I’m not sure which rabbit hole of links I tumbled down to land on the virtual doorstep of Pace and Kyeli, but I can certainly say that I’m glad I did.  It was refreshing to see such enthusiasm, optimism, sensitivity and encouragement in the cynical wilds of the blogosphere.  I added their blog to my RSS feeds, looked forward to each new chapter of The Usual Error and signed up for the Freak Revolution (which is now the Connection Revolution.)

When they announced a scholarship contest for their upcoming World Changing Writing Workshop, I decided this would be an excellent motivator to finish a Word Art piece I’d started but had gotten stalled on, which was also on the topic of change.  Even if I didn’t win, I’ve have some art to show for it.  As it progressed, I was less and less happy with how it was coming together visually, so I scrapped the initial design and carried the words over to a revised piece, with a better shape and a more harmonious color scheme.

The Flow of Change

The one who promises you absolute certainty is not to be trusted.

In a world that shifts and changes so, such a promise is impossible for one to even try to keep.

That which endures only endures by being mutable.

This is as true of abstract notions as concrete ones.

All that is built will be rebuilt as time wears it away.

What we think we know is perpetually subject to change.

Or at least it should be.

If it is not, it will eventually be smashed by reality as it settles into its latest form.

We know change to be inevitable.

But we cannot be assured that such change will always be for the best.

That is only the case if one makes a definite effort.

Change is a force, like water, like lightning, like rain, like the wind.

And like the water, like the lightning, like the rain, like the wind, we have been able to deflect it, shape it and even create it as necessary, in order to make that which we have need of.

The mistake is in assuming that once a change has been made, things can never regress to their previous state.

Change is a fluid that will pour into whatever container is provided for it.

Like water, like the Tao, it flows to the lowest point.

Like fire, like Spirit, it is indifferent to what it consumes and transforms in the way that it refuses to make exceptions.

Like all of these, it can be put to use, but only when you grasp the nature of it for what it is instead of what which you wish it to be.

Everything is in flux.

Nothing can ever happen in such a way that it cannot, however eventually, unhappen.

And knowing all of these things, you must now ask of yourself–”How can I shape these forces that flow through all of us? How can we direct change so that the greatest number of people can benefit from it?”

For if you seek to only do what will benefit yourself and no other, it will only cause the slightest of ripples in the world.

But if what you do changes the worlds of one another for better, the force becomes amplified and these ripples become waves.

What you want for yourself should be what you want for the world.

Seek peace so that others may know peace.

Seek joy so that others may know joy.

Seek love so that all may know love.

Change is powerful and for many it is frightening.

Our cravings for novelty are counterbalanced by our cravings for stability.

We know that what change leaves behind is not always improvement over what was before, and thus we are wary of untried changes.

Therefore the one who speaks of change is most persuasive when there is proof that it will work, when there are examples to point to and say: “This was done in a different way than the always. And yet it works, and works beautifully. Why, then, do we cling to the means and methods that are less effective?”

Be bold with your own life.

It is not a path, not a trajectory.

It is, in truth, a laboratory, wherein each new day, each moment, can be an experiment.

You are not bound to what has gone before.

You are only truly bound to what you choose to do in the moment as it stands before you, whether it is to sustain or to transform.

About halfway through making this piece, I came to a decision about it, but I kept that decision to myself until after the winners of the contest had been announced.  Once the winners were announced (I placed as a runner-up, which was an honor in itself) I asked Kyeli for a mailing address, so I could present the original to her and Pace as a belated wedding present.

I’ve been told it now hangs behind Pace’s desk for inspiration, which is kind of fun to think about–that I am able to inspire those who have in turn inspired me.

Printout of this work (10 MB .jpg file) available here.  Please read the license details.

The original has been given to Pace and Kyeli Smith.

Whenever possible, I set aside my birthday as a day to go out, explore, ramble and indulge myself a bit.  June 14, 2010 was no exception.  I spent the day visiting Centennial Olympic Park and the Georgia Aquarium and that evening I went to a restaurant in Virginia Highlands for Linchpin day.

Linchpin day was, in short, a gathering of folks inspired by the Seth Godin book Linchpin: Are You Indispensible?, which I hadn’t even read yet but was looking forward to doing so.  I had a marvelous time meeting with people who were enthusiastic about the idea that work could be about passion, about connection, about making a difference in the world and that your job didn’t have to be some horrible hellish thing you put yourself through so you can pay for a secure place to sleep and watch television in.

While gathering information about the meetup, I also found out that a group of people were putting together a magazine to commemorate Linchpin day and to make sure that contributors would ‘ship’ as quickly as possible, they placed a 48-hour deadline just after the meetings, so people would get their ideas and impressions in right away instead of dithering.

So the next day, I bought a copy of Linchpin, read the whole thing, got out my materials and made some art.

1.  Tell the lizard brain you’re only going to work on The Big, Scary Thing What That Needs To Be Done for only five minutes.  Do so.  When the five minutes are up, do just five more.  Repeat until momentum causes you to lose track of time.

2.  Picture the awful things that the demon in your head goes on about being said by somebody you would dearly love to piss off.  (You might do best to invent someone, so your contempt doesn’t carry over to a live human being.)  Imagine him like the villain at the end of some comedy, at the moment he has been proven powerless and is stomping and flailing and trying to reassert his vanished authority.

3.  Do the lousiest, crummiest first draft of The Big Scary Thing What That Needs To Be Done that you can possibly come up with.  Get from Point A to Point B and fix the result.  There’s no way to sharpen a blade before it’s been forged.

4.  Procrastinate your self-indulgence.  Sure, you’ll go and check on how the Internet is doing.  Eventually.  Just five more minutes on The Big Scary Thing What That Needs To Be Done, that’s all . . .

5.  If you have the flexibility to do this, give yourself two options: you will work on The Big Scary Thing What That Needs To Be Done, or you will do nothing at all–no books, no Internet, no phone, nothing.  Sooner or later, your lizard brain will get bored enough to roll over and let you work.

6.  Imagine that somebody is anticipating The Big Scary Thing What That Needs To Be Done and looking forward to the day that your creation meets the world.  Even if the only somebody is you, it is more than enough and you shouldn’t ever deprive yourself or any other.

7.  Always remember that the amount of energy you put into worrying about something does not count as effort expended towards solving the problem . . .

(For those of you scratching your heads and wondering what a ‘lizard brain’ is, I’ll just quote a bit from the book itself to explain:  “The lizard brain only wants to eat and be safe . . . The lizard brain cares what everyone else thinks, because status in the tribe is essential to its survival . . . The lizard brain is the reason you’re afraid, the reason you don’t do all the art you can, the reason you don’t ship when you can.”)

The reason the word “Done” is in bold?  Because I screwed it up the first time I wrote it and correcting it resulted in it resembling boldface.  So I kept it for all subsequent iterations.  This was very much a making-it-up-as-I-went-along kind of work, which meant I reached into my handy bag of Stuff I Say To Myself An Awful Lot (particularly the last line) in order to get the page filled.  But it seemed like the kind of advice that others might benefit from, so there you are.

I sent it in to the magazine and wasn’t sure if they’d even make use of it, or if it would just wind up on the website edition, but much to my amazement when I got my copy, there I was on page 33.  Then I looked in the back and saw that my website was there on the contributors list and thought, hmm, I should probably update or something . . .

Printout of this work (3.1 MB .jpg file) available here.  Please read the license details.

The original is not for sale.

When I’d finished up Exile and The Intruders had finished their set, I packed up and said goodnight to the lads and showed them my work in a kind of “look what I did while you were playing!” way.  I didn’t expect any of them would even attempt to read it.  One of the guitarists did, however.  Or, rather, he asked me to read part of it to him.  I think I read him the last couple of lines, blushed a bit at being exposed like that, and gave him one of my hand-written bizniz cards so he could see the rest of the work I’d done at that point, if he was interested.

I thought nothing of it until the next time I saw The Intruders play and that same guitarist chided me for not having updated my blog lately.  I was boggled that he’d even bothered to read it.  He asked me if I’d done any new work of late and I told him I was working on a new piece and hoped to have it up soon.

“What’s it called?” he asked.

“How to Kill Demons,” I replied.

How to Kill Demons

Light a bonfire inside your heart.

Set the scene where you will.

I recommend the edge of the ocean.

It should be night.

Place your animus, in whatever form he takes,

next to you, as a guide.

Allow the flames to rise.

Stand close enough to the light

to cast a shadow behind.

The demon resides somewhere in the chest.

Sometimes the heart,

sometimes the solar plexus,

or somewhere in between.

A knot of burning, screaming ache.

You will know it when you feel it.

Sink your fingers into your chest

and wrap your hands around this pain.

There will be no blood or tearing.

Your animus will aid you, as necessary.

Grasp it firmly.

Pull it out, steadily and certainly.

Do not allow yourself to falter.

The demon will emerge in your hands.

It will come in any number of forms.

It may have claws,

it may have wings.

It will inevitably have fangs

still bloodied from

gnawing on your insides.

It may scream, in hopes of frightening.

It may insult, or try to bully.

It may even try to plead with you.

Do not, under any circumstances, listen to it.

Retain your grasp as you hold it over the first.

It may struggle, try to claw or bite you.

It will not succeed unless you allow it to.

Drop it into the fire.

Let the flames catch it.

It will scream more loudly.

It will curse you with greater viciousness,

or it will plead more desperately.

Again, do not listen.

It will burn.

The bonfire flames will transform it

into heat and light.

Warm yourself.

Allow your animus to embrace you.

Leave the fire to continue to burn.

It does not need to ever be extinguished.

This, like Blue Blazing, was an attempt to render poetry into Word Art.  Instead of setting precise boundaries and making it fit, I decided to figure out the size of the paper after I had written it.

To this end, I took one of the 8 1/2″ by 11″ sheets of paper and set an upper margin of a couple of inches and side margins that left a three-inch space to work within.  I wrote, alternating sides with each line, until I’d come to the end of the poem and then decided what standard photo frame size I could fit the result in.  I settled on a 4″ by 6″ frame and cut off the excess paper.

The poem itself is, in its strange way, a true story.  It was a visualization I came up with while away in a little place by the ocean, doing the usual vacation things and coping with the death throes of an intimate relationship.  The images came to me in that certain daydream state as I lay on the bed and I guided them, the way one does in meditation and lucid dreams.  I was able to release a great deal of pain and self-loathing with this and I still make use of the technique from time to time.  If you think it might work for you, by all means, give it a try.

Prints of this work are available here.

The original has been destroyed.

Writing in tiny wee writing is particularly well suited for framing in tiny wee frames.  One of my thrift shop runs provided me with a rather elaborate frame with a two-inch-by-three-inch window.  I decided, as an experiment, to see if I could fit a poem in it.  Since the poem itself wasn’t that long, I added some white space in the shape of a flame with the help of the French curves provided by my father.

The only word I had to omit from the original poem for it to fit the boundaries I’d set was the word “perfect.”

Blue Blazing

It could have been a warehouse,

or somebody’s loft.

I remember brick walls

high ceilings,

dirty industrial windows

and hints of paintings in the shadows.

The room was lit by candles

and by a bowl of blue flames in the center,

sky and cobalt flickering.

When the candles died, the light left us underwater.

If you touched the flames in just the right way, you could scoop some up

hold it in the palm of your hand,

roll it up one arm,

down the other, barely feel it was there.

I saw someone juggling three bits of flame

faster and faster

until they were [perfect] curves of neon,

and for his finale, he threw one up, let it fall

caught it in his mouth

and swallowed it.

There was a girl in the corner,

holding a bit of flame in her cupped hands just up to her face

like she was telling it a secret.

Her dark hair spilled down into and

it caught

clambered up,

consumed.

She blazed.

Her head was a halo and all they could do was stare

at how brilliant she was

as her mouth stood open in a halted scream

and she slowly burned to death.

The world has edges

and they can be fallen off of . . .

The poem had been previously published (albeit with a line missing) in the Java Monkey Speaks Volume One, which was an anthology of poets who had featured at the first two years of the Java Monkey Speaks reading.  My life as a poet has been a scattershot one, but I mark that as an achievement worth noting, up there with being published in another poetry anthology a few pages away from Neil Gaiman and having the opportunity to recite my work in front of a Basquiat painting at the High Museum of Art.

It’s one of the only free verse poems of mine I have memorized, so when I mention I did poetry at one time and people ask “So, what kind of poetry?” I’ve been known to recite that one and then say “stuff like that.”

Prints of this work are available here.

The original is not for sale.

I’d bought a handful of small frames from a thrift superstore that opened recently near where I live.  This was made on a small piece of paper cut to fit that frame.  I started with two pens and the general idea to alternate colors with more lines per color as I progressed.  I pretty much did the whole thing in one sitting while listening to jazz at The Glenwood one fine Wednesday night.

Trailing

Hey, you!

Yes, you.

You, the person squinting and trying to read this.

Guess what?

No, really, guess what?

You are amazing.

You are beautiful.

You are a gift of God’s creation.

You are the only you who will ever be in the entire history of humanity.

So there.

So, what are you going to do with this singular gift?

What will you leave behind that no one else on this Earth can leave behind?

Your path has already left traces behind you, like the wake of a boat moving through the water.

But do you truly want to be that haphazard?

What if you carved a path marked by the footprints you have no choice but to leave, so that those who come after you will see where you stepped and where you stood?

Every life should have at least one point where tracks run deep, where a stand was taken, a line was drawn that says “this, and no more” and the footprints are sunken deep into the earth where you planted yourself.

If there is no such indentation in the path that lies over your shoulder, know this–it is never too late to plant your feet in the ground and say to this world: “This is who I am, this is as I stand, and I will not be moved an inch from it.”

It is your life. Live it.

It was the first piece I ever sold.  At the opening of the Upper West Side Folk Art Market, even as the snow was coming down as thick and fast as I’ve ever seen it come in Atlanta, a few brave souls came out and one of those brave souls was a man named Ernest, who loved my work from the beginning and decided to buy a piece as a Valentine’s Day gift for his wife.  I read the words to him and the deal was sealed.  All seventeen dollars of it.

I promptly spent the money that very evening on a small bowl of Pho Tai at So-Ba and a cover charge to see two loud rock bands at 529.  (The Forty-Fives and The Howlies.  I highly recommend both of them.)  It was that kind of a night.

Prints of this work are available here.

The original has been sold.