I approach all challenging things with trepidation and excitement. I am knee deep in Spring semester 2015 here in balmy Fairbanks, AK. I have created my own unique challenge by taking TWO academic writing classes at once. I have found that OVERKILL can be ENLIGHTENMENT! That said, I have been introduced to a new form of poetry (to me)–FOUND POETRY.
I love found art…I love the idea of recycling, revitalizing, and reinventing. To make a collage of prose into poetry is a wonderful thing. Here is my attempt:
How shall I describe what I see outside my kitchen window? Should it be bathed in sunlight, or plunged in the darkness of an Arctic night? I guess it depends on how I want to view that window: proverbially or literally. The fact is, I don’t have a kitchen window. I live in a typical log cabin, cozy and small with a half-loft and two-count them-two total windows (and a skylight). I have rented this humble cabin for seven long years and have adapted it to my own comforts and tastes. It is very cave-like, with many nooks and crannies filled with books, movies, records, tools and other what-nots. The shelves and walls are full of many interesting and aesthetically pleasing curios, tapestries, masks and paintings. My house is dusty, (somewhat) organized chaos: a reflection of me.
I see now that the view from my kitchen window is a view of me! Ever since I have lived alone, I have built a comfortable cave; one that can both embrace the visitor or exclude them. Do you want to watch a movie? I have a ghetto-chic surround sound system (compiled mostly of components recycled from Fairbanks’ uniquely Christmas-like transfer sites) integrated into my hobbit hole. This same system can host the best dance party ever! My home, my kitchen window, is a reflection of me-of who I have become. I am both open and closed; generous and reclusive. The window has not yet closed on whether I want to knock a hole in that kitchen wall and let some real sunlight in; or maybe I could just move into a house with more windows.
This is the final project for my World Literature class. We were to do an interpretation of one of the stories we read this semester. I chose to do a short story this time, instead of the comics I had done before. This was a first for me. I chose a minor character from Naguib Mahfouz’s short story Zaabalawi. I did a lot of research into early 20th century Egypt to find inspiration for the story I created about this character. The original story is amazingly beautiful and a pleasure to read. I honestly recommend you read it! I hope I did justice to his writing. I also am posting a short video about this amazing author:
Wanas Goes on a Bender
An Interpretative Story based on: Naguib Mafouz’s Zabaalawi
Written by: Maranatha Watson, May 2014
Fingers of morning sunlight snuck through a small space left uncovered by the curtains of his hotel room, stamping a bright band of light across the eyes of the sleeping man. Fitful as his sleep had been, Wanas al-Damanhouri woke with a start, blinking and groaning deeply. As the vivid dreams that haunted his restless sleep surfaced in his conscious mind, a sense of dread crept up his spine. He shivered–despite the warm, humid air blowing in through the window. Rarely, as of late, did he remember his dreams, but today they flooded his memory almost as if he had just experienced them. He knew where these dreams came from, drawn from memories that he had mostly come to terms with. But, considering the significance of the day–the anniversary of his sister’s brutal murder–it was no wonder they were filled with violence:
“Bloody handprint smeared down the rough brick wall and the sounds of harsh laughter echoing from the darkened corridor of the alleyway. Beautiful eyes blinking away the pooling blood…soft voice rasping a final declaration of love and the feel of a hand weakly touching my temple and cheek. As I saw the life leave my baby sister’s eyes and an animal sound escaped my lips, blood-red rage turned my vision to black. I dropped her head too roughly on the cobblestones and ran screaming down the alleyway, full of wanton vengeance! The shadows danced up the walls like demons…”
The echoing sound of her head on the cobblestones, and the guilt that he felt in the aftermath, had haunted him for so long. For the last sixteen years since the death of his sister, Hasina, he always made the trip back to Cairo to honor her memory. He and his younger sister had attended university during the revolutionary time that followed Egypt’s limited liberation from British rule. While the weak, burgeoning Democracy struggled to take hold, youthful fervor gave rise to many new movements. Conservative social and religious strictures were difficult to enforce as the new government struggled to establish itself. Some women began to find their voice and gained a new-found respect and freedom amongst their revolutionary peers. It was an exciting time for the young elite. He and his sister had grown up wealthy, as their father was a successful merchant and their mother also came from money. He and his sister were very close; almost inseparable. She thought so much like him! As children, they pretended that they were twins. She was one of the first females allowed to enter university, and Wanas was so excited to have her join him in Cairo, far away from the suffocating structure of their family life.
Revolutionary politics seduced them simultaneously. It was uncanny how like-minded they were. Hasina, who was so full of charismatic energy, and as bright as the stars that shone above the cotton fields they visited with their father so long ago, became embroiled in the feminist movement that breathed life into a whole new generation of young women. Of course, Wanas had his own reservations about women’s involvement in politics. A conservative upbringing clung hard to the roots of intelligent and rational thought; but as the fervor of radical change and the growing belief in equality rose, men also embraced their “sisters” as an integral part of the revolution. The community they created was strong and supportive, and the insolation from the outside world they fought to change had a giddy effect.
The excitement was dampened a bit when Hasina was briefly arrested for giving a particularly inflammatory, yet inspiring speech to a large group of their Marxist contemporaries. He was so proud of her that night that she gave the speech. Her powerful words, her poise and charisma had prompted a roar of approval from the audience, and he could see the eyes of many male admirers turn her way. Bomani, one of his closest friends, in particular, took an interest in her. He pretended not to notice the connection between them. Of course, when Bomani approached him with the intention of protracting a blessing to marry Hasina, it went a little sour. Most loving brothers feel a little bit protective over their sisters. Of course, Wanas eventually gave his consent and, in so doing, felt a deep satisfaction in seeing a wonderful future laid out for his favorite sibling.
A few nights later, following their engagement announcement, they all attended a small, informal meeting in a local tavern near the university. Hasina drank a little more wine than she was accustomed to and disappeared outside for some fresh air, saying nothing to anyone as she rushed for the door. Neither Wanas nor Bomani saw her walk out, or even knew she was feeling ill. By the time they realized she was gone and went to find her, it was too late. Apparently, a group of Muslim fundamentalists was stalking the area, looking for revolutionaries. His beautiful sister had barely stumbled outside before they grabbed her and drug her down into the darkened alley. There, in the shadows, those savages stoned her, slammed her head into the wall and kicked her in the stomach and ribs multiple times before he and Bomani interrupted the attack. Of course, the cowards ran as they threw a few rocks, stained with her blood, after them. It was over so fast: the horror, the wave of guilt, her softly muttered words followed by the passionate light flickering out in her eyes. There was nothing to be done about it; no revenge to be had. Her attackers were gone as fast as they had come, and neither man saw their faces.
His family’s reaction was apathetic at best. Though his father tentatively supported Hasina’s attending college, he was appalled at her political involvement and the fact that she had made arrangements to marry without his permission. They had kept their parents in the dark about their activities in Cairo and for good reason. His father practically disowned her post-mortem. She was buried in the customary fashion, but his parents seemed unaffected. The feelings of anguish and guilt nearly destroyed Wanas. Why was he not there to protect her? He was too busy talking politics with his friends–those friends that could do nothing for them now. He felt powerless; his youthful drive deadened like the light in her eyes. He withdrew from everything that had given him pleasure before. Without revenge, friendship or parental support, he felt lost in a living nightmare—a nightmare of shadowy demons, endless nights without sleep–with that hollow, echoing thud of her head on the cobblestones playing over and over in his weary mind. Sure, his friends and family did reach out to him, particularly Bomani, though he was also struggling with his own grief and feelings of guilt. But he rejected any attempts for consolation and, after years of this, the arms of comfort withdrew. Opium was the only friend he sought out, and it softened the pain of the horrible years that followed this unspeakable tragedy.
Five years later, his father passed away, after several months of rapidly deteriorating health. Wanas finally took some steps outside of his private world of self-loathing to be with his father in his last days. At long last, he was able to forgive him for his callous indifference to Hasina’s death. His father was a changed man, lying there; weakened frame and raspy breath emanating all the love he had denied his family in his younger days. As his father passed peacefully, something sparked to life in Wanas. It was the first time he felt anything close to hope, and it was the beginning of a long journey out of the darkness of his own tomb of despair. Opium addiction combined with the comfort of self-hatred is difficult to emerge from unscathed.
As the oldest male of five remaining siblings, he inherited much of his father’s investments. His two younger brothers warned him not to squander it on drugs. As a sign of good faith, Wanas agreed to accompany his family on the Hajj together. The pilgrimage and the days spent in Mecca brought their family together again, bringing a closeness that softened the loss of his beloved sister more than he could have imagined was possible. The guilt still clung to him, not willing to set him free, but it was losing its power over him. Wanas immersed himself in attending to his father’s investments, and found that he rather enjoyed the wealth and freedom that came with the life of a merchant. Though he spent much of his time living on his family’s estate outside Cairo, he also traveled abroad and throughout Egypt, furthering his investments. As his wealth grew, so did his addiction to the influence it gave him. He grew hard and his heart forgot the love that he had fought hard to win back. As is often the case, men do not see when they have lost their footing on their path through life. He had traded opium for power, and his self-loathing disguised itself as arrogance. He spent more of his time traveling, and his family saw less and less of him.
He had never married, despite much philandering and no end of prospects. Though his youth had passed, he was still handsome as well as rich. Though the ladies constantly hovered, they all seemed like hollow, soulless vessels to him, and he could barely subdue his growing contempt. Eleven years had passed since his sister’s death. Though he still made the trip back to the streets of Cairo to remember his beloved sister; it had become such a hollow routine for him. That particular trip–that particular anniversary seemed to cement the final stone in its place–Wanas had built a wall around himself. He spent that night in the bar she died outside of; the Negma Bar on Alfi Street, to be precise. This was the first time he had returned since that horrible night over a decade before. The ghosts swirled around him, choking him into some semblance of a feeling man. He drowned their whispers with wine and distracted himself with the lips of a drunken woman in the shadowy corner of the bar. She was young, breathless and beautiful. The light in her eyes reminded him of Hasina that night, and he shoved her away from him as roughly as the memories that confronted him. The hurt and confusion she felt furrowed her brow, and her eyes no longer sparkled. He felt pleasure in destroying her passion. A drunken euphoria passed through him, and he coldly turned away from her dejected huddle. He walked out into the night, feeling a cool breeze blow up his legs from under the hem of his silk galabeya. His manhood shrunk and his heart dropped in his chest–then seemed to jump into his throat. He stumbled down the alleyway and fell like a stone onto the same spot that held his dying sister, tracing the faint outline of blood that he could barely see under the dim streetlamp. The tears would not come, though they ached behind his eyes and drove his swirling head to madness. Just like that night so long ago, an animal howl curled back his lips and he dashed his head hard onto the cobblestones. The echo rang through his ears as he faded from consciousness. He slept deeply, like a dead man, and he dreamt:
“I awoke from my sleep by a bubbling stream. The water was lively and sang as it skipped over the rocks, sparkling in the sun. The spray cooled my fevered brow and the sound of crickets soothed me. Across the bank of the shallow stream I saw Hasina, as young and beautiful as I remembered, smiling back at me. Her robe was white silk, and her hands and her head were bare. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders like the water that sang a joyous song between us. Though she never rose or moved any closer, her soft, pale hands caressed my face. Though her lips never moved, her voice sang out her love for me and the world we had made. When her fingers touched the corners of my eyes, tears sprang forth like fountains and rushed to meet the stream between us. The stream became a torrent that swept us up together, laughing, and carried us out to sea. We swam through the depths like fish and our shadows rose and fell on the stones and coral beneath us. We burst out of the water like whales, landing gently onto the cobblestones. We lay back, our arms entwined, still laughing, and caught our breath; feeling content, like children.”
Wanas blinked his eyes as he awoke in the alley. A sharp pain in his head made him wince and the morning sun peeked down from the eaves, drying the tears on his face. He started when he felt a hand on his temple, stroking his hair back from his eyes. He looked up into the kindest, most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. They were like a bottomless pool, dappled by sunlight. Kindness shone from them, and he relaxed as he lay there with his head in this stranger’s lap. The man held a cool, wet cloth on his forehead and washed away the blood that had dried in his hair. Where was he? What had happened, and who was this man? As the pain in his temple subsided, Wanas rose to get up, with the gentle, but strong arms of this man to help steady him. As he stood, he remembered what had happened last night. He was amazed at how long he had lain there, and seeing the pool of fresh blood that stained the cobblestones below him, was surprised that he had awoken. It seemed this man had saved him, or at least stayed with him to make sure he would be alright. A fresh pain buckled his knees beneath him and, if not for the supporting shoulder of the silent man beside him, he would have ended up back on the ground. The kind stranger guided him, almost carrying him, back into the bar.
It was quiet and nearly empty. A couple of men dozed on couches in the back and the attendant looked up from his morning tasks to inquire if they needed anything. Some tea, along with bread and honey, was brought to their table. Wanas ate hungrily and drank nearly all of the tea before he looked up at the man seated across from him. The kind eyes watched him patiently, full of concern. Normally, such attention would have made him feel uncomfortable, even angry. But this man comforted him. Strength radiated from him and Wanas basked in it, until he finally found his voice. “I thank you, sir. I honestly don’t know what came over me last night. It is quite embarrassing to think of the state you found me in,” he said. The man just smiled and called for a bottle of wine.
As the bottle appeared, he cringed. The memories of last night hit him like a back-handed slap. That poor girl! What was wrong with him? Why did he behave like such a beast? How cruel it is to act out your own misery on others. He saw it all for what it was now. Something turned on in him, like a candle in a pitch black cellar. Wanas grabbed lustily for the glass of wine the man held out for him. “Drink this and remember,” he said. It was the first time he had heard the man speak. His voice was beautiful–resonant and as deep as the ocean! It reminded Wanas of his childhood, somehow. Had he met him before? He gulped down the wine and sighed as the alchohol took effect. The pain in his head disappeared and a sense of clarity washed over him. He felt like he had stepped outside of his body—while the vision of himself stretched out like an endless line of pillars surrounded by mirrors. He saw everything and finally understood.
Another glass was handed to him and the voice spoke: “Drink this and forget.” This draught hit him hard. How strong was this wine? He had quite a tolerance normally. The painful memories of that night so long ago swirled away in a fog and he wondered if he was passing out? Clarity returned, but it was softened by a newfound peace. He saw and he knew; but it didn’t matter anymore. This time, they drank together and began to talk. The man was called Shiekh Zaabalawi. He had been there the night before and had seen his shameful treatment of the poor girl. Wanas replied, “It is a wonder you didn’t drag me out by my heels and thrash me. I deserved it.” Zaabalawi responded, “I heard you cry out for help as you walked away from her. You had been moaning softly for help since the moment you walked in, but you almost started to scream as you walked out the door. I followed you out to make sure you were alright. I haven’t heard such pain in a long time!”
Wanas was taken aback with this statement. He certainly did not remember moaning or calling out for help. On the contrary, he was cold, silent and wanton. But he kept quiet with his doubt and listened as Zaabalawi continued. “Your screaming got louder as you walked down the alley. I saw you fall down and then dash your own head into the ground. At once, I understood what ailed you,” he said, without judgement. “You cut your head quite badly and it took me awhile to stop the bleeding. I did not want to move you, so I stayed with you and kept your head elevated. I could see that you had fallen into a deep sleep, so I watched you to make sure you made it through the night. Suddenly, you started to weep bitterly. I sang to you and rocked you until your tears turned to laughter and then to song. Finally you relaxed and slept in my arms, until the morning sun awoke you.”
Wanas could barely respond; his amazement was so great. This man could be no man, and yet he was. There was no more need to talk of the night before. Instead, they turned to talk of the world and travel and family. Their friendship grew fast in a matter of hours and they continued to meet for the next few days until it was time for Wanas to leave Cairo. As angry and hollow a man as he was when he entered the city, he left a changed man. He returned to see his family and spent as much time with them as his business travels would allow. Sometimes, Zaabalawi would visit their country estate. His family loved him like he was one of their own. Their mother grew weaker over the next few years. She passed peacefully, as well, surrounded by her loved ones. His brothers and sisters, along with their families, kept the place going, while he traveled and dealt with the family business. He still came to Cairo each year to honor Hasina, and it became habit for him to frequent the Negma Bar every night he was in the city. These trips became a painful, yet healing ritual for him. He would not eat the entire time he was there, and would drink enough wine to put a camel to sleep. He could feel his sister with him on these trips and though it hurt to remember, it awoke in him the emotions that he could never let sink beneath the surface again. These benders exorcised any of life’s demons that might cling to him. He knew now that he must feel pain in life to stay awake.
Zaabalawi would sometimes join him, but their visits grew more sporadic as the years moved on. Now, on the sixteenth anniversary of Hasina’s murder, Wanas wondered if he would see him at all. Zaabalawi briefly visited him and his family nearly a month ago. Wanas was under the impression that he was going to be traveling abroad for the remainder of the year. He was apparently wanted by the police for some trumped up charge or other, and was laying low. This morning, when he awoke in his hotel room, the sense of dread that followed him out of his dreams surprised him somewhat. Something seemed different. Why was his sister’s death haunting him so much more this time around? What was lurking in his subconscious that would dredge up those old guilty ghosts so strongly? The tempting aromas of grilled meat drifted in the window from the food carts on the street below. He ignored the rumblings of his stomach and instead filled a satchel with water. He was going to walk through the city today, he decided. He couldn’t shake the nagging dread, and it made him restless. A long, hot walk might quiet his misgivings.
The day was uneventful. The city was its usual bustle of trams and cars; the marketplace full of haggling women and vendors. Here and there a dirty street kid would dart between the flowing robes. It was hot today, and the smells of livestock, food and petrol almost nauseated him. He withdrew back to the quiet lanes of the well-to-do families. He rested in the shade for a moment, glancing at the sun to get his bearings and decide what to do with himself next. The sun was starting to sink in the west and, after a drink from his satchel, he decided to head to the Negma Bar. As was his custom, he sat at the corner table that he, his sister and their cohorts sat at so long ago. It was a little more isolated than most of the tables, as a pillar, lined with mirrors on all four sides, separated it from the larger area of the room. He liked it this way. He was not really here to meet people. He was here to drink and meditate. He expected to spend the next few nights here alone, and actually was pleased with the prospect. The strange, ominous start to the day had worn off by now. As he started in on his first bottle of wine, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror in front of him and stretched his legs. They were a little sore from all the walking and it felt good to relax in the cool quiet. As he stared through the image before him, his vision blurred and through the obscurity, he saw sparkles like tears, or raindrops shimmer across it. It lulled him into a dream state and he could feel the cares of the world drop off like discarded, dusty robes. A beautiful voice spoke near him, pulling him out of his reverie. He turned to see Zaabalawi seated beside him. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I thought you were far away from here, by all accounts from our last visit.” His old friend replied, with a laugh, “It would seem I am needed here after all. You came to my thoughts quite strongly this morning. I knew I needed to meet with you, though I am not sure why. At any rate, it is always good to see you!” Wanas poured him a glass of wine and they fell into an amicable conversation.
He told Zaabalawi of the strange intensity of last night’s dreams and the foreboding that accompanied him out into the streets of the city. Wanas assured him that he was well, though, and Zaabalawi nodded his agreement. Zaabalawi’s presence always gave him strength; any residual concerns about the dreams and any lingering guilt brought on by his memories of the past now crumbled at his feet. Though it was never verbalized by either man, they both knew something, or someone, was coming. They continued to meet there for the next couple of nights. The third night that Wanas spent at the Negma, he was well into his second bottle of wine and thoroughly at peace, as he stared through his reflections and mused. A man, almost cringing with apology, crept up close beside him. Wanas was so deep in meditation that he did not even notice his approach or feel his presence. When the man spoke, he caught Wanas completely off guard and was treated with a scowl for all his politeness. Something about this man and his desperate demeanor triggered his concern. The man tried to explain himself, but Wanas interrupted him, as gently as he could with a simple command, “First, please sit down, and, second, please get drunk!” (1) The pain that emanated from him was intense. If anyone needed Zaabalawi, it was this man, Wanas thought. He plied him with wine, despite his weak protests. After several glasses, he could see the man visibly relax. Wanas leaned forward, about to strike up a conversation, but thought better of it when he recognized the look in the stranger’s eyes. The man slumped forward, his head coming to rest on the arm of his chair. His sleep seemed restful, so Wanas simply watched over him, drinking his wine contentedly. Zaabalawi came in not long after and, with a look of concern that only he could express, attempted to revive the man.
Resources:
(1) Mafouz, Naguib. “Zaabalawi”, pg. 1604, as included in The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Volume 2. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company, 2013 printing.
This was a great challenge, indeed! I chose Ovid’s tale of “Apollo and Daphne” from Metamorphosis, because it was a tragic love story. Ovid’s story, too, was intriguing. He was a rebel and he challenged authority and imposed morality. He impressed me and I wanted to do his story justice. I had a lot of fun doing a comic for the first project, so I decided to do another. I ended up not going as far as I had intended with experimentation, color and detail, but I figured it would be better not to complicate it.
The real struggle was how to do this story justice. How could I make it modern and still stick to something I love? It struck me, finally. After considering doing a high school drama with jocks and nerds, it dawned on me. I love The Walking Dead! I have read the graphic novel and am thoroughly engrossed in the TV series. Why couldn’t I adjust the story to fit into such a scenario?
After some brain-storming, it became very clear how to adapt it. Instead of a battle between Gods, it turned into brawn versus brains. Daphne was just caught in the middle. Apollo became Paul and Cupid became Eros. Paul was a macho hunter and Eros was a healer and somewhat of a witch. He gets back at Paul’s mockery of him in the only way he knows how: with magic. A zombie apocalypse is the worst time to fall under a spell. In the end, Daphne chooses death as a zombie rather than submit to Paul’s advances. I thought it was a pretty fun interpretation.
I had planned to add some color and may still later. In fact, it could use a lot more to improve it. A splash of red here and there may be all it needs. I had a lot of fun with this, though it was a bit stressful, too. I hope you enjoy it.
It has been a while since my last post, and I wanted to keep in touch, somewhat, with the habit. Now, my classes take me in a different direction. My World Literature class is teaching me the beauty of ancient text and the amazing realization that human nature is the same throughout history. This class has opened up a whole new facet of understanding for me! I want to share a project I did for this class. It is a visual interpretation of a fantastic parable from Kahlil Gibran’s The Madman, entitled “The Greater Sea”. This man’s writing has inspired me beyond measure. I chose to do a comic illustrating this metaphorical tale in a literal fashion, because the imagery is so endearing.
The excerpt “The Greater Sea” is taken from Kahlil Gibran’s The Madman, published 1918
P.S. Yes, there is a small typo on page 2. Instead of the word “and”, it says “an” in the frame where the man is listening to the shell/ great sea. One day, when I improve on the photos, I will fix the typo, as well.
It has been longer than I had planned to add another entry…much longer. Much has transpired since last time. A serious illness threatened my well-being and forced me to make some serious life changes. I CAN NOT smoke cigarettes any more…I most certainly shouldn’t. This is not as important as other developments , and yet it is. My health and my ability to breathe, which came into serious question when this New World Flu ( Chem-trail Flu or Demon Flu, or whatever you want to call the epidemic that is sweeping the populace), made a dramatic impact on me this last month. I finally can see the light at the end of the tunnel, three weeks later. My voice is returning, as is my mental energy. Spring semester has begun!
What the hell are they exposing us to? People are dying from this shit! It is a small percentage, but that is enough to sound the alarm. Does anybody else feel a bit concerned?
Constructive thinking breeds more. Thinking…thought…written and spoken word. The brain needs exercise.
Do you like games?
Exquisite corpse is a game of sorts that I was introduced to years ago. I looked it up and discovered it was created by the Surrealists. (1) The way you play is to gather like-minded individuals, in various stages of sobriety or inebriation, with pen and paper in hand. It can be written word or drawings. Each individual writes or draws a portion, folds the page to reveal the end of what was created, so that the next participant sees only the last thought or image and continues on with their own vein of thought. Fold it over and pass it on! The results can be quite entertaining and they can be amazing! When you get tired of drinking games like 3-man or quarters, this is the way to go. Who wouldn’t enjoy the morning after, reading or viewing drawings compiled by brilliant minds over coffee, greasy spoon, or a Bloody Mary?
The above photo is a drawing a friend and I created on a particularly creative drunken Alaskan winter night. We colored it in as an afterthought. Some of the detail was lost in the photo, but I am pretty enamored with it.
Here is a transcription of a written piece we made the same night. I am sure you will notice that it is extremely cryptic – full of drunken ramblings and some bad editing. I left it as is because it adds to the charm. I will indicate where the story changes hands by inserting an asterisk. Brackets illustrate the line that was revealed to the next writer, and a few words that needed clarification I put in parentheses:
“Thru neon filled night of aurora borealis – the sky peared thru trees checking on snow mounts, with no expectations of what there may be – if only snow. An owl sensed her glare and clocked her head around – they caught eyes – she turned into a mouse and went scurrying away without a struggle. She’d seen her before – many times they’d glanced – the same outcome time and time again. The owl knew not to pursue – reflecting now on the first of the meetings – their eyes met – clearly from the sky, but then [a mouse running from where those eyes once were.] * That mouse only followed the proverbial maze from where it last experienced reality. Those eyes seemed to begin from an established place. The journey [beyond became hairier, less sure.] * The northern lights tried their best to distract the owl from this certain tradgedy as she followed on the mouses trek she hit something and fell to the ground-it wasn’t hard like a [tree seem to melt into the snow.] * The snow piled up so deep this last night, beyond our imaginations. That dark tree, the one that emanated heat beyond measure, burned a hole through the build-up. The critters that called its roots home knew enough to evacuate before a flood took place. Things [were happening, important things.] * This sacwocht (sasquatch) fell to its knees – “I am to help the sky she and you chase your silly owl – but the owl stunned in parrel (peril) dropped its gaze only to find itself in the [tree as it would again and again] * follow the frolicking fairies through the woods. This was the tiniest and daintiest of trees that inhabited these particular woods. It must be said that the daintiest trees are sometimes the hardiest. Someone, I’m not sure who it is from my past that found its way into this tree, lead me to the beginning of the harder path. Perhaps it lead this way by chance. But I doubt it…
There is much in the imagination that aches for release. What drives us to learn more, to study observations of others? We are inward-focused creatures; a centered nucleus of reality and fiction. Our lives are our own, yet revolve around the lives and influences of those we hold near to us. We are strange. We are strangers. There is meaning behind everything we see and feel. The world is filled with life stories and wonderments alike. If we pay homage to strange lives around us, we learn more about our own strange lives. Here is my voice-an homage to horror, beauty and strangeness.
This is a labor of love and hate. This is truth and untruth. I see the world around me and I both love and despise what is revealed. My goal in future is to call the horror like I see it, and share the beauty as it reflects on us all. This is what I want to do. I will share with you on a weekly to bi-weekly basis. I hope that I can affect even one person in a positive manner.
A dear friend of mine turned me on to this amazing artist, a Polish painter, Zdzisław Beksiński (1929-2005). She wears a rendition of one of his works as a tattoo on her arm. I had forgotten about him and his amazingly dark work. I was reminded and wanted to share it. Here is the link to the page on which I found these again: http://lazerhorse.org/2013/05/12/terrifying-visions-hell-murdered-polish-painter/.
WARNING: There is some nudity, just like you might see in National Geographic. If this is offensive to you, please stop reading now.
In the age of globalization, we see an ever increasing trend in smaller cultures being swallowed up. Diverse language and tradition are reaching extinction at an alarming rate! Papua New Guinea is one of the last bastions against this grim future. This small country, now officially named the Independent State of Papua New Guinea, makes up the eastern half of the New Guinea Island, located in Oceania, north of Australia. It is said to be one of the most culturally diverse countries worldwide, with 848 known languages documented to be in existence. This country has not been untouched by the effects of modernity, industrial progress, colonialism and religious endeavors. Since 1884, it has abided under the rule of three different external entities. Germany claimed the northern part of the island and the United Kingdom took the southern half, renaming them accordingly. In 1904, the newly established Commonwealth of Australia took over, though it still remained under ownership of British rule. Not much changed until the United Nations stepped in during the latter part of 1975, admitting Papua New Guinea as a new UN member, and allowing a peaceful separation from Australian rule; but these ties still remained. As part of Papua New Guinea’s newly established sovereignty, under the chosen Commonwealth system presided over by Queen Elizabeth II, the PNG Constitution was written. Unlike many nations reacting to outside rule, Papua New Guinea expressly required the preservation of traditional culture and community as part of its viable society. This is an important factor in the still somewhat untouched relevance of its tribal culture today. (1)
Papua New Guinea is believed to have been settled by Southeast Asian immigrants around 50,000 BC, based on found human remains. Much of its history, culture and geography lay shrouded in mystery; but it is said that agriculture was established independently around 7,000 BC. A noted migration of Austronesian speaking people brought new agricultural, hunting, fishing and artistic influence into the established tribal culture around 500 BC. Headhunting and cannibalism were an integrated part of tribal culture, but were largely weeded out by outside rule and missionary influence. (1) So, too, were some of the other less violent aspects of Papua New Guinea’s tribal practices, such as tattoos. The daily life influences on traditions of tattoos, scarification, face painting, and song and dance have diminished somewhat, thanks to the introduction of modern mechanics; such as the motorboat, which replaced traditional vessels used during fishing expeditions. Technology took danger out of the equation in the daily struggle for survival, and traditions based on this danger fell by the wayside. (5) Other artistic aspects of PNG culture, such as the creation of carved and painted masks, have been embraced by the outside world. These masks are highly sought after for their beauty, and can be quite costly. The complexities of the traditions that embody this diverse cultural habitat are amazing and beautiful, and must not be lost. I find them inspiring! These are the art forms I want to highlight.
Song and Dance:
Israeli documentarian Israel Feiler posted this Youtube video of the Sing Sing Festival in Goroka, which showcases 80 different dance groups celebrating their cultural diversity and traditions (date not posted). Traditional life was ruled by simplicity: food, land and breeding. Music, dance and costume are greatly influenced by the equally diverse wildlife of the region, particularly the Birds-of-Paradise, which are exclusive to this island. (2) In a land where nature exhibits exceptional beauty, and the human inhabitants hold a close tie to their surroundings, it is no wonder that their cultural traditions echo it. This video highlights the mating dance rituals of Birds-of-Paradise, and relates similarly to the dance, music and costumes of tribal Papua New Guineans.
Tattoos and Scarification:
Tribal society in Papua New Guinea is still entrenched in polygamy and bride price traditions. Unfortunately, traditional cultures are primarily misogynistic. As a woman, I am somewhat bothered by these practices, but I can appreciate the community and extensively symbolic practices shared by women in this colorful land. Bride price is a huge part of the obligatory system that is prevalent in many ancient cultures worldwide. It is extremely complex and, though it sounds like women are possessions, it is not necessarily the case. Though women are considered valuable for manual productivity and child-bearing, like Birds-of-Paradise, they hold power in mating rituals. Dance and song are part of this, as are tribal tattoos and face-painting. Women undergo tattoos that mark their progression through childhood, into womanhood and readiness for marriage. Women display far more tattoos than men, and the significance of this is vital in the process of mating. In this cultural unfolding, male face-painting mimics the colorful beauty and drama of the aviary society that shares the island. Women signify their fertility, productivity and readiness for marriage with painful tattoos, administered by female artists, that evoke the plants and wildlife around them. Men proclaim their prowess and desire with dance, music, colorful adornment and competition, as well with bride price. Tribal society involves extensive families working together to raise children, food and structures. Men and women work equally hard, and women, though kept in a more submissive role, excluded from the male-dominated spiritual society, are mostly well-treated and happy. Some things have changed in this regard, thanks to the toll that modernization and inflated economies have had on traditional systems. Things are changing slowly, some for the good and some not so good. (3, 5, 6) I have included a link and a video that explains the complexities of these ancient cultures: http://www.everyculture.com/No-Sa/Papua-New-Guinea.html.
These photos of various tribal decorations were captured at the Goroka Show, or Sing Sing Festival (year unknown), by photographer Rita Willaert. Here is the link to the website that shows some of the diverse tribal costumes that you can witness at these yearly festivals: http://triggerpit.com/2011/06/12/tribal-face-paints-papua-new-guinea-37-pics/. Established in 1957, this is one of the biggest festivals held in Papua New Guinea. At these festivals, held in mid-September, singsing groups perform, and tribal traditions, dance and costume are celebrated. Still celebrated today, even tourists are now welcomed. (4)
The first photo shows a young woman of the Motu tribe, photo circa 1915 (photographer not given), bearing V-shaped tattoos that signify her readiness for marriage. In the life of a woman, beginning in childhood, she receives a series of tattoos that mark her passage. Each region has its own unique marks and meanings behind them. Women administer the tattoos, and are compensated, as any artist would be. These tattoos are administered by the ancient hand-tapping method, using a lemon branch with an attached thorn. (5) Here is the link to the informative site where I found this, and many other amazing photos, as well as the regions they are from and the symbolism behind them. http://www.vanishingtattoo.com/tribal_tattoos_papua_new_guinea.htm
Tattoos are usually reserved for women, though men can also receive them as well. More often, though, men would adorn their bodies with scars. Particularly, the Sepik River tribe, as seen above, who, in reverence to the crocodile, make marks resembling the skin to signify their entrance into manhood. The tool of choice was usually a razor or a bamboo splinter. (6) The above photo was taken by David Kirkland, date unknown. The site I discovered includes a few more beautiful photos of these awe-inspiring scarification patterns, as well as a video of the painful procedure. http://amazingstuff.co.uk/humanity/crocodile-scarring/#.UpV06uVvzIU
Carved Masks:
Papua New Guinea tribes live with the spirit world. They are as much in tune with their ancestors’ spirits, as well as benevolent and malicious spirits, as they are with the natural world they inhabit. Carved masks are as diverse as the tribes that occupy the second largest island in the world. Most masks are not meant to wear on the face, with the exception of dance masks. They are usually carved out of the orange-hued wood of the Artocarpus tree, and painted to increase the mask’s power. They are believed to be inhabited by any number of spirits, and are hung in significant locations in the village to ward off enemy tribal spirits, life hardships, as well as to give strength and courage in the daily struggle of tribal life. The Spirit House, the holy house of Papua New Guinea tribes, and the location of the male scarification in some of the villages, houses the most powerful and ritualistic masks. Only select male tribe members are allowed to enter this building; women are forbidden. The crocodile scars are administered here by other initiated males, overseen by the masks of ancient spirits and ancestors. (8) The video included in the link I gave in regards to crocodile scarification takes you inside one of these Spirit Houses. The Sepic Basin region produces about 90% of the tribal masks to be found. Here is a great link that details the different types of masks: http://www.lostworldarts.com/new_page_2.htm. There are so many amazing masks, each unique in its design and spiritual meaning, depending on which tribe produces them. Here are a couple examples:
Photo resource: http://www.chinaseatrading.com/results_tribalart.php?Search=tribalart_key Here is a representation of a Savi mask, of the Iatmul tribe of the Eastern Sepik Region. These types of masks are believed to be inhabited by powerful and malicious spirits that protect the village from warring tribes and black magic. This one is adorned with paint, feathers and valuable shells. The protruding tongue is a crocodile, which is a mystical creature in Papua New Guinea culture. (8, 9)
Photo resource: http://www.alcheringa-gallery.com/education.html/v5/2/v9/3/ This is a Victory Dance Mask created by the deceased master carver Joseph Timbin (date unknown), from the Palembei village, Middle Sepik region. These masks played an important role in ancient warfare rituals. (10)
There is much to be learned about these ancient, and still thriving tribal cultures. Though, as we know, the more outsiders study traditional culture, the more bastardized they become. Papua New Guinea is a beautiful place, full of beautiful people and traditions. Perhaps, the more they are left alone, the longer they will survive.
Home Is where the heart is. It is a place for solitude, for family and for gatherings to share food, laughter and conversation. It is warmth, comfort and security; a place to call your own and to surround yourself with the things that mean the most to you. Ever since I was a child, I dreamed of a home that was unusual and exciting! I lived a poor existence in my prolific family, that utilized every bare essential to keep the family going. When my father took me and my brothers to see Disney’s Swiss Family Robinson (1960), I fell in love with the fantasy of living in such a place. I loved the idea of living off the land and using recycled objects to create a home. Some of my favorite reads were Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie series and Gertrude Chandler Warner’s the Boxcar Children series. I love my history and what it taught me; and it is no small surprise that I made my way to the Artic to live in a dry cabin.
I have always been fascinated with architecture; but my love of the unusual, as well as an ingrained belief in living simply and being environmentally conscious, lead me to discover a fairly popular architectural trend in the latter part of the 21st century. Recycled housing, which encompasses many different components, gives us the ability to create a home for ourselves; more cheaply, and with greater artistic freedom. In the process, we also can exercise responsible stewardship of this planet we call home. Human waste is rampant and a dire predicament that must be addressed. The landfills are full of all the “garbage” we create, and much of it is not garbage. Why not use Joe-Bob’s leftover wood or windows to create your humble abode? I must include this somewhat lengthy, but humorous and extremely insightful presentation by Texan designer and builder, Dan Philips. He and his wife started The Phoenix Commotion in 1997, a construction company that builds sustainable homes for low-income individuals and families. (1) They are truly American heroes, and this presentation does a fantastic job in arguing the merits of environmentally conscious building:
Recycled homes can be created from scratch, using salvaged, recycled or unwanted materials. It could be built in a tree, or an abandoned barn, silo, church, boat, train car, school bus or airplane. It could be built into a rock or underground. The sky is the limit! It could be a tiny hobbit hole or a giant fortress, large enough to house all your friends and family. It could be made simplistic or as ornately decorated as you please. Just because it’s cheap, doesn’t mean it has to be ugly. Hey, if you wanted to, you could fabricate the gaudiest home; one that would really upset the neighbors. The choice is up to you, and armed with fortitude, the wherewithal and the use of some helpful friends, all you have to do is commit to the project and embrace it. Even if this isn’t something that appeals to you, you can still enjoy the creativity of some of the marvelous homes that exist today. I know I do.
Let’s check out some of these crazy houses! I should point out that some of these weren’t as cheaply made and are more on the trendy end of the recycling spectrum, but are no less fantastical and still a relevant gesture towards the movement.
This is Bruce Campbell’s (not the actor) work in progress of over a decade, a decommissioned Boeing 727-200 jetliner he disassembled and put back together to become his home in the woods of Oregon. As a plane enthusiast, his love for the original design kept him from completely revamping the interior. Rather, he has adapted his living space around the original instruments and structure. (2) For the full article, check out this link: http://inhabitat.com/oregon-man-lives-inside-727-airplane-home-in-the-middle-of-the-woods/.
This beautiful bed and breakfast, the Aurora Express B&B, is situated on 700 ft. of private railroad track with a view of Fairbanks, AK and the Tanana Valley! It is owned and was established by Fairbanksians Mike and Sue Wilson in 1994. The history of the four cars,two of which were bought for $1 a piece from Denali National Park, and their transport to Fairbanks, is a story of struggle and triumph. (3) For more information and this exciting story, check out the Wilsons’ official link: http://www.fairbanksalaskabedandbreakfast.com/index.html.
This unique house has been in the works since around 1989. Dennis Schaller of Gifford, FL, who was a rocket engine mechanic for the Air Force, has built this hovercraft hybrid from scratch in his backyard. (4) I could not find any pictures of a completed interior; but one day, when it nears completion, I sure hope to. Here is a link to an article written about this amazing creation: http://www.tcpalm.com/news/2009/aug/30/20-year-old-dream-taking-shape-in-back-yard/.
Here is an example of recycling done in a trendy style and with plenty of money to throw into the project. British designer Tom Dixon purchased this 5,000 gallon water tank in 2005 and it is reported, at the time this article was written, that $1.25 million has gone into this labor of love, restoring and revamping this 1930’s tower into a luxury 3-story home. Situated across from Dixon’s studio in the heart of London, it is truly a sight to behold. (5) For more on the challenging process of this project, read the article at this link: http://www.treehugger.com/green-architecture/tom-dixons-water-tank-house.html.
The story behind this enormous tree house, said to be the largest in the world, is truly amazing. Minister Horace Burgess received divine inspiration to build it in 1993. Situated just outside of Crossville, TN, it is a combination of house and church, measuring 97-ft. tall. Supported by seven oak trees, it is five stories tall and has 80 rooms, besides the church and steeple. This amazing man worked on his labor of love for more than fourteen years, using almost entirely recycled materials and sunk a mere $12,000 into this one of a kind home. Unfortunately, it was temporarily closed in 2012, by a local Fire Marshall. (6)
This is the Junk Castle, built on an abandoned rock quarry in Washington state. High school teacher, artist and writer Victor Moore built it entirely out of salvaged materials, spending a whopping $500 in the process. The project was completed in 1970 for his MFA thesis on assemblage sculpture. (7) I think it is absolutely beautiful and would love to call it home! For more of the story and additional photos, check out this link: http://flavorwire.com/315520/10-amazing-recycled-houses/5/
Needless to say, I could go on and on with examples of the ingenuity of people out there, all around the world, and the creations they have made. In a time when resources are becoming alarmingly limited and the environment is taking a beating from Industrialism, clear-cutting and energy source production, now is as good a time as any to make a difference! Reuse, recycle and make a house that is uniquely yours! What do you have to lose? Make childhood fantasy a reality.
![HNPys Tribal face paints in Papua New Guinea [37 Pics]](https://i0.wp.com/i.imgur.com/HNPys.jpg "Goroka - Head decoration with the feathers of the Bird of Paradise")
![t0PCz Tribal face paints in Papua New Guinea [37 Pics]](http://i.imgur.com/t0PCz.jpg "Tribal face paints in Papua New Guinea - Goroka Festival - Red face and shell necklace")
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