Graduation

And now school falls away, slipping behind like grassy fields outside a car window.

A Great Job Opportunity

I had a great job opportunity yesterday. Was called into Carson Thomas Personnel employment office. The girl sitting across the desk wore skin tight jeans with chains looped around the seams.
"It's a Jr. Admin Asst position with a publication company," she said. "You've heard of it."
"Okay, would I have a chance to do some editorial work?"
"Yes, once you're in, you can move about the company. It's a great salary too."
"Cool," I said. "Who is it for?"
"Flynt Publications."





!!






Choking back laughter. "Uh, I don't think ~ that's the right fit for me."
"Why not?" she asks, leaning on the desk.
"Oh, I don't think I'd be comfortable there."
She glances down at my resume, presses her finger against the name Pasadena First Church of the Nazarene.
"Are you into Church?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Are you like REALLY into Church?" she asks again.
"Yes."
"Just a minute."
Lonyea, or Ms. Jefferson, as she likes to be called, jumps up from behind her desk and goes to speak with her boss. Soon his cigarette torn voice calls me from the other office.

I feel like I've been sent to the principal's office for being a difficult student.

Mr. Thomas begins his ten minute lecture about the respectability of Flynt Management Group. "Only two of their twelve publications are sexually oriented....they don't have naked women walking through the office....it's not like they have posters of naked women hung on the wall..."

I laugh all the way home.

Ekphrastic Writing - Writing in Response to Art

In ekphrasis, or ekphrastic art, there are initially two imaginations at work—that of the original artist, and that of the respondent through his/her medium. - Jennifer Bosveld


The painting is a creative study of part of a Paul Reuben's painting by Havi

From the moment I saw these people spinning around on Havilah's desk, I was captivated. I bought it from her. Now it sits on my dresser, where every morning I look at it. Something about the movement of the dancer's bodies, the abscence of their faces, invites me. I want to gaze and gaze until time slips away.

Can't you almost hear the music, the sound of their feet thumping the ground? I expect them to turn at any moment. While I look for a glimpse of their faces, I already know the expression there. Doesn't the placement of their limbs tell you? The feirce energy from arm to waist, hand to skirt, foot to floor? Can't you feel the look of breathless joy?

Notice the warm hues of the painting. The muted maroons, golds, and browns, except for the exquisite woman on the far left. The crisp blue fabric of her collar hangs below her shoulders revealing the smooth line of her neck and back, seductive and lovely.

Why is her face the only one we're allowed to glimpse? Even that glimpse is fleeting, shrouded. We see only her profile, the cut of her fine nose, the gentle slope of her chin. And just as the color of her dress sets her apart from the rest of the dancers, so does the expression which sneaks away from her profile. She carries a sublime look, not one of furious fun. A still expression, as if she should be naked and cut from white marble.

This lady in blue is the only dancer without a partner. We imagine a body next to hers, we envision the strong face she is looking into, and yet there is no arm tucked around her waist like the other two women. If the lady in blue is dancing the same dance, if she is in step with the other two couples, shouldn't she be leaning on her partner's arm, ready to spin into the next move? No, she stands alone, leaning back, serenly tilting her chin.

Who is this woman? It is as if the enegery of the painting swirls around her, as if the dancers themselves are being spun from that one hand on her hip, poured into existance as she crosses the room. Is she the genesis of all this mirth? The centerfuge of movement, and rhythm, and fun?

If so, I want to be one of the bodies dropped from her fingers, brought into life in brown and red watercolor. I want to be grabbing my skirts, balanced on the hip of another, swinging round the room with air sweeping beneath my feet.

Controversial Jesus

Wrote this poem for the new Mosaic series. The prompt was to write something dealing with a controversial aspect of Jesus. So far, this poem has had controversial results. People's reactions are split right down the middle. Some think it's profound, other's think it's pretty bad.:-)

One

Bono sings about me.
I am the number of hearts you’re given in this life.
I’m the number of husbands you hope you’ll ever marry.

If I were a fruit, I’d be a bing cherry.
If you could catch me in your hand, I would be an index finger pointing toward the sky.
If you could walk on me, I would be a single path, finishing on the horizon in a finite point.

There’s no use trying to soften my edges.
I’m not a party, not a social butterfly.
I’m not door number 2 or 3.
I’m the only choice you’ve got.
I’m not a fork in the road,
Not a side dish or a complimentary color.
If you wear me, I’m the only shade from head to toe.
If you eat me I am the only taste from bite to swallow.

Two’s company and three’s a crowd
But I am the last person left in a room

“They,” “we,” “us,” and “them” have left me out.
I am the only time three letters equal One.

I can be a number or a state-of-being.
But long ago, a man made my name a declaration.
Consider his words:
He said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father, except through me.”