When the sky strikes clouded hour
it should be sleep which you devour–
to lay your sights
upon the treasures of your birth;
shaded, still, but gold by mirth
a notion-thought, a nation-state
set upon the starry plate
lips consume by golden ticks
of time, of hearts, of callous pricks
(of soul, you dirty mind)
that in their feasting bind
further dawn, further hope
and leave the starving poets to elope
with museless musings
by economic typings–
which is to say, by morning I am weeping
for all the pains that you’re still keeping.
Hello followers. Obviously, if you’re here, you have a bit of interest in media. Tell me: you like film, don’t you? You’re on the Internet, aren’t you? So, have you ever wondered about the inequality of gender on screen?
The New York Film Academy released a fascinating infographic recently that I wanted to bring to your attention. Now, while many have discussed the roles/interaction of men and women with the big screen, what renders this new bit of information interesting is that it takes the topic of gender in film and puts it into an easily comprehensible, somewhat staggering (and decidedly unsettling) point-by-point walkthrough of the actual numbers that show great insight into how women are treated in the film industry.
As a creative sort myself, and a big connoisseur of all things film-related, I found this fascinating. So I present it without further adieu below.
If you want to read the accompanying article, just click the infographic itself and you will be re-routed. Share! Get the word out! See if you can make an impact.
So this last week, as you may have pondered due to the relative silence afoot (or, if you were like me, were entirely distracted by Turkey), I was adrift. Away. Out and about. Soaring the skies and careening back through that lovely mountain city: Denver. The purpose? Family. The goal? Socializing and stuffing our faces like proper gents.
Behold: the togetherness of food. Er, family. I meant family.
And while I was there, I got a little stir crazy. Until there were lions, tigers, wolves and bears (oh my) afoot.
Howl for me, puppies.
Sure, she *looks* docile. It’s a trap, I assure you. Much like the Cake.
I may not have found a muse, but more importantly, getting out and about (and just getting out of the usual schedule) stirred up that sense of inspiration back inside myself. You see, we Galfords like to write (case and point below). We really like to write. We don’t really feel “right” if we aren’t. But that publishing side of things, the business side of it, can discourage you…strip away the purity of the art and leave you clawing at the addled remnants of your brain. But I can happily say, I’m now up through the sixth chapter of the third Haunted Shadows novel: “As Feathers Fall” (working title).
See? I told you we like to write.
My fingers hurt. My brain hurts. But it’s the good sort of hurt.
And for that, as part of my return, the first book in that series, “The Hollow March,” is currently available on Amazon for the discounted price of $.99. Holiday treat. Enjoy! And if you’re up to it, why not share your own stories from Thanksgiving week in here? This is the holidays, after all, and one of the things I’m certainly thankful for is my readers.
through the ashen dissolution
wander, wander, spin and toil
in the shadow of Celestia’s
we wonder at the craft
of shade’s eternal touch
molding of the breathless
ageless and the fallen
twilight needling the roots
into the next night’s cycle.
Twilight hush amidst the room;
a voice, rising through the shadow throng
commits the universe to notes
and I, swooning through the grace of logic, rise
drifted on the captivated stars
onto the mystic sea, glittering in
transcendental mysticism fires
that will not be bound by flesh:
a word, they say, a notion
but in that heaving sky
the rush of majesty;
souls which lie
Roiling at the seams
in browned spots
the print, smeared
still holds flecks of the image
the profile was meant to be.
the ageless quality of a tree
rising from the hunched cranial
(let us admit: too large) cavity
rooted in the faded flesh
so gently blurred;
without a stream to drink from
it curled and devoured
the paper that gave it breath.
Perhaps, even, its branches
would die to give us this moment.
I have heard it called quaint,
our gentle hording
of a memory,
but the thoughts that resurrected
the flesh beyond those roots
was once quite dear
though without the stream
it rippled free into distortion
like the beating of a dream
of a drum, of a thought;
the water carried me away
rootless under the surface
with nothing but the edges
of a curling notion.
John Everett Millais, “Autumn Leaves”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
We met in days of graying gold
When dust should rise and dust should fall
And some fair mortal hope scampered bird-like along a road,
Borne on weighted winds no one could hold.
Years later we would find
At every twisting of the path
A certain comradery in the faded kind
Of broken wings too proud for wrath.
And though we had no coin to share
And too long, each, in winter fear expend
With horizon clear and air set upon a prayer
We shall yet know ourselves to be worthy of a friend.
* Footnote: The words are there, the path is set before me–I would not say this is a final piece as yet, but a work in the right direction. I welcome any commentary you may have upon it, for it came plucked unbidden from my thoughts just this morning, and shall yet by evening’s light be honed, I think.