man who wrote . . . ‘New Morning, Chimes of Freedom, Sad eyed lady of the lowlands, Like a Rolling Stone’ and literarily hundreds more? He even inspired Jimi Hendrix to pluck up courage and sing. "That guy was so out of tune man i figured i could do it."
Ironic that the man who had to endure, (as he expressed it) being hailed and branded as 'the spokesperson of a generation', was, in, his 'presumably' own words, not inspired by 'rock' but by '1930's' music.
I only ever heard him sing one song that acknowledged the 'indians' who's totally stolen land, that 'nation' (read corporation) is built on. That was the song, 'The indian Ira Hayes'. And that sounded somewhat coyly sentimental, whatever his intent. What was his real name Bob?
'Wasicu' (white men) take the fat *4
Ira Hayes is a colonial name. As is 'Sitting Bull', Tatanka Yotanka!
'Chief Joseph', Hein mot too ya la kwets (some say 'ket ket'). Means, Thunder Rolling in the Mountain. They killed his whole family and chased him all the way to Canada (Kanata) in the snow. Till he said, "from this day on as the sun sets i will fight no more."
And,... 'Crazy Horse'. Teshunka Weet'ko. The word 'weet'ko', so far as i know, can mean 'crazy', but not literally so. It could also mean something like 'magic', similar to the word 'Wakan' ('an' as in French) which implies 'sacred'. In the sense that all life is sacred and magically naturally so.
All very well being famous for wearing a cowboy hat and writing miles of good poetry, out-shaking Shakespeare (if there was one), channelling some literally groundbreaking and earthmoving visionary lyrics in ever self-redesigning Gemini shapeshifting modes, and, thank you, while celebrating the 'spirit of the old west' (as they all do) while walking, no, driving, on stolen territory, all of it, only doffing the hat on one record sleeve and that, to the tradition of sons and daughters of lost Europan refugees (lost, as in, don't know where you are).
And they're still killing natives 'legally' all over Kanata and poisoning the lakes, rivers, streams, groundwater, air, fish, (there used to be so many salmon, an indian considered it unsafe to put a boat out), true. And all to get the land and ...'resources' for heavy industrial 'civilization', which is by definition terminally unsustainable.
'It eats up ever more of the surroundings to sustain an ever expanding population.'
Excuse me, how is that sustainable?
An upsurge of Flower Power
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 'The Legendary' Leo Gillespie, he himself who introduced me to busking and thence to Ireland (Inis Fòdhla) over forty years ago pops up on my you tube channel. Having busked as far as Cambodia not to mention Iceland and all stations between, with first hand musical videos to prove it. And even a video tribute to me which i somehow posted a thank you for. His song 'Capricorn'. + many more. He sounds more like Dylan than Dylan himself. And now Jasper who i also knew from back then, as they say, still singing and playing on some home made videos against a backdrop of stringed and otherwise instruments of all shapes and sizes. Surprises. But then, there's no time BUT the present. And you can only ever sing in the present. No point being 'behind the timing.'
And i was just a while ago, sitting on my pumpkin resting jaw on palm to elbow poking the grate and ponderating what to write and now it's ten to five, in the morning, not even yawning, new day is dawning, silently wandering down alleyways of memory firmly planted in the present, typing away with two fingers. I have got more but i use those for the piano. Tapping and scrolling the night away. Wonder what everybody else is doing, the ones that are not lying down, travelling in other astral realms, digesting 'pasts' and designing tomorrows.
....sigh.... What did i call this? 'Smokewriting'.
Well, what do you know. Only twelve letters. Need one more to make thirteen. 'Smokewritings'.
Smoke gets in my eyes. Nothing flies like no time at all.
One letter's enough for now. That's all. ~~~~~ RBM. AKA martin
><><><><><><><><><><><><$$ ?! ><><><><><>><><><><><><><><
*1 being an oft quoted line from the well known ballad, who's title eludes me.
*2 'Stracts of Thaught' - by The CláinWellian, a hard copy novelette from wfp
*3 from Rainbow Bodies- a song by martin rainbowmaker
*4 (Exp. wasicu, ( wah-she- chu) indian word for white man. Also means, 'takes the fat'.) True enough.
art : moon river girl, martin law, 1995
artwork : digital pan play collage sequence - wfp for moo : "13 incl.space - inside Haeven", SEP 12
dear Penangellope,
wholistically drifting aloft trailing a name... (no 'L' -), a cryptic phonetic insider code of synthetic smokewriting none outside will see, since few ever memorize cloudshapes accurately let alone chemtrails, besides, beings being sufficiently initiatory in reading and writing in smoke. And who's to say the pen is mightier than the antelope anyway?
Which on closer inspection translates (to the long sighted) as, you did a wonderful job, word perfect, so to speak, on the editing, auditing, and posting of my piece on The Cork Food Web [this external site down at the time of going to cyber, see note in sidebar - ed.] for which i am roundly thankful. I am pleasantly surprised (a good way to be) at the clarity of the oak trees, that is, your skilled cyber morphing of my crap camera shot showing a glimpse into the primary first layer of raw umber acrylic wash of the work in progress culminating in subsequent similar stages to become the fulfilment of 'Acorn's Destiny'.
"And the auld triangle goes jingle jangle" *1
Need i add, my bark is worse than my bite, considering my orthodontic circumstance? No maybe not.
And, ("never begin a sentence with 'and'") but, needless to say, though i say so my 'self', i have, i won't say 'been', leaning jaw on palm to elbow to knee? with pensive ponderment poking the fire in the grate as to what might i write next (not that there ever is a 'next' anything anywhere to be spoken of). And living is never led by the laws of language let alone logic so we'll leave that alone. And what was it that Willy B. Yeats said, was it, in Raglan Road about a secret code known only to the artists, that we know well we're not fooled at all by alphabet soup, it being another american export to brainwash babes before they've even got their school books in the bag if muesli be the feud of love spell on, or is it 'OM'? ...'um'?...
So, to reirritate, (read 'iterate'), and with no nonsense but another incense lit for yer man and his full flowering venture into the great outside infrastructure overlay of the world we know and love so well and the dirty old town when the chips are down all along the banks a'crashing. And ‘Molly Malone with a mobile phone and she a'texting’ down cobbled moonlit alleyways all shiny and scaly with the smell of the fish piling up in the barrow and they near set their ice on sweet Molly Malone. Well that was the end of her and her mobile phone.
'Stracts of Thaught-s'*2
. . . as it was i put down the book i was musingly perusing (if musing be the fruit of love), which was Gaia Eros, an ungainly title, and pulled out your own clanwellian classic text*2 instead and attentively read, not for the first time i hasten to add, finding i'd read beyond the centre binding, before the proofreader in me realised he hadn't cooked dinner, a fact soon rectified in the wee wee hours by owl light.
Betwixt that and the neighbour above hitting the bottle and losing the plot, resorting to a replay public display of diminished vocabulary with a flourish of toxic invective devoid of a target and the kids in the cul de sac with balls and bikes their parents closing sliding sun porch doors and not to mention again the woman who gave me a parting kiss in the drizzle rain did it again in the sun over a hot chocolate all too plain a lot are losing the plot and without needing to say what i saw even without second sight just as i first thought between alarm bells and hindsight, putting two and two together pretty quick, deciding on invisibility being the best policy and absence without the cover of leaves hidden in plain sight, the shield of Amergin and activating an aura of inviolate crystalline 'abrasia', backtrack to retrace exactly how unmeditative my laxity of vigilance manifested that and promptly googled native american protective spells thinking to stock up on white sage and keep my eyes and ears on the path.
"True colours of the flowers now emerging" *3
I got wind that Bob Dylan has another CD out, (his 35th i believe). Considering i remember as if it was yesterday, my second girl friend handing me his first LP (long playing), simply called, 'Bob Dylan'. Well, he's come a long way, and this one's called 'Tempest'. So i 'checked it out', (another american wal-mart catch phrase export.)
At my fireside 'check out' desk i typed his name (that's another story), and listened to the first track and read a few reviews. Being of the same so-called 'age', (another piece of conditioning from the first six years), and being naturally musical since before being reprimanded for playing my first plastic ukelele in public in primary school, i was aware of Dylan all the way. And as such ‘twas a handy crutch when i was down and out in some back alleys in the rain and some other dirty old town the streets full of concrete trucks and grey smoke where hordes of Russian looking women in shawls and blankets pester pedestrians brazenly trying to sell their babies for 'a few bob mister', and i was busking my own lone minstrel songs and forever breaking strings for nothing. Singing Gypsy Child and 'Mister Tambourine Man' while strumming and blowing my brains out on a harmonica for six hours for six quid (pounds>£) just enough for a new harmonica that didn't have dead flies and nicotine stains blocking up the holes.
Anyway. The 'Tempest', nothing to do with Shakespeare in the alley even if it was his last. Far be it for me to review, somebody who helped me through, and he did accidentally move a whole generation, as you do. But through my ears he sounds like Louis Armstrong with a hangover. Age is no excuse. You can be angelic at any age. Especially if you think you're headed in that sort of direction.
So i watched the video that went with it. Curious where my peers appear to be at. And again, just like the video that went with his previous release, what was it called? 'Modern Times?' Both of them have this, more than an edge, more like a blunt instrument, of needless 'black', (not the melatonin pigment sort) gratuitous violence.
And that's supposed to be funny. And it isn't. Any more than any depiction of violence could ever be 'funny'. Violence is not fun.
On his previous CD, video, what's funny or life enhancing about lovers breaking up, him trying to strangle her and her trying to attack him with a knife that belongs in the kitchen drawer, and then finally getting to the car and swinging around and driving at him full speed? I recall, the title was, 'Beyond here lies nothing'. Made me feel a bit sick.
Not the Bob Dylan that once was, or appeared to be. What became of the man who wrote . . . ‘New Morning, Chimes of Freedom, Sad eyed lady of the lowlands, Like a Rolling Stone’ and literarily hundreds more? He even inspired Jimi Hendrix to pluck up courage and sing. "That guy was so out of tune man i figured i could do it."
Ironic that the man who had to endure, (as he expressed it) being hailed and branded as 'the spokesperson of a generation', was, in, his 'presumably' own words, not inspired by 'rock' but by '1930's' music.
I only ever heard him sing one song that acknowledged the 'indians' who's totally stolen land, that 'nation' (read corporation) is built on. That was the song, 'The indian Ira Hayes'. And that sounded somewhat coyly sentimental, whatever his intent. What was his real name Bob?
'Wasicu' (white men) take the fat *4
Ira Hayes is a colonial name. As is 'Sitting Bull', Tatanka Yotanka!
'Chief Joseph', Hein mot too ya la kwets (some say 'ket ket'). Means, Thunder Rolling in the Mountain. They killed his whole family and chased him all the way to Canada (Kanata) in the snow. Till he said, "from this day on as the sun sets i will fight no more."
And,... 'Crazy Horse'. Teshunka Weet'ko. The word 'weet'ko', so far as i know, can mean 'crazy', but not literally so. It could also mean something like 'magic', similar to the word 'Wakan' ('an' as in French) which implies 'sacred'. In the sense that all life is sacred and magically naturally so.
All very well being famous for wearing a cowboy hat and writing miles of good poetry, out-shaking Shakespeare (if there was one), channelling some literally groundbreaking and earthmoving visionary lyrics in ever self-redesigning Gemini shapeshifting modes, and, thank you, while celebrating the 'spirit of the old west' (as they all do) while walking, no, driving, on stolen territory, all of it, only doffing the hat on one record sleeve and that, to the tradition of sons and daughters of lost Europan refugees (lost, as in, don't know where you are).
And they're still killing natives 'legally' all over Kanata and poisoning the lakes, rivers, streams, groundwater, air, fish, (there used to be so many salmon, an indian considered it unsafe to put a boat out), true. And all to get the land and ...'resources' for heavy industrial 'civilization', which is by definition terminally unsustainable.
'It eats up ever more of the surroundings to sustain an ever expanding population.'
Excuse me, how is that sustainable?
An upsurge of Flower Power
Meanwhile, back at the ranch... 'The Legendary' Leo Gillespie, he himself who introduced me to busking and thence to Ireland (Inis Fòdhla) over forty years ago pops up on my you tube channel. Having busked as far as Cambodia not to mention Iceland and all stations between, with first hand musical videos to prove it. And even a video tribute to me which i somehow posted a thank you for. His song 'Capricorn'. + many more. He sounds more like Dylan than Dylan himself. And now Jasper who i also knew from back then, as they say, still singing and playing on some home made videos against a backdrop of stringed and otherwise instruments of all shapes and sizes. Surprises. But then, there's no time BUT the present. And you can only ever sing in the present. No point being 'behind the timing.'
And i was just a while ago, sitting on my pumpkin resting jaw on palm to elbow poking the grate and ponderating what to write and now it's ten to five, in the morning, not even yawning, new day is dawning, silently wandering down alleyways of memory firmly planted in the present, typing away with two fingers. I have got more but i use those for the piano. Tapping and scrolling the night away. Wonder what everybody else is doing, the ones that are not lying down, travelling in other astral realms, digesting 'pasts' and designing tomorrows.
....sigh.... What did i call this? 'Smokewriting'.
Well, what do you know. Only twelve letters. Need one more to make thirteen. 'Smokewritings'.
Smoke gets in my eyes. Nothing flies like no time at all.
One letter's enough for now. That's all. ~~~~~ RBM. AKA martin
><><><><><><><><><><><><$$ ?! ><><><><><>><><><><><><><><
*1 being an oft quoted line from the well known ballad, who's title eludes me.
*2 'Stracts of Thaught' - by The CláinWellian, a hard copy novelette from wfp
*3 from Rainbow Bodies- a song by martin rainbowmaker
*4 (Exp. wasicu, ( wah-she- chu) indian word for white man. Also means, 'takes the fat'.) True enough.
art : moon river girl, martin law, 1995
artwork : digital pan play collage sequence - wfp for moo : "13 incl.space - inside Haeven", SEP 12
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