AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

I think I'm feeding an obsession for organization. My vision for the AMP international arts directory is so massive in scope, I can find an entry pretty much every time I look anywhere. It's going to be years before the flow of information slows down! Tonight was very productive, and I can't seem to make myself really stop. The more I put in, the more I can imagine that needs to be put in. As of tonight, I guess we could say that arts festivals in Australia and more sedate music festivals in Hungary are covered. And who knew there were so very many fringe festivals in this world? All I knew about before was the one in Edinburgh, but there's also a fringe (or several) in Australia, and one (or more) in Hungary.

Well, you just can't escape them, those evil Cube Ghouls. I left the warped vortex of flesh-eaters and soul-suckers in Washington, D.C. eight months ago to land in the land of laid-back tolerance. No, not California. MAINE whose motto is "The Way Life Should Be." So here I was in pine country looking for work and lo and behold I espy the empowering graffiti declaring "Demand the Impossible." SUre enough, I obtain gainful employ as an online auction coordinator for a local non-profit (a Time Bank, a really cool concept). It was too good to be true: my own corner office, my own project, carte blanche creative license.

August 9, 2006 9am

Angular poetry revolving down jagged slopes. Absinthe splash and flow through shattered goblet.

We feel fine.

Music and mutterings and shouting and laughter. Pigments foot-smeared cross hardwood floor. Frayed paintings melt into one another.

Hangman. The answer is "flatulence".

Cashed bowls, slashed canvas and broken glass. Strange kisses, uncomfortable hugs, dizzy goodbyes. A creaky fire escape and a very well behaved rabbit.

Here is the love.

A quarter of a lifetime's drawings, photography, and paintings, scattered and trampled. The debris of the new season.

August 1st, 2006

The city is full of strange, alluring places to go at night. I don't mean nightclubs and "hotspots", I mean the edge of the river where the white geese sleep, or the dark, trash-strewn alleyways. Places of wonder and fear.

Places that people don't go - except that people do go there - and who are these people?

Whenever I cross the BU bridge, there is a part of me that leaps over the guardrail - that railing with a perfect spiderweb in each gap between its bars - I leap over it and into the river below.

For the longest time, I've had this vision, but never knew where that part of me went once it landed in the river. Last night, after being chased from the riverbank by a flock of snowy geese with their open wings and arched necks glowing in the moonlight, I was crossing the bridge and I finally saw where that other part of me goes.

It seems my e-zine is getting to big to post on this site, so if want to see wet T-shirts and sand blasts, you'll have to check out the web site www.ideagems.com for your perusal and amusement.

Speaking of amusement, today I read three horoscopes from three different web sources and they all concurred.

Yahoo's said: "Hey, everything you hoped for is happening. Or is it -- oh my goodness, everything is happening so fast! Ratchet down your anxiety level. Remind yourself that even good changes cause some upheaval."

MSN's said: "Today is not a day to stay inside and sulk, Laurie , so put the past behind you and move on. Grab opportunities with both hands and kick your engine into high gear. Stop looking at the things behind you and focus on the wide-open horizon in front of you. Today is an excellent day to turn up the stove and start brewing some new adventures. Transform your life into an action movie with you playing the starring role."

Chapter One read aloud. Do you recognize the voice?

To those who have read any/all of The Cardiff Grandma((Hi Mom): Could you please send any/all reactions to lindakentartist@yahoo.com or to Mr E here on AMP?
Please put 'Grandma in subj. box (rather than 'hi!" or 'viagra', ex.) Ta, lk

25 July 2006

3:45 pm

seven, nine, twelve, fourteen, seventeen. These are the sacred numbers that rule my life.

seven, nine, twelve, two, five. These are the numbers in my prayers.

25 July 2006

2:15pm. Here we are once again. 2 and a half hours to go, and I don't know if I can make it. The din of the shop. My coworkers are in high spirits, talking about muscle cars and how they like their espresso. That gurgling troll of a machinist makes his usual mucus noises interspersed with dog-like, whimpering laughter at his own jokes. Lathes and drill presses hum and whirr, torches hiss, and beautiful things are made by ugly creatures with skilled hands.

I am reminded of the Dwarves of Norse legend and Tolkein novels. Fat, stocky, crude creatures that live underground, out of the sun, out of the world. They eat too much and they drink too much and they enjoy little in life, but they craft objects of unrivaled beauty and workmanship.

WARNING: This novel contained fake Welsh.
The Cardiff Grandma: Epilogue

In the deceptively wood paneled office of the joint chiefs of the local Indian Nation’s, Wolfcastle and Ddwwchllyf (that’s Ddwwchllyf not Ddwwchlyff) sat pensively. They awaited the arrival of the reason for their being there. Slowly a large oak door creaked open and a bold figure strode through. In an instant both men rose from their chairs and stood upright. They’d stood for something once. Now they stood for the something once more. ‘At ease men. As you were,’ the figure spoke. The two friends slowly returned to their respective positions.