We are involved in an effort to compel the City to abide by covenants they agreed to in the purchase in a local children’s playground called the Tot Lot. These restrictions state that the public art studio–which was illegally destroyed for the benefit of a private developer–must be replaced on the same footprint. This has been a lengthy struggle and the City of Bainbridge Island continues to neglect it’s obligation to see that the covenants are upheld.
See our website http://totlotstudio.com/
We piled in the skiff and I rowed toward a dilapidated pierhead while McWhirr continued his narration.
“My grandfather also told a darker tale. He said the streets of old Batavia were paved with sorrow, the walls built with the grief of mothers who toiled over an illusory harvest, it’s ramparts manned by desiccated souls who invested all their goods in the virtual fun-house of Mammon.“
I picked up a battered book lying on the table and read:
–And it came to pass that a great swarm of splog descended upon the land and the
soundcloud was darkened with idle slander and empty promises of sensual delights. Worshippers of the true faith were subjected to the false blandishments of priests and the perfidious purveyors of illusory commerce. And the once mighty creatives of the realm looked upon their followers and found naught of artistic merit and grew heavy in spirit, seeing therein ought but Jezebelian allurements by comely maids in unseemly attitudes of licentious repose–
“Ya really read that BS? “
Asked his mate in a voice that sounded hollow and grating-like 50 fathoms of hause-fouled chain.
I’d heard of the splog pirates, but thought them mere paranoid tales by rummy tars around the fo’c’sle stove. And now here they were, as big as life, waylaying the earnest efforts of my myself and my literary colleagues like the nefarious ship wreckers luring unwary vessels with false
lights on the storm-wracked coast of Cornwall.
I continued reading:
-The once proud sites of the righteous became barren wastes of vacuous splogs and brazen images of bouncing titties–
“Maybe there is something to it after all,” says McWhirr.
“Aye, Captain. And look what we have now in this rank grog-shop of the internet-a foul lot of brazen cut-throats who’d just as soon steal your traffic as say how-do-ye-do.”
One such galoot, a skanky brigand with a striped shirt and cutlass, approached the bar next to McWhirr with the slithery movement of a wolf eel saying:
“Eh mates, stand us a pint.”
I hastened to intervene.
“My good sir, may I introduce Saturnius Machirr?”
At this, the miscreant grew pale as an albino beluga and withdrew with an obsequeous bow.
“Most honored to meet you.”
The rains have let up. I scan Port Madison’s northeast shore through binoculars to see the Farnham house, built above the old mill-site, where much of Bainbridge Island’s forests were milled in the mid-19th century. The house looks the same as when Judge John Farnham leaned on his hoe under his prize apple trees.
He first signed on the General Park Hill at the age of 12 and spent 3 years shipping cotton between South Carolina and Liverpool before trading in contraband silk between Shanghai and Hong Kong. He rounded the Horn in the rush of ’49 and headed north to Port Madison when loggers, ship builders and land speculators were rapidly displacing the indigenous Suquamish people. He commanded side-wheel steamers, worked as shipwright and, in an odd –if not downright ironic–turn of fortune, served as keeper of the Seattle Pest House.
This was when the Old Man House still stood; where creation was annually sung into being in the Winter Dances. It was the lofty, cedar temenos of the Suquamish tribe that was demolished by Albion’s brass-plated cannon of imperious might in 1870.
This is was the home of Princess Angeline.
After reading Jerusalem, I’ve come to see Blake’s Gothic, sweeping poetry entwined with the shadowy firs of Port Madison. A rummy wastrel turned Urizenic guardian of self-righteous law, Farnham became the very image of man’s fallen spiritual state, laboring eternally in the Satanic mills, separated from his Sophianic emanation and closed to the Divine Vision.
And I hear fair Angeline as the banished Jerusalem, still weeping over the bay for her lost and tender children.
Farnham’s end was tragic. He had begun exhibiting signs of odd behavior and was forcibly dismissed from office. He held out against the deputy sheriffs in the Port Madison courthouse (then the County seat) with a shot-gun for 3 days before being led away quietly–a man forsaken by his adamant God of Reason.
Ballasted with river rock, he boarded the Seattle ferry, planning to jump into the deep soundings off Elliot Bay. But the emergency crew fished him out and he died shortly after.
I honor John Farnham, respect his adventuresome spirit and outrageous character; whose salty yarn and prize apples are the true golden relics of another age.
Thanks to Sue Vincent for nominating me for The Imagine Award. Jenn Mulherin, who created this award, has a blog called My Fibrotastic Life, The award was made to “recognize bloggers who express their passion and dedication towards their blogs through their creativity.”
Sue’s blog certainly qualifies in this regard. I love her imaginative writing about the ancient, Celtic mystery schools, her evocation of the lovely British Isles as well as strength of her prose (though I wonder how much credit should go to her dog.) Sue is also an artist. My favorites are her watercolors and encaustic paintings.
As part of the deal in accepting this honor, I nominate 5 bloggers who I think qualify for the honor.
The poetry of Wuji Seshat Nibada is a celebration of ethereal beauty. And he seems to come out with another every day-that’s dedication. For me, his work recalls the simple elegance of Japanese poetry.
In art, there’s Citta di Cartone, or Cardboard Towns. His cityscapes are executed in a deft, graphic shorthand with a unerring eye for atmosphere and texture.
Whatever category James Fielden fits into (maybe none-he is unique,) I nominate him for his serenely beautiful meditations on light and love. As a bonus, the recordings of his radiant prose come through loud and clear through the aural channel.
The Runningfather Blog. Jim Aldrich’s blog is a revelation. His poetry and prose conjures subtle spiritual states with concision and flair. I am looking forward to he second installment of his chilling, dystopic vision: Bishop’s Burden.
Then there’s John Wreford, Photographer whose heart-wrenching work from the front lines shows and tells of the brave souls who live in Syria. While John’s reportage may not be considered “imaginative,” I include it here because of his dedication, and because it rouses compassion for the suffering of our brothers and sisters in that war-torn region. Maybe there is no greater work of imagination than that.
To accept the Imagination Award you need to:
1. Copy and paste the Imagine Award into your post.
2. Thank the blogger who nominated you and link their blog page to your post.
3. List 3-5 things about the nominator’s blog that you like (that you think are creative.)
4. Nominate 5 other bloggers.
5. Notify your nominees.
6. Display The Imagine Award to your blog’s award page.
I want to thank Sue Vincent for nominating me for a most imaginative blogger award.
Sue has a special place in my heart for being the first to follow my blog. Her posts about her beloved English countryside and the rituals marking ancient mysteries are a revelation. To be honest, at first I thought her writing a bit too out there- too (as we say) (woo woo.) But I’ve since come to appreciate the power of her prose-as solid as the standing stones and menhirs she so vividly evokes in her work.
This is a hasty post, as I have to rush off to studio to prepare for my opening on November 1st.
Sue has inspired me to get back to work on my Raven Window painting. I thought I was past the Albedo phase, but find myself laying down even more swathes of white.
Here is another work in progress- my altar for Day of the Dead.
After I get show hung I want to make my own most creative blogger nominations. But there are so many creative bloggers out there.
Carrying on with the Raven Visitation. As Raven is the messenger who dwells between worlds, the stained glass window motif fits the theme. It frames the shifty threshold where spirit travels between waking and dream.
Stained-glass demands a faithfulness to process which brings you back, again and again, to the logical form of it’s making. It is fitting that the material for scribing of boundaries in stained-glass windows is Saturn’s element, lead.
It is also fitting that the base material of the painter is charcoal, end product of the calcification process in Alchemy. Composition is a fiery process where all superfluous passages are burnt away, leaving only the original inspiration, the point of it all. It is a reminder of the point of all this shifting between worlds, and the spirit I need to maintain through the fiery calcification process: that my heart’s work may benefit all beings. It is Raven’s wake-up call.
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