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| Image by Doris Rudd |
The scene abstract
a sort of cage, fractured pieces
held in by thinning glass
which creates this distorted view -
a package of secrets,
inside this old shadow box.
Its purpose is mysterious
keeping you from harms way,
while a March wind blows
cold and wet,
a reminder of her hold on
this world. A small glint of light
and I'm exposed I guess -
a little afraid, reluctant to abandon my armor
and show the mortal man I truly am.
But all the pieces fit inside,
this shadow box, dark and distant
which hangs by the bed we no longer share,
trapping what good there was -
until the fire of hate
consumed it again.
Amongst the worlds many talented artists I will find those who truly catch the eye more than most. Usually this is due to a uniqueness in style that is appealing to me in particular or a subject matter presented through a noteworthy medium which sparks an interest in me to see more. And the availability to display one’s work on the internet has created a worldwide forum where we have the opportunity to enjoy an artist’s work from distance shores. Granted there is something to visiting a gallery in person, mingling with other admirers of a particular painter, photographer, musician or anyone else for that matter. The availability though to access someone’s art via the Web has surely enriched all of us who take advantage of the internet. With a bit of effort and time you can travel the world visiting many historical sites reliving the time period or witness an event which had been to far to travel, just by typing in an address on the top of your web browser.
Such privileges gives us access to unique artists. In my search for just that, a unique artist to feature in this article, I came across the gallery of images shared by the photographer Discortia who resides in a small town in Finland and who has been gracious enough to accept this interview and tell us a little about her and her work. 
BP: Tell us about you and where you live.
Discortia: I was accepted to music classes when I was 9, and have played the piano ever since I was 6. My teenage years were furious search for myself, but even though it was painful, I learned a lot. Now I’m a musician with a small label owned by me and my husband, and while I’m not composing, recording or performing, I spend all my free time with my camera.
To me, Finland is a great place to live because it has four seasons, and all of them are so different. My current hometown is quite small, and that’s what makes it so comfortable for me to live in – I like it when everything’s so near.
BP: You use the name “Discortia” on your work. Why that name and what does it mean?
Discortia: It’s a sort of my own version of "Discordia", which caught my eye in Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series. After reading the part where the word was introduced, it never left my mind, and in my head it was twisted to “Discortia” ‘cause for some obscure reason it sounded better to me. Its benefit is that in most internet communities “Discordia” is very often claimed by someone else, while “Discortia” is always free. I think I started to read his books when I was around 11 years old, and every time I read a new book from him, I fell in love with his writing style all over again.
BP: How did you get into photography, particularly working with dolls?
Discortia: It all started with the dolls. After learning the basics, though, I started to get interested in photographing other things as well, and even though my main focus is still on dolls, I also like to take photos of other things that catch my eye. It has been pretty accurately a year now. Before that I didn’t even own a camera, but when I opened that door I couldn’t imagine ever quitting photography.
I’ve always loved pretty things, and since photography is, at least to most doll owners, an essential part of the hobby, it was only a natural step after getting my first doll. They are all based on characters I created long before I even dreamed about owning my own doll – each one has years of planning and dozens – even hundreds of pages of text behind it. I wouldn’t feel comfortable owning a doll that was just an empty shell.
BP: The images you posted on Deviantart.com is what caught my attention because of a number of things such as pose, color, and angle. What steps do you take to prepare a shot?
Discortia: It really depends on what I’m going after. Sometimes it’s as little as a fabric I pin to the wall behind the doll, if I’m doing just close-ups, or the whole idea of the shoot can start from an object, say, candlestick, and then I start collecting things that fit the idea, and choosing clothing for the doll that fits the mood. When I shoot around the house I don’t really have to think about lighting ‘cause I’m so familiar with where the best light is and what camera setting to use.
I like details and close-ups, small things that catch the eye. Colors are also very important to me, and I like to experiment with them, how the photo’s feeling changes when you play with the colors.
BP: What are the tools you use?
Discortia: My camera is Nikon D90, with various lenses. My computer is self-built from components I chose myself, and for software I use Adobe Photoshop and Adobe Lightroom, with several photo-editing plugins.
BP: All artists get some sort of inspiration to motivate them. What kinds of things inspires you?
Discortia: Talent. I hear an unbelievable song, or see an amazing image, and feel like “I want to be as good someday”. It doesn’t matter what form it is in, if it awakens strong emotions inside of me. I’ve always been intrigued by what human minds can produce, when in some artist’s heads the limits of their capabilities start to blur. That’s a state I wish to achieve some day.
BP: Anyone particular when it comes to photographers or musicians?
Discortia: (Photographers) I don’t really have anyone in mind, at least not yet. I love to look at great photography, but even though the photos touch me, the names behind them slip my mind very easily. (Musicians) Oh, there are so many. Tori Amos, Carole King, The Carpenters, Garbage, Yuki Kajiura, Origa… these are all artists I’ve been listening for a long time, but otherwise it’s the same as with photography – to me a great song is a great song, regardless of the genre or performer. Some artists have more of them, some less. I can go completely crazy over a good song for days, and then never listen to the same artist again.
BP: Are there other creative avenues in which you put your energy?
Discortia: Writing has always been a dear hobby of mine, as has painting. Overall I love everything where you get to use your imagination and create new things. I mostly sit on my computer… since everything I like to do (write, paint, make music) are linked to my computer. If I don’t feel like watching the screen I like to make doll clothes or go for a walk in the woods.
BP: Tell us your future plans regarding you and your work.
Discortia: To always grow, day by day, photo by photo both technically and artistically. I’ve never really thought about it any further. Maybe attend to some courses about photography – I’m completely self-taught, so I’m sure that there are things I still don’t know about or quite understand. But I want to constantly grow to be a better artist, be it music; photography… imagination and emotions keep me breathing. If I couldn’t roam in my own free world, I would be empty. I hope to someday create something that really touches people, I just don’t know the medium for it yet. My best guess would be music, since it’s the thing I’ve done the longest. 
BP: What do you fear most?
Discortia: To someday lose all my inspirations, my will to grow, and to go empty inside.
BP: If you could shoot photos anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Discortia: I’ve always loved to look at photos of Japan in spring, the cherry blossoms, also Japan’s architecture and people. I think Asian people are very beautiful! So I think Japan would be the place.
BP: Lastly, once you finish a shot that turns out to your expectations, how does that make you feel?
Discortia: I feel like I’m one step closer to being what I wish to achieve. I feel like I want to tell the whole world that today I succeeded, and I want to share it with everyone. If it’s something that really makes me feel that I’ve learned to see and capture in a new way, I say to myself: “I did this. This is me”. That is the feeling that keeps me going.
You can find more of Discortia’s work on Deviantart.com where her portfolio continues to grow with her work, and at Den of Angels, an international forum for BJD (ball jointed doll) owners, traders and enthusiasts.
Today the world is indeed a smaller place where we can connect with people from across the globe. Thanks to technology we can experience and share the “stuff” that makes who we are, share our aspirations, and more importantly feed off of each other to grow in our creativity. The opportunity to express ourselves as writers, photographers, musicians, etc. is a big blue wide open sky. The hope is to never let the well of creativity run dry, but to drink from it often as we continue to expose ourselves to the talented artist around the world.
Red roses lay perfectly still
against a wall of concrete
pouring out colors of the bleeding hearts—
singers with their songs of love,
and saddened poets with verses of loneliness
and finally you, staining my life with your red tears
which explode on fresh linen, ghostly white
become footprints of our history together,
a path that leads us to the bitter end.
It is true, all things fade
the strong become weak
and memories become diluted in time
remembered as only images of red wine and lipstick,
everything related to love—
but not the lack of it, as fire consumes
and the Devil, who recreated St. Valentines Day
one cold morning in nineteen hundred twenty-nine
making crooked cupids stinging arrow,
and forever keeping the red roses
from being truly red.
Cool chrome legs
reflect the stained tile floor
which hold a million footprints
as tight as a hangman’s noose.
The black and white squares
create a path, left to right—
followed only in the darkest nights
between stops of utter failure.
Alone again, she sits,
yet this time more in shadow
as if to hide from the neon light,
flashing bright blue
akin to the firefly near the end of life.
Again she waits
in anticipation of his return,
reminiscent of an old movie
tattered and faded,
repeating the ending over and over.
She waits—lipstick red,
polished shoes and a renewed hope,
waiting to hear the chime above the door
ring for her once again.
The Potter’s hands
holds a body of clay
as young lovers hold each other’s hearts -
pumping the potter’s wheel,
round and round
like some clock gone mad.
A kiln, smokes in the corner of this room
belching black clouds of hatred
becoming hot, envious to devour
whatever enters its mouth -
stuck wide, flames for teeth ready to bite.
In time all shapes change,
becoming one, then the next
leaving only a fading shadow
from the kiln’s flame, ghosts
jumping in a second of light - yet
revealing nothing above a floor of dirt.
It is in the end
art becomes refuse,
old and broken
empty of the usefulness it once had
buried in a field of obscurity
forgotten as a warm breeze wisps away its final dusty footprints.
Love is just a word
made up by some lonely poet –
in search of more words
to describe his solitude.
Proof litters the floor
old rhymes, tattered round its edges –
fading ink and dried wine glass stains
to circle what thought important in blood.
And he writes from the heart
though such things can not be trusted –
as it gives way to his own empty words
confusing this love with lust.
Love comes from a man’s dream
of waning desires and growing anger –
escaping reality, day tripping forever
within every line he writes.
Love is just a word
just a word indeed.
The piano sits in the corner
silent, stained with music from years past –
each key frozen in timelessness
melancholy, veiled from the purpose it served.
And a shadow hangs tight to the wires
muffling their melody,
as I strain to hear the notes, faintly echoing
only to frustrate myself when forgetting the lyrics.
Years pass, and I still see you
sitting at the piano, bringing life to the room
filling the air with your scent – an audience of one
me, until you fade again from the room.
Wrapped legs, which once squeezed with pleasure
now dangle lifeless—
guarding a well, dry with contempt
as I stand at a distance,
dying from the thirst of you.
On our bed, the sweat evaporates
becoming stains—
taking on the shapes of diseased skin
the scent of you gone,
as if fire consumed your soul.
sex becomes meaningless,
when an ocean of hatred stands between us—
each attack, a wave of salty words
eroding away my edges, stinging my wounds
ever so subtle, a tiny grain at a time.
Answer me why, why you turned away,
ignoring vital truths—
how love conquers all, despite all my faults
or how we promised each other a lifetime
only to return it, outdated, expired.
Now it rains, drops of icy cold blood
and the sun won’t show again, the sky
painted over with clouds of gloom—
a photograph taken without a hint of color,
just empty frames exposing the frailness in me.
Laying beneath a ceiling cracked
the plaster an image of the leper’s cover—
I dare to dream for someday a time
pretending of a hope, as slight as it may be
when I can feel your warmth, just one more time.
I would guess that most if not everyone has heard this statement or perhaps had said it at one time or another. And if you really think about it there is truth to it, “some people should have never had kids” for one reason or another and it become very obvious if you take the time to watch what is going on around them.
This group of people can found in all locals, including across the street from my house. And this example may not encompass the reasons perhaps why the statement “some people shouldn’t have kids” is uttered by you from an example you have. And the quote may include only the mother, the father or both parents which to me would be super fucking scary knowing the children would have no refuge from one parent in another.
A Most Scary Mother
The example I have from across the street in my small town, actually a village if you needed to be politically correct, who have just moved into the neighborhood. And I am someone who gives a person the benefit of the doubt, not going completely off of first impressions. But it was quickly understood that we had a mother gone wild situation. And not being around 24 – 7 I can only speak of the situations I see when I’m home. And I don’t put this particular mother in the light of being physically abusive, but we all understand that the emotional scars are just as horrific as the physical ones. The constant screaming at the kid is beyond annoying to me, and I wonder what goes on in the little kids mind as he runs from that loud proclamation from his mother that he is “going to be spanked when she gets a hold of him”. It does become a bit comical see her run after the little guy as he tries to elude her grasp. It is one thing to yell at your kid for being naughty or because they aren’t listening to you. But put this image in your head of a mother screaming for her little boy to come into the house expecting him to obey the 30th time you yell this out. As you can imagine it gets old after a while, hence the revelation of the statement “some people shouldn’t have kids”.
And this reminded me of a movie I had not seen for a very long time which portrays a very famous mother who perhaps heard “some people shouldn’t have kids” uttered behind her back. Below is a short clip of one of the examples:
So where do we put the blame for bad parenting? And who sets the standard of good parenting? What one might value as a good family life others from their viewpoint may think it the wrong way to go. I think it is safe to say that one fact is we are a product of our environment and we could be prone to raise our children the way we were raised, right or wrong. But this is not always the case as I know some who recognize the fact that the way they had been raised wasn’t the best and vowed to ensure their kids be raised in a better environment.
And it always seems the mother gets the most of the blame when portrayed in film, the media, music. This could be because of many reasons but I think the blame for bad and for good parenting falls on both parents. This includes the smothering or total control they may have over their children as depicted in Pink Floyd’s song “Mother”:
So remember the next time you see an example of parenting that you may not agree with, remember to look within first. Give the kids a chance. Let them be children. I will close with the lyrics of a song I wrote some years back based on the obvious conclusion that kids of today, with the many seeming “advantages” of technology, certainly have an upbringing different than when I grew up. From what I remember is a more simple childhood with time to grow in those years gradually, where today most kids need to grow up before they are ready to, or need to. Here is the lyrics to the song “Let The Children Play”:
Let The Children Play ©
Are the good times coming? I don’t know
Are we learning something? I don’t know
Time will tell, we’ll live a spell
Just a little while, just another mile we’ll know
Yeah we’ll know…
There was a crooked man, Momma said
This is the Promised Land, Daddy said
Look at Peter Pan, look what’s in his hand
He walked a crooked mile, gave a little smile
Oh no…
Let the children play
Is it hard growing? I don’t know
Can you stand a little? I don’t know
Get to bed; you won’t get fed
Go away, another day
I don’t know, I don’t know!
Let the children play
Why you take your life? I don’t know
Why you carry a knife? I don’t know
Here’s some cash, make a dash
I’m too tired; maybe I’m wired
I don’t know…
Let the children play
Let The Children Play by Shadows © 1997
So happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there who find it important to raise their children the best way they can.
Ever since I have had this job change it seems that I have no time or energy to write. And for someone like myself who lives and breathes by expression through words I believe I have suffocated enough. And just to get the noodle on the functioning side I have a pot of coffee and a quiet setting on a perfect Saturday morning.
If you take all the time in the world (which some people say they have) there should be extra time to dabble in all the things one wants to do. And for me it mainly consists of “stuff” on a creative level whether it is music, poetry, blogging and even playing in the dirt in one of my flower gardens. A need to stay busy seems so important even when the other side of the brain says there is a need to shut down and relax a bit.
Killing Time by Aquaguardian
And there is the problem. How to shut off the whole world and concentrate on what needs to seep out. Never mind the quick blog on how the day went or what I purchased for dinner or who I saw at the tavern. Those are an emotional outlet and are fun to write about but I am speaking of the stuff that makes you feel good when it is finished. And it something of substance that others would want to read or in the case of music listen to. These take time unless you are on a unconscious roll and the words just pour out perfectly onto the screen and they hand you the Pulitzer prize for best bullshit without leaving a stain.
In hopes that today is that day I will leave this blog with something off the top of my head:
Inside we waste
everything that matters,
casting out feelings
of love and like -
pretending it doesn’t hurt
just as yesterday,
when you walked away.So today comes
with a sweeping sound
pushing away crumbs,
remnants of our time together -
ghostly shadows of happiness,
the scent of you in bed,
your touch when everything's alright -
moves away beyond grasping.Killing time in waiting
for a return that will never come,
yet here I sit
looking through dirty glass,
and into it, trying to find the flaw
which drove you to madness -
grew from seed hatred
of a man like me.
Now that felt kind of good. Just to ramble out something meaningless or perhaps it has more meaning than I want to admit. And if it has any sort of meaning for you, just how cool is that.
A short video tribute to time from the band Triumph. Have a listen.
boobies
if you haven’t noticed there has always been an obsession with boobies. And it isn’t just a guy thing as much as one would think. Those of us who have become the admirers of what some would call “the assets” of a woman really seem to have an appreciation for size, shape and even a ranking system that has been around for some time now. Just think of all the terms used to describe the breasts of a woman:
…need I say more? And you could say about the same things about a guys thingy, but we aren’t discussing that today. I have a female friend writer who would perhaps do a better job on that subject anyway.
You may have noticed how the media has helped this kind of praise / worship of boobies to the point that we the watching public simply demand the exposure of such, not only in the programming we see but also in the ads. Websites have been built around sightings of famous boobies exposed at the beach, or in a movie scene of 10 years ago when the actresses’ body defied gravity a bit better. None the same, we are inundated with images, from full frontal to sneak peaks of the object of many a male’s obsession.
But sorry guys! You are not the only ones with the need to see / feel / gawk / daydream / discuss / write about this subject matter. Woman too have a great interest in boobies. And we are not going to get into the discussion that, “of course they do because of it being a part of their anatomy”. Just as men do woman are fans, and obviously have more to say being they actually own a pair of boobies. You cant tell me you have never heard a discussion on why they like / dislike their own set of boobies. And it can go farther than that due to the fact they CAN do something about it. According to one statistical group, just in 2009 alone there were 432,581 breast augmentation surgeries, in which 1,925 of those were performed on patients under 18 years of age.
so whether you are male or female it seems we all have a natural interest in what some may never admit to. That being boobies. So the next time you admire someone's assets give a little prayer of thanks as you enjoy the view. Anyone who is a fan of boobies must come to grips with their obsession and just sit back and reflect how some things in life are so wonderful.
Requiem of a poet
The day of my funeral will be a Saturday. One attributed to rest, though this time it shall be eternal. And the weather will be cold, with a mixture of tears and ink stains, some dried but most erasable. The guest list alone would make the headlines of any number of corruptible newspapers, burying my farewell next to an ad of abandonment or perhaps above a distorted corner of the weekly crossword puzzle, faded into the page with a bit of spilled coffee.
I see the mood around the room as black, reflecting the images of a life unfulfilled in any photographer’s best attempt to bring out the colors of regret and shame. The state of disarray amongst the pallbearers leads me to believe the flask behind the vase of choked red roses has quickly evaporated its contents. One would only guess it appropriate on such a day when paper meets pen, only to feed a fire meant to warm the feet of children.
My visitors, one by one, stream past my lifelessness as if taking part in a ritual best suited for the cafeteria, staring blankly at a variety of not caring and wishes of another place and time. But like good soldiers they come, give homage to the poet. And I must announce to the entire world how uncomfortable this casket is, though it looks the part, it just doesn’t quite fit someone, who like me only needed the stars of heaven and the scent of wildflowers.
Now to the guests of this jovial event, though without the fun, cheeriness and good humor I would have expected, I jot down their names. Because it would only seem rude to bring all those things along that made me, well me. If you scan among the room you see a menagerie, those who resulted because of a variety of things I’ve just happened to been around to see or do. Or in any case imagine to the point that the delusion comes alive.
Notice first the group holding the now empty flask. The ever weary pallbearers who are now finished with their task of hauling dead weight, my dead weight around the streets as if to find me a parking place closest to the entrance. Pacing around and around carrying the burden until a spot opens up. It just happened to be next to the Chevy van of Suicide Girls who took time to pose next to my stiff limbs, now filled with the embalmer’s private stock. In the back, in one of the darkest corners shades of lipstick from a number of indiscretions huddle close to the restroom hoping not to toss their cookies on the funeral parlor’s tale telling carpeting. The one I feel closest, is one who scarred my heart the deepest, keeps the farthest distance, screaming words that make no sound. And the only thing I can do is pretend they are words of love, whispers of why forever lasted only for a day, short but sweet.
And as the elite, those of fame and fortune approach, they never seem to look at straight at me. Their gaze has always looked past or perhaps even through me, as though I was just a layer to an overall image of nothing. But nonetheless they are here if only to appease the conscience of my own vanity to be king. And Mother dressed in the blackest black, holding open her womb wanting to take me back in, to smother and control as I rot away beneath the constellations of Orion, Cancer and Ursa Minor. She holds on from start to finish keeping the graves deep, filling each hole with the children she herself bore.
The requiem of a poet has many dimensions. Countless facets of enduring triumphs and failures, that makes the whole a fragmented mirror. Yet it comes together due to the madness of his words that can be read with an eye of perception, interpreted by only you. And with every word the poet’s story unfolds into a piece of you, becoming what you needed in the first place.
Someone to feel you.
Needless to say Johnny Depp is the most sought after actor today. His roles in “The Ninth Gate”, “Blow”, “From Hell”, “Secret Window”, “Public Enemy” and one cannot forget to mention his role as Captain Jack Sparrow in the “Pirates of the Caribbean” trilogy makes him one of my favorite actors. When you review the list of characters he’s played it is clear he is talented to say the least.
Tim Burton too has a long decorated list of work, which to some it may be more bizarre, but which I find innovative and interesting just because it isn't the norm.
But this blog isn’t about these two men exclusively, but about the movie I went to see Saturday afternoon, “Alice In Wonderland”.
Depp plays the Mad Hatter who really isn’t the focus of the story, but with his changing eye color, flaming red hair, bushy eye brows and makeup it is hard to ignore him even among all of the other Tim Burton characters. You even get a little Jack Sparrow coming through in a scene or two.
I thought the dialog was classic and at times masterful, for example when the Mad Hatter and Alice speak of things such as madness. They question in their own minds not only the other’s possible madness but their own as well.
The scenery itself is classic Burton. If you’ve seen any of his earlier movies such as “The Corpse Bride” or “The Nightmare Before Christmas” you will recognize the twisted topography Burton uses to make the world a strange place.
You can’t ignore the other characters with their altered persona that is just right to make the world of Wonderland their home. Helen Bonham Carter (Red Queen), Anne Hathaway (White Queen), Crispin Glover (Stayne-Knave of Hearts) and the slew of animated characters make the world of Wonderland a strange little place.
I have to admit though my favorite characters were Tweedledee and Tweedledum (Matt Lucas) with their simpleton ways and their child-like mannerisms were just priceless. Their facial expressions were alive, interesting, just perfect in making those characters brilliantly entertaining.
Overall I liked the movie. I believe though that the things that swayed me more to liking it was the Tim Burton feel of the movie and the big screen. I think if I would have waited to see it on DVD I would have been a little more disappointed and perhaps could have lost interest after a while in the recliner.
Judge the movie for yourself. The reviews have been so mixed that it would be hard to really pin down the public feel for this film. But if you read of the box office opener and sales thus far I can’t see it not being a money maker, and the anticipated DVD sales will no doubt be huge. With the combination of Burton and Depp it could never be too far off the mark.
Rating: 7 out of 10 stars
