Invisible Procession: Writing and Reading, Reading and Writing

Words written in long hand arrive into the hands of a reader. It's a new encounter, like a letter found in a bottle. While reading, an intimate and silent dialogue occurs with the past or with another life experience. Here is part of an exquisite poem "The God Abandons Antony" by C.P. Cavafy that uses the phrase "an invisible procession"-- here is an excerpt:

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.

Aside from the narrative of Antony, the leader losing his country, aside from underlining the need to face one's losses with courage, and other meanings, the poem identifies an individual's cascade of images, memories, and associations.

As the world changes, we might apply this metaphor to our experience.  In our imagination, an invisible procession occurs that can lead to our own creative work. I want to create new works that are evocative and have openings that invite the reader to make multiple meanings.Artists court change. Virginia Woolf said, "...we can read ... with another aim, not to throw light on literature ... but to refresh and exercise our own creative powers." Writers are good readers. Readers are open to enchantment and meditation. Readers are thinkers and dreamers. In the exchange, there is a potential transmission of energy and breath and intimacy that extends beyond one's own life.

Text has two sides, writing and reading. Reading opens doors. It triggers writing.  For me, it is a steady chase. Using an insisting image or something stirred by conversation, writing is an exploration, a way of discovery.  I begin with no expectation—because that is the best way—simply moving my hand across the page, writing the most mundane things and in this process from somewhere comes a word or a phrase that I follow. Getting lost is necessary, and so is way-finding.  I read a lot, and many things at the same time. It's a constellation of other's writings: contemporary and not contemporary essays, stories, poetry and newspapers. I watch movies. I record dreams. I record events and ideas.  I walk.  I bring up dreams, associations, experiments, and reveries. I find an image. This develops into a series of images.

In books, I find stillness and escape. The lamp on my desk shines books splayed downward and others fallen in stair-step patterns up and down. Books I’ve read are turned titles down, spines to the right, and books I plan to read have titles up, spines to the right. I love to read sitting by a window turning the thick pages fragrant with the scent of old libraries and women who wear glasses on gold or silver chains.

I arrived at e-books reluctantly. E-books are static—static as a print book (although this is changing)—but do not give the reader the sensation of a unique object that pleases the sense of touch and smell. The web provides new and different perspectives and languages: virtual reality, online gaming, multiple media and interactivity. A story that goes from print to film often contracts. The visual language and music will carry meaning as well as the words. If that same story is used in interactive gaming, it will expand. Digital media offer new artistic opportunities to make the invisible processions visible. 

With an increasing range and breadth of communication and networks, we select and arrange multiple things, people, places, and experience. We see memes, and we like to participate. We like our videos to go viral. Curation is a system of collecting, organizing and presenting. Patterns have become more apparent and necessary.

As a poet writing on paper and an artist presenting in digital online environments, I consider the reading and writing exchange. I can best describe the web films I've worked on as innovative ways of reading. The projects arrive, and they depart in code. They are mobiles of text, sound, and image. I call them choreotextographies.

I look for metaphors of movement: flows of rivers, wind, and water, bird and animal migrations, human travel and migrations. Also I’m drawn to transformations—metamorphosis, organic growth and decay, alchemy.

Creative work can demand this same process. People change residences, relationships, and/or activities in order to complete an artistic work. Even the choices of words convey how radical the process can be: one executes a piece of art or music.  In current slang, if one is mastering or superbly performing, one is "killing it.'   The old way of doing dies, and a new one arrives. We become part of the artistic piece at the same time as separating from it. Every creative work is an exchange and an act of change.

Storytelling on the Web: Choreotextographies

Reading and Writing

Reading and writing are the two sides of a text. Reading opens doors and writing crosses thresholds. Reading begets writing. For me, it is a steady chase. Writing begins with an insisting image or something stirred by conversation, between pages or words exchanged with a friend. I begin with no expectation—because that is the best way—simply moving my hand across the page, writing the most mundane things and in this process from somewhere comes a word or a phrase that I follow until I’m lost. Getting lost is necessary, and so is way-finding through dreams, associations, experiments, and reverie.

In books, I find stillness and escape. The lamp on my desk shines books splayed downward and others fallen in stair-step patterns up and down. Books I’ve read are turned titles down, spines to the right, and books I plan to read have titles up, spines to the right. I love to read sitting by a window turning the thick pages fragrant with the scent of libraries and women who wear glasses on delicate gold or silver chains.

Words written in long before arrive into a new encounter, like a letter found in a bottle. While reading, an intimate and silent dialogue occurs with the past or with another life experience. Here is part of an exquisite poem by C.P. Cavafy that uses the phrase "an invisible procession"--

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.

Aside from the narrative of a leader losing his country, aside from underlining the need to face one's losses with courage and other meanings, the poem identifies an individual's cascade of images, memories, and associations. As the world changes, we might apply this metaphor to our experience with old ways of publishing books and experiencing stories.  In our imagination, an invisible procession occurs that can lead to our own creative work. I want to create new works that are evocative and have openings that invite the reader to make multiple meanings. 

In the Digital Age

E-books are static—static as a print book (although this is changing)—and they do not give the reader the sensation of a unique object that pleases the sense of touch and smell. The web provides new and different perspectives and languages: virtual reality, online gaming, multiple media and interactivity. A story that goes from print to film often contracts. The visual language and music will carry meaning as well as the words. If that same story is used in interactive gaming, it will expand. 

Digital media offer new artistic opportunities to make the invisible processions visible. With an increasing range and breadth of communication and networks, we select and arrange multiple things, people, places, and experience. We see memes, and we like to participate. We like our videos to go viral. Curation is a system of collecting, organizing and presenting. Patterns have become more apparent and necessary.

As a poet writing on paper and an artist presenting in digital online environments, I consider the reading and writing exchange. I can best describe the web films I've worked on as innovative ways of reading. The projects arrive, and they depart in code. They are mobiles of text, sound, and image. I call these choreotextographies.

Choreotextography

I look for metaphors of movement: flows of rivers, wind, and water, bird and animal migrations, human travel and migrations. Also I’m drawn to transformations—metamorphosis, organic growth and decay, alchemy. Creative work can demand this same process. People change residences, relationships, and/or activities in order to complete an artistic work. Even the language conveys how radical the process can be: one executes a piece of art or music. The verb means a successful rendering but also it carries a shadow of death. The old way of being dies, and a new one arrives. We become part of the artistic piece at the same time as separating from it. Every creative work is an act of change.

Artists court change. Virginia Woolf said, "...we can read ... with another aim, not to throw light on literature ... but to refresh and exercise our own creative powers." Writers are good readers. Readers are open to enchantment and meditation. Readers are thinkers and dreamers. In the exchange, there is a potential transmission of energy and breath and intimacy that extends beyond one's life.  

This was originally published in Proof Magazine, 2014.

Waking: The Process of Writing the Poem

"The poet doesn't invent. He listens. " -- Jean Cocteau

Recently, I've been doing poetry in performance with Kathy McTavish. It is a blend of composition and improv, based on the concept of deep listening. Pauline Oliveros, a composer, used this phrase to describe a deep attentiveness to the moment. Kathy's ouevre is based on her deep attentiveness in performance--her cello is both a resonant and responsive instrument that draws the listener into its sound. Her cello triggers images....like the invisible procession in this poem:

God Forsakes Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing. -

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)
Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

This poem is a very good example of deep listening, of being attentive to the moment. Cavafy or God directs Antony away from negativity, the endless chatter of the anxious mind. Useless, he says. Pay attention. An important thing is going on--this loss, this beauty, this gift.

When it comes to writing or revising poems, one of my mantras is "listen to the work." In other words, in its first lines the poem sets up a rhythm, sound, pace, image, pattern, that should be developed within the work. It requires the poet to be attentive, to pay attention, to focus on what has begun and then to bring one's skills with language into play. If one makes a mistake, it can be lucky. If you don't quail or cross it out or backtrack, the mistake could bring you to a new and interesting place. As Cavafy says, "...listen--your final delectation--to the voices,/ to the exquisite music of that strange procession."

When it comes time to read or perform the work, my listening continues. Often, revisions occur on stage because I now hear the poem the way the audience does. Try reading a rough draft poem to your writing group or to a friend. It is likely you will immediately become aware of its flaws. Virginia Woolf believed that deletion is one of the writer's greatest skills.

I prepare for a poetry/cello performance by assembling poems into a narrative arc. Sometimes the arc will be based on something that has been on my mind, "Waking" was a recent theme related to the Rumi poems, my own wakefulness at night, and the idea of attentiveness. I collect more than I'll read and during the performance, I will select the work based on what is in the music or what the music wants.
Each performance is different. The opportunity for performance has spurred many more poems -- because I don't like to bore myself with repeating the same things. I strive for confluence, a flowing like a river flowing, always beginning.