tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29038272664883680622024-03-04T21:35:45.158-08:00Last Known NestA parking space for views, reviews and interviews. For essential experience and existential conveyance sharing one bumpy access road.nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-35787667352223278252021-04-15T16:41:00.002-07:002021-04-15T16:52:27.820-07:00Writing for new eyes!<p><span style="font-size: large;"> To friends who have so patiently waited for the return to writing--i stagger under humility and apology--what does one say upon a trembling return, after such long absence? nothing--nothing at all-- a writer must not waste any more time to allow words to break the silence of a dusty keyboard. there! now i can get on to retrieve lost threads and dimmed thoughts, for others if not for self, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A child calls my name as he bounces on a trampoline, neighbors laugh, tulips bob in wind, there is a whole world out there! mind staggers between words, colors blink in the sun, surrounded by kindness, i run upstairs to gather thoughts; to collect long neglected poetry. Thank You! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Thank You Julian Dean! newest member of my family! <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-11047216252476318052016-12-12T19:28:00.001-08:002016-12-12T19:30:55.279-08:00A Single Tear<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon returning from an ordinary shopping trip to the nearest
other small town, I turned to my friend who was driving her car with great
composure, we saw each other, yet spoke no word, an unusual pause for us. Words
retreated to the shade of our throats; to rest awhile as our eyes focused on
the hidden years of forgotten joy washed away by inevitable flash floods of
tears.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found myself slipping into a light blue mood somewhere
between grey sky and green lawns. Her absent voice resonating in the hollow heart
of the small vehicle, the space filled with a blanket of forgiveness that
permeated our common area; we were daughters, we were mothers, women of trust
and tedium.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Twelve years’, she said’ and not a single tear, then last
week’ she confided her impulse to spontaneously allow herself to grieve a flow
of what she hesitated to feel as forgiveness;. a strange quietude filling her
profile as she drove with hands on the wheel and mind in the past; oddly
present, mostly whole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjEaLuNVell83mbBsMMIUs8pSS41ySHK0jNvKYusF4kP4BkidtNulzFPMgnRjMmGb1u-CizaNvw3IGGvECR_GTu44o-I0-dp_hVbRu2JQfrvdwMZeeuu3zi2VPtblJ17bFPCnp_y9cWg1/s1600/art+roman+en+charente.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjEaLuNVell83mbBsMMIUs8pSS41ySHK0jNvKYusF4kP4BkidtNulzFPMgnRjMmGb1u-CizaNvw3IGGvECR_GTu44o-I0-dp_hVbRu2JQfrvdwMZeeuu3zi2VPtblJ17bFPCnp_y9cWg1/s320/art+roman+en+charente.jpg" width="240" /></a>A rare calm brushed over the day, I knew that the moment
would hang about us, unspoken between calls to needs and chores of a tidy life,
separate, disparate, yet held aloft by silk threads of a strong yet gentler
nature. Trials and trauma swept aside for the passage of our present necessities,
we walked in diverse aisles of commercial must; obeying the do, the don’t of
shopping lists, and as we resurfaced, we saw in each other the wounded animal,
the tender child we had been, and we knew that we had come to the traverse
where the road forks away from pain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Away from years we drag, tears we dry before they swell.
Gutted from the spent drama, we fell softly into the routine of cathartic
consumption, the food of our days, the taste of common delights affordable to
the means of ordinary women in an extraordinary mood. We ditched our worn out
truths with a fork, and poked fun at the small miseries of a miserable age in
times of televised troubles and never ending wars; we were free.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Free from the need to forgive, free to give the past permission
to exit at the nearest overpass. We shook our heads in sympathy for worn out
emotions and basked in empathetic acceptance. She reached out to the memory of
her own mother, within the depth of her gaze. I silently laid mine to rest across
the ocean, inhaling the vapors of one single tear on the car window toward my
present world.</div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-30374759059242412972016-03-19T12:25:00.000-07:002016-03-19T12:25:24.939-07:00For Tomorrow Parting<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<h1 style="page-break-after: avoid;">
<b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">For
Tomorrow, Parting</span></u></b></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She, the child, she, the
universe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Oh soft loneliness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And her body, alone, again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Sorrow swells in her belly</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Full of water and blood</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">While she brings plasma to
life,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">To clone her destiny.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She stretches passion </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Beyond walls of sanity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Smelling softly of matrimony</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She oscillates amid her moods</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Swelling moistly under August
heat,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She vacillates in summer
misery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Vanillin scent wafts from her
womb,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Bathing her in narcissistic
lymph.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Head bent toward her
thoughts,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She mourns the crowded seed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And offers a certain sadness</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">To the posterity immured
within.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Through her plump arms and
breast</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Courses a savage tenderness.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She, the child, she, the
universe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Oh soft loneliness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And her body, alone, again…</span></div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-19139897423268989852016-03-18T18:52:00.000-07:002016-03-18T18:52:22.505-07:00Losing Your Tongue<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Losing Your Tongue </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ici je raconte la soif
des livres cracquelés, je pronounce les silences riches d’émotions contenues
dans chaque cellule désséchée. C’est ainsi que je retrace les voyages
internisés sous ciel torride.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how we lose our mother tongue; that first language
to tease our seat of knowledge. I lost my own bearings in the sand, one word at
a time, and with it, the cultural difference it carried. The mental map folded
and creased by cold letters from ‘home’. The names of objects which I found in
new surroundings replaced accurate adjectives which I no longer used. This is
how devolution of elocution came upon me, rapidly dropping onto the arid soil
of the new places. So I spoke faster to mask the sense of loss. I learned every
word in the context of found books and discarded papers. I avidly read every
word of advertisement, front to back and again. The winds blew all perception
as I grieved a part of self whom I had ill known.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If language is the vehicle of cultural identity, I became a
split personality the day I decided to leave my birthplace. Romantic notions
aside, I divested myself of a heavy mantle of propriety and gradually took on
an assumed personae who spoke the words of miners and vagrants that inhabited
the western desert. With every name of a rock and each tool of the trade, I
discarded years of experience in both rural and urban way of French life, like
sand dropped from my pockets, and disseminated in dunes forevermore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In retrospect, a youth spent between a rigid city education
during school, and hard labor at vacation time in my ancestral village, had
previously prepared me for dual adaptation; as if I had been plugged into
different circuits all along. I had already suffered the innate clan mentality
which ostracizes others and excludes them from pleasant conversation. Family
stared and sneered at me each time I used correct language in daily speech. Little
‘City girl me’ spoke Latin and whatever other “things” she learned there. On the
other side of the cultural divide; upon my return to the renaissance hilltop of
ancient knowledge ‘Country me’ was severely chastised for using spontaneous
expressions in the Patois dialect of my ancestors. Every holiday was an
exercise in Cartesian discipline, as much as I favored the satisfaction of
learning, I felt a strange attachment for the simpler expression of my country
folk. No time to use fancy phrases between chores. Three little words and turn
around. I thrived there, for awhile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thirst for expanded knowledge would always stir, anywhere,
and with it, the hunt for communication. Books were my primary source of
American English; they were left as gifts, offered by temporary anonymous residents
in the abandoned shacks which pepper the far landscape of the Great
Basin. All I had to do was to find material before the pack-</div>
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rats
did. From partially chewed newsprint to pristine Vonnegut, I ended up talking
like an old Reader’s Digest magazine, and had the sense of humor of a third
grader. It was easy to make me laugh, everything seemed somewhat funny to me. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’ll never be one of us” said the miner to me. Neither
budging nor twitching, I felt a tear welling at the tip of my lashes, so I
turned silently and felt the man’s hand hovering close to my shoulder. He
hesitated and bent his head whispering “I don’t mean it like that”. I knew what
he meant, but that was the last act of separation for the isolated woman I had
become. The desert had become its own dimension between past and present. That unassuming
man had given some food to our little family, he had provided water and
blankets; probably because somewhere, he had children and a wife who would not
live on the desert floor. His gestures, as those of other miners spoke of the
division. “That is not bad – really - you don’t want to become like us out here”
he added twisting his rough hands, I consoled him with a dismissive “I
understand”. (No, I did not!) I was bent on chameleonizing my adoptive
environment. Not to fit in, but to live in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the children were of school age, I was summoned to the
office and severely admonished for speaking our language to them. I was told
that I was confusing the children, and they were confusing the class therefore
I should immediately stop. That was another snip of the cultural scissor, a
surgical strike precisely delivered to my insecure seat of emotions. The fear
of deportation looming as I feared they (whoever they were) would find out that
we had no utilities, a public sin far worse than difference of language. I had
been told that my children and I would be cleaved asunder if the authorities
found that cold water and candles were inadequate situations to raise little Americans.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reluctantly taught mostly flat English and kept the French
for bonding chores only; ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">va te laver les
mains - fait la vaisselle - et tes chaussures’</i> the daily commands of a quasi
normal life. So we carried our water in jugs for miles and cooked on makeshift
grills over deadwood embers. Life tasted good in any language. And the kids
could generally read, write and count before teachers got ‘a’hold of their
brains too. Sand is the ideal write –erase board, and twigs abound in nature.
What is love for?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was in Tecopa California
that I realized that I had gained some track on the runaway train of language.
I met a lady at the local Post Office who invited me to her local home
extension of the Inyo-Kern library. For the next few months I read much of the
little shelf full of donated serious literature and even perused saccharine
romance before dutifully returning each and moving on. I no longer groped for
new words whenever I encountered rare prospectors or geology students along our
daily food foraging in Death Valley, but when I arrived at whatever hovel or
cave I called home, the walls closed in on the fact that I was alone (with
three small children) and my mind spoke no French. Even my dreams resisted the
old language; they were now silent movies, gesticulating on an ethereal theater
within. No color, no odor, I was dead to the old world for several years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Societal scissors had severed the cords. I had chosen not to
mend the wounds; perhaps to protect the family unit, or was it to forget the
pains carried by my first language, my first life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-76727360075508990452016-02-20T16:13:00.001-08:002016-02-20T16:17:10.430-08:00Dear Writer<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear writer, I am your reader, I have sorted your stories
and I want you to take me to places where I have never been. You may have told
these tales many times before. You must have watched wonder pry eyes wide open
on your listener’s faces. But as I sit here, I wish to be transported to the
scenery, the scenario, the sense of who lives in your thoughts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reading glasses
on table, legs elevated, lap blanket snug and a cup of cocoa. Ready! I want to
smell the flowers, the sewers, the ordinary meal, all. I want to hear the mouse
chewing the trailer’s skirts, the child whimpering in his sleep, the traffic in
the distance. It’s all in the detail, the minute mundane moment. It lives in
the voices, the intonations that presage the deed. The story that you have planted
grows and expands into its surroundings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to feel the fear, to anticipate the next blow to the
being which you have brought into my consciousness. As I shrink in my skin when
words yank at the center of emotion, you hold my plexus in your pen; you can’t
tell me what to comprehend, but you have the power to stir, to awaken dormant
cells with mere phrases.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Educate me; let me learn the ways of this life or that
person, this creature beyond myself. Enlarge the scope, I am eyes, I am ears.
Every sense is alert, waiting to be enriched during this time which I devote to
one book, one paragraph to receive your message on this page. I am at one with
the written word, warm and grateful. For the library. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZNwfeyL5w356MAYLdC9IfsphZRVq1PVnzqzett4XfPq3WzAudthAj1D1kNi-JKFcBDenBlmQC-SO6XgnqFdhLfLhXSml9G7lc1O4aqzCh5_fMRm-Hrtwk-KYzAaseIe6fIQ8jhsLF7oK/s1600/300x300+fr+cat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZNwfeyL5w356MAYLdC9IfsphZRVq1PVnzqzett4XfPq3WzAudthAj1D1kNi-JKFcBDenBlmQC-SO6XgnqFdhLfLhXSml9G7lc1O4aqzCh5_fMRm-Hrtwk-KYzAaseIe6fIQ8jhsLF7oK/s320/300x300+fr+cat.png" width="217" /></a></div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-27514410038184689622016-02-18T15:22:00.001-08:002016-02-18T15:22:29.978-08:00Sea Song French (le Chant de la Mer) spoken word.Here is the hastily translated version of the slow poem, Sea Song.<br />
Dagga Punishment ambient sound and nadine sellers (voice).<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrXRqNjI4qqU1AvF0g9NtBBEILCJm-eMo99xFknJZpmn3m6wgFkPCVUu2tkCdQBz6oQJcCZ3p_5y4xiSgHEHUeTt802wHZBXBLjUtTrXiEYrifqtdedz7KGcWZyXrdd1JiFDVUtUkqTtN/s1600/chance+agate+by+Mt+anna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">l</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ciframe%20width=%22100%%22%20height=%22450%22%20scrolling=%22no%22%20frameborder=%22no%22%20src=%22https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/247756788&amp;auto_play=false&amp;hide_related=false&amp;show_comments=true&amp;show_user=true&amp;show_reposts=false&amp;visual=true%22%3E%3C/iframe%3E" target="_blank"><</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrXRqNjI4qqU1AvF0g9NtBBEILCJm-eMo99xFknJZpmn3m6wgFkPCVUu2tkCdQBz6oQJcCZ3p_5y4xiSgHEHUeTt802wHZBXBLjUtTrXiEYrifqtdedz7KGcWZyXrdd1JiFDVUtUkqTtN/s1600/chance+agate+by+Mt+anna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrXRqNjI4qqU1AvF0g9NtBBEILCJm-eMo99xFknJZpmn3m6wgFkPCVUu2tkCdQBz6oQJcCZ3p_5y4xiSgHEHUeTt802wHZBXBLjUtTrXiEYrifqtdedz7KGcWZyXrdd1JiFDVUtUkqTtN/s320/chance+agate+by+Mt+anna.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ciframe%20width=%22100%%22%20height=%22450%22%20scrolling=%22no%22%20frameborder=%22no%22%20src=%22https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/247756788&amp;auto_play=false&amp;hide_related=false&amp;show_comments=true&amp;show_user=true&amp;show_reposts=false&amp;visual=true%22%3E%3C/iframe%3E" target="_blank">iframe width="100%" height="450" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/247756788&amp;auto_play=false&amp;hide_related=false&amp;show_comments=true&amp;show_user=true&amp;show_reposts=false&amp;visual=true"></iframe></a>nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-12063507462650569822016-02-17T13:40:00.000-08:002016-02-17T14:05:23.547-08:00Sea Song Once in awhile words insist on dropping by, to settle on the mind and demand a page, an audience of one, an ear to come alive or simply to fade away quietly in the background before sleep. This is one such poem, emerging from years of dormancy, tentatively peering over the edge of the soup bowl of rural life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3FRQY2rCRHptqb2YS9fnRCHzBnzpK2_YrugNtiD_m2tiMOaMtPHhY4FqtgWtGwGzUGK5AKszyqBuKcV-lB-jTaBQb5ZvzyrN6OGFkwWqaSSYPwTTikNAMLKLH3lNmgqRzDD733Os2gwq-/s1600/heron+in+flight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3FRQY2rCRHptqb2YS9fnRCHzBnzpK2_YrugNtiD_m2tiMOaMtPHhY4FqtgWtGwGzUGK5AKszyqBuKcV-lB-jTaBQb5ZvzyrN6OGFkwWqaSSYPwTTikNAMLKLH3lNmgqRzDD733Os2gwq-/s320/heron+in+flight.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Sea Song<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(Eng)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>recorded<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>01-10-16 ns</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a love song—yes a love song—this- is- a love
song—swirling—swilling song—a sea song—rising from a dark ocean—floating to
shore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a one ear to the sand song—sea foam surging—washing
fears and sloshing tears—rolling—lolling about before retreating in the
wondrous beyond.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a sad song sneering at the sun—this is a sun song
shining through the trees—winking—wicked—teasing—pleasing sun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is an offer—this is the power of peace over pain—like
the open hand—the quiet gaze—an offer—an offer of self—free of fertility, of
futility—in the open fields of racing minds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a sound song—another dawn song—a concert of strange
winds when the mind awakens and the waves overlap—billowing waves lap and lick
bare legs—slap sleepy flesh—this morning of a fresh day.</div>
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Now is the symphony of time to
erase the traces of writhing dreams of long yesterday—this is the song of
silence sinking into sea—softly—softly.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chant de la Mer<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Fr)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ça c’est une chanson d’amour—eh oui chanson d’amour—c’est un
chant tourbillonant au long des courants de la mer—surgissant des profondeurs
de l’océan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
C’est la chanson du sable à l’oreille—des vagues qui lavent les
frayeurs et les larmes—roulant tout autour avant de s’effacer dans le lointain
mystérieux.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ça c’est une chanson triste—se moquant du soleil—c’est le
chant d’un soleil scintillant entre les branches.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
C’est une offre—cette force paisible qui atténue la douleur
de vivre—comme la main ouverte, le regard tranquille—une offre du soi-même—un
geste sans fertilité sans futilité dans cette course aux âmes fécondes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
C’est un concert des sons étranges d’une nouvelle aube—quand
le vent se réveille et les vagues se rencontrent—les vagues se chahutent—les
vagues léchent la plage—léchent les jambes nues et giflent la chaire indolente.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
C’est le matin de nouveau—le jour naissant qui efface les
traces de rêves agonisants de jours passés—c’est la symphonie du temps—c’est le
silence qui se submerge sous l’océan—doucement—doucement.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the following link takes this to the audio part of the experience. in English, the French version to follow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://soundcloud.com/dagga-punishment/sea-song-by-nadine-sellers">https://soundcloud.com/dagga-punishment/sea-song-by-nadine-sellers</a><br />
<br />
<br />nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-89065671253952108342016-01-27T12:48:00.000-08:002016-01-27T12:48:29.782-08:00From the Ground Up<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">From the Ground Up</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sometimes
they fill the air with noise, as if they were lonely. They fret with little
black things, peering above toward the loud boxes, transfixed as if a mouse was
about to dart from them. They must really need practice as I always find one or
the other sitting by those gadgets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They
pollute the whole house with odious odors from cans that spit clouds of
offensive junk. I do wonder what they believe they will kill with those. They
miss the worst and target the best. The carpets are littered with crunchy
tidbits and parts of rolly pollies or crickets, but that one wasp is still
trying to escape through the blinds, and the fleas are multiplying for the end
of this crazy world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well,
the roaches will eventually inherit the leftovers from the looks of the compost
or whatever that mound is in the corner of the yard. I regularly patrol all
sides for rodents that have laughed at those silly traps (no matter the effort)
for the clever plastic boxes, the little poison pellets, or the clang of metal
jaws. There seems to be a clever species to resist any of mankind's inventions.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My
nostrils are desiccated by the puffing thing in the corner. It permeates all
breathing space with noxious gas on a regular basis like a stinking wind in my
hair. The machine that spits cold down upon us can roar and whir in such
obnoxious sessions. I'd rather be hot and slovenly in a dark corner than suffer
the frigid drafts that tease me bones and cramp me muscles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
winter they heat this place beyond comfort. Only the closets offer relief, but
all those smelly shoes and perfumy things clutter the same space, so forget
that zone. Lay low and don't exert yourself, that's about all one can do, day
or night, of course.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well
at least what the moths and weevils have left will end up as compost or mouse
poop, somewhere. Nature has a way of compensating for everything, and I can
find plenty to eat, after all. It's all a game, isn't it?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
can't complain too much, they let me stay here for free, so I simply sigh,
glare or walk away. But most of the time I take advantage of the soft furniture
in my own relaxed style. I luxuriously stretch on the couch and blend in with
the décor, not to bother anyone, my coat matches the microplush of the divan,
how convenient! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It's
our special symbiosis that works best; it’s because my needs are so simple.
They forget about me until dinner time. Some of the stuff she cooks really
smells great, but her taste for veggies irritates me. She insists in offering
me tasteless morsels of things not known in nature. Well, not <i>my</i> nature
anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After
supper they relax in the front room. That's what they think they are doing.
Relaxing. They yell, bark, burst and bellow at each other over some box games
and lights. It tires me just to avoid curses and objects flying across rooms.
I'm glad I'm not involved. I know all the nearest hiding places where I can
ignore all of them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">That's
my way. I'll try to eat when they finally sleep. I'll sniff their winds, listen
to their stomach rumblings to detect fragrant eggs, ‘pootin’ popcorn, or silent-but-greasy
goose fat farts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Rumbling throats and flapping nostrils sing a
nightly serenade. When tractor trailers and rural equipment stop their daily
traffic, I can finally enjoy nature’s nightlife here.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
kids aren't too bad. Well, except for the one who likes to dunk my head under water.
He'll leave me alone today. He's nursing a bad case of black eye. His younger
brother must have been adopted. He's the only sweet one in the family. He wants
to share his pickles or prunes with me, and he doesn't get mad when I turn up
my nose at that. I occasionally sit on his bed as he reads me a story. I'm
patient, he's dedicated; we'll survive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He
brought home a new cat box from the yard sale next door. I hope that he learns
to empty it more often, before mold grows long grey hairs on those clumps. The
box of cat litter that came with it shows multiple cats. One resembles me like
a twin, all these silly ads are quaint, but personally, I prefer the sand below
the rosebushes ‘cause <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their </i>dog hates
thorns. Meow!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzilzrh7eSKEQA9dV3S_VWReyORiVDKb3ZJ4BYq7kusi9wvIYyV6pfR0_M1Hk5f31ba1rJcapQjQWWbFPlPBhNfOIVei3yWPUy2fxVTfc0GpC9c0lQZ4mzed1AjgJCaSlLj2Xd6J_-zmr/s1600/DCP02748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzilzrh7eSKEQA9dV3S_VWReyORiVDKb3ZJ4BYq7kusi9wvIYyV6pfR0_M1Hk5f31ba1rJcapQjQWWbFPlPBhNfOIVei3yWPUy2fxVTfc0GpC9c0lQZ4mzed1AjgJCaSlLj2Xd6J_-zmr/s320/DCP02748.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-9504534045136827912015-12-17T18:32:00.000-08:002015-12-17T18:32:15.345-08:00A Poet ApartA Poet Apart<br /><br />somewhere a man sits<br />in his chair<br />contemplating a sad belly<br /><br />dark stubble creeps on his jaw <br />a stubborn set against it all<br />eyelids low reveal none<br />none of the bad hangovers<br />that crowd the memory <br />and corrode perception<br /><br />his pen opens a poem<br />only to close upon the mystery<br />of lingering loneliness<br /><br />the tilt of his head a perfect egg<br />bright against evening shadows<br />words beat the winter about him<br />exposing veins where rages blood<br />and beer flooding plains of love and loath<br /><br />crude honesty leaves no gap for fresh air<br />it slaps the truth into the cracks<br />ink over vodka laced in smoke<br />a perfect cocktail of senses<br />to follow the clock around<br /><br />to earn that rare recognition <br />in a stranger's pupil<br />a man a chair one poem<br /><br />nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-39458329337592818192015-12-15T11:35:00.000-08:002015-12-15T11:35:56.065-08:00A Review of Wolfgang Carstens' "Rented Mule" (by nadine Sellers)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Canadian writer Wolfgang Carstens ‘The Prolific’ has once more taken to the
edge of the plebeian plight; from there peering over the abyss of cement cityscapes,
entering the daily drudge to sink into the dregs of multiple shifts. Shifts of
moods, shifts of needs that rise and fall with necessity at the heels of poetic
brevity. This book, under the seal of NightBallet Press.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carstens’ acuity, finds the detail like that of the great
and the dead <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>who have brought us to deep
and sad recognition of the human comedy. The artistic duo of writer and
illustrator leads to the perfect distortion of word and line, rounded, lean or
bloated. As if Janne Karlsson had been sitting in the security booth of the
supermarket, capturing residual humor from the mindless breath beneath..</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All these bipeds rolling around circular lives that lead
right back to comfort foods, comfort gadgets, in discomfort of uniform apparel
for the sake of pretense, existence. The hierarchy of the workplace runs by in concentric
pressure down to the least and latest “rented mule”. It chokes the word out of
the poet and the line out of the artist in softly delivered jabs; oh what a clean
and blunt object, the pen and the pencil!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-6505238740321843422015-02-12T14:53:00.001-08:002015-02-12T14:53:22.281-08:00Lost in Writing<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Upon entering this writer's venue, it feels as if I was
caught up in a surprise bachelor party, and can't find the exit. A bit
overdressed, no fluff, no glitter; glamour does not enter my lexicon, the word
‘romance’ bumps against my sensitivity, shunning the use of offensive words as
much as I can. “F” words range between feel and fear, not fond of ‘fun’. I
guess that I must have stumbled into the wrong place at the right pace. Should
I dig out the dusty thesaurus to find another name for ‘boring’?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the time it takes to crawl out of incomputerate
existence, I have reaped some pleasure in elbowing the literate
cyber-community. The trip from isolation to revelation has helped me to embrace
new writing and refined expression. I have met valuable artists, sensual poets
and generous stewards of the collective consciousness.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFIlDAOWNynwcjbXmE1aSHnNtd4q3emQNP9osnEIqILsDlEPRBJcDmUd5y1fUE26OVSL7FLtDjecrCLsU_3J2HgKUCnZ0pCbuzj8iopljR5L8XZXrXYVf8knYJInrvTFP268KQNQ6TmxdL/s1600/DCP02870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFIlDAOWNynwcjbXmE1aSHnNtd4q3emQNP9osnEIqILsDlEPRBJcDmUd5y1fUE26OVSL7FLtDjecrCLsU_3J2HgKUCnZ0pCbuzj8iopljR5L8XZXrXYVf8knYJInrvTFP268KQNQ6TmxdL/s1600/DCP02870.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could a writer sense the different mental planes at work
here? Words plop up from the cerebral pond. Friends know that, left to
indiscriminate scribbling, I may eventually express the very breath that drives
the writing. The longer I linger in this stagnant personal pool, the more algae
will obscure my thoughts, till light dims memory altogether.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This life appears a bit bloggish since I migrated those
writing efforts to the open web. The freedom of subject seems – subjective? I
am swept by the whoosh of overwhelming streams and memes. The best blogger list
carries a large percentage of men exercising their opinion and women flexing
their hunting muscles on the information trail. So, a click and a cliche apart,
I am neither male, nor huntress of any game. Mind over meat, matter over money?
should I swim upstream or drown in the current wave?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While tentatively sniffing niches, I am establishing a novel
route overland and overseas, seeking evidence of social progress, and yes,
finding some, buried under piles of tantalizing and enticing tales. I follow
the comment tracks and discover astute readers and co-writers of common ilk.
Talent is sure to carve a rutted path among the needful throng. But someone has
to hold the flashlight upon the road.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When all the qualitative ratio has been entered, one site
seems no better, nor worse than another, just a different home for various
styles. Entertaining or stimulating, most writers have so much to share in a
more or less literary genre. Discretion being a minor virtue and kindness a
major attribute, it is best to refrain from gossip in the ball court, for fear
of being hit by a mean racket ball bouncing off the walls.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLgTFy29mElvzWv-dpUnD74gwC6rJEqC2tkhc-OoTBlDi96kvq4wtWXkOtR8rfu8NCPURZeFZd8EaypTCF2VV0xTyFXFM7F4goGCaOq4u0bq4a1WKeV4qf8jo-PqBM6cIAav7KnwLNRkR/s1600/DCP02857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilLgTFy29mElvzWv-dpUnD74gwC6rJEqC2tkhc-OoTBlDi96kvq4wtWXkOtR8rfu8NCPURZeFZd8EaypTCF2VV0xTyFXFM7F4goGCaOq4u0bq4a1WKeV4qf8jo-PqBM6cIAav7KnwLNRkR/s1600/DCP02857.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pet names and clever pseudonyms may empower the timid, but they
provide useful cover for the vengeful and the bully; anonymity offers little
justice to the serious writer. Hidden identities detract from the boldness of
truth. Truth, the wide spectrum lenses of authoritative vision, sneaks under
guise of freedom of speech, under cover of freedom of information. It assumes
shapes in the reader's perception, mobile, malleable or elusive. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbKFLHwrdRBJVFzCfuwuovUwhUxb7qrk3gwJUvyg661-e1NnghmWd64cUg_-2W8jnqRGc8XSl9l9ndLEAEwmY8XmaO5xtih1vUEfxYkdaIPdNGJD9i2NJToBi3pYp5l3IpY0aQO1L6NlGi/s1600/DCP02709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbKFLHwrdRBJVFzCfuwuovUwhUxb7qrk3gwJUvyg661-e1NnghmWd64cUg_-2W8jnqRGc8XSl9l9ndLEAEwmY8XmaO5xtih1vUEfxYkdaIPdNGJD9i2NJToBi3pYp5l3IpY0aQO1L6NlGi/s1600/DCP02709.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Concerned moralists, caring religionists and passionate
atheists can be found within the ranks of the web. Shy or loud, in praise or
protest, each one is digging at the essential human crust. Each voice, once
formed of silence is loosened upon the globe in incremental word count. Gone are
the limits of propriety, when women were kept busy at the wood stove, men were
enchained to the paycheck and ideas died in the bed sheets of boredom. Alright,
alright! we still have radiant stoves and glorious sheets, but we can write
about the burning issues or the strangling ideologies with a strange feeling of
fictional freedom. As if Art was imitating us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Witnessing the human theatre through a controllable screen
has given us a wider view of the universality of drama. We know that pain is
eclectic in its face, it crosses the Ocean at the speed of news, it lives in
the great noise, bounces off pages, and dwarfs our senses. Of course, it is
essential to shun cyber-sluts who tease tired readers. All eyes open for psychic
leeches who market ideas for effect, I mean predatory trolls who seek to taunt the
lame or scratch the wounds. All manner of people hide under the opacity of
social media, some hunger for fragile emotional systems; they jeopardize
relationships through veiled identity, these provide us with necessary
patience. For growing up with a global perspective, I am grateful. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all need the nourishing atmosphere of the masters of
language who help us to carry culture to a kinder level. Did I say kinder? That
may be a bit optimistic. Whether written in a cathartic fit or an artistic
fiesta, the object of word-smithing is to dispense enthusiasm to the receptive
minds in this, our creative medium. The trick is to engage the subconscious.
When at the quietest of moments, a thought comes upon you, find a pen, a
keyboard or tablet, move gently, so as not to startle the idea, for it may
never visit this way again, not in quite the same form, not in these very
words, ever. Quick, write it down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Verve will evaporate if you open your mouth. These tiny
leaks of momentary glory will ooze the plot out, piecemeal. Beware! If you
satisfy questions with any answer about your writing, the theme will flounder
or waver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sensuous or lyrical, serious or
satirical, satisfy the reader’s hunger with a polished story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life may provide you with empiric material,
but the cryptic mind will decode the subtleties. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dictate to your fingers, release the pressure of unspent
passion, never to divulge the whole plot till it appears on small screens for
its intended audience. Thank you for relieving me of my cyber-social duties,
for deflating my pockets of guilt when I do not respond or reciprocate. Words
can pull the ballast out of the writer's belly. But, readers are the ones who have
the ultimate power to restore the balance between the writer and the written.
Oh yes, that’s a lot to expect of voracious papivores who consume reams of published
matter in a single day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK!Mind hermetically
sealed against vicarious seepage, keyboard at the ready, both typing digits at
attention, I am, again, eager to nestle in this quasi anonymity, among few fine
literati. See you next book!</div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-65327316692958077272015-02-09T18:55:00.000-08:002015-02-10T08:25:17.991-08:00Review of Zarina Zabrisky and Simon Rogghe's Green Lions.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
A string pulls me toward the small book on my desk, this
invisible lace draws me over and over to flip pages by thumb and to plunge
along a travelogue of subcutaneous senses. Zarina Zabrisky and Simon Rogghe
have fused an artistic duet that pours from pages of sketch and poetry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The synchrony of evocative verse plays along allusions to
self discovery, Simon darkly, in italics, Zarina boldly, in ink, dance to a black and
white cerebral and corporeal harmony. Together they follow the meanders of their unabashed impulses. Their
tongues express a blend of archaic aura with rich Slavic and Semitic
influences. Their bodies, felt along moving metaphor. The authors translate the
seen from the perceived in swirling words that flash images on raw senses<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The colors of language bring vivid meaning to the flat print
of black and white sketch <i>“your stomach-it pulses violet and scintillates
dark purple” </i>Simon’s juxtaposed italics complement her sensuous line
drawings to intriguing perfection. <i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mutual honesty flows deeply below each stanza “<i>We have a
pact against futile pursuits</i>” says Rogghe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The emphasis upon the personal establishes the insular quality of
passion spoken in word and deed. Simon displays the gentle force which
protects, Zarina allows necessary healing to progress. “<i>I am a story within
a story</i>” drives the reader to the center of her being. She spirals the
strands of spontaneous thought with tactile sensuality.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Animals allude to particular characteristics which they,
together, weave along mystical paths. Flirting cranes on a full page drawing
symbolize the elegant attraction of poet and artiste. Zabrisky’s swans idealize
fidelity, each bird drawn by her hand elicits the relational flight of beings
on a life journey, through the air above the mundane. In “<i>Equestrian
Seduction Duet”</i> Pegasus untethered, takes us on an undeniable trip of all
senses. Her plain text wonderment “<i>Tell me, are horses lonely creatures?.
Like people, like islands, like cities, like lovers.”</i>, his wondrous reply
imparts intimacy “<i>when a horse takes off, it barely pats the ground”. </i>Selecting
a single quote would diminish this entire exquisite poem. I chose to hear their
words echo into the subconscious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Exotic locations become visions along the evolutionary path
of sentiments.<i> Queretara</i> resonates to the rhythm of heels upon earthen
tiles, impatient feet scaring fear away by day and the same feet restoring
peace <i>beyond crimson gauze</i> by night. The innate mystery dissipates pain
in single words and terse couplets; each one is chosen with economy against a
larger scope of influence. They, together impart vulnerability, <i>“I wept the
forest bear of my fear</i>” shares Zarina--against backgrounds of natural
settings. “<i>a gift of seaweed and love”</i>. Whether by fire or by sand, the
reader is pulled into the experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The immediacy of love above the desert scratches raw portrayals in <i>Tableau
Vivant.</i> Simon Rogghe indeed paints essential emotive landscapes. “<i>sand
as blood—eyes of salt” </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In conclusion, I skip the compliments, the summary, all I
want to do is to return to the book and drown my day in layers of sensual
reality, that magical sweet spot of being. Suspended by words, held by Green
Lions.</div>
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<![endif]-->nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-22870962039156025222014-11-20T18:34:00.000-08:002014-11-20T18:34:40.936-08:00Cyanic Dump<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwzKRdArTAWfJEtUluez5eXYIniNUpHNIn0Q7l6kD6t06QSKbR4Dz8TSY_FmjodegRUmXLIGk5ggIhhujGNYeArZBOW5BHq9cGwFVxBGPxrelxC8dFv7QhEcJpRcit_rACq0jFBHPrtQ9/s1600/1+chuckar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwzKRdArTAWfJEtUluez5eXYIniNUpHNIn0Q7l6kD6t06QSKbR4Dz8TSY_FmjodegRUmXLIGk5ggIhhujGNYeArZBOW5BHq9cGwFVxBGPxrelxC8dFv7QhEcJpRcit_rACq0jFBHPrtQ9/s1600/1+chuckar.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">A faded sign
warns the intruder “Do Not Enter”. The large gray hill looms large and dull below
the mill, where nothing subsists and no animal dares venture. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Winter wind
slaps the mountain over the narrow portal, the mill clangs dryly on the
hillside above us. Children run, screaming after a mangy mongrel. I call my
sons to keep them safe, safe from volatile compounds, from mineral particles,
from cyanide and the unknown. Snakes have long retired to impoverished mines
and abandoned prospects. They will writhe in a spring dance when the world
awakens above them. Ready as we will be to hunt for whatever has survived.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Winter wind
burns the lungs as I stumble down the path to chase chuckars away from the
mining camp, away from hungry dogs and idle youths. Tomorrow the sleek gray
partridges will be dinner for my own children, and I watch them grow, the bird,
the hare, never taking more than we need to live on the arid land. Dogs dig the
ashen hill for whatever died there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Winter wind,
green and dry, inflames my nostrils with cyanic anger, I scream in the zephyr. The
miner’s children play king of the mountain on the oxides of horror-zinc-lead-or
silver. I scream in the weather, though no one can hear me, nor much less care
in the race to futility. School is too far away, their mother is too drunk, their
father works underground. Their future looms large and rich as the dreams of
the poor. I am but a stranger in a sterile land. Winter wind stirs caustic
ripples about the ochre mound. Its peak is round like an old bald head covered
with dripping crevasses of dried pus, caked for a half life. Miners die young
above the ground. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Curious teens
approach with blasting caps in hand, ready for the holidays of fire and
crackers. I warn everyone to stay clear of the dangerous explosives, the
tallest turns around and pulls his full frame as large as he can stretch. “There’s
no danger, I light those all the time” he fights the blustery gusts and draws
nearer to my sons, I tilt my head to the right in a quick motion, all three run
in the direction of my gesture. The two kids that tail their big hero erupt in
spontaneous bursts of laughter that echo in the canyon across us. As the wind
dies down, sheets of vapors and ethereal dust drop like drapes of gossamer
cloth fainting upon the hillside.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The eldest of
the juveniles finds a pack of matches and a lighter in the depth of his brown
pants. He shows the goodies to his accomplices. “Now we can have fun” he
declares at the top of his lungs. I shake my head and walk to him. His eyes
recede in his flat face, no smile moves his dry lips, the youth recoils
sideways to avoid my gaze. Shaking a firm “no” with my entire torso, I tell
each of these miner’s children that their fathers will be punished or fired if
the bosses find out they are in possession of mine property.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Who’d tell’em?”
they simultaneously ask, I reply “the ambulance driver”, “uh?” “oh, yes after
your face is peppered by sulfur and metal” they turn to each other like
chipmunks checking for the eagle’s shadow on the ground. “My dad is a
powderman, he giv’em to me all the time, I never blowed mysef’ up, I know what
I’m doin’”.his jaw juts out a good inch forward and his mouth closes under
certainty of power.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Have you seen
any old metal stoves around?” I inquire. All of a sudden faces come alive and
they stumble upon each other to show me where the best of treasures can be
unearthed. We follow them, they erupt in a myriad questions about my accent, my
kids, my clothes, what do I know, what they know, a veritable fireworks of
curiosity and giggles takes place in this new sand circus. “Have you ever had
jackrabbit? It’s good. And I know where you can get a hundred of them birds you
were chasing up there—I can find some real good stuff for you in the old dumps,
wanna come with us?” “I’ll show you!”.</span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The afternoon
spent running on burro trails down the canyon mouth, we are all loaded with
ancient artifacts, old tools in various states of disrepair, dolls with missing
heads, chipped glasses, glassless spectacles, twisted wire and unreadable signs
that invite hilarious guessing. We part newfound friends at the crossroad to
our shacks. Making dates for further explorations on week-ends or summer
vacation, job allowing, metal prices willing, never knowing when the ore runs
out or when the miners call it quits. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am in the
yard, sorting our collected prizes by immediate use, expected re-use or flat
out creative purposes. Suddenly a sharp sound splits the still air above the
valley. The boys and I stare at each other, we all stand stiff and frozen. We
recognize the agony behind the scream. More yelling follows, I find myself
running down the steep gravel road, I slip and glide not remembering that I am
barefooted. The younger teens run toward me “don’t tell nobody! Don’t tell on
him, please” they beg, scared little boys that they are, they still don’t
believe powder is dangerous. I must promise before I approach the fallen oldest
one.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> A few spots mar
his face with driplets of blood, but his right arm is quite chewed up. I don’t
believe he is a candidate for infection, the very heat of the burn must have
cauterized his wounds. “as long as you keep the area clean, you’ll be fine, but
you may hurt for a long time. The stuffing has left his ego, he whines and
stares at his arm, someone’s little boy has played with fire and his daddy
won’t feel sorry for him, his daddy will know he has taken these from his work jacket.
There will not be any pocketfuls of presents anymore. Fait accompli! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I run back to
our house for bandages and sterilizer. My sons have waited with trepidation. I regale
them with<span> </span><span> </span>descriptions of flesh and blood, the hanging
skins and smell of scorched meat, making appropriate grimaces to emphasize the
gruesome accident. To send a warning of caution in all things that burn or go
boom! A chill courses through my veins when I think I have spotted more than
mere curiosity in the youngest, I believe I have seen genuine attraction to
risk taking in the bluest of his eye. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVm9MS3jBa9eEj_0R4HqRwjI_fXOt0knD-E2yH_8DRWH4r3CpRcOvJCXUyoDSQOoMMX5YSHihpU_uYPd87B9cuUWI5lDJVjrrawuCqZli-IcPP7fdEXc1Kik_MchJfAS0aSIpplJvDOdc/s1600/caliche+hills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVm9MS3jBa9eEj_0R4HqRwjI_fXOt0knD-E2yH_8DRWH4r3CpRcOvJCXUyoDSQOoMMX5YSHihpU_uYPd87B9cuUWI5lDJVjrrawuCqZli-IcPP7fdEXc1Kik_MchJfAS0aSIpplJvDOdc/s1600/caliche+hills.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mill gossip soon
carried from shack to house kept me informed on the health of the teen. His
father was later given his last check with a promise of not mentioning that he
had committed the dreaded powder theft, code of honor among diggers. Never
leave a job with a price or a crime on your head. He was a good man with a
regular son. City or country, boys-will-be-boys is an expectation in the
harsher places where men make a hard living up or down below. And mothers are
often absent for all obvious and not so obvious reasons. Boys will be men. Maybe.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Winter wind
blows upon the hill where all children breathe. A lone buzzard circles in the
fading day.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-36206749329070080652014-11-06T15:43:00.000-08:002014-11-06T15:43:27.711-08:00A review of the new edition of The Fires of Waterland by R.A.Kukkee<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Fires of Waterland. By Raymond Alexander Kukkee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If a book is to be judged by its cover, then the Fires of
Waterland by R.A. kukkee presents the reader with an ominous presence. Fire
remains ever present in the belly of the story, in the lives of the characters.
Water, its opposite cools the spirits with self doubt and secrecy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Polar views of the poor, and of those in control arise along
raw conflict. They drive suspense with a certain knowledge of the ruts on these
roads. Truth and adversity make strange bedfellows in this movie of the mind. “Some
things are better left under the bed, like dust balls” said Floyd, a smart man
in this saga. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Small town, orphanage, youth and old age, no subject is
spared along the pages. The simplicity of the language reveals the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>visceral complexity of these lives as they
weave in and out of hardship. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dialog is well served with unwavering accuracy; Fletch and
Livvy take us on a tour of youthful yearnings and covert feelings. They lead us
into explosive consequences and let us explore the innermost flesh of being.
The stuff of living permeates the very innards of this book from page one. Hard
and ultimately hopeful; like life. Like fire.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A review by Nadine Sellers. The new edition of: The Fires of
Waterland by author Raymond Alexander Kukkee</div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-32870395299337477992014-11-06T15:04:00.004-08:002014-11-06T15:13:02.983-08:00review of Morgidoo's Christmas Carol, by R.A. Kukkee.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Morgidoo’s Christmas Carol: by Raymond Alexander Kukkee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A hundred years ago”, thus begins a journey where sound
travels upon snowscapes toward the center of humanity. To follow the story of
this silver bell is to dwell in the lost-and-found of goodness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The classic language holds the voice of childhood through
Morgidoo’s words. It is also to trust wisdom in the enduring love of Mr and Mrs
George Blister. The text depicts each exquisitely detailed scene as the plot
evolves along magical suspense. Original artworks illustrate each step along
the pages of this tasteful volume.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Young or adult can pause for a sustaining reading or thoughtful
perusing of this contemporary classic; indeed a classy little present in a
season of casual excess. This book is a mainstay of the return to the essential
purpose of literature through the author’s vision. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Read aloud in a warm and comfortable place, this book has
the potential to carve a secure memory path in a life cluttered with
expectations. A cup of tea, a CD and Morgidoo. Best yet, Morgidoo on CD?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a simple pleasure! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Morgidoo’s mindful pursuit aims to enlighten living, to
entertain with art, and most of all to strengthen the core; in this, our
celebration of sound and spirit in the form of a bell and a boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a review by nadine Sellers of the new edition of Morgidoo's Christmas Carol by author Raymond Alexander Kukkee.</div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-45992633743387377722014-04-05T15:51:00.000-07:002014-04-06T11:17:12.383-07:00Burning Bill<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Burning Bill</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every morning she sat at the kitchen table in front of the
large window overlooking the slopping garden. She placed a match box and a
glass of water by a thick porcelain plate. She smoothed her apron and sat
straight, looked around the yard and set her hands flat upon the tablecloth.
Shallow breath and vacant gaze, she grabbed a twenty dollar bill out of her
pocket, lit the match and gently caressed the paper money with the growing
flame. When the fire reached her fingers, she let the white dish receive the
last of the sacrificial <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ash and then
she rose to go about her day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0NQ91b2P39rFyNsUTvR-XQGIIz7DU4TPGeGEaglTMVnQr0EdZM6gSuB7_VKPZfrW5C_ODODJfDWHTOqhMA7m4Rj53vnakLTPjIM17rpzX5VuUTa1CbDo9FJSvX3tMmibU3jfK5ev8cqi/s1600/french+antiques+030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0NQ91b2P39rFyNsUTvR-XQGIIz7DU4TPGeGEaglTMVnQr0EdZM6gSuB7_VKPZfrW5C_ODODJfDWHTOqhMA7m4Rj53vnakLTPjIM17rpzX5VuUTa1CbDo9FJSvX3tMmibU3jfK5ev8cqi/s1600/french+antiques+030.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman knew the intimate feel of crisp bills, placed face
up, smoothed and stretched in little white envelopes for each purpose; to pay
the propane man, the electric company, the taxes. That was all she needed. With
the passion of an ascetic she had saved many a small fortune over years. She
loved the sound of stiff paper, the sound of enough, just enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one had grown hungry around her but many had taken
advantage of her generous skills; a chicken here, a bushel of potatoes there,
and perhaps she could dole a dollar for whatever? Oh yes, she gave a few of her
precious pieces of paper to worthy projects. Mostly she made gifts for those in
need, never wasting nor giving others a chance to do so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She feared neither wind nor pain, she performed her rituals
in the spring, waking up the earthen plot. None went needy by her, first her
man, then the chickens, the cat, the rabbits and the occasional goat. She fed
her little world, and went to work at local farms. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In winter she painted by the north facing window where
diffused light calmed her eye and soothed her anxious mind. Then everyone
wanted her pictures, she obliged the few, kept some for the county fair, saving
profits for appliances and perhaps an emergency.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This small woman framed in the large window, burning the
last twenty dollar bill of the month at dawn. Passing mirrors as if they held
no image, this woman listening for silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s how she remembers Bill, the man who used to watch her
dress and put her socks on, slowly. He would bring her shoes wordlessly before
she left to go to town to fetch his needs at the store, every day, sometimes
twice a day and on mean days three times. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grass is greener now under bare feet on the lone path. Flowers
bloom among her carrots and peppers. Nothing else has given a clue to her loss.
Her eyes are drier, her hair thinner over this plate, his plate, where she
sacrifices one more, one last wrinkled token of his absent need. </div>
<br />nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-878665060098424682014-04-05T15:37:00.000-07:002014-04-05T15:37:55.980-07:00Word Dust<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Out of a winter's slumber comes an attempt to awaken the rocks, so far, the sky has not blinked, only a pitiful sneeze has shaken the dust off the keyboard..the sun is calling, and i shall return with stories and french accents. happy tulips all!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sId24qhnuNZPHeDxJnAGtKHw9in8KYls7eU0K96IXRKRFVVP58NoTCj_Cs7Ej11OcDWNVOoAyAkqW5-hy-cH1MHxCOsPycoFaabaDH5OY9YeLfEblHhR2rvKj9sk-hRkxBlLA7OmiwqV/s1600/french+antiques+063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sId24qhnuNZPHeDxJnAGtKHw9in8KYls7eU0K96IXRKRFVVP58NoTCj_Cs7Ej11OcDWNVOoAyAkqW5-hy-cH1MHxCOsPycoFaabaDH5OY9YeLfEblHhR2rvKj9sk-hRkxBlLA7OmiwqV/s1600/french+antiques+063.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mots Poussiereux (Fr.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dans les entrailles du theatre</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Parmi les costumes poussiereux</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Git le ventre vide d' un artiste</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sans coeur sans honeur</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sans soupir sans odeur</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Un etre compose</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Se decompose</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Se repose</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
En prose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
------------------------------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Word Dust. (Eng.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within the entrails of the theater</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Among dusty costumes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lies an artiste’s empty belly<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With neither heart nor honor</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With no sigh or odor</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A mere being</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Decomposes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At repose</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In prose.</div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-893284934911137942014-02-10T14:57:00.002-08:002014-02-10T15:03:50.549-08:00In the Face of Time:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
A tiny fissure suddenly appeared above my lip, safely tucked in a shy smile. The toothbrush hid it, then revealed it between alternate gestures. Like a sin come to roost upon my ego, it highlighted vanity in one surreptitious glance.<br />
<br />
Zero weather by day and minus by night had carved this latest assault on my good side. A pitiless blow to fair complexion or natural consequence to reckless behavior?. Time passed over me with neither pause nor respect. The mirror was to deliver blotchy news of seasonal excess in the beloved outdoors.<br />
<br />
My loss of grip upon eternity had loosened a string which held features to ossature; as if the puppet master had abdicated his role upon such a rebellious visage. I saw the tendons hinging jaws with mannequin precision. I chewed and spewed and swirled the foam of shame in furious toothbrushing routine.<br />
<br />
The crimp of skin now visible under light, a vertical line, a tiny scar of a harsh life risible in sun and snow. I examined patterns of ancestry. Mother had suffered the rigors of expectation in a skin obsessed culture, she had lived with a chain smoker and used her fair share of beauty products on a lifelong basis--to no avail.<br />
Grand-Mother had never considered skincare an essential part of womanhood and yet had fared quite well in the hereditary past. I have also lived with chain smokers, first father then husband. I have left the temperate verdant South of France to run wild with my children in the American deserts..<br />
<br />
Wherever I was to park my small mirror, a slow tan was to obfuscate any flaws in my freckled face. I did not attempt to manage sun damage. Neither mine nor tailing mounds of alkaline insult could ruin my determination to survive the elements between water wells or rare salt ponds.<br />
<br />
Nor did I slather creams and lotions, much to mother's frustration after reminders and strict orders in letters. I remembered a youth of avoidance and terror. No way to escape the lotion wielding matriarch, bent on cornering me with her dreaded tubes of the newest gunk. Her intent being of producing a thoroughly marriageable damsel to some future suitor of largest means ( and I mean rich)<br />
<br />
The deep trenches in her face reminded me of the futility of her expense. I often ran off to school balancing my leather satchel on one hand and a wash-mitten in the other sloughing off the odious goo from cheeks, hair and eyes till I could see the road ahead to flee from the scent and the assault..<br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0azvplJsELlFKbUIi5GRUTHyVuJGdrqGOG2s2zTrn2yoDKutT63Yn-O0Uhc2PNGiUtMXF-qchyphenhyphendAY7I63BNV9azuKOmW4UF7QrJXeBnAN70S4BZ-c5WI1Rqm75rPNY3PcbWJWKwXNPsn/s1600/may09cdphotos+757.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0azvplJsELlFKbUIi5GRUTHyVuJGdrqGOG2s2zTrn2yoDKutT63Yn-O0Uhc2PNGiUtMXF-qchyphenhyphendAY7I63BNV9azuKOmW4UF7QrJXeBnAN70S4BZ-c5WI1Rqm75rPNY3PcbWJWKwXNPsn/s1600/may09cdphotos+757.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Hello wrinkle mine, earned in time through gravel and dirt, through sand storm and wind chill. nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-29604507278833561382013-09-22T16:44:00.000-07:002014-02-25T15:46:39.917-08:00How They Know<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>How They Know</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Their hands glide across dark leather,
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">drawn by magnetic impulse.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Soft smiles etch a silent trail upon
their faces.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">His fingers reach out to touch hers,</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and the sun plays on pale skin bursting</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">forth to radiate ethereal energy</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Her eyes rise to his lips seeking
feelings</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">she recognizes along the way,
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">brushed with mystical reverence.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sheltered in the warmth of mutual</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">bonding, she lifts her chin and blinks</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">but once in a forever gesture.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">This is
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">how they know the moment.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">How they meet the day, each day.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">How they know the center of their long
memory.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWMjYOdtvRMDqZa2hsVvdmwAwVtRkqtmcjmEc1bhFLOyZL_MAj0N8oZKzJTyQf9OGYTOjnrJVo65oTkol4VIAj5OjvBHWER8Hbb_KvbLAw3pHHf0_MJTrgafmygc8_kXKagFwbpk4CzrC/s1600/flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWMjYOdtvRMDqZa2hsVvdmwAwVtRkqtmcjmEc1bhFLOyZL_MAj0N8oZKzJTyQf9OGYTOjnrJVo65oTkol4VIAj5OjvBHWER8Hbb_KvbLAw3pHHf0_MJTrgafmygc8_kXKagFwbpk4CzrC/s320/flowers.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
nadine sellers: Sept.21 2013<br />
for those who take the time to know each other.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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</span>
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nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-60127322743228317862013-06-30T17:37:00.001-07:002014-02-25T15:42:11.791-08:00A Cute Tombstone, by Zarina Zabrisky: Review by nadine Sellers<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fifty two pages, no room to spare,
crammed full of delicious and capricious detail; the subject matter
propels stark comparison between modes of funerary customs and
national traditions. The style, clearly inimitable, the author is
indomitable. <b>Zarina Zabrisky</b> has proven herself a formidable
descriptor, again!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She is strong, lean and well toned;
this is exactly what the literary tone of <b>A Cute Tombstone</b>
expresses. She concentrates the essence of cultural disparities
into an intriguing vessel.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Zabrisky lends a rare sense of irony
with pitch perfect timing, her voice cuts sharply through verbal
nonsense to reach the reader with mordant humor. No dictionary
necessary to translate traditions here, Russian spirit is served cold
and colorful on a platter of family relationships.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Imagine a trip to a well known big box
store, there you are at the beginning of the story, chewing cashews
in front of a mega-stack of recycled paper products. Surrounded by
signs, infused by cultural optimism. Now move on to a placard reading
<i>“my death, my funeral, my way</i>”. This, is America.. you' re on
your way to a fast moving experience to culture shock, put seat belts
on the lazy boy..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>“ Nostalgia is an illusionist”
</i>claims the author, then she drags your eyeballs through tasty,
smelly, vivid sensations. <i>“The hallway reeked of vodka, pickles and
mothballs”</i>; you follow, wrinkling nose and stirring tongue after
each pictorial tidbit, you travel behind those high heels,
breathless.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alive with gestures, the text portrays
entire emotional biomes; “<i>uncle Aaron chopped the air with his
right hand when agitated”</i>. With the economy of a modern lyricist,
she slaps truth across bare facts. She could have played with words
and produced a Dostoyevsky on vellum. She could have bitten our ears
with indescribable mysticism, but no, she keeps straight and up
through a funeral ordeal with universal meaning and local context.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fearless description drives the plot
with spare dialogue:<i> “ dying on April 30<sup>th</sup> was a
terrible idea”</i>, she goes on to describe the interim bureaucratic
mayhem into Soviet scenes of sharp contrast. <i>“May tenth is national
hangover day”--“don't die in Russia!”.</i> I promise, I won't, but
I've enjoyed the armchair trip.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br />
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</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-5868572580537638842013-05-22T14:46:00.000-07:002013-05-22T14:49:40.000-07:00Woman in Wind.<span style="font-size: large;">it is the wind which holds her up, the wind which throws her down, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and the storm which holds her to ground.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">if the wind should ever stop, the calm could keep her still in the hollow space between wars and scuffles. there on the floor of her humble home, ground floor to dreams, </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">first step to self realization, above all means.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">there, in the fields of parenting, where man and dog watch her step,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">ready to circle and catch her tears before they dry.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">it is the wind that keeps her upright against small shame and illusion, against expectation that mars the day.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">it is the tornadic event which scars her mind and ravages her body in the years of holding walls and people together..</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">if the wind should ever slow to a gentle breeze, she would cry the lonely belly of a muddy creek all the way to the river.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">she would be lost holding the topography of her past in the wet crinkles of a map on her tired lap.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">she would breathe, she would mistrust the peace <span style="font-size: large;">that hangs in</span> the air a<span style="font-size: large;">bout</span> the woods, asking the trees for solace.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and when her camera had captured what the eye can't see, she would perceive the love that awaits in all those who care.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: large;">her health anew<span style="font-size: large;">.</span> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>her faith intact.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-u2RQbavsNMEtXOBXg3fiJgxIYoMPc-KtNZgkzCSokjo85IVc3tmXrXPLp3V1_GXJkQELMhkuh_wrIJ_dTIpfDSPz0a4RS_eB_Jj8KE_gf3SVBQWlKP6vry5oSyzMbTMVXwHz0EKWfny/s1600/ohskyoverrhyolite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-u2RQbavsNMEtXOBXg3fiJgxIYoMPc-KtNZgkzCSokjo85IVc3tmXrXPLp3V1_GXJkQELMhkuh_wrIJ_dTIpfDSPz0a4RS_eB_Jj8KE_gf3SVBQWlKP6vry5oSyzMbTMVXwHz0EKWfny/s320/ohskyoverrhyolite.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">-----------------------------</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">communing with women who find the common path, in all elements<span style="font-size: small;">, with all temperaments.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">nadine sellers <span style="font-size: small;">05-</span>22-13. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-81240573752454637802013-04-23T14:23:00.000-07:002013-04-24T12:28:33.248-07:00It Is Not Contagious, You Know!<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Father pulls his skin taught across his
lips with left hand, takes the metal shaver in right and aims
flawlessly for the moustache scrub. I watch in silence, admiring each
gesture. The foam floats above the bowl of warm water, the sound of
precise scraping focuses the act in daily sequence. I sit, grateful to
be able to watch him today in this usual routine. I slip on my good
socks and fine faux alligator loafers. I am twelve. The uptown
apartment is clean. The stew is ready for supper.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfpbI1PPWuzujIoR2bYhdAiW7i6j2kG_Qxec9IpK3r6g7wAatP5D5kPjNawNAflgHVS10amdEyEY6AL-Kqwo6xupwzOxWPHb-RvDmqWWkJZ6WdkggP_N3kquiwlIjJ_oofhaOBpv-kejB/s1600/Family_01_t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdfpbI1PPWuzujIoR2bYhdAiW7i6j2kG_Qxec9IpK3r6g7wAatP5D5kPjNawNAflgHVS10amdEyEY6AL-Kqwo6xupwzOxWPHb-RvDmqWWkJZ6WdkggP_N3kquiwlIjJ_oofhaOBpv-kejB/s1600/Family_01_t.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He turns around and hardens his gaze
upon my clothing, <span style="font-size: large;">pleated </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> plaid skirt, wrinkle-free, white cotton
blouse, impeccable, navy cardigan, all buttons properly aligned. I
smooth my hair, I feel him struggling to find any detail to chastise
me about. “you know your mother will notice anything when you get
there” his voice trembles over the last words, he averts my gaze.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As we turn toward the cathedral, I
watch women pull their mantillas over their chignons and curls, each
tapping their heels on the limestone walkways as a genteel army of
the faithful. My throat so parched that I believe I would not be able
to speak if asked, I step lightly behin<span style="font-size: large;">d</span> his brown shoes, conscious
not to waver. I have never been in a hospital.At the large iron door
to St Josèphe <span style="font-size: large;">C</span>linique, he stops and passes his hand over his pale
cheeks, takes a deliberate deep breath, “she almost died you know!
Don't bother her or ask anyth..” his voice falters.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A nun approaches us, father straightens
his shoulders and asks for my mother's room number. We are taken to a
ground floor waiting room, bronze statuettes of saints line the long
space in discreet niches. I scrutinize each in order to keep my pulse
from running away from me. I have never bothered to learn which is
supposed to help whatever ails people, so I scatter a few begging
thoughts across the hall. I touch one sleek be-robbed monkish figure and quickly withdraw my hand
for fear of being spied upon by a rigid <span style="font-size: large;">S</span>upérieure or so. I don't
want my father to find me weak.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I finally am allowed in my
mother's room, he <span style="font-size: large;">loosen</span>s his jaw, “ I' ll be going to the café,
don't wait up for me” he starts toward me, I open my arms slightly,
he stares past me then turns abruptly, the heavy door creaks behind
him. My breath is shallow, my eyes painful, I hear faint echoes of
graceful nurses on duty. A doctor exits mother's single room, “
your mother will be fine, she will stay with us for another week,
don't touch the bed, it may hurt her” he smiles directly at me.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Mother's face seems like a bloated
ivory figurine floating above pristine sheets, I have never known her
to be so filled and friendly. Who is this person so relaxed and
amenable? She reaches for my hand, I hesitate. “ it' s not catching
you know, I had appendicitis and it busted and caused peritonitis,
very dangerous, very painful” I sit on the padded chair beside her
iron bed, looking at all the medical implements around. A book on her
table, next to a short glass of water with a straw in it. I wonder
how she can sit there all day, she neither reads nor drinks water.
She tells me of friends visiting her, I am surprised to hear she has
friends, I am not allowed any..</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, her seamstress and the jeweler
she works for have been here, then she tells of a family
acquaintance, but warns me against sharing this information, I forget
immediately as usual. The doctor comes by and motions me to rise and
depart, I lightly touch mother's hand and suppress an awkward grimace
which is surging from my chest and threatens to turn me into a
wailing child, “come back next week-end” she says, softly. The
tears refuse to be contained, I pour out of the huge front door along
with an unstoppable stream of tears and moans. Blind and deaf to
traffic, I rush to the park across the street and hide by the
reindeer enclosure, they know me well, I know them, they snort at me
in consolation.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I wonder if the spotted deer are
orphans, I don't have dry bread to give to them today. I don't have
anything to give to anyone today.
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-55164009457393925982013-04-07T14:13:00.000-07:002013-04-07T14:18:21.963-07:00Family Order<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Family order</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNez5yyoOkHvg_VswLPJLIBQWDnt36-b86ceJjfDDHgRtztsDpO3Z-_boqKc0FjI2ukOo8H1cwUntXy4bBRqBNm6nHho7brfqlyNQezlFx2oWi-bErR6XIeP-h5XYKCRdUSZgj7ZMtoe1/s1600/may09cdphotos+1015.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNez5yyoOkHvg_VswLPJLIBQWDnt36-b86ceJjfDDHgRtztsDpO3Z-_boqKc0FjI2ukOo8H1cwUntXy4bBRqBNm6nHho7brfqlyNQezlFx2oWi-bErR6XIeP-h5XYKCRdUSZgj7ZMtoe1/s320/may09cdphotos+1015.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Like clay mud on boots,
traditions have clung to the feet of my ancestors, and I scrape the
worst of it to compost the past into fertile soil of our future.
Unconscious habits grown out of necessity become the burden of
abundance in the mass markets of the present. Faced with the
consequences of our acquisitions, we shed futile morals and fertile
powers; can we set aside the competitive values in anxious times?</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A vague reference to one
of my ancestors having come to the new continent three centuries ago,
sent me to moon time, I suffered many a stab from the nuns’ bamboo
stick during class as I was far away from subject at hand, “are you
on the moon again?” I would bow my head in contrition and keep
planning my escape to my own continents, Africa, Australia, or
America? The constricting of family life was as powerful an urge as
the moves of my vagabond forebears.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From the people of the
Auroch to the invading hordes from the wild central plains of Europe,
riding on horseback around mountains, nomads ran in search of food
and wealth. My own tribes traveled westward through dense forests and
settled before the Ocean where they found sustenance for all. This
was the uncluttered family model; male, female, progeny and a few
elders, when the term may have meant anyone exceeding 27 years old in
a cave, a hut, with pond or creek as haven and conceptual heaven.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The ambitious Roman armies
roared across the crude settlements and toughened the natives who
then were forced to build ramparts and fortifications to secure their
new holdings; this was the beginning of the social cluster. The
nascent village became the extension of the local nucleus as
protective measure. I occasionally long for the earnest goal of
singular security, of familiarity.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Together they built
regiments of their own, rebelled and scratched their way to ownership
of land and cattle. Then they fought the Moorish invaders, they lost their
sons to the territories, bones of rebellion, terroir of today.
Once the crusades were over and they had become the invaders of
others, they came home to fallow lands and forgotten women; a frenzy
of growth began to climb out of medieval oblivion and was named
renaissance.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Family took a turn to
heredity, of goods, of lands, of ease and disease. Traditions which
were imported from exhausting travels through the Middle-East found
their way to the hearth and reasoning of simple folk. Ceremonies
meant as release from arduous work, grew to important cementing
purposes to keep the family together, the people tight and the
animals close by. Togetherness secured the clans like ligatures and
hobbles on the chattel.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Family order was
maintained at the cost of individuality, the good of the whole or the
drudge of the one. Long past feudal loyalties and ensured serfdom,
the old order remains in the manners, the habits of immigrants who
have morphed their psyche to adapt to previous invaders’ codes.
Sons born to protect the estates, sons to maintain the status,
daughters to propagate the ideals, gathered between wars to conjure
better weapons and cures for restlessness.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>In
the hinterlands, sons kept the perimeters safe from other intruders,
they rang the bells to warn of danger to castle or fortified farm,
women and children ran to enclosures. They awoke to ravaged crops and
raven girls left afield. How little man has changed since; bells and
whistles now ring across airwaves and women are savaged in the ruins
of what fields produce for the increasing multitudes. Whose family is
protecting whom when there is nowhere left to run, no land to
conquer? except for family order.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-21001526587327773222013-03-23T14:27:00.000-07:002015-02-12T15:02:01.345-08:00Pigeonhole.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">see what happens when i<span style="font-size: small;"> am</span> left alone with a pen <span style="font-size: small;">on a dreary winter afternoon? </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">the photograph which spurred this one was borrowed from an excellent poet and artist, Michele Vassal Ring. </span></span><b> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Pigeonhole </b></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tectonic
cracks mar the social landscape, stretch across the global market,
releasing noxious gases in common space. The ominous cumulus weighs
down the public mind, I feel it all from this ledge, at the edge of a
world I cannot claim.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Laws
and opinions multiply like uncontrollable litters in the political
arena, according to interest along a sclerotic divide dressed of
fickle bi-partisan colors.
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<span style="font-size: large;">Disorganized
religions cover the map to separate the unsuspecting or suffocate the
dissenting; when each is searching for its own ultimate good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Venus
and Mars are touted as competitive in a futile sport; dissect,
trisect or splinter may never override the proverbial Adam and Eve
within.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Energy
has become the new board game of the century, pitting winds against
fossils, sun against atoms. Divide or provide cut along profit
margins of the instant against long need.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Questions,
questions on forms and applications for permit to live, permit to
die, within reasons of ethnic lines when humanity would suffice sans
segregating complications.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Food
and water fights in the sterile halls of obfuscation rend the living
process into despair for the multitudes. As biomes which could
sustain <span style="font-size: large;">are</span> dissected for benefit and by pain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tectonic
splits are groaning beneath the feet of the laden, and yet I see a
sliver of light across the squall line of disparity, there, where
unity means unadorned faith in all being.</span></div>
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</span>nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2903827266488368062.post-88276271203168086532013-03-16T17:20:00.000-07:002013-03-21T12:37:08.779-07:00A book Review: The Fires of Waterland by Raymond Alexander Kukkee.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Review of Raymond Alexander Kukkee's
book, The Fires of Waterland.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">By nadine Sellers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Raymond Alexander Kukkee has broken
into print at Redmund Productions, a mark of his talent and passion for fiction. In his
novel, The Fires of Waterland, he has brought an entire range of
universal concerns into full view. Honesty is served in doses of
violent conditions in the boiling secrecy of buried poverty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Set in mid century Canada, the
suspenseful tale of family strife and cascading abuses reads as a
serial film of great scope. Somewhere between memorable epics of the
great depression and Dickensian classics, the story begins as
charming details of the lush countryside “<i>small plants
domesticate undisciplined cracks in the delicate lacework of broken
curbstones—mosses and meticulous ivies advance”</i>, innocuous
introductions of slow memories pouring from an old man's
recollections of a seemingly simpler era.
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then, the reader begins to suspect
there is a complete life bubbling from this authentic boyish voice;
the all too common symptoms of a repressed society keeping its
secrets much too close to home. Pages keep turning, pace keeps
pulling the eye to the next event, the next reason, the last
reaction. The theme rolls along the interstices of adjustment to
painful condition, and unfairness of system. Trauma is experienced
from within, “ <i>he would shake his red jowls like a hound
shaking off swamp water'”</i>seen from a child's perspective.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">R.A. Kukkee maintains moral principles
amid sensual upheaval, vivid detail depicts crucial scenes that rock
the steps to teenage revelations. No gratuitous hyperbole covers the
sexual awakening of those involved “<i>her skin was the color of
almonds—skinned almonds are slippery when they are wet”</i> No
unnecessary profanity mars the text to remain accurate in the weight
of each scene. The delicate balance of act and impact evokes the
struggles of growing up, or growing old even in indelicate
circumstances.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Fires of Waterland encompasses
timeless values in the scope of personal trauma. The fine mesh of
relativity woven through each story, chapter by chapter, ties the
complexity of being. In the person of Fletcher, it is easy to
empathize with the protagonist, his surges of anger, his hunger for
acceptance; and most of all his recollections of a loaded past.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Floyd is portrayed as a cranky old
veteran, he surfaces with modest attitudes and wise sayings “<i>if
you have a soggy handshake, it shows you might be in possession of a
puffball brain too”. </i>His wife, well apronned in her mothering
role, dispenses generous love in the strictures of the times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Gender defined and place sensitive, the
tale proceeds along the expectations of the fifties without undue
romanticism. It scratches the thin surface of small town living and
encroaching aspirations. The ever familiar want versus need, rich
versus poor, all aspects are splayed by human dualities, human
frailties.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Age is not just a specific number, R.A.
Kukkee takes the reader through the process with increasing speed and
intensity, toward the inevitable progress of unspent emotion and
confusion. The language serves the wide range of subjects well. Pride
and ' dare I say ' prejudice, mitigate post-war ethics, with adoption
and stagnation in the fictional lives which feel all too real to this
reader.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Raymond Alexander Kukkee is a prolific
writer living in Canada's lush regions above the Great lakes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He has been widely published in
knowledge based venues. His passion for fiction is evident in the
book The Fires of Waterland.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Available in e-book or print.</span></div>
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</span>nadine sellershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02101334796439082551noreply@blogger.com2