Gypsy Prism

image

Spirit adorned in ribbons gold and blue
A penchant for breathless devotion
Steady in their wanton motion
Fueled by desires of royal equity
Spread across the layman’s alter
Bread and mead as rich as wine and cheese
Never feeling so alive
As when inside the midnight scape
The hearts and drums that syncopate
Driving us into the night
Where drink and rest intimate
Caravans of wood and wheels
Draped in satin
Trimmed in steel
Unfinished edges
Frayed and dancing in the wind
Like the long lean limbs of lover’s sin
Poured along sun darkened skin
Cloaked in shadow
Flickering
Ignited by the flames of fires all around
The sounds
Of merriment and passion
Rising to the skies
In wafting chants from those who worship both the spirit and the eyes
And from these embers
Our souls do rises
To meet with greatness and demise
The swift existence that is ours
Played out in song
Upon the flesh
Up toward the stars
With etherial earthbound dancing

Written 6/13/14

Inspired by “The New Gyspies” photo series by Iain McKell.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/evelyne-politanoff/iain-mckell-gypsies_b_936297.html

 

 

 

Come Forth

A funny thing happens to me when I’m moody. I write poetry. Gobs of it. It doesn’t really matter what kind of mood makes up “moody” as long as it’s intense. Because I’m human, primal emotions are the ones I feel most strongly. Anger, grief, sex… just some of the primitive triggers on my poetry cannon.

As I add to my blog, people who know me keep asking me if I’m ok. My poetry, they say, worries them. I take this as a compliment. Not because I’m trying to freak anyone out but because it demonstrates that my work is affecting my readers. I reassure them that I’m absolutely fine then turn my attention to the underlying issue.

As artists, we channel inspiration through ourselves and into our chosen medium. We see the world and what we need to add to it through a vision that is uniquely ours. When it’s good, our art is the collaboration of both our inspiration and our perspective. Inevitably, in the process, pieces of our hearts and minds are transferred to our craft, revealing ideas, images, perspectives, and emotions that arise from within us, making us visible to some extent.

The implications of this, of course, is that once you start putting your work out into the world, anyone who views it is offered a peek inside your life, or at the very least inside your crazy, mixed up, frequently ridiculous, though quite creative brain. The inevitable revelations that show through in our work leave us asking an important question: How much of ourselves should we reveal?

For me personally, I’ve decided on all of it.

Does that seem over the top? Definitely, and good for it because the truth of that matter is that I am in no way responsible or even concerned with how the world receives my work. It isn’t my job to anticipate the responses of any number of people who might visit it. My job is to tell the story, to put the work out there, to finger paint the canvas of life with colors both inspired and inspiring. If I start filtering my work based on what might offend or what someone might use to design an under-informed judgment about who I am as a human being, well, I should close up shop right now.

As artists we are drawn to passion and prone to provocation. The things that most find disturbing are often our greatest sources of inspiration. We lurk in the alleyways of the human experience, looking for a broken piece of reality discarded or ignored by others so that we can fit into something bigger than ourselves, something we can sink our teeth and hearts into, something that moves us… and in turn, might move another. We cannot afford to be timid or shy, to offer up only what we think will be well received. We can only speak from our hearts and paint the world as we see it, and we should never look to change our eyes.

So, come forth, poets and painters. Come forward, sculptors and songwriters. Come up, artists of all kinds. Come into the lightness of creating without a filter, without a care for how the world perceives you. Stand in your place, and let them look. Let them talk. Let them grimace, if they must. I am certain it is infinitely better to explain or defend your work than have it go unnoticed.

Empty Hands

Empty hands…

Starting over…

The car is crashed,

the chips are down.

I look around

and see no survivors,

a smoking gun,

and a dangling toe tag

with my name written in red,

the killer and the killed,

the leader and the misled,

a blood blurred vision

of memories swiftly fading,

stars bursting

into darkness,

silence, peace.

I sleep

just below the surface of responsiveness

waiting for the wounds to heal,

the smoke to clear,

the taste of gun powder

to dissolve.

Slowly a thirst

for sanity,

a will to live,

to move beyond the nightmare

tears

falling on the table

smashing, crashing

like the windshield,

like the handful of chips

that put me all in,

like my skull against the bullet…

and there is nothing here now,

nothing left of me

but skin and sin and

a past to learn or burn from,

and a conversation I am sick of having with myself.

I sit now

nude

staring at my

empty hands

and I realize

that I am starting over.

 

(2010)

Learning the Writer’s Craft

I’ve been writing all my life. It started probably around five, maybe six, with a pencil sketched comic strip featuring a simple, wiggly outline of a heroic sheepdog called Flufster.  By 9, I was the mad short story girl, most accompanied by minor illustrations.  Middle-school saw my first book – a neatly presented, word-processor-produced anthology of my poetry up to that point in my life.  It included nearly 50 poems, ranging in topic from love to murder, flowers to fornication… yes, I said middle school.  Don’t ask.  It’s just my brain, and the point is that it has always been my brain.

Writing, words, emotions, expressions, visible people with visible flaws pushing through real-life problems – even problems I have not experienced directly, are all just natural components to some bizarre and expansive spiritual index from which I draw material.  These things don’t “come to me.”  They come through me.  I’ve never curtailed the act of expression because I have no control over it.  I can only let it out or be eaten alive by it.

But if you know me, you know that my real hang-up isn’t writing about things.  It’s learning about things – and learning them so well that I am able to turn the valve from suck to flow.  It’s the channeling of information into and out of my mind.  The type or topic of said information need only be of relative interest.  All knowledge is based on experience, and I want to experience everything.

It’s a very simple process.  First I flood, then I write.

Moving forward in this work of building my writing platform has brought to the table the very language my brain speaks.  After decades of unbridled self-expression, all my flooding and all my writing, the countless Obsessions du Jour (cut me a break… I’m a red-headed, Italian Aries), I’m learning about writing for the first time.

I ramble through tons of articles and commentaries on writing.  I watch The Writer’s Room on Sundance.  I read Writer’s Digest.  I follow the blogs of other writers.  I’m flooding… Oh, look… I’m writing about writing.  (Geez, I hope my novel isn’t this predictable.)

But what am I learning?  I’m learning new ways of tapping into the stream that once flowed only when it chose to.  I’m learning how to craft the result of unchecked creative cascade into something even better.  I’m stepping outside my box to move around and get a better look at what I’m creating, and I’m tweaking it from there – like a painter placing one brush stroke from the corner of the room.  I’m gaining skill.

So, with a bow of gratitude, I tip my hat to all who, unbeknownst to them, help provide me with this education. What a beautiful, useful lesson this has been thus far, and there’s so much still to learn.

I’m a sponge in the ocean, a kid in a candy store.

Aries Girrrl

(Explicit Language Warning)

 

Orange for fire,

And green like a meadow.

Roll up in my grill

And I’ll cut you –

I’m metal.

I’m monster.

I’m proud –

With my crown in the air

And my feet on the ground.

I’m the chosen

Defender,

Both regal

And horned.

I threaten you once –

Consider you warned

That I’m patient

I’m peaceful

I’m a pretty nice gal,

But fuck with my herd

And I’m taking you out.

‘Cause this is my mountain

And these are my sheep,

And I’ll ram you right off

If you muck up the peace.

So come, sit, stay, love,

Enjoy,

And enlighten.

But do let the rack here

Remind you whose titan.

 

Satyr

I see you there –

Dancing

Wild in the life you’ve created

And kissed by the gods

Who designed you

To reflect the beauty

Of their loves

And in their dreams,

A vision brought forth

From a womb of creativity,

Cradled in perfect imagery,

And careening unchained through the earthly fantasies

Of Olympian kings.

Robust and on fire,

Dionysian kin

Compelling me

In life, and art, and sin.

Warm in the sun

And hot on my skin

You give rise to the restlessness within.

An Ampelos to my divining,

A promise of miracle

And intoxication,

A seduction so complete

It lifts the souls

Off their feet –

They go stumbling helpless toward your gaze.

A gift unto me –

A river that flows

Melodically,

Flutes and horns

Of wine and songs,

An orgy of the senses

That plays on my defenses,

Pulling me down to kneel

On my pedestal

Which you have provided.

And so I raise you up,

Like Krotos to the stars.

This muse mused by you –

A king

Crowned in vine

And thrown in skin,

A whisper of the way things might have been

If you and I

Were “you and I” –

But sadly, we are naught,

As you have yet

To come

To me.

 

Deriving The First Novel

aldous

 

There are certain books that I return to.  I can’t really help it.  There is something about the way they are crafted, the voice that speaks from the pages, or perhaps the world within that I can’t ever completely walk away from.  Like an old friend or an addicting lover, I am drawn to them over and over.  One of those is Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.  It is so potent, so penetrating.  The contrast of raw emotion against spiritual depravity, ladled thick with cutting social commentaries that expose the evils of all outcomes and trap a man between equally undesirable choices…  It defines the human societal experience and challenges conformity, and it is positively brilliant.

When I set out to write the story, I had several goals.  I wanted to create something that was beautiful to envision and engrossing to read, that felt adventurous and “escapist,” but that was also relevant and believable.  I wanted to create a perspective future that was founded in current reality, one that would paint a picture of tomorrow by layering the logically developed consequences of today’s social, political, and environmental issues with pure fiction.

Of course, there is no such thing as pure fiction.  All fiction is based in some kind of reality.  Even in high fantasy, characters experience emotion – something derived from the human experience.  Every leaf connects to a root.  An anchor for every ship.

So, for my first novel, I looked at history to find my fiction.  History and the future are so closely related, despite our present day tendency to ignore such information, thus it made sense to me that history would define this fictionalized future… or futures, as the case may be.  In the fall of one empire, we see the foreshadowing of ruins to come.  In the succumbing of a people, we realize our own dangerous shortcomings.

Predicting the future, however, is a tough business.  I mean, there is, after all, the freewill variable.  People always have a choice, and if history has taught us anything it is that people choose to survive.  This is where I justify the story’s cultural divide, the other place, the other outcome.  In designing this counter, I was able to present an opposing set of values and its contrasting effects.  Not to mention, it – by its very nature – afforded me the opportunity for unbridled creativity and grounds for a tremendous visual experience.

Writing on a common theme (in this case: “two worlds colliding”) comes with unique challenges.  Avoiding cliques, staying on an original storyline, and sidestepping the traps of predictability turn the marathon of novel-writing into an obstacle “ultra” – 50 miles of author hell.  But when a story is demanding to be told, what can you do?…

…You check your laces and get limber.  Aldous did it, and that man was high as a kite.

Whether or not I have succeeded in my endeavor, to write the next standout in the wide and ever-expanding genre of speculative fiction, remains to be seen.  (Querying would be a good first step to finding out.)  Nonetheless, the mission was in earnest, and the inspiration was solid.  If I’m worth my salt as a wordsmith, I should make out ok.  I hope, in any case, that you’ll explore and enjoy what lands here – on my blog.

There

I’m there

In a dream

Where I am free

Free to love

Free to breathe

Free to lose

Myself

In you

Who is there

To rescue me

From here

And bring me there

To the dream

Where I’m free to dream

But nothing more…

But nothing more.

“Get Back To Writing”

Lots of successful writers cash in big on memoirs and collections of writing tips, many of which a truly inspired writer wouldn’t want to follow.  In fact, most of them I’m fairly certain were only ever printed on paper so that they could be ceremoniously burned on the pyre of creative license.  But if they are carefully gleaned after taken with a grain of salt, one might be able to garner a few pearls of wisdom that help push projects forward.  I gained a couple from Steven King in his On Writing, the only King book I’ve read.  The most significant of the few gems encapsulated in things I couldn’t agree less with was the advice to “get back to writing.”

King tells a story about being hit by a car and how he eventually came around to the place and time when he sat before his work again.  I have had no such physical peril, but life being what it is has given me my fair share of delays and setbacks.  Nonetheless, I heed the advice of the esteemed master of guts and gore, not because I owe him anything (other than my longstanding fear of clowns and street corner sewer drains) but because it just makes sense.

My page, like my life, is undergoing some major transitions.  Nothing says change like… well, change; and if there is one talent I could claim to have mastered it would be the art of reinvention.  So, here I am, re-emerging from the chrysalis of chaos and ready to accept the fiscally dangerous and potentially woeful reality of my truest form: a writer.  Fortunately for my ego, I have already realized that whether or not anyone reads any of this is largely inconsequential to me embracing my true designation.  A writer writes.  That is what I do.  I make no claims beyond that.

Presently, my first novel is near completion. I’ll be querying shortly – a process that makes me shudder, and they say I should have this thing called social media in check. Apparently, if people care about you on Twitter, they care about you in real life… Well, they care enough to buy your book, anyway. So, here I am – a technologically impaired wordsmith toying with 140 characters and an Instagram account, swimming in an ocean of artists connected on a rather counter-characteristic network, and quickly realizing that – for me – it isn’t so much about how many people are following me as much as it is about me connecting with whomever should glance my way… because aside from how good it feels to notice another artist smiling at your work, it’s healthy.  Artists need each other, like chains of coral clinging together in a stunning display of symbiosis, like restless gypsies in a slow-moving caravan.  The life we live is most beautiful when populated by others of our kind, by those who appreciate our weirdness and originality, by those who admire us like the sun admires a flower – making us grow, and by those that contribute to the collective glow.

So, I’m getting my “platform” organized and pumped full of creative juices, sending out 1,000 colorful tentacles to poke around a world of artists and writers, simultaneously collaborative and competitive. I walk a line between reality and dreams – both invented and aspirational. I goal-set and go-get, and it is changing me. Therein lies the connection between my personal and media evolutions.

As I reach out and stretch myself into this world of aspiring and thriving artists (yes, the worlds are one – believe it or not),  I find an endless stream of art and literature to gape at, to learn, to feel, to expand upon or grow from… and I begin to create more. This place itself is a muse to me. The others here, on this digital plain of modern creative connectivity, are inspiring me to new heights. They give me new vision, fan my flame, and reinforce a clear reality: the world of art is limitless, that a person can make a living here, and that I can hang with the best of them. Knowing that about yourself does something to you.  Confidence is a crazy thing.  You see, once you understand your full potential, it becomes impossible not to fulfill it.

So, after a long hiatus from my humble public view, I’m back; and it’s good to be back – but even better to be tasting the creative stew of the artists’ digital network.

Look for me with the handle “JillArcangela” on Twitter and Instagram, and on Facebook as Jill-Arcangela M. Kopp.  I’ll see you out there.

Eleven Years Later

On the morning of September 11th in 2001, the world as we knew it was shattered.  The illusion of security was revealed for what it is: an illusion; and we realized – for the first time in more years than we could even recount – how vulnerable we really are.  We witnessed the flaming descent of one of our most beloved and iconic structures, and in the smoldering remains we saw the countenance of something more terrible than any enemy we had ever known.  We stared into the face of terrorism.

Unlike the visible, targetable enemies of wars past, terrorists are sneaky, covert, and difficult to take aim at.  They hide among common citizens and use them as human shields to mask their alliances and hide their guilt.  They spring up from a crowd of ordinary people, adding paranoia to the list of fears their workings instill in us.  They are deceptive, manipulative opportunists who are capable of covering their tracks while they work patiently and relentlessly on their plot, waiting for just the right moment to strike.

As victims of terrorism, we become suspicious and uneasy.  We allow our fears to control our decision-making, selling out our freedoms for the greater illusion of security, convinced that there is a perfect combination of laws and restrictions that will protect us from being victimized again.  Like a quivering, defeated man inviting authorities to take residence in his home, hoping their presence will protect him but forfeiting his privacy, so we invited the FBI, the NSA, the DHS into our lives, turning over the only real security we had: our autonomy.  So we could spy on one another, we allowed ourselves to be spied upon, sacrificing our freedom and giving license to a new kind of enemy – a domestic enemy.

Over the past 11 years, we have seen our government rise to a level of national control that is frightening and dangerous.  While groups like FEMA construct nationwide systems of emergency response totalitarianism, others like the NSA are watching our every move, reading our every social post, and eaves-dropping on our every conversation.  Our police forces have been trained in paramilitary-style tactics and suited with the corresponding weaponry.  Even our military forces have received political license to treat us, American civilians, as aggressors.

Meanwhile, empowered by our desperate pleas for a more flawless illusion of security, our political structure has started stepping consciously toward overt fascism, using morality, security, and religion as excuses to control our voices, our bodies, and our thinking.

The political manipulations of the “Right,” which have caused the people of this nation economic, political, and personal suffering, have been justified as an acceptable strategy against a political opponent they have painted with their own crimes.  Their failure to legislate effective solutions for the worsening problems we face have been excused as them building a campaign that will ensure their victory this November.  Such a victory would guarantee them the political control necessary to further their agenda of exclusivity and entitlement.  All of this only reaffirms that they have and will continue to put the people of this country (whom they are supposed to be serving) in the line of fire to safeguard their private initiatives and personal aspirations.

The extremists that have come to dominate more than half of our political incumbents use propaganda based on false morality, racism, fear, and hate, as well as disfranchisement, legislative manipulation, union busting, and the restriction of constitutionally protected civil liberties to extend control over the population.  They have blasted us with false information and messages that are corrupting the unifying fabric of our nation, dividing us over everything from petty issues to human rights.  They have used common human weaknesses, like the fear of the unknown and basic misunderstanding, to promote ignorance, disdain for one another, and miseducated, misguided attacks between people who would otherwise rally together against their growing oppression and its deeper motivations.

It would seem that such insidious political scheming, marked by flagrant abuses of power and pointed legislative assaults on our constitution, would quickly become the focus of a national counterattack.  One would think that we, as a people, would come together to stop this political machine from their fast erosion of our liberties, our systems, and our nation.  Instead, however, the vast majority is standing by idle or willfully participating in the tying of our own noose.  Why?  Because we are being controlled by fear, fear they have gone through great length to instill in us.

The dictionary definition of “terrorism” is “a state of fear or submission produced by the use of violence, the threat of intimidation, or coercion, especially for political purposes.”

The towers are gone, and the memorials are in place.  The souls of the deceased have ascended to wherever it is they drift off to.  The suffering we faced 11 years ago during those terrible events has been diminished to the familiar pangs of the significant losses of long ago.  We, however, are greater victims now than we have ever been before, and the terrorists who are ruling our lives, hearts, and minds are hiding somewhere far more dangerous than the window seat.  They are operating from The Hill.