In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

California Dreaming

Palm 40 x 50 cm




WHY I’M NOT A REGIONAL POET

There are at least three climate zones here. As the fog
   cools espresso
scented mornings in Tiburon, in eucalyptus-rich Berkeley,
everything grayish and sweet, a few miles away in Contra Costa
County a freshly washed pair of jeans dries in just thirty minutes
   of unhindered sunshine. About thirty-miles more inland,
in even hotter Livermore Valley, where physicians and shrinks maintain
   tax shelter “farms,”
the zinfandel grape—known as “Primitivo”
   in the Abruzzi and Puglia—flourishes, while the slower
   growth of pinot noir and chardonnay
is managed in cooler, foggier Napa-Sonoma. In winter
chains of bright green hills look like Ireland and Wales though by July
   as bleached and dry platinum and incendiary
as any plain in Cervantes. We swim in pools of chlorinated water
   usually a neighbor’s because only neighbors have swimming pools
the ocean too cold up here in the North for sustained immersion.
In what we call winter—okay, stop laughing—we soak in redwood hot tubs
   talking about what ever
passes through our badly singed synapses. Many of us, even the natives—
   a fatigued sunburned lot who meet
   once a year in Oxnard for chipped beef on toast—
have trouble remembering the state flower, bird, motto, lapses that
   may have more to do with chronic herbal abuse than indifference.
Maybe I’m a regional poet after all, though I detest the genre: aren’t we so great,
   it seems to say, aren’t we so lovely posing in our provincial pig sties,
that warm stupid feeling a child has just after wetting the bed.
Still, it’s not easy getting entirely away from where it all began, poet
   of a dream state. A state of dreams
that really does believe it resides in paradise but only sometimes:
   when there isn’t a serial killer
making the rounds, adding body parts to his collection, when
the earth is steady as she goes, no hillside stranger in my lap,
   no half a school on my roof,
when the governor doesn’t wear cowboy boots at a press conference….
I would prefer not to say anything more about it.
   It might run away then, this state of mind,
to a space where the sun is less ambitious, where regional identity
 is not an issue of wine & cheese,
the nebulous Zen message or the nose job
but of God, guns, abstinence and unwanted pregnancies.





 The Mamas and the Papas - California Dreamin'

1 comment:

  1. I know an Irish lawyer who named his house Tiburon, not knowing it was Spanish for "shark"!

    ReplyDelete