Memoirous

In my reading of Sister Corita and her techniques I came across the ultra-simple finder. The finder is a square or rectangle—THINK: a projection slide with the film part removed—used to focus or narrow down onto a detail. It allows us to visually exclude in order to see more clearly a smaller part of a whole. When is a bottle more than just a shape made of glass—when we can re-frame it as a blue sky or luminescent lake surface. So many things become Other. Tatsuya Tanaka is a Japanese artist who has been using masks and other household items to create pocket-sized scenes. He is an example of someone using Covid to make something new. The ordinary suddenly takes on new meaning—and for a moment we can chuckle, our minds wandering elsewhere.  https://www.designboom.com/art/tatsuya-tanaka-escapist-miniature-scenes-face-masks-household-items-08-03-2020/ You can find Tanaka on    Instagram  . do you see? staples!

Readers of this blog know that I often post about memories. I've blended the art of flash with memoir to come up with flash memoir. Memoir, unless you've had a ridiculously exciting life--such as people who survive a bridge collaps e--most of us lead lives of quiet desperation--even Thoreau's life was made up of unmemorable experiences. The ordinary, the mundane. And what can be more ubiquitous or mundane than a pigeon. Here in the city we call them flying rats. There's nothing special about them--mainly because they're EVERYWHERE. A pigeon exemplifies the very idea of writing about the ordinary. Consider, then, submitting flash to  http://everypigeon.com/ Every Pigeon  publishes works which magnify the mundane. Works that find significance in everyday routine, light and layered color in the grey coat of every pigeon. We publish twice a year in June and December. We favor work that puts its face right up to the glass. Let us see the details o...

Escaping the heat in the 2800 block of W. Augusta, 1988. Photo by Michael Fryer (Vintage Tribune Chicago, IL) Here is another Facebook group I’ve discovered. Simply Pictures of Chicago —such as over the weekend, tone of pics of the electrical storm Saturday and Sunday evening. A lot of sunset shots. Just everyday stuff. Crowds at the beach. Michigan Avenue. A hot dog stand. This is the ESSENCE of flash. An Instagram moment that is here now and a minute late gone. And, if you, me, we don’t grab it then it will forever be a regret. Because the light changes, the clouds, move, or something else comes along and that moment is lost. That’s why I’ve been enjoying Stephen Spender’s poetry. This one from, Collected Poems 1928 – 1985 , Stephen Spender An Air Raid Across the Bay at Plymouth   Above the whispering sea And waiting rocks of black coast, Across the bay, the serchlight beams Swing and swing back across the sky. Their ends fuse in a cone of light ...

When is a truck not a truck— When it kills 84 revelers after a fireworks display On a busy boulevard When is a plane not a plane— When it is used as a missile and Flown into tall buildings When is a train no longer a train— When it becomes a bullet bomb Underground Mail, parcels, parties Bible studies, peaceful protests University classrooms Can you think of any other ways Where everyday life, the ordinary Has been co-opted? Where something Like eating at a restaurant, watching a soccer game, Walking your dog, attending a concert Have been turned into the most horrific Moment of your life— Can you imagine? Think, think again . . .  seaside promenade, palm trees, rollerbladers, ice creams stands =all take on new meaning

How do the professional writers, the ones making money, the ones writing for television—how do they come up with their material? They mine it from everyday life. The other day I was eating lunch and listening to a podcast and the person being interviewed, a writer for a couple popular TV sitcoms talked about the Monday morning writers meeting. This was when he was working on Everybody Loves Raymond. First thing the head writer would say was: What happened this weekend? So the men and women around the table would talk about family matters, misunderstandings, household chaos—the mundane. And, it worked. It fired scripts, kept a show running for 8 seasons. Surely from your crazy/boring life comes a tidbit/germ you can render into a story or incorporate into a longer narrative. Often I will draft half-done stories, knowing there is something missing. A piece to the puzzle that I must wait on. This seldom comes as true inspiration as much as paying attention. If I think wha...

Thanks for these gray hairs Thanks for these weird discolored spots (liver marks?) Thanks for my thunder thighs— They help me to climb the stairs Thanks for wind in my pipes (to climb the stairs) Thanks that I can sing Thanks that I sing badly Thanks for stretch marks Thanks for a great big ass Thanks for the gaps in my teeth because without these teeth I would never be able to Eat Little Debbie Nutty Bars, Hot Tamale candy, and those addictive restaurant-style tortilla chips. Thanks for the flab under my arms— they’re like little bat wings! Thanks that I’m not dead. Thanks for one more day to dance naked.