small stone 01/06/2013

for Trent — we seem to keep bouncing ideas off each other.

If only you could see what I have seen with your eyes, you said.

Show me.  Show me what my words paint, because in daylight they fly the colors of winter:  snow, sky, trees, mud.  These are my words, my color, my nuance.

About Susan L Daniels

I am a firm believer that politics are personal, that faith is expressed through action, and that life is something that must be loved and lived authentically--or why bother with any of it?
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37 Responses to small stone 01/06/2013

  1. annotating60 says:

    What are you doing up ythis time of night?>KB

  2. Trent Lewin says:

    This is not borrowed, it is stolen:

    “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched sea beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All these moments will be lost, in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die.”

    You see the colour of winter, and nuances. I ache for the colour of human existence, here or elsewhere. I think you can see that other existence too – something shifted to the left of what we normally live in our daily lives, something buried and forgotten but keeps bubbling up with some dark ooze that lives underground. I have no idea how to describe the things around me. I can only see what isn’t there, never has been, never will be, but it still calls from across a river, on in some ugly person’s good deed, or from the top of a mountain that you climbed naked. I’ve never fallen from an airplane without a parachute; I’ve never fought in a world war against zombies. But I do dare to ask and challenge the view of what we see everyday, and what we write about, and I do challenge you to look into another world and see what you will see with those eyes. God forbid that the androids (back to the quote now) become our humanity, and we become the robots. This in general is what I see when I see anything at all. And I wonder if that’s the point of the quote, its oblivion threaded with ridiculousness, its brains splattered on a rooftop. And we hanging off the edge of the building, looking for salvation that comes in the form of something we made – which is not far from something that we wrote.

    • That’s the irony, isn’t it? Salvation is not far at all from what we can write or make, yet we insist on being the authors of our destruction.

      • Trent Lewin says:

        Well, yeah. To me, destruction finds us when we fall into the same creations. Or dress them up as though they are something else, something new, but aren’t really; just the same voice dressed up with a new cadence. I struggle mightily with this, with trying to break free of molds, some of which are created for us in the worlds of literature, some of which we create for ourselves in what we have already written. We have utter freedom to write; what do we do with it? It’s a pressing question for me. Not sure if it is for others. The quiet voice, the calm one. The voice that children understand. The psychopath’s meanderings. The forgetful man. The archetypes. They are all fair game; but there must be something beyond them too, beyond what it is that we feel at a specific moment and write about. What else is there? Now I sound like a Royskopp song…

        • If we are free to write anything (which we are), there is a source for the voices/personae we have used or encountered in our work, in any work. It comes to us in rawness, in beauty, in rage and trembling. Some of us are closer to it than others, and I have felt it deepening their words. I have experienced its presence in the work of three people I have had the honor to know. You are one of them.

          • Trent Lewin says:

            I don’t specifically know how to respond to that, so I don’t think I will, but I will ponder it. If only you could see what I have seen through eyes that are not mine…

            • Don’t respond to it–just keep writing.

              • Trent Lewin says:

                Ah, well, there really are no answers, are there, other than that? Why do you write?

                • Because if I don’t, these images will build up in me until I burst. I have to.

                  • Trent Lewin says:

                    It’s funny how many people say it that way. For me, it just is. But I do like the burst terminology, of course.

                    • 🙂 yes. It’s either I have to write or I will burst, or if I don’t write, I will feel like I can’t breathe. Take your pick.

                    • Trent Lewin says:

                      You must be short of breath quite a bit, Susan. But that’s a good thing for the rest of us.

                    • LOL, get me an inhaler so I drop the pen!!! Seriously, though, it is amazing how much lighter I feel after breaking that block last spring.

                    • Trent Lewin says:

                      Wasn’t aware you had one… think I only came into this sphere in the fall or so. Glad the block is in the past for you. May it always be so.

                    • Thank you–I am always afraid it will come back–it took 17 years to break. I hope the same for you–what you have to say should never be blocked.

                    • Trent Lewin says:

                      17 years. Well I am more than astounded. So are you making up for lost time or is time making up for losing you? One wonders, but it’s not that important. Welcome back, stay put. I often wonder exactly where you are going with your writing, Susan, you seem to have already mastered the art of describing your world. What comes after that? Maybe nothing needs to come after that. But I would fancy a bit of prose out of you, no poetry at all – how’s that for a challenge? Seriously, I’ve been throwing gauntlets all night, and nary a sip of scotch has passed my lips.

                    • Perhaps…still hammering out the novel (rewriting it). The poetry is an escape valve from the novel writing and the dry technical stuff I do all day. I am hoping what comes after that is better poetry, deeper.

                    • Trent Lewin says:

                      Novels are fickle horrible things. Much respect for staying with yours. As for escape from dry technical stuff… you and me and most of the people on here I think would say the same. Well, here’s to you Susan. Catch you in the new week.

  3. Miriam E. says:

    really beautiful, Susan

  4. Jeremy Nathan Marks says:

    This sounds to me like a very fruitful relationship. Excellent.

  5. This poem of yours is magnificent and wonderfully expressed. 🙂

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