A Poem: "Here"

Here
By Jenna Reimer

Time is a soft sigh.
It is a quiet spoken breath,
Echoing than disappearing
With its resonance;
A hushed sigh - a silent silhouette.
It is a light dust that skims an undiscovered text
That embraces a powerful poem.
The Endless verses of written words
Suck the marrow from all that seems concrete.
The poet's voice becomes lost
Amongst a furry of illegible drafts
Where words shift and dance
Across infinite pages.
Pages that drift atop the breath
Of seamless, hollow sighs;
Sighs that die with every inhale
And exhale.

An Experiment of Decay

The time when I am most afraid is just before night falls. The sun is setting, the day has finished, and this inevitable silence begins to prowl throughout the house. Everything seems to change. All begins to take shape of a form that is both unfamiliar and dull, losing any significance it had just a few hours earlier in daylight. I become aware of ever possible sound. The breeze flutters the cotton drapery. The foundation of the walls speaks softly, slowly, of its age. The tread of someone’s footsteps outside. The whistle of smoke mushrooming from the neighbors chimney. It all is incredibly frightening.
Is this it? Have we all been born into a silent world, a world where there exists a hierarchal struggle between the human experience, reality, dreams and truth? Are our souls forever confined within this hostile world where indifference precedes the mercilessness of human nature and thought?
I know I am here. Now. Awake. Asleep. Yet, my sanity still appears to be slowly slipping through the slivered cracks of the floor; the floor I trust will hold me when I choose to awake from this reverie. When I breathe, breathe these thoughts, my body becomes as lifeless as the mound of sheets I so coldly lay upon. This place, this tired place, withers away; like a train, I see it getting smaller as it pulls away. It is here, in my bed, where life’s absence of meaning seems to remove any reason for living.
I believe life to exist. Although, I am unable to prove it does, or does not. This thought that my reality has limitless tangents, in which I dictate the direction and perception of each stream, is solely secluded to my own mind. So why must I abuse such freedom with doubt and uncertainty? It is a human fear. The fear of thought. The fear that passively accepts the mundane actions of life and leaves little room for subconscious contemplation. Perhaps it is this fear that is the key to the essence of existing; existing in a missing world, missing to me and to you.
Everything begins to slow down. My thoughts quiet but remain bellowing inside my body as if it has only this one moment to speak to me. All that is left to do is lay beneath the quilts in this bed and stare out the window into a deep blue sky that has swallowed the sun for another night. Tomorrow seems unimaginable, illusory, a dream that seems to end before it has started. All becomes out of reach where I am no longer burdened with the everyday struggle to be without having to ask. An experience that feels both make-believe and awfully real. Perhaps I have reached a level of true helplessness where even the nightmare of existing, without questions and expectations, becomes increasingly intriguing.
For now I will forget the mysteries of life, my place in this universe, and retreat to a soft slumber. A slumber that takes my frightened hand and guides me to a place where fish walk on land and we all drink tea on tree branches. It is a place that is marvelous and peaceful; a place that feels more real every time I visit.

A Poem: "Small-voiced"

Small-voiced
By Jenna Reimer

I live in a sliver of Time
Where no Hell frightens me,
Where a glorious fire ignites
Outside my window
And hisses an insufferable cry
Making everything red:
My skin is rose-red,
The silhouette on the floor,
The raining ashes
And my pale hands are red,
Gripping the window sill-
Its cracked wood gripping
Specks of fire.

I am uncertain not fearful,
But uncertainty may be
My only emotion.

A Poem: This Thing

This Thing

My words that disappear
Into a thousand faces,
Faces of myself and of you,
Are a mere pith
In the corner of my eye.
The way I live and write -
Waiting to die and to breathe
That intolerable pain of being,
That wretched wrestle to continue,
I realized
I have created very little.

Hell is in the Minds of Others

I’ve been thinking a lot about simply existing, existing in a world in which I cannot define nor wish to define. I often find myself lying in bed, at 3 am, completely in awe that I am here, now, in this place, blinking, shifting nervously, in this body, in this air of thought that only I experience. We are all born into a silent world, a world where there exists a hierarchal struggle between the human mind and truth. I often feel as if the soul is forever confined within this hostile world where indifference precedes the mercilessness of human nature. Life’s absence of meaning seems to remove any reason for living; yet, it is this lack of purpose that presents humankind with true freedom. It is a fruitless argument to relay the notion that life does not exist, as I am unable to prove it does not, yet it seems my own sanity is contained by the thought that my reality has limitless tangents in which I dictate the directions and perceptions of each stream that is solely secluded in my mind; my mind in which only I am able to construe and abuse. Why do we fear thought? Why do we fear the act of thinking and knowledge more than death? Humanity has a disastrous habit of passively accepting the mundane actions of life where there is little room for subconscious contemplation.

A Philosophy, an Umbrella and a Glass of Insight

I often like to fool myself into thinking I am fair person when it comes to judging a painting’s artistic merit. When I observe a work of art I cross my arms, perhaps touch my chin with hand, node my head and tilt it slightly to the right; it is as if I am in a deep reverie trying to come to a conclusion regarding the piece’s meaning. Truthfully, I had a tendency to exaggerate my interest in artwork that was not in my selected canon of masterpieces; contemporary and surreal art being the latter. The guilt was there. I wish I could have been more open to artwork that is more or less obscure in its purpose, however, it was difficult for me to find beauty in a piece of art that seemed to have required no effort or time. My brother has an entirely different perspective on contemporary art. His apartment is flooded with simple pieces that looked as if they were plucked from a child’s coloring sketch book. It was a simple gift from him that changed my perspective on an art movement that I once neglected as being period of time where artistic creativity was entirely absent.

It was a Saturday morning when my brother showed up at my door barring a present. Obviously a poster, it was rolled up tucked beneath his arm and I knew it was going to be a gift of irony or utter disappointment. We exchanged some mundane words and he handed me the poster with an unusual smirk on his face and left. The poster was a print of a painting I have seen before, and scolded. The piece was, simply, a portrait of a suspending umbrella in mid air with a glass of water balancing on top of it. That was it. I shook my head in disbelief that this piece had been mass produced due to its popularity. What was I to do with this? I most certainly did not want to post it next to my Klimt and Mucha prints that decorated my home. I had to find out who this artist was and what exactly was so appealing about such a simplistic piece of art.

A quick Encyclopedia search revealed the piece to be a painting by Rene Margritte titled Les Vacances De Hegel (Hegel’s Holiday, 1957). Margritte was a Belgium painter, whose work became popular during the surrealist movement in the early 1920’s post World War I. I read on. Surrealism was an artistic movement that challenged the observer’s preconditioned perception on reality, essentially forcing one to become more in touch with his or her surroundings. His work was obviously popular; a simple Google search produced millions of different images and interpretations of his work. Paintings of a man with a green apple placed awkwardly in front of his face, business men raining over a crowded city, illusions of feet as a pair of boots, the infamous umbrella and glass of water, all riddled my computer screen. His technique was there; his combination of realism with abstract images was intriguing, yet, I was still skeptical. It seemed Margritte’s art centralized around shocking imagery. I poured over articles and online books that described his method. Hopkins, the author of Dada and Surrealism: A Very Short Introduction, explains the visual appeal of his pieces was of upmost importance rather than having any rebellious significance. The paintings were simple, borderline dull, but as I read on it appeared there was much more to his technique. Hegel’s Holiday became much more interesting than I had initially anticipated.

The title alone was enough for me to continue my internet research. Georg Wilhelm Friedrick Hegel, a 19th century German philosopher, was known for his idealistic account on the concept of reality, so the contrast between the two objects must have been essential to the pieces fluidity. In Hegel’s Holiday, the relationship I observed between the umbrella and glass of water initially appeared to be obscure, besides the obvious fact they both are commonly associated with water. Yet, it is this association that turned the piece into an entirely cohesive idea. The objects were acting as an illusion. An article by Randa Dudnick titled, Visible Poetry: Metaphor and Metonymy in the Paintings of Rene Magritte, describes the umbrella and glass of water as mere inventions of human kind to control water - the glass we use to control the quantity of water and the umbrella to keep from pouring down on us.

Hegel is on holiday, neglecting the exhaustion of logical demonstration in order to devote himself to objects that replicate, and entertain, the reality of nature. Was it is this type of illusion a Surrealist was trying to obtain within their art? By manipulating a realistic technique, were they able to derail reality? How could I have been so vain to be oblivious to such a philosophical interpretation of trivial objects? I assume Magritte, along with the other Surrealist painters, resented art fans such as myself; myself being one of the unfortunate people who demanded a great allegorical implication in a piece of art. I couldn’t help but feel ashamed over my prejudices.

Although the piece appeared to consist of little thought and imagination, its historical creation painted a different perspective for me. As my mission for information persisted I came across a published letter from Magritte regarding his quest for perfection in the piece:
My latest painting began with the question: how to show a glass of water in a painting in such a way that it would not be indifferent? Or whimsical, or arbitrary, or weak – but, allow us to use the word, with genius? (Without false modesty.) I began by drawing many glasses of water, always with a linear mark on the glass. This line, after the 100th or 150th drawing, widened out and finally took the form of an umbrella. The umbrella was then put into the glass, and to conclude, underneath the glass. Which is the exact solution to the initial question: how to paint a glass of water with genius.
I was shocked at the extreme preparation taken to construct a seemingly effortless piece. My prejudices, regarding surrealist paintings to be effortless, were slowly losing its merit. Hegel’s Holiday was now unearthing a subtle, yet lucid rhetoric, which was hidden within simplistic brush strokes. It no longer lacked any sort of inventive preparation.

It was this analysis of Hegel’s Holiday, two objects with opposing functions must have been Magritte’s intention. The response one would give, such as myself, to such a basic objective is exactly what Magritte must have envisioned. We may respond in laughter, confusion or misunderstanding, but all of these emotions are commonly used connotations to describe reality. It is this strange relationship between an umbrella and glass of water that would unearth an uncomfortable response. I realized I was one of those pretentious art critiques I once criticized. I was solely basing my judgment on presupposed ideas and interpretations on what art is, and I was not allowing my existence in reality to let the art speak for itself.

I felt utterly prudish, lacking any sort of creative thought; this was especially depressing for one who tries to exercise her own unique creativity in this conventional world- whether or not she is successful in doing so. I realized my acquired taste in art was molded by the very intrusive world I was trying to ignore. The standards of what is art set forth by our society had, in deed, impacted me more than I was wanting: real art looks like this or that, real art consists of these certain attributes and real art must fall under these credentials. I was ignoring the intrinsic connection between personal creativity and interpretation. I was not welcoming art as a spiritual quest rather than just a visual one. The break between classical artists, and their conceptual concerns, and the wider, popular, public was blurred by my lack of openness. Perhaps it was this openness that modern artists themselves where searching for, or helping others find, in their obscure pieces.
My online research concluded that Margritte’s work was a reflection of the collective consciousness of his era; there was a growing alienation between the artist and the public’s perception on distinguished art. It appeared he was interrogating his own being into the painting rather than giving the public an image of its contemporary expectations. Magritte was metaphorically painting images of opposing objects to display their true duality with one another. Like any other classical artist, he was communicating a vision through a painting.

Appreciating abstract and modern art is still problematic for me; there are far too many current artists whose expert skills are overshadowed by the goofballs next door who pile a bunch of garbage together in a trash can and call it art. However, I’ve come to realize modern art is entirely theoretical; modern art cannot separate itself from theoretical aspects, the appreciation and pleasure of art just like the classics. I couldn’t help but feel defeated in my, supposed, rejection of contemporary society that instills its standards upon civilization in the most invasive sense- I was one of its victims. The poster remained curled up on my desk and the need to throw it away in pride was imminent. However, it was my desire to transform my judgment that compelled me to take the print and post it near my bookcase- a bookcase filled with art criticism manuals and coffee table books that had tainted my opinions on aesthetics. Acting as an ironic reminder of my naivety, the poster of an umbrella and glass of water reflected an empowered sense of personal perception, in all of its simplicity.

Insight is Sour

There is no nonsense in running away. Leaving for only a moment, simply disappearing into a realm I didn’t understand, I was making a deliberate raid on my subconscious to reveal something I didn’t realize I needed. I needed to leave. I grabbed all I thought I’d need for a brief drive to cool off: truck keys, a water bottle, cigarettes, cell phone, gum and an orange. I’ll never know why I chose that orange; I haven’t eaten one in years. But out of all the fruit in my fridge that orange is what I decided will do during this dramatic exit; a decision that will confirm my struggle with my individual nature, my futile fight for naive desires. I threw all of the items into my bag and furiously drove off into a world whose secular rules are only but arbitrary to me.

It was a quiet Sunday evening: no traffic, around dinner time so all the runners and dog walkers were safely tucked away into warm homes nursing their pot roasts. Meanwhile this mad woman is screeching down the road with no concept of time or where to go. I was utterly mad with confusion, and after a few minutes of driving I pulled into an empty parking lot near a playground. How long I sat there, hands clenched around the wheel, I’ll never know. Staring into a dying brush that bordered the park, whose branches wore only but a few surviving crimsons leaves amidst that cold autumn day, the orange suddenly held an overwhelming presence. I reached into my bag to investigate the mysterious fruit.

It was extremely small, perhaps a mandarin. The flesh was rough and gave a little when I softly squeezed it; I could tell its demise was over due judging by the wrinkling that encircled the top where once stemmed a root. The orange looked so humble in my weak hands; my hands with no body of their own but the mound of fabric I was draped in to overt the cool weather. I placed it on my dashboard, directly in front of me, as if I was about to indulge in a conversation with this meek fruit. I leaned back into my seat carefully observing the orange. Time for a cigarette.

Why an orange? In fact, I hate oranges. They are far too tart, a pain to peel and always left the beds of my finger nails dry from its citrus juices. I am in no way an orange person. Being such a bright, tropical fruit it is not the usual choice of produce for the cold and cynical type. Happy people eat oranges. I’ve never seen a tough or poignant person eat an orange; maybe an apple for those of us who shed a cold eye on the world but not an orange. An orange emits a spirit that’s welcoming and exciting; like opening a present you’re unsure of the radiant flesh it contains. Apples, on the other hand, are predictable. You know what you’re getting yourself into when eating an apple and it requires no effort to devour. No, I am not an orange person.

Rain began to pierce my windshield and this orange remained perched on my dashboard. It held this disposition that appeared to be mocking my insecurity about the orange’s supposed prejudices in contrast with apples. Was it not I that chose this fruit? It didn’t very well hop into my purse impervious to my own hand. Perhaps my choice was not necessarily accidental. In a mad fit of rage I could have very well been unconsciously choosing a particular item that was so foreign to me; could my mind have been rationally aware that choosing an orange would throw off my equilibrium causing me to reconsider my sensitivity towards this trivial purpose I call a life? Possibly.

Maybe the act of choosing this orange was revealing a side of me I wanted to unmask. Maybe I don’t want to be an apple person anymore. Maybe I want to bask in the mystery and uncertainty of living in this absurd world; a world that will leave me twitching and whipping sweat from my forehead in excitement and anticipation. Perhaps the account with this orange was more of a confrontation with myself. My demand for rationality within an indifferent universe is ultimately fruitless like the expectations of one’s choice of fruit. The hopeless struggle to achieve something, anything, is not only an exemplar of my innate human condition, but a benign characteristic that need not be so complicated. Maybe by choosing this orange I was choosing to accept a world that is forever hostile; eating apples was my way of transcending reality to fill the void of the fear; the fear of existing.

The orange remained silent; its brilliant flesh radiated a sort of arrogance that caused me to dive into this mindful lunacy. I held no grudge against the modest fruit, my quest to clear my head was ultimately successful, but I felt belittled by an objects ability to remind me of my own personal judgment. An orange has gained a higher purpose, a sort of height that I’ve gained in my brief escape that is not necessarily validated by an even higher one. I had two choices: cope or revolt. To revolt would be eating the orange in all of its ambiguity; to cope would be to head back home in search for an apple. My theory on living may have changed that night and although the purpose of my decision is not apparent it still existed. For a brief moment, I had a compassionate perspective on the vagueness of this life; this life of apple and orange people.

A Poem: "Awakening"

Awakening
By Jenna Reimer

There is something at my door.
I feel it, I smell it.
The door mutters - sick.
Footprints of water trail behind me;
Old bath water gargles down a rusted drain.

The indifferent world loiters outside
Drunk on hostility and pissing out moons.
I remain still, naked, no body of my own
But the puddle of cold water at my feet.

It seems most unatural to spare me.
Spare this dream that dreamed me waking,
Will dream me dying
In a fire's center of tired shadows
Of bastards and whores,
Obscene shit, of suffering.
I am home.
I am not home.
I am afraid.
If anyone had been watching,
They would have seen me weep.

A Poem: "Autumn" by Charles Baudelaire

I adore autumn; to come across a poem that is rejecting the beauty of this seasonal transition was rather shocking. However, it was a refreshingly lovely detour from the typical romantic poetry that is always in awe of the fall.

Autumn
By Charles Baudelaire

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.

I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.

It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.

The Written Reason

If being a writer is like the unpredictable path of a drifter, then the very thought of accepting your passion to pursue this literary journey is as frightening as the puzzling maps and foreign road signs.

Why be a writer? You are entirely aware you are unable to live on your writing; you would starve to death along with the other poor souls who are naive enough to believe they could make a living off of their writing alone. Forget money. You know the chances of being one of the few writers who become famous in their own right are slim to none… you’re content with living a solitary, financially meager life.

Society tells you to be safe. Take the safe route: become a nurse, a banker, an insurance broker. You can’t. You hate the confused looks you get when you declare you want to be a writer, and loath the insufferable response they give you following your assertion: “Good for you, what’s plan A though?” You agree it’s a lot easier to just fall into the corporate world and live a secure life; they congratulate you on your success in the business world, your annual promotion and meticulously cut grass… yawn. You hate the very idea of living so concrete and continue to furiously attack page after page with your weapon of choice, a pen.

Though, that’s it, the pen. The pen is your cavalry, your strategy when trying to attack the mysteries of the world; it is your third limb that seems to work aimlessly with your chattering mind. You write because you must. You feel a need to write. While others indulge themselves in the congenial world of yah’s and nah’s you insist on venturing into a realm of unknown.

Why not risk it? Your voice is ink. The paper listens. So what? They enjoy the nine to five routine while you prefer the blending of your days into nights where there is no concept of time. They want pot lucks and office parties; you want midnight coffee breaks with the stray cat who strategically sits on your fence while you write.

It is a necessity. By writing, you reveal a part of yourself that was hidden amongst the chaos of your existing world- an absurd world. You write out of love, hate, forgiveness, forgetting, anxiety and sadness. You may have something to communicate to others or something to hide that only that piece of paper will keep secret. All you truly know is that you have this incurable desire to attack that page like a pure obsession.

You recognize the life of a writer is walking along the same path as that drifter; standing, vulnerable, in the shifting winds on a desert road. You’re walking to a destination that is vague and uncertain. The very thought makes beads of sweat fall down your face, shift in your chair and nervously twitch. The fear. It is this undying panic that makes everything clearer, everything defined. It is this very feeling that makes you grab that pen and write it all down.

A Poem: "So You Want To Be A Writer" - Bukowski

So You Want To Be A Writer
By Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Video of the Day: "To Autumn By John Keats"

A Poem: "To The Poet"

(I Was reading some Andrew Marvell and wanted to try my first pastoral poem... excited arn't yah?)

To The Poet
By Jenna Reimer

Give the sun the grace of night,
Neutral doves the morning flight.
Let crystal strings drift aloft a brook
Where leaves lay grazing from a tree that shook.
Sprouts that dance amongst the wind
Will rest in soil and rebirth again.
Shower the land with precious stones,
Nourish the field where creatures roam.
Basking in the day's lilac scent,
Their bows embody life’s inherent bent.
Write the beauty of tomorrow's mourn
And speak of truth that life adorns.
Mould the hills for us to reach
Where a place in time we will come to meet.

Philip Larkin: Lost and Found

Although my blog is set aside for exposing my own poetry, I do enjoy showcasing a new found poet that I have become quite fond of their work. Philip Larkin is known as one of the greatest English poets of the later half of the 20th century. As a graduate from Oxford with a degree in English language and literature, Larkin became a librarian; A librarian with an attitude, now thats my kinda poet! His work has been noted as being extremely "English"; meaning very gloomy and sad (not my opinion of English poetry but you know...), and has a lowered sight on emotions, places and expectations. However, what was very English about Larkin was his solitary, bold attitude and no patience for having a public literary life. He was once quoted saying "The poem is the business of the poet, and everyone else can fuck off!" Haha! Isn't he fabulously dark? This is a poem that particularly stood out to me; I think it truly embodies his style and demeanour about poetry.

Essential Beauty
By Philip Larkin

In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares

They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.

A poem: "The Vessel"

The Vessel
By Jenna Reimer

I must go and leave this behind,
Leave you behind.

A dampened breeze rains over my heart;
The wars in my frightened wings cry fiercely.

My memory will surface like the darkening of night
But will desert you in its hour of retreat.

Here it is a shipwreck, swallowed in a vicious cave;
My soul is the fury of its blind captain howling in fear.

This place, Like the sea, sank discoverers and gargled hope;
This place, like the distance, devoured desire.

I vowed to act beyond this wreckage and walk;
The lighthouse guiding me by the hour of its blazed spell.

There is still fire within my marked grave,
Ignited by hungering teeth and a cemetery of tomorrows.

My entwined body will merge with the water’s dance
Drifting and singing like a sailor in the fore of a ship.

The voyage of my destiny will begin amidst your longing;
What sorrow you may express will be drowned by my compass.

Departing like the deathless wind I will set sail
In the passing moments of a cherry dawn and forget.

Video of the Day: Odetta singing "Waterboy"

A Poem: "A Letter"

A Letter
By Jenna Reimer

If you were to not wake
At tomorrow’s dawn,
Where the red branches of a willow
Birth the slow hand of autumn,
I would continue.
If I no longer wish to breath
Your fire, an impalpable ash,
Destroying this deadened brush,
My wind of banners will sail a free isle.
If you decide to leave me along shore
Drenched in sea water, chained in weeds,
My arms would lift; my roots
Set off towards another land.
I would forget you as if all that exists
Exists without you.
You would forget me, little by little,
And I would forgive you.
When you no longer have a voice
I shall go on living;
My years becoming all but roadways
Of forgetting and searching.

A Short Story: "The Recipient"

The Recipient
By Jenna Reimer

I’m very comfortable in this car; the top down allows the blazing light, the elements, the wind to form a tiny hurricane that seems more real than the ones I see on the television. Perhaps it’s the fact I’m experiencing the disaster, the mock disaster, rather than watching the box with talking pictures on it describe to me the horrific scene that has just shattered a town or village. None of it matters to me though, for all I know it isn’t even happening.
I try to stay focused on the road. But why focus on it? Most of the time the crimson sky blurs with the auburn sand and russet hills that seem to never end in this desolate wasteland. It is only after passing roadside gas stations and Indians selling turquoise jewelry where one is reminded of humanity, none of which matters to me.
Here in the desert you are under a different glass where every man is for themselves and no one looks up from their paper to acknowledge another stranger. That is what we all are, strangers, drifters trying to get by in a life that has no end. Someone once told me you got to believe in something, anything, or else you’ll never make it in this life, and I never did find that something.
See, there are limits to my ability in justifying the bullshit that circles around this earth and, believe me, I’ll do anything to make sure I got a place to sleep, cigarettes and a good meal now and then, but I sure as hell won’t start believing in something I can’t touch, feel or hear just to help myself in creating a more tolerant view of this absurd world. It is that circulatory bullshit that has gotten me in the position I am in at this moment; driving across the Nevada desert to pick up a package that will correct an unfortunate situation my pal Derek has, very cleverly, gotten himself into.
How Derek got messed up I’ll never know, but I’m no stranger to fixing his woes so I’ve quit thinking too much about it. I’m heading to see Kirill, a Russian jeweler, an old old friend of mine, in Sutcliffe who has assured me he can help. Whether he can or not I don’t care, really, Derek means as much to me as a sack of potatoes rotting in cellar; I’m in it for the wildly humid drive and something to do, more or less.
Kirill deals his jewels out of his house, a small shack that homes his morbid wife who has always hated my condescending demeanor and bowler hats. A humble duo, a relationship that predicts a future I am in no position to hope for. They make damn good Texan popcorn; nothing better than popcorn covered in hot sauce, salt and home made pickle juice as dipping sauce.
I pull up to the house knowing I am going to be walking into a stinking dump that resembles all aspects of a slightly large outhouse.
“Afternoon Sheryl.” The front door descends into the kitchen, the kitchen into the living room, the living room into the bedroom, all one. I lit a cigarette.
“Good afternoon my boy. I trust you’ve been keeping well.” Her glare is colder than a ticket takers smile at the Globe Theater in Jersey.
“Why yes. I just went to the doctor yesterday and he said I am healthy, in fact, he said I was too healthy if you can imagine that?” That was supposed to be a joke but she doesn’t make a sound.
“Kirill is downstairs.”
I nod my hat and walk down a staircase that looks to be on its last leg. Kirill’s office is in his laundry room, right beside the washer and dryer that happens to be in mid cycle and loud as hell. I push aside the shower curtain separating the unfinished basement into a tiny room housing my dear Russian friend.
“My boy! How has you been? You look like hell, how much do you weigh, 90 pounds?” He puts down a ring he appears to be setting in small diamonds, probably fake diamonds.
“Give er’ take.” Sitting in the lawn chair, opposite of his poker table serving as his work space, I grab an empty beer bottle to ash my cigarette.
“Cigarettes eh? You mind?” Kirill gestures his fingers to his mouth signaling me to light him one. He sets it between his lips and goes back to work. Beads of sweat fall from his sun spotted head down his pruned face. Whoever ordered this ring is also getting a complementary sweat wash courtesy of an obese man in white cut off shorts and a stained yellow t-shirt older than the house he works out of.
“Ahhh… smoking. What a marvelous invention Jesus has given us no? I swear if it weren’t for cigarettes I’d probably kill that wife of mine that’s been on my case about my blood pressure for the past week. I told her she’s the one who’s fatter than a used up piece of jet trash sitting in the junk yard.”
“Well that’s not way to speak to a lady my friend.”
“Lady?! The only lady-like thing I see that broad do is clean the god damn dishes, I tell ya! Sometimes I wish I would have listened to my mother and married a Russian woman.”
“Well you win some you lose some I suppose. Life works like that you know?” He looks up from beneath his magnified glasses and grunts.
“You don’t know need to tell me how life works boy, it ain’t me who’s caught in a situation that needs some unwinding no?”
I take my last puff and tuck my hair beneath my hat. He tries to make me uncomfortable but I am far beyond having any sort of emotional attachment to myself or other people’s problems. I’m simply here to help a buddy and milk some time out of this dragging life.
“Hey, I ain’t in no trouble. A friend asked for some help and I said I knew a guy. I’m here. He is there. No trouble am I in my friend.”
With a small jerk of his neck he flicks the sweat off of his forehead and leans back into his chair staring at me with an unimpressed grin.
“You know I appreciate you getting me this, I know you’re a busy man and my friend is very thankful.” Busy man, I laugh to myself.
“Well you are a dear friend of mine and it was not too much trouble. Not too much trouble at all.” Kirill pushes himself out of his seat and walks over to a box that is sitting beside that deafening dryer. His aged limp and tired stride inflicts a sort of impending doom in my mind. How unfortunate it will be when I am that age; weak and old, my life as useless as a broken compass on the Santa Maria.
“It’s hot out there isn’t it boy? You still driving that piece of shit you found on the tracks?”
Piece of shit? “Yah yah, it’s still jugging away, gets me around and that’s all I care about, really.”
Kirill lifts the large cardboard box, stained on the corners from the leaking washer, and sets it beside my foot. Boxes always fascinated me. Isn’t there something magical about a ugly cardboard box or is it just me? The contents are always unknown; even in this case, I am not quite sure what Kirill is certain will cure my friends unfortunate situation.
Kirill’s hands, old in vain, rests heavy on my shoulder as I glance down at the mysterious box then back to his shallow eyes. His eye’s always speak of an ancient art of simply being or of ceasing, mostly ceasing, and if it weren’t for that type of despair I would never know if I was here, or there, or begging for a light in another dark, another silent world.
“So what is it?” I lean over to unearth the cure packaged insecurely in the box. Kirill grabs my hand to stop me.
“No. Not here. Take it home to your friend. You need not associate with what will help him help you ok? You better start heading back my boy.” Kirill turns back to his seat to continue his mundane world of jewelling in his laundry room, till his death. His old feet shuffle on, towards an even vainer death, a vacancy that is tempting, but the thought of deteriorating flesh, till the end and end, protects me from thoughts of settling.
“Alright my friend, I guess I’ll head out then.” I stand and pick up the light weight box and turn to leave. “Thanks, I’ll talk to you soon?”
“Yes my boy, yes you will.”
Only words ever break the silence, all other sounds do nothing other than cease. If I were silent I’d hear nothing, but by keeping silent those sounds would start again so I get on and leave Kirill alone.
Back on the road I can’t help but reminisce on all the things I’ve given up on to maintain this drifting life; but it’s all given up already, nothing new, I am nothing new, this life is nothing new. I like to believe I use to be something once, I had something once. It may not have been for long but I always gave it up with an unknown condition I never intended to abide by. My life has been all open, then shut again, then opened, mixed with uttering and slobbering shit and then lapping it back up with my lips like the days when I fancied girls. The hearts not there anymore, my hearts not in it anymore, and I simply lost any sort of appetite for a promising tomorrow.
The box sits in my passenger seat, its contents rattling and shaking; I’ve already lost interest in what it contains. Yet, the unknown box echoes my soul, no, my no soul, no body or birth, or life or death; I’ve decided, long ago, to go on without any of that junk in order to survive. All of this is dead with words as they can say nothing, nothing else I don’t already know. I start right away to feel calm within the voice of my own silence. I have done nothing in this life other than be the cool receiver of all that comes my way. I slept, and gone on, doing what I do, doing what I say and giving up. That is it. I’ll have gone on giving up and having nothing and not being here like the box that will soon disappear into the hands of another without ever knowing its worth. Though none of that matters to me.

A Poem: "The Third Night"

The Third Night
By Jenna Reimer

Our way is in the breeze flowing
Amongst all the trees, all their boughs,
All their leaves; an imperfect vice.
The transparencies that, too, is imperfect
bond our breath
Into one lucid sigh of leadened-love.
My eye is your eye within a shade
Of ballooned moonlight
Where we drift into an unfinished bliss;
An imperfect virtue.
We will never drag our hunger and stay,
Artless like stones against a barren sky.

The Joy of Vintage!

I regret to admit that my passion for fashion has been lacking for the past few months. However, I am trying to revive the little things in my life that gave me pleasure and fashion was definitely an infatuation that needed to be reignited! Hallelujah! So why not start up this fire with a bout of vintage?! I believe vintage fashion appeals to us all. Unique vintage pieces not only set us apart from others but also embody a historical and mysterious presence in our lives; costume jewelry carries its own charisma in our jewelry boxes, tattered hats and shoes tell a story of its previous owner’s rough ride, dresses, vests and blouses with distinctive embellishments illustrate the time in which it was constructed.

Vintage purses have always been a drug I am unable to cure. There is something incredibly exhilarating about digging in a giant box of a variety of embellished clutches with missing clasps, chained straps and beaded sceneries sewn on the front. Each piece is unique and tells a story of a time and place in fashion. What could be better than buying a magnificently chic item and getting a history lesson? I was browsing the internet and found some cute ones I had had to post!

A Poem: "The Cellar"

The Cellar
By Jenna Reimer

I cannot sleep in this room, dusky and humid,
Cloud like patterns of mildew smears the ceiling,
Cobwebs homed in corners,
Broken and drooped,
Lolling viciously like sultry vines.
Windows bared closed hindering the outside,
Only slivers of light break in
Hunting for the living.
Smells of mold and dampened sheets,
Dusky air all lodged within this bounded room.
I gasp amongst an infected space,
Soaked and weak in gilded sweat.
Nothing could survive long in here;
Even the floor planks are on their last breath.

Matryoshka Dolls: The Art of the Infinite

Matryoshka dolls fascinate me; even as a child I adored the lovely set of wooden, hand painted ornaments that so perfectly fit inside of one another. These Russian dolls, also known as nested dolls, were originally crafted in 1890 by Vasily Zvyozdochkin who was a folk crafts painter. It is believed the dolls were inspired by a set of Japanese wooden dolls representing Shichi-fuku-jin, the Seven Gods of Fortune.

My first encounter with these dolls as a young girl inspired my present obsession with infinity; it was these pieces that ignited my fascination and utter astonishment over the concept of infinite. I remember opening a set belonging to a childhood friend of mine and was bemused by the fact there were several inside one another, all looking very similar. How small can these dolls get inside one another? Will they ever end? Of course, there is traditionally on 5 dolls in a set but it was the notion of an everlasting design principle the natural world seems to abide by: “similar, smaller objects within similar objects.”
I have yet to find a set of Matryoshka dolls (who knew it’d be hard to find them?) but I am determined to scope out a few flea markets and antique stores and discover these little treasures that, perhaps, influenced my interest in philosophical literature regarding the mysteries of the infinite world and the uncertainty of the never ending possibilities of life.

A Poem: "For Once"

Once again, another beautiful morning has lifted my spirits into an enlightened wakefulness. I cherish the wee hours of the morning when all is still asleep, waiting for the sun to break and spread its warmth, as I am in my most lucid state of mind. Everyday I am up at 4am and, although I could use a bit more sleep, love the quiet tranquility I am able to embrace in a welcomed solitude. It is just before daybreak where my mind is clear of any future intentions and I write in a naked bliss (not literally of course haha) and this morning was no exception.

For Once
By Jenna Reimer

Though many blossoms sway in the morning breeze,
Their roots remain as one.
I breathe this summer wind, transcendent;
Yet, I discern my mind and body beyond this picture.
It is this picture, hesitant and uncertain,
That has never given me a shining reflection
Of a lighted vision of deeper clarity.
Much like the surface of a well’s water,
Whose contents are hidden inside a murky grave,
I whither into my own intentions.
Looking outside the window
Discovering a nectar-like truth,
I begin to sway my own leaves and flowers.

Oh Yah, Jenna Gets Political: North Korean art show stirs controversy in Vienna

Ah, art; it never seems to amaze me how some people’s common sense is so easily jettisoned in exchange for some proverbial self, or political, promotion in order to cast a sheet of delirium to the outside world. I am in no means in any political position in which I am able to intellectually comment on the state of certain countries, however, I am fluent in art’s ability to portray unrealistic, and often misguided, images that delude onlookers. This month an exhibition is being showcased at the Museum of Applied Arts (MAK) in Vienna of North Korean art, offering a rare look into the isolated country’s art scene. Though, enraged critics have called the show a bold example of political propaganda.
Children basking in the sun, well fed and clothed in brilliant colors, beaming farm women feeding geese and ducks, is how North Korean painters have depicted their famine country. The founders of the Communist administration, Kim II-sung and his son Kim Jong-il appear dominating in shades of deep red and royal blue; Stalinian architecture is even displayed throughout the exhibit. Kim II-sung and KimJong-il proudly displayed their own portraits seem to emit an encouraging demeanor to support North Korea’s path to its revolutionary future.
One may believe this exhibit to be a welcomed glimpse into this secretive country, and perhaps better understand North Korea’s isolation, yet, the absence of any background explanation on the totalitarian nature of the country is what caused suspicion to this art exhibits agenda. North Korea is the last dictatorship in this world and I think it is crucial for the world to be reminded of this fact instead of masking its authoritarian regime behind children with flowers in their hair and women joyfully shopping on flourishing streets. I think art, like morality, needs to always have a line that should be cautious of crossing. North Korea is a totalitarian country and their art serves the glorification of the leader and his system. The picture strike me as extremely cynical where children watch tiny kites fly in a dream like trance which, can be seen, as a kinder world that is out of reach.
Art has no borders. Yet, it makes me wonder whether it is capable of changing anything, in this case, the political situation of a country. Yes, you may get a slightly different view or new understand through art but how can one decipher the motives behind the artist especially coming from a country whose regulations and rules regarding the construction and distribution of their art is highly controlled. I suppose all one can do is appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the paintings and to neglect the motives of the paintings construction.

Childhood Memories: Marvelously Miniature

So I have been fascinated with dollhouse miniatures today. While browsing about www.etsy.com, a small thumbnail picture that was in the corner of my computer screen caught my eye; it was the most adorable, hand made, itty bitty chocolate cake that was no larger than a quarter! I had to investigate this uniquely detailed craft and was utterly enthrall by the pieces these hobbyists were creating. The realism and charm of such tiny croissants, donuts, cookies, tarts and cupcakes is remarkable!


These pieces reminded me of the grandeur of childhood. As a little girl, I relished in the joy of arranging and organizing my own dollhouse my grandpa made for me. Although the house had only four rooms, to me it was a piece that was no less real than the house I lived in; each room was wallpapered in a different print, the windows shadowed by laced curtains, the kitchen had tiled floors while the others had hardwood and there was even crown molding around the ceilings. I meticulously would arrange tiny beds, china cabinets, kitchen table and night stands within the dollhouse dreaming of decorating my own house one day. Although its construction was incredibly simplistic, to me, it represented a piece of my adulthood that was incredibly real and complicated; however, it was not complicated enough to frighten only excite me as i drifted into a reverie of my future dreams and aspirations.

A Serene Sunday… Thoughts on Life, Nature and Poetry

It has been a beautiful weekend with magnificent weather, finally! I am feeling particularly strong mental and determined, despite some obstacles I must conquer this in the next few days, to have a wonderful week. A new found perspective on the joy of life is finally overwhelming my soul and I am making a conscious effort to do one thing a week that frightens me (yes, it’s a clique therapy goal but sometimes it ok to follow some psycho-babble bullshit once in a while). My life has been far too structured for far too long and it is time I start living my best life with serious intention and no expectations.

In the wee hours of the morning, sitting on my deck having a cigarette and watching the crimson sky transform into a lucid blue, William Wordsworth’s poetry popped into my head. His appreciation for natural world and ability to capture its imperfections inspires me to understand that beauty. The poem’s lyrical movement exemplifies the idea that poetry is an emotion engulfed in tranquility, where imagination is the key that unlocks the innermost depths of the human spirit; the imagination is best awakened by celebrating the wonders of nature.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

An Artist and A Movement: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and Art Nouveau

The Art Nouveau style has always captivated me with its elegant charm and whimsical beauty. The architecture, painting and sculptures in the style always have this sinuous, elongated and curvy lines that appear to imitate the imperfections of nature; the pieces are always uniquely disproportioned and asymmetrical to simulate the flawed beauty of the natural world. Architecture, furniture and jewelry is decorated with stylish flowers, leaves, roots, buds and seedpods are carelessly, yet intentionally, laced throughout the work. Art Nouveau paintings celebrate the female form by presenting them in a pre-Raphaelite pose with long, flowing hair and a curvy, yet delicate, silhouette. Exotic woods, marquetry, iridescent glass, silver and semi-precious stones adorn pieces to create the overly dramatic Art Nouveau style; all so Parisian, obviously, and just lovely in every way.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was an artist of the late 19th century whose art captured the Parisian nightlife of the period. His work was a true embodiment of Art Nouveau; an international style of decoration characterized by writhing plant forms and an opposition to the historicism which engulfed the early 19th century. His emphasis on artistic unity exemplified this new style of art where the illustrations were formed through eccentric fantasy and mystic themes.

Toulouse-Lautrec had unfortunate circumstances. Born in 1864 in Albi, France to an aristocrat family, Henri grew up amongst luxury. However grandeur the prospect of his future appeared, it was two broken legs by the age of 14 which would change the circumstances of Henri’s life forever; his bones failed to heal properly and by adulthood his legs stopped growing causing him to be abnormally short in stature. Deprived of any kind of normal live Toulouse-Lautrec lived wholly for his art. His works encompassed the heart of the cabaret entertainment and bohemian life in the Montmartre section of Paris.

Pretty Things…

Lockets have been around for centuries. Through the years their purpose has changed, however their unique charm has remained appealing to anyone who wants to add a little Victorian charm to their jewelry box. Used for carrying powder or poison, keepsakes, hair, ashes, good luck charms and pictures, lockets are somewhat mysterious as its contents are only known to its holder.

I have always been fascinated with costume jewelry; pieces incased with seed pearls, gem stones in bright colors, diamonds with old miner’s cuts all cast in antique copper or brass are moments that capture the ornate and showy fashion of its time.
I found a wonderful website (www.etsy.com) where people showcase (and sell) their handmade creations ranging from jewelry, photography, art and vintage finds. Check it out; it’s a wonderfully inspiring site! I thought I’d share some lockets that caught my eye.

If I Had the Money...

I think I would collect antique tea cups! I have always admire the simplistic beauty of Victorian tea cups with their whimsical patterns and delicate form. They represent the splendor of company or lack there of; a lonely cup of tea on a rainy day is, to me, one of life's great pleasures.
Tea cups also remind me of my childhood. My mom use to make me a plate of cheese and crackers and fill my tea cup with tea and loads of sugar and milk. When she could see the taste wasn't yet appealing to me, she'd replace the tea with fruit juice! hehe!

Beautiful Morning…

It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning and I’ve been having a lovely weekend. The weather is finally turning a corner, (for now anyways…) which I believe has contributed to my overly positive attitude these past few days. After several months of unfortunate circumstances and terrible weather I am finally awakening to a brighter and happier demeanor that, I have to admit, has been extremely difficult to achieve. Perhaps its all of the yoga that I have been doing that has assisted with my spiritual and emotional state that has transitioned from one of frustration and confusion to hope and tranquility.

Yesterday I was outside gazing into the clear sun, closing my eyes for a brief moment allowing this vivid light warm my body and soul, and I realized I finally accept the careless state of being in a world of uncertainty; I no longer have expectations of what tomorrow will bring, I am simply living my life through each passing moment without any sort of anticipation. I still struggle with an issue that has bogged my life for several years, and accept it is a lifelong battle, but feel as if I finally want to tread the waters of a calmer sea and free myself from the constraints and loneliness of a wearing existence.

I am not fooling myself however, I am still a very structured and organized person who does like to stick with her daily routine, but living with structure and neglecting the desire to understand the absurdity of life, and recognizing this law with ease and compassion, can coincide together. So have I become an enlightened individual? - Highly unlikely. I do believe I have come to an understanding, one that feels dream-like yet utterly real and I may be unable to explain to anyone so I shall remain silent.

Say Whaaaa Wednesday... The Art of Insanity

The Museum of Modern Art in Paris is not unaccustomed to exhibiting unusual works of art. However trivial, and incomprehensible, some of its exhibits may be I believe it is essential for the public to be exposed to all of the unique and ambiguous pieces that emerge in order for art to maintain its continual evolution.

So how does a screed of words carved into bedroom floorboards by a schizophrenic French farmer sound to you? In 2005 Paris’s MoMA showcased the 24ft by 9ft oak floorboards titled “Plancher de Jeannot” (Jeannot’s Floorboards) and created an unprecedented stir. The carvings consisted of 80 lines of text, in capital letters, no punctuation and referenced Hitler, several Popes and a satanic machine that the farmer (his surname and village where the floorboards were discovered have been kept secret) believed to control humans.

Jeannot, born in 1939, has an unfortunate background; his father committed suicide at a young age and shortly after Jeannot was institutionalized to a mental hospital (it took a team of 30 gendarmes to get him out of his home). His mothered died in 1971 which cause Jeannot to return to his village to assist in the burial. He insisted his mother be buried under the stairs in his mother’s house which was, oddly enough, carried through. It was then Jeannot moved his bed into the dinning room, next to the stairs, and began to furiously carve into the floor:
'Religion has invented machines for commanding the brain of people and animals and with an invention for seeing our vision through the retina uses us to do ill (...) the church after using Hitler to kill the Jews wanted to invent a trial to take power.’ It was only 7 months after his mother died that Jeannot starved to death

So can madness be artistic? The story is incredibly intriguing but I cannot help but wonder whether this type of exhibit is trying to liberate the unfortunate stigmatization associated with mental illness or exploiting it? The piece is strikingly beautiful; its sheer size is enough to make one’s mind wander into its own reverie of psychosis. However, the scripture is anything but romanticly insane in that artistic type of way, yah dig?

Say Whaaaa Wednesday: Painter, Baker, Candy Art Maker!

My wonderful, long time friend is currently interning in New York at The Museum of Modern Art (Much lurrrvvee Jory, you’re helping me climb back into a realm of inspiration!). She let me know of a delectably sweet artist who has an interesting artistic palette: creating paintings, sculptures that portray landscapes of cake, candy, fudge and other delicious confections.

Will Cotton is a New York based painter who not only paints such sugary swamps that occasionally include nude women but also sculpts gumdrop sculptures with slices of ganache cake and other sweets. Beautiful curvaceous women lay atop mountains of scooped ice cream that evaporates into blues and pink clouds. The women’s serene gaze embodies the blissful vision of the Renaissance artists who strived to immortalize a foreboding theme of heaven and gluttony.

I find Cotton’s work to be extremely intriguing and lack any preventative unfettering for the female body that the modern feminist may conjure up; I can imagine they believe he is equating the female body to the seductive and, commonly deemed voracious, allure of candy which I boldly refute (hey, that would be a good essay!). His work does bear the burden of seduction but it is masterfully complex and is delivered in a clean and reverential way that truly portrays his oil painting technique. Cotton’s paintings are remarkable in his ability to capture the Renaissance technique of foreshortening to create a sort of soft depth while revealing a uniquely modern concept.
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A Much Needed Update!! - A Poem

The Barren
By Jenna Reimer

In the end you are weary of this abandoned world.
Among your fetishes in a weak and soulless flame
That fume a sky of clouded doubt and unknown,
Where a fury of scarred electric stars and blazing moons
Exist in a furnace of cobalt and crimson hollows,
You tremble in a league admit a blinded fleet.
Drifting ashes brush the faces of preset men
Wanting to walk home and simply retire.
Yet, you launch into a solemn slumber,
Aloft the drift of deep delirium in an exiled sleep;
Dying in a tamed and watchful sorrow.

F*ck It Friday... A Poem

The Lattice
By Jenna Reimer

Unable to escape the lattice;
A net that remains a barricade
From all that is out of reach.
I peer through the mesh
Where crisscrossed shadows
Paint the floor of the other side;
Bleak Figures lurking amongst
This grounded darkness
Dash like a running hare
Leaving no trace of its presence.
Time running like the muddied waters
Of a February river
I cannot see through the murk.
The lattice is far too high to climb,
Too long to trek, too deep to dig.
To have these hands, these feet,
These eyes, this tongue
Are fruitless amid such uncertainty.
If I have learned anything in this life
It will be that there is no lucid light,
No clear shadow,
And an endless knowledge of doubt.

Say Whaaaa Wednesday... Beauty in Flames

I must go to this festival immediately; there is nothing more gratifying than seeing giant flames engulf a vacant sky and dancing around it like the free loving hippie we all claim we don’t want to be. Burning Man is a yearly event held in northern Nevada in the Black Rock Desert where thousands of people celebrate the summer solstice by burning strikingly large wooden sculptures. The ritual began in San Francisco in 1986 when a man burned a 9 foot wooden man, along with a wooden dog, on Baker Beach as a “spontaneous act of self expression.” Eventually this idea leaked into the Black Rock Dessert and became an annual event where thousands of people would showcase spectacular pieces of wooden sculpture.

This is where the innate hippie inside of me really gets excited and wants to rip off her clothes and dance around a bon fire naked to the music of The Grateful Dead on acid; yes, you read that correctly. I love the idea of “outsider art” coming together to create a visionary retreat of inspiration and creativity. Yah it’s kind of hippie-ish and I am sure there are some far out characters there who are still advocating issues that the contemporary world has long outgrown, but to all their own right? It’s those people who are great to hang out with because they lack the pretentious attitude of most of us modern people.

How marvelous it must feel to stand amongst a burning sculpture amidst an anxiously intoxicated crowd in a desolate dessert where the spirit of art and freedom are lucidly one…. Wow I need to stop now, the hippie lingo is starting to come up.

(Ecstacy by Dan Das Mann and Karen Cusolito 2009; Fire Of Fires by David Umlas, Marrilee Ratcliffe, Community Art Makers 2009)

F*ck It Friday... A Poem

Tree Figure
By Jenna Reimer

A tree stands before me;
Barren branches crowding a marked sky,
Unmoving below a merciless twilight,
I sit beneath it within the shadow of a wind.
Knowing all the things I have known once
Disappear into an entreated bliss.
The tree’s boughs grow into my breast,
Swallowing my limbs of fickle fury.
I was a tree among the woods.