Dave Pollard: Creative Works

there is an artist hiding inside each of us

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 02:39:00 GMT

there is an artist hiding inside each of us.

it wants to re-present what we see, sense, feel...

it wants to capture what is, what is astonishing, here, now...

it want to create what can only be imagined...

it wants to design miniature truths...

it wants to tell the world who we are, and what is going on...

it wants to create meaning, to say "look! there's a pattern here!"...

it wants to inspire, to tell an important story, and convey what we feel. it wants to provoke change by showing what is now that cannot go on.

i'm writing a song. the artist in me is crying out for new means of expression.

there is so much that is important that we have to communicate. why are we wasting time debating, analyzing, planning?

we know what has to be, and what has to be done, and what we have to be and do to real-ize that.

what are we waiting for?

category: creative works
all artworks by the author

Friday Flashback: A Game of Cards

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 23:57:39 GMT

Two years ago, suffering from the onset of severe ulcerative colitis, and suffering even more from the steroids prescribed to treat it, I began writing a mystery novel. I wrote four chapters and then, having at last recovered, abandoned the writing in the midst of the fifth chapter. I was in a near-hallucinatory state when I wrote much of it. I'm thinking of picking it up where I left off. Here is the last completed chapter:

This is the fourth chapter of what is evolving of its own accord into a strange sort of mystery novel. The first chapter, Miro, is published here. The second chapter, Letter to Ariela, is published here. The third chapter, the Faeries of Morpheus, is published here. Chapter five, Review of the Evidence, is in progress. The novel consists of a set of fragments, recollections and memorabilia, that are discovered by Inspector Tomás Moreno López in a carved box in the home of Miro, an engineer who has mysteriously disappeared and is now assumed dead. The carved box was apparently made by Miro's estranged wife Ariela, a famous artist, who has turned up at a country inn, incoherent and delirious, and fallen into a mute trance, oblivious and unresponsive to everyone, including the couple's two adult children. So Inspector Moreno must try to piece together the puzzle from the 'clues' in the box, each of which is contained in a numbered envelope, and each of which, as Moreno reads and ponders them, becomes a chapter of the novel. Here are the contents of the fourth envelope:

The four of them -- Miro, his neighbours Wolf and Kristen (parents of the delightful Birgit, who had brought him the abandoned Puppi and Kitti, the wonderful creatures who filled some of the empty space left by the departure of his beloved Ariela), and Elena, the community school principal, who frequently borrowed Ariela's artwork and Miro's architectural drawings as inspiration for her students -- met monthly for a game of cards in Miro's solarium.

The game of cards was just a pretext for their monthly get-togethers, which often evolved into artistic and philosophic explorations that lasted well into the night. Each 'game' evening had a different theme, and Miro prided himself on creating an atmosphere in the entirely glass-surrounded solarium that reflected the theme and inspired the evening's activities. Tonight, the theme was Sensation and Intuition, and the game played was a Basque bluffing game that used an unusual Tarot deck -- each card was illustrated with a unique work of art that suggested the meaning of the card, so that readings could be entirely intuitive rather than based on 'learned' meanings of the cards.

The card game involved the collection of runs and sets, using the Tarot deck's four suits and the arcana as a fifth, higher-ranking suit, but also involved a declaration in which not all the cards were revealed, and, unless challenged (which carried a penalty if unsuccessful) it was the best declared hand, not the best actual hand, that won the round. But before a challenge, potential challengers were permitted to ask questions of the declarer and discuss with the other players whether they thought the declarer's body language betrayed a bluff or not. Miro quickly discovered the symmetry of ability to bluff and ability to suss out bluffing in others -- since he lacked both.

Read the rest of this chapter.

Artwork above is from Sweden's Linda Bergkvist at furiae. Some of her extraordinary work is available for sale through her site.

Friday Flashback: ...and where will we hide when it comes from inside?

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 18:49:24 GMT

I'm sure just about every reader of this blog has either experienced first hand, or known and loved someone who has experienced, that feeling of powerlessness and anxiety that comes when the Noonday Demon exerts an influence over everything you/they do. You can tell yourself that what you're feeling is irrational, you can list and analyze what you're stressed about and appreciate that there's no point in getting dragged down, but it happens nonetheless. The Demon poisons you from inside.

Two years ago when I was last going through a period of great anxiety, I wrote the poem below. I'm feeling much the same way now, so I thought I would reprise it as this week's Friday Flashback. I offer it not in a search for sympathy, but as an explanation to those I love for why I seem suddenly testy, apprehensive and disengaged, and as an expression of understanding for others who know these feelings all too well. See you on the other side.

three am:
i'm haunted by a vague sense of dread

so i get up and stare out the back window:
the wind is gusting
and it's the coldest night of the year --
i wonder how the juncos and chickadees are faring
feathers fluffed up against the blowing snow

i put on my snowsuit and trudge out
around the bird feeders and down the hill towards the forest

in the middle of our 'toboggan hill' i stop, plunk down in the snow
and just gaze out into the darkness, listening

other than the wind i hear only
the rustling of the trees
and the low-pitched hoots of an owl, talking to herself
or perhaps warning me not to disturb her nightly prowl

these days i worry about everything:
i drew the self-portrait at right to show the worry lines
around my eyes that i can't see but which i feel --
they are a part of me always

i worry about keeping things together:
there is such a thin veil between civility and rage,
between hanging in and giving up,
between composure and madness

we don't dare show who we really are

i worry about not knowing what i'm meant to do
now, or ever,
and not doing enough to find out, as if
by waiting, my intended purpose
will announce itself to me, with trumpet fanfare
and i'll be escorted along the well-marked path
from wherever i am now, to that magic place
where those i'm meant to work with, and to love
will greet me, cheering, asking "where were you?"
and "what took you so long, we've been waiting"

hah! yet still i wait here, paralyzed
and not knowing why:
nowhere to go

"the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting",
eliot said -- the fool, the coward

i worry about all the creatures in the world
who live miserable, captive lives, without hope:
their suffering haunts me night and day
far more than that of those who know they are mistreated,
who know the world is unfair

it is for those unknowing, all of them, and us, who can't imagine
a better life that i cry
when i hear art garfunkel sing "bright eyes"
for the dying rabbit in watership down

i worry for the generation after next:
they will learn to live
with monstrous debts that aren't their own,
the careless legacy of those who came before

but mostly i worry about letting people down:
we are driven, after all, more by what others expect of us
than by our own compass
and somehow all we do, or try to do
is never good enough

the snow's picked up
and now i'm shivering, so i rise
and climb back to the house, to make some tea
and sit by the fire, and wonder:
how did we lose our way? --
at seventeen, i knew, we knew, what we had to do
and how to go about it,

so what terrible knowledge intervened
to send us so off course?

why can we no longer hear
the quiet, certain voices that inform
the march of the penguins,
telling our wretched species
how to find the way home?

thanks to fellow Slogger meg at blogcabin for the inspiration
and to jt for the title; photo from my flickr collection

Hanna

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 19:03:58 GMT

"I want it all", Hanna told him.

He'd been walking back to his hotel after his conference presentation and decided to stop at one of Paris' renowned sidewalk bistros. He'd found one that looked attractive. As he walked along the row of seats and tables a striking woman in a trim burgundy suit followed him with her gaze. When he turned his head to look at her, she raised her head and looked directly into his eyes, not averting her stare for a moment. He stared back, with a slight smile at her forwardness. He'd discovered that Parisians are fond of checking each other out, especially in public places like the brasseries and the MÃ©tro, so he didn't think this terribly unusual. He stopped walking. There were few empty seats in the bistro, and as he walked back towards her, the woman, still gazing right into his eyes, nodded towards the seat beside her, inviting him to sit.

She offered him her hand and they introduced themselves. They spoke French. She said she was Austrian, from a village in the mountains. Her long wavy hair was jet black. They explained what had brought them to Paris, and then moved the discussion to philosophy, and life goals. Hanna spoke exuberantly about her intentions in life:

"I want it all. Love, friendship, adventure, discovery, fun. I can't, won't be tied down. It's not that I'm extravagant or unwilling to take responsibility. My ecological footprint is very small. I own next to nothing. I owe nothing. I don't drive. I care about the planet, and about people, especially people who are responsible, who care."

He asked her about her expensive-looking wardrobe, where she lived, and what she did for a living.

"I have three outfits, casual, that I made myself, that go with me everywhere. If I need something different, like this suit, I buy it in a thrift store and then, when I'm done with it, I donate it back, or give it to someone who needs it. My home, near a small village in Austria, is a one-room cottage in a forest. I sold the property to the government for one euro, on condition it never be developed and that I be able to use the cottage for free during my lifetime. It's powered by wind and solar power, and it's more or less empty. When I'm home I sleep there, prepare simple meals from local foods, write, paint, sculpt, weave, play music, and do research. But I'm a nomad, I'm comfortable anywhere and I like to move about and spend time with the many people I love, who are all over the planet. So I speak at conferences for the cost of transportation to the conference site. Most places I go I know people I can stay with, and I give them gifts of my artworks in thanks for their hospitality. If I don't know anyone, I just make a new friend when I arrive. It's fun."

She asked him where he was staying, and when he told her, she asked if she could spend the night, and the one following, with him. He suggested it might be awkward, since the room had only one bed. She smiled at him wryly.

"I was hoping we'd make good use of the bed. I love making love, with people who are intelligent, sensitive, and kind. Don't get me wrong, though. It's not because you're putting me up for the night. I'd offer to make love with you even if I couldn't stay the night. I want to do a sketch of you, and that's what I offer you for your accommodation. My offer of love is free." She smiled again.

They talked for awhile about how to make the world a better place. He told her he had given up on trying to bring about systematic change, and instead intended to create models of a better way to live: intentional communities, natural enterprises, self-organized collaborative events. She liked the approach. She was a model herself, he discovered, of living light upon the land, of the gift economy.

They ate vegan food, watched the people, laughed, poked gentle fun at each other. Then, at sunset, she took his hand and said simply "time to make love".

She was an expert lover. She teased him for hours, not letting him climax, while she taught him exactly how to please her, over and over. They took a bath together, and later a shower, in between rounds, and by the time they were sated it was the middle of the night. He was ready to sleep but she dragged him outside to show him Paris at night, when almost everyone was in bed. They walked for about an hour, holding hands, singing quietly, sharing confidences, laughing, crying. They went back to his hotel room and made love one more time, gently, slowly, by candlelight, and then slept in each other's arms until noon.

They made love again when they awoke, and then Hanna gave him a speech she had clearly recited often. She lay on his shoulder, caressing his chest, and said:

"Tomorrow I leave for Stuttgart, for a conference on collaboration and innovation. You are really on to something, you know, with your talk about Love and Conversation being the keys to making the world a better place. But I'm not so sure about intentional communities, or about physical communities at all. The world has changed, and you can't re-isolate people in communities, even if it may be for their own good. I have four lovers in Stuttgart and I am looking forward to being with them all. I will tell them about what I have learned from you, and from talking with you. I will probably pick up some new ideas and understanding from them, which I'll relay to you, the next time we meet. And we will meet again, in Rio, in January, when we're both at the same conference, and, if you're up for it, at my place in April, as we discussed. I just want you to understand that I love you, but I also love many others, and I have to be free to spend time with them too. You understand? We can have a lot more fun until I go tomorrow, but no sad goodbyes, no tears, right?"

He was quiet for a moment, and then nodded, smiling. She went on:

"You should try doing what I do. Sell everything you have and become a Love Nomad like me. Make your 'intentional community' the whole world, all the people who 'get' what you're saying or who, at least, because they're intelligent and sensitive and caring and imaginative, could get what you're saying. And just have fun loving them, in the way they want and deserve to be loved. And conversing with them, spreading the ideas and information and insights you have around, like a virus."

All that day they explored Paris, and each other. They returned to the bistro where they'd met for dinner, and Hanna, using the same 'eye trick' she'd used on him, invited a wildly-dressed Parisian woman named Mireille to join them for dinner. That night was a threesome, of passion, and of conversation about art. Mireille was a performance artist, and she had adorned her body with tattoos, piercings and temporary drawings about Gaia, making a virtual canvas of her body. Hanna drew a sketch of him on Mireille's shoulder as her two new lovers were sleeping in each other's arms, and when she rose in the morning she left them a note, with her cell phone number, that read:

"I give you to each other, in love."

Image is from parlerparis.com. The character of Hanna is based on a polyamorous woman I knew many years ago, who at that time was living with five lovers. I'd like to believe this is what she might have grown up to become.

Category: Short Stories

Pilgrimage, Part Two: A Night in the Rainforest

Wed, 30 Jan 2008 01:42:12 GMT

It's only 90 minutes in the rickety old Blue Bird school bus (whose drivers navigate the twisting mountainous roads of Belize way too fast) from the impoverished Southern coastal Garifuna village of Hopkins that I described in Part One of this article yesterday, to the daunting entranceway to Caves Branch, in the rugged interior of West Central Belize. The bus drops me off at the edge of the highway, and it's a mile hike in sweltering 90F heat and occasional torrential rain up the mountain road through stunning tropical rainforest to the ecotourist Caves Branch "jungle lodge" owned by Vancouverite Ian Anderson, who I meet almost as soon as I arrive.

On the trek up, I keep stopping and staring, taking photos of the towering tangle of ferns, vines and immense (100') trees that extend darkly into the distance on both sides of the road, and create an imposing archway over the dirt and stone road. And I think to myself, breathlessly: I am home. This is where we humans were meant to live. The jungle calls me, inviting me in. I have no fear of the poisonous snakes and spiders, or the jaguars and other wild cats whose last remaining Earthly refuge is in this country. I haven't felt this way, this sense of instinctive belonging, about a place I do not live, since I walked through the temperate rainforest in Qualicum BC, and the 300' redwood forests of the Pacific Northwest.

The other people staying at the lodge are all North Americans -- couples in their 50s and 60s, some with kids and inlaws in tow. The cheerful workers, mostly Mayan youngsters, are as culturally different from the Garifuna I've been living among for the previous three days, as day is from night. They patiently explain their history, culture, lifestyle, and the nearby archaeological sites, to me and the other curious tourists. They ask no questions of me, about how I live, what I think, or the unimaginable snow-covered country I come from.

I keep looking for good conversation in Belize, but, other than with Joe Bageant, I haven't found it. The Garifuna, the North American tourists, the Mayan workers, all seem to live in their own narrow, isolated worlds, and are disinterested in the future, in philosophy, in the purpose of life or in any other profound or long-term subject. Their intellectual curiosity is shallow, their imagination dormant.

More than anything in this natural paradise I miss you, dear online friends. This is a staggeringly beautiful land, but to me, except when I imagine you here with me, it's an intensely lonely one. The night in the rainforest, in my bug- and water-proof but authentic-looking cabana, is delightful. I awake to the cries of the howler monkeys, the macaws, and the driving downpour of a wall of rain so heavy I cannot see through it. The forest smells are so dense and rich I can taste them.

The foolishness of the sense of invulnerability I feel in the rainforest becomes apparent the next day when the inner tube I'm riding down the the river through Belize's vast rainforest cave system hits the rapids, and I cannot stop from crashing into the riverbank, carving up my arms and spraining two fingers in a spiky stand of bamboo, and losing my only pair of glasses in the process.

One of our young guides has to steer me through the rest of the journey, hooking her feet under my tube and answering my questions about Mayan history and culture as I squint to see at least the nearby sights. I complete the arduous five-hour tour in tow, but I feel humiliated, and worried about the risk of infection and making my way home visually impaired. I decide to cut my trip short, a day early, and book a flight back home. Paradise found, and lost.

Category: Memoirs and Dispatches

a midnight conversation

Thu, 27 Dec 2007 20:57:51 GMT

sitting in the darkness
in the middle of the night,
and staring through the window
smiling, thinking thoughts of you.

i throw another log upon the fire
and light a candle on the table
where i write, cross-legged
listening to madrigals.

each gentle note of the guitar wafts
quietly around the room and
speaks to me its haunting melody
its voice, both calm and wild
is like a creature crying in the dark
its song of love and loneliness.

outside, a single coach-lamp
shines its light on red-bricked walls
creating colours that did not exist
before invention of electric lamps
transformed the deep and silent night;

these colours stir a pure emotion
cold and stark and still and proud
inviting
in the way that only wintry nights
can welcome you.

i sit in wonder, of this life,
of nature's awesome beauty, and of you,
who are a part of me, forever, now,
with me, each place i go
i feel you, leaning back against me,
smell you, earth and sweat and jasmine,
taste you, berries, yogurt and the taste of me, and
hear your voice, so breathless, laughing,
see those little curves, those hidden places,
eyes in candles' soft reflection gleaming in the dark,
with me, here, now and always, you
who i can love so easily, so naturally, and so completely,
always and all ways.

no more 'hard work' love
all ridden with those anxious thoughts and struggle,
expectations and distractions and demands,
and doubts, and silly jealousies, and
insecurities and fury and the endless unwept tears --
now my love for you flows hot and raw like lava
effortless and unrestrained, with
laughter, ecstasy and all-consuming joy
just to be,
here,
now,
in this still and endless moment, outside time, with you
connected and a part of all the life on Earth:

a conversation, in hushed voices, in the dark,
alert, and listening
filled with love of every man and woman, beast and beauty,
wild and gentle, tame and savage,
in this place, our Home,
in unrestrained communion.

now the wind comes up
the firelight flares, the candles flicker--

in the silence all alone
i hear your voice, the whisper in the winter's cry
the song of one awoken chickadee
its trill the story man has long forgotten how to hear
of how to live, and love;
she tells the world
of joy that needs no 'saviour'.

just hold me now, and know, that in my arms
in love and conversation we will find
the answer to life's mysteries is simple:
walk away, let yourself soar, be
self-sufficient, owning nothing, needing nothing, loving all --
just one to one with trusted friends in Gaia's warm embrace,
a circle in a circle of belonging,
nothing more.

Category: Poetry

Vignette #7: Hexagon

Wed, 05 Dec 2007 04:11:28 GMT

This is a story of six lovers in a polyamorous circle. Not work-friendly. It's fiction, just to give you an idea of how a love-positive community might work: Read the story.

Image: A yurt in Big Sur California..

Category: Short Stories

love song 4 6

Sat, 17 Nov 2007 01:39:12 GMT

so we're now all together, new lovers and friends
we're creating the future on which earth depends
overwhelmed by these feelings, this chemical soup
and the pleasures of loving our whole little group

you're my reason to be, love you each more than life
but our role is much richer than husband or wife:
we are all polyamorous, six into one
we love each other equally, we've just begun

to share everything we are, six bodies, six souls
in intentional community, sharing goals,
lost in deep conversation or trembling with lust
we gift each to each other a deep sacred trust

sensitivity, strength, laughter, passion and joy
as a girl loves a boy loves a girl loves a boy
we're a generous hexagon, open and free
not possessive or jealous, just three upon three

giving love in abundance, to each one in turn
we connect and combine, come together and learn
we're alive with the promise of communal bliss
we exchange and we laugh and we touch and we kiss

we intend to be amor and eros and zen
on this intimate journey of women and men
full of joy full of hope full of caring and heart
we are never alone we are never apart

oh i love you! i love you! i love you! we're one
with the earth and the stars and the sea and the sun
so sweet friends sail beside me we're soaring above
we've discovered the meaning of life is just LOVE

(the parrot is the symbol of polyamorous community); photo by jiri bohdal

Category: Poetry