Fear of Crashing

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© “Patroklos” after Jacques Louis David c.1780   charcoal, charcoal white / toned card stock paper   8.5″ x 11″

A few weeks back I conceived a short poem from a recalled dream, which I did not completely understand (remaining ambiguous to a certain degree as most dreams do).

I had decided to not post it for the moment because it apparently did not have any relation to what I was working on at the moment which were some drawings, so devoid of an elegant paring of both poem and drawings, I waited and remained waiting without posting.

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© Study of Antagonism   charcoal, charcoal white, colored pencil / pastel paper    11″ x 8.5″

After viewing a video a few days ago from the course “The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hrs” where the scholars Douglas Frame and Gregory Nagy discuss “telos” and it’s relationship to charioteers and crashes, the dream and poem resonated on a very different level for me, especially since the title of my poem was “Fear of Crashing”.

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© Rising Girl Back study    permanent marker, charcoal / card stock paper    11″ x 8.5″

 

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© Female head study    charcoal, ink, colored pencil / pastel paper    11″ x 8.5″

The discussion centered around chariot driving and the outcomes for heroes such as Patroklos, Nestor, Phaethon, and Hippolytus, all having to do with life/career paths, stages, initiations, and cycles.

A very important key for me: avoiding crashes with mythological bulls and incoming traffic. Here is the very short poem:

Fear of Crashing

Night highway flowing darkly,

swarming headlights blind my eyes,

against traffic I’m driving,

lane swerving swift motions of mine.

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© Figure study sketch  charcoal, white charcoal / pastel paper    8.5″ x 11″

Ode to the Strangers

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© Ode to the Strangers   mixed media / pastel paper     18″ x 22″

Ode to the Strangers

Sightless three seers, uproar a muffled sound,

I see crystallized minds, soft arabesque-ing aground,

I hear the breathing of fates, eerie discourse of years,

dogs’ camouflage barking, singing crocodile tears.

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© Untitled drawing   charcoal/pastel paper  11′ x 8.5″

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© Untitled Line Study  mixed media / toned card stock paper    11″ x 8.5″

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© Study for Three Figures    charcoal/pastel paper    8.5″ x 11″

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© Study for Dancing Figure   mixed media / toned card stock paper   11″ x 8.5″

Metal Mesh Earthen Tomb

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©2nd of the Achaeans     mixed media/pastel paper     12″ x 9″

The following and the above are some recent works (drawings/sketches) on paper and other media.

After a yearlong pause from writing, a verbal oxidation tried to take hold and arrange itself around the edges and the creases of my mind. After scraping this off, I encountered a poem.

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©Based on Sebastiano del Piombo drawing (c.1520)     graphite/paper     11″ x 8.5″

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The following is the poem as a short story from a recent dream, which is somehow related I believe to a course I’m currently taking titled The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 hrs from edX online.

Do check it out if interested in Ancient Greek culture as it is definitely worthwhile.

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©Nina frontal sketch      charcoal/toned card stock      11″ x 8.5″

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Metal Mesh Earthen Tomb

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I travel alone through some dusk moisten ground,

wandering past dark earthen shroud,

my eyes not troubled from mist or cloud,

a dextral encounter with a terrestrial mound.

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I carry for dinner an upended fowl,

unbeknownst its hue, its weight, nor fount,

I recall no whispers nor deafening sounds,

I turn to behold such terrestrial mound.

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Quite unnerving, amusing deception, I thus initially found,

as it just touched the pile, disappear did the fowl.

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I search in vain for the vanished,

my disbelief torrential reigning and mounts,

to decipher, unearth present quandary,

to retrieve and reclaim from the mound.

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(Through some trickery of my own), I attempt to regain,

what I never have loaned, and my posture maintain.

Tapping lightly damp earth, myriad bearings I’ve chosen,

conviction shall work, ritual spell to be broken.

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I find myself covered, magic sand surround pile,

slow brush vex my skin, subterranean bush file,

metal mesh earthen tomb, scraping dirt to be found,

how am I below now, such uncomfortable mound?

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I am lodged by mistake soft ripe underground,

The fowl dinner nowhere, as I continue to scrape.

I then see a tunnel and perceive my escape,

my plan a calm getaway such mysterious mound.

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©Quill and ink line sketch       India ink/card stock paper      11″ x 8.5″

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©Nina profile sketch   charcoal/toned card stock     11″ x 8.5″

Bat Trapped in a Studio Tale

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©Alexander Rosado-Muñoz The Stand (La Parada) 12″ x 6″ acrylic / canvas

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©Alexander Rosado-Muñoz Scarred Icon Bebe II 24″ x 18″ acrylic, tobacco leaves, gesso / canvas

The two paintings above are intricately involved in a recent event in my studio that inspired me to write a story about it.

The event occurred in the month of June and led me to tell the tale in a non conventional format. Here is the account in verse form – I do admit it was not easy to write, although it was quite fun – hope you enjoy!

 

Bat Trapped in a Studio Tale

The light of dusk is slowly fading,

a sturdy metal studio chair

bears me,

certain sounds patter to my right;

somewhere near my paintings by chance,

maybe butterfly or moth in flight,

in the limelight desiring dance.

Where initially I am startled,

as the noise is not too soft,

I assume enormous is this moth,

I get up and try to find out.

Let the movement continue,

this assembled situation,

allow to pinpoint the position,

approaching spot of suspicion,

so stunned a tiny talon, I believe is what I saw,

what is this I question, a butterfly with a claw?

I realize this no insect,

as I identify its condition,

a mammal in fact it seems,

a bat trapped in location,

how is this to be?

My studio doors are always open,

(not some hotel in California),

they can check-in any time they like,

and they can always leave.

Winged herald quest of liberation,

paintings are a puzzle or a maze,

searching for possible locations,

structures the senses do amaze.

The choice to be secluded,

behind the work: “The Stand”,

few canvases I remove,

to acquire some advance,

in some ways quite befitting,

a shamans’ show of stance,

of somehow stating something,

of pointing way direction,

of awareness nature yearning,

of myth or dream of own.

I wish to show it outside,

to thrust this traveler free,

pull the shackles from its wings,

but then it changes paintings,

to a more delicate entree;

a tobacco covered work,

the fragile “Scarred Icon Bebe (II)”,

which quite reluctant I am to shake.

(I hear my spouse advise,

“you must turn off the lights,

the brightness has made it ‘blind'”.

How then can I see? I nonchalantly replied;

and guard my hand from the likes

of viable capricious bites.)

Heeding her suggestion,

I proceed to dim the luster,

behind the painted canvas,

its courage begins to muster,

he finds a way to slither,

then start to fly around,

and round the room in circles,

and miss by much the door,

it crawls again exhausted,

and seems to kiss the floor.

My compassion therefore swollen,

it’s persistence I admire,

I approach this hero fallen,

entangled in its desire.

Flight finding freedom!

Out the door with a hover,

although difficult to fathom,

nature urges such a ponder,

instantly I have been heartened,

at last did it recover!