Friday, September 2, 2016

Mutual Vibrations

Music and drinks.
That's all we're looking for.
A moment of connection
In a smoky alley.
Tobacco and other things
Floating in the air
The smell of intimate interactions
Not yet anticipated.
Kindness in a look
A smile
A guitar string plucked
Broken
Restrung, and hoping.
Anticipation
In our mutual vibrations.

(Ryan Johnson and Ryan Davidson at the Back Alley Pub, Great Falls Montana, 09/01/2016)

Master of Music featuring Chairea, Hibernator, and Ranges

Master of Music
A Poem by Henry Van Dyke

Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard,
Living forever in temple and picture and statue and song, --
Look how the world with the lights that they lit is illumined and starred,
Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their art burn long!

Where is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished away?
Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful art in the air?
Gone, -- it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close of the day!
The Master has finished his work, and the glory of music is -- where?

Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical sound
Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet of old:
Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped to the ground,
Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous harmonies rolled!

Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that life-giving sea;
Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will roll,
Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened to thee, --
The glory of music endures in the depths of the human soul.

Inspiration on a Theme

The sources of inspiration can be fleeting. As a young man I happened across a poster in a small art store that featured two twin girls with no torsoes. One girl looked into a book, and one looked out an open wall at a field of ice. In the distance a hot air balloon carried plant life to an unknown destination. In the fireplace, books burned.

Without knowing the artist, I was in love. The work was surreal but beautiful and grounded.

Through the course of several moves, I lost the poster. But years later, I have come to think that the painting shown on the poster must have been by Rene Magritte. His style is the only one even remotely close, though I've never been able to find the specific image.

Recently, I had an image appear in my head. I can only assume that its origin was another of Magritte's paintings, The Lovers. The influence was limited, appearing mainly in the form of a fabric stretched over a woman's face. A million other images and thoughts influenced the rest.

That's usually the nature of inspiration. It is almost never pure. It has a million parts coming from a million sources and a million directions. A piece from childhood. A piece from a museum years ago. A piece from the internet yesterday. The face of someone passing you on the street.

Purity in inspiration would be so boring.

Thanks to Julia Moss for helping me create the weird images in my head this afternoon.

The Lovers, by Rene Magritte

As The Crow Flies

Pavement bound arrows

Flying across a thawing tundra,

The bird and deer and cows and snow

Coast by our windows.
How do we see

The horizon roll by, never closer, never further

Always just out of reach

Of our freezing breath

And vehicle exhaust.

The Faun

L’Apres-midi d’un Faune

Eclogue

The Faun

Translation by Stephane Mallarme

These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.

So bright

Their crimson flesh that hovers there, light

In the air drowsy with dense slumbers.

Did I love a dream?

My doubt, mass of ancient night, ends extreme

In many a subtle branch, that remaining the true

Woods themselves, proves, alas, that I too

Offered myself, alone, as triumph, the false ideal of roses.

Let’s see….

or if those women you note

Reflect your fabulous senses’ desire!

Faun, illusion escapes from the blue eye,

Cold, like a fount of tears, of the most chaste:

But the other, she, all sighs, contrasts you say

Like a breeze of day warm on your fleece?

No! Through the swoon, heavy and motionless

Stifling with heat the cool morning’s struggles

No water, but that which my flute pours, murmurs

To the grove sprinkled with melodies: and the sole breeze

Out of the twin pipes, quick to breathe

Before it scatters the sound in an arid rain,

Is unstirred by any wrinkle of the horizon,

The visible breath, artificial and serene,

Of inspiration returning to heights unseen.

MODELS: Jojo Coburn and Amma Jones

MAKE-UP: Marisa Rodriguez

ASSISTANT: Sara Habein

Coyote on the Horizon

There are coyotes on these horizons.
Snow blown into strange shapes
By wind that cuts glass.
There are coyotes on these horizons.
Owls staying low to avoid the dead giveaway
Of giant shadows
Coming down on top of scurried feet.
There are coyotes on these horizons.
And they stop and turn,
Looking at you and me
As we huddle together for each other's warmth
And stumble down roads
Impassable when wet.