Various Connected Instalments Beneath a Complex Sky.

A connected letter with some others.

 

Puddleduck childhood chances as chances are. Flower fluff dancing across heroic irritant intermittent breezes. Different days of drizzled rain washed feelings across the bare shouldered shores of me.

Listening to music with a crashing boom bang intended to lighten the mood in these old leather, interior fluffy, soft, drizzling days. Wondering aloud and old smoke. Hogging mysoginist words from the usual  plural sources. Trying to spit at the objectives in writing or indeed planting the pun in painting arms. Turgid thought creatures are created for momentary memories discovered in history. These that only add to the true reality in relative post mortem.

No single light shadows illuminate. Only constant, sloppy slave days and dangerously boring ideas about this weakly weather.

Synchronistic connections are still only considered true if the wish to write something is first properly formed. Worth, we say, the wait. Not atrophied in history. 

If a line looks as if it should connect in a drawing, then join it to another with the same character. Whatever the reality.  Moving in the same direction. Playing the same games drawn across the paper. These are all in my lessons. This, it seems to me, is obvious for all art. Or it should be.

 

Single egg grey sky coloured memories. Green becomes sick yellow in a bloom of sewer remembered rivers. Slate coloured partly paste sky is always streaked above. How many coloured greys are there? Considered sceptically, how many grey moods from the past rise evocatively like angry miasmic bubbles and are therefore always the reasons to create this nonsense?

First, not in time and cetainly not in importance, the darkly historic reasons for violence. The simpering, slavering, sloppiness of dunk smelling drunks. Crying impotently and cursing silently, afraid of escaping into self generated legend. How crucial is this humourless chapter to the completion of these letter stories? Could this lead to something else? Was it a choice not to be like this? Yes it was.

Again. The dreary left descriptions of less than epic childish landscapes. Underwaterways of stream spiralled brown fishy polluted innards and hopping hills of green breast domed references. Periwigged clouds and fruity tropical hanging prophylactics. Sounds across the landscapes and dog barking, cow complaining stories of wandering away. Evocative images of youthful bra strap fumblings in the local landscapes of dissonant growing up.

 

Once or twice picking on waste heaps high in a chimneyed industrial sky. Pits of black sludge that swallowed friends whilst they were still young enough to be silver snotty on hand knitted sleeves. Leaving me to write black words about losing friends and picking dead coal.

Forward yourself on to reading interconnected comments, literary foolishness and fantasy heroics. Trying to keep it all under definite control and single coloured without false gems of self promise. If only I knew when, then, I would perhaps know how now. Writing or painting something worth a damn.

 

Meetings with remarkable women. Lets let that one fester and bubble through the proper slots. Shall that be crushed by the mortar and pestle of reasonable behaviour? See what filters dripping out of that one before it can see the light of these dystopian days. What stale plain pies of disaster are cooking there?

Hero worshipping indifference. On these dreary memory daze. Watching for something so true that it only becomes an illness when slipping out of oneself. It is just too easy.

 

Such are what brief instalments meant to memory. Long term paths to fill in the short term gaps left by critical mistakes. Consider yourself an audience they said and I listened, perhaps too bloody soon and perhaps facetiously.

Author's Note

The photograph is mine and called Beneath a Complex Sky. The falcon is a cross Peregine/Saker called Lancelot. Which also connects.

Reviews

[Phibby Venable]

your writing is always of the highest caliber and all of it is a
unique poetry.

This, in particular, is astounding with beauty and insight.
Single egg grey sky coloured memories. Green becomes sick yellow in a bloom of sewer remembered rivers. Slate coloured partly paste sky is always streaked above. How many coloured greys are there? Considered sceptically, how many grey moods from the past rise evocatively like angry miasmic bubbles and are therefore always the reasons to create this nonsense?

[...]

. oh ... what a picture that is ... and these words that follow ... are soaked in humility ... and marinated in so many questions ... you have seen life, monsieur ... and you have felt it in your bone marrow ... every time i read you, i feel i am learning more about how to look at life ... i learn how to not miss a single detail ... i learn the anatomy of an emotion ... and i also learn the anatomy of emotional expression ... your intricate word weaves are overwhelming ... the images you speak in are like words ... they remind me of a language that can only have pictographs as letters ... your knowledge of knowledge is simply astonishing ... every time i read a post by you ... there's something in it that makes me return to it ... in my mind ... hours later ... you always leave an impression ... it's a privilege to read you ...

[SM Davis]

Indifference? Certainly not. Childish landscapes though epic, are not usually realized until many much later. Sad but true as it is. Facetious ... is there any other way? Yes, of course there is, but in the spirit of how this is meant, it is brilliant. Brilliant...sad...painful to read as much as was to write...and of course a link...or more a bridge...you choose. 100 peaches.

[emmajoy]

How you make me feel as if I'm swimming in a roar of words! You use alliteration as if the norm for all those travelling through time; certain phrases pointing to a mountain of past moments and feeling. Your words always have got to me, still do, will,

'Again. The dreary left descriptions of less than epic childish landscapes. Underwaterways of stream spiralled brown fishy polluted innards and hopping hills of green breast domed references. Periwigged clouds and fruity tropical hanging prophylactics. Sounds across the landscapes and dog barking, cow complaining stories of wandering away. Evocative images of youthful bra strap fumblings in the local landscapes of dissonant growing up.;

Only you could have written like that.

[W.k.kortas]

The mixture of alliteration with the artist's eye; there are few people who have a style that can be called unique, but you do. It takes an artist to present the complexity of "single egg grey coloured memories."

[Donald Meikle]

Staying with you through these sometimes connected thought flips is a fun ride Mr Simm. the photo is a treat in itself.

[Emily B]

so many amazing fragments, your portraits are skill-full