Termite Art Working the edges and angles. “Part of the woodwork,” they say, though not in a structural sense – rather more a destructural or …
Metamorphosis: 2013: Insect Intensity
Thank you readers which stumble upon and engage my tunneling activities… reminders of this quiet wrestling vocation in the midst… still termiting here 🙏🏼
It mingles as I tarry here. Fence and branches joining what they distinguish. From here to there I yearn. Details all so near. In my reaching they grow hazy. I long for you. I follow. I wander. Toward you? From me? Out beyond?
There was a time. It’s lost its focus. Forward, back, I cannot tell. I am here. A something-is divides us. Even as it joins. I reach across. I feel you back. And yet.
Yet not. The moony sun illuminates. Draws attention. Drawing all the lines connecting us, all the angles between.
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Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and Erin Leary‘s image
for the continuous and faithful prompts to compose 100 words
responding to instigating images and the Friday Fictioneers participants
the sounds of the shapes of what’s sounding in me….
a story or writing that seems to be growing/assembling by slow accretion…
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Faced with the blank page, Writer runs.
Confronting the white spaces, Writer enters.
Emptiness indicating gaps. The writer attempts to cross.
In theory this is “bridging” – the ability to construct a bridge.
In practice, Writer uses words like rope.
Without them he would fall.
Plummet.
.
In the presence of what infers silence, Writer hears patterns and rhythms.
Sometimes also sees.
Constructing shapes of nothing, this is sometimes called.
Creatio ex nihilo referring to no context.
In absence of recognizable sound – the infinite conversation.
Writer holds there and eavesdrops.
Writing is a device.
.
Responsibility ends where opportunity begins, which invokes responsibility.
Writer fills the margins.
Working at the edge of labor.
.
If the tracks are laid, Writer composes rails.
The network is for nothing – conversation going on.
Creatio in contextus refers to complex emergence, a result of adaptation
and leftovers causally unexplained.
Writer is compelled into absence.
Children skipping cracks, stuntmen leaping canyons.
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Writer is friend to correspondence
ecstatic moments
the distance in between
threading disconnections
shooting gaps.
.
Setting aside is opening doors
in land without land a Writer’s building.
Writing represents a reference
context woven out of context
Writer spins.
.
Portrayal is errant copy.
Narrative a fabrication.
Sentencing – destruction.
Every symbol plugs the whole
cluttering conduits
Writer can’t escape.
.
Writing is abiding time.
Never yet, always almost.
Writer leaps
with nothing there
into now + here
which equals…..
N Filbert 2013
This morning she said she was “taking a walk for mental health.”
I decided to set out/in too…
Waterplay – a triptych by Holly Suzanne
Waterplay – a triptych by Holly Suzanne
What we know for certain is the steady stream of life, the flood, the flow, replete with bits and currents. Immersion.
What is less clear is whether we are rising or falling, whether paradoxes hold true, what that might look like.
And if we’re swimming together, how that alters the land, changes the buoyancy, rearranges our standards of measure.
We – individuals – no longer a fixed point of reference.
Now “I” that formerly looked oh-so-much like a “1,” is just a needle in a flurry of dried whirling pines.
Rising up, rising down, in relation.
The self, the other, the flood.
In certain light, it shimmers. In little light it bleeds dark.
It’s not as if we’re provided decoders, infra-red goggles, enlightenment.
I’m as much in the sea of life as you.
We share, in this sense, an equal, fluid, ground.
And not as something to step up or out of.
The self, the other, surround – weighted flotation devices.
I’m in, at a kind of “over here.” So are you.
There is no escape. We sink. We rise.
N Filbert 2012
(My apologies – these pieces have proven very difficult to photograph in a way that presents the depth of layering and colors truly present. These are fairly large oil paintings created of Autumnal colorings and glow, many more greens and yellows, oranges and hues filling out the originals. It is painstaking to present them here struggling with glares and digitalia in a way representative. Forgive me, and if you are able come see the originals through the month of November at Mead’s Coffee House in Wichita, KS – they are rich to behold!)
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About running small. Over a surface made of paint. Exhilerating lostness. It is then I know texture. Arms draped over a streaking swell. Scritches and scumbles underfoot. Are there this many colors in the sea? Splattering like sparrows. Am I getting the picture? I lie down. Cairns and edgings against my back. What seemed soft – crisp and poky as briars. What looked hard and smooth gives like dried glue. I scurry in the trenches left by brush. Spin through dips and curls. A painting is a planet I inhabit. Directed through the paths of subtlest vein. To explore I engage. Guard asks that I step away.
N Filbert
I’m very honored and happy to be a part of this fine journal – “The Light Ekphrastic”!!
See my work and read many others HERE!
Thank you!
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