writing sample
In light of the fact that this is a blog about the writing of a book, it might be appropriate to include a sample of writing. This is not for the book, but as I am trying to build my word muscles, This is a poem about an artist. My lovely wife, Lynne.
The Artist
An english mystery plays softly from her digital device, but to quote Bob Dylan, there’s really nothing to turn off. Indiscriminately affective dialog fades in comparison with the intense observation and perception of the artist in her study. Mere mumbles in english accent. As the light from the large northern window slowly diminishes, a more significant sound is the slight scratch, back and forth, of the mechanical graphite point leaving its trail on the prepared paper. Sometimes hesitant, often rhythmic, her stylus leaves one stroke after another behind. One tool gets imperceptibly smaller as another form begins to emerge, this from the flatness of the white surface. Looking closely, it’s just a light smudge. But with patient time, patient movement, and patient study of its model, a new object builds. A flower, an Iris in full bloom already grown, grows again.
The surface:
She likes paper. The artist talks about the way each paper feels, under her careful hand. Some slick and hard, almost too proud to take the hesitant marks of the unsure hand. Her point skates across its sheen, barely leaving a trace of memory. Other sheets, her favorite from the continent that can cost as much as a good meal, seem almost alive and responsive as it whispers back and thanks her for her deliberate caress. Hmmm. Am I jealous of this paper? Do I miss her touch as I watch this romance unfold?
The subject:
The Iris grows down by the marsh, not quite like a yellow flag. Softer than a flag. Soft yellow. Soft like an early sunrise, with texture not unlike a tissue lightly crumpled in a child’s hand. Humble, the artist says. To me, the blossom seems hopelessly complex. I hate drawing complex. Give me structure, hard forms with understandable geometry I can line my metal ruler up with beginning and end points. No points in this ephemery. Barely any edges, as one form folds into another like smoke. Somewhere, there may be a mathematical formula for this smoke, of a higher math than I comprehend.
The drawing:
Graphite (from Wikipedia) Graphite occurs in metamorphic rocks as a result of the reduction of sedimentary carbon compounds during metamorphism. It also occurs in igneous rocks and in meteorites. In meteorites, graphite occurs with troilite and silicate minerals. Some microscopic grains have distinctive isotopic compositions, indicating that they were formed before the Solar system. They are one of about 12 known types of mineral that predate the Solar System and have also been detected in molecular clouds. These minerals were formed in the ejecta when supernovae exploded or low- to intermediate-sized stars expelled their outer envelopes late in their lives. Graphite may be the second or third oldest mineral in the Universe Molecular cloud matter. The Ancient of Days. Volcano and star dust left behind as the memory of countless marks, marks which build one upon another until this complexity, this mystery, this ethereal form emerges. The artist as magician, and the magic is as common as it is extraordinary.
“Look at how it comes out of the sheath in numbers of 3” the artist says. “It is almost sensual”, she says, a slight crimson blush coming on her own cheek. As she draws, she is also drawn in, as the artist becomes a student of creation, and even more of a creator that has the genius to create such an object. “Do you ever get lost in a drawing?’ I ask, knowing that I often do. “No”, she says, “it’s more like I get found, The treasure is in there.” The light is fading more quickly now. The smoke that makes up her subject becomes harder to distinguish from the surrounding dusky blue. With a longing in her eyes, she strains a bit forward, trying to get a last glimpse of her treasured specimen. Then slowly, with a sigh of regret, she puts down her pencil.
“Enough”, she says.
The artist now becomes a wife, as she pads to the kitchen to make my dinner. I sit still and quiet, looking at her empty chair.
Lynne Rose Munden Frailing
May, 2020