"This work is unlike any other, in its range of rich, conjuring imagery and its dexterity, its smart voice. Carroll-Hackett doesn’t spare us—but doesn’t save us—she draws a blueprint of power and class with her unflinching pivot: matter-of-fact and tender." —Jan Beatty

Posts tagged ‘John Eaton’

Daily Prompt <3 Hard Travelin' for the Tender Hearted.

29 June 2016

“It’s hard to wake up sometimes and look back at your life with clear eyes, isn’t it? All the Hello’s and Goodbye’s, and all the things said and left unsaid, whether they were timely, or easy, or uncomfortable or boltfree, or jarring, or just plain true, at least for you, in the moment of their saying.And once you’re awake you have to listen to the now, or ignore it and pretend that it’s just not there. Tricky stuff for the strongest of us, and hard travelin’ for the tender hearted. Like pilgrims on some dusty trail, the long line of true believers stretches into nothingness, and the shadows of the don’t fit in’s move along like so much smoke, pungent and ethereal, lingering toward home.”~John Little Bear Eaton

Make art about the don’t fit in’s. 

Bear 2007

John Little Bear Eaton

Sometimes the Prompt is Your Own Pain, and Growth

14 June 2016

Five years ago today, my beautiful funny sexy irreverent brilliant soulful husband, John Little Bear Eaton, walked on to the next life. 

“what remains with me vividly to this day is my recollection of a circle of light that shone out from Rafe and enfolded us both, and the deep sense of comfort and familiarity between us, as if we had somehow always known each other and were merely resuming a conversation that had gone on from eternity.”
― Cynthia Bourgeault, Love is Stronger than Death: The Mystical Union of Two Souls

 

Make art about the eternal nature of Love. 

 

FullSizeRender
 

Some Much Needed Wisdom

from my beautiful late husband ❤ John Little Bear Eaton ❤

John tribes meme

Daily Prompt <3 Making the Song We Sing

Happy National Poetry Month!

My late husband John Little Bear Eaton loved Stevens, especially this poem. When I read it now, I still hear his beautiful voice reciting it, that deep Georgia drawl. 

The Idea of Order at Key West

by Wallace Stevens

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.   
The water never formed to mind or voice,   
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion   
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,   
That was not ours although we understood,   
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.   
The song and water were not medleyed sound   
Even if what she sang was what she heard,   
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred   
The grinding water and the gasping wind;   
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.   
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.   
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew   
It was the spirit that we sought and knew   
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea   
That rose, or even colored by many waves;   
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,   
However clear, it would have been deep air,   
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound   
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,   
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,   
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped   
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres   
Of sky and sea.
                           It was her voice that made   
The sky acutest at its vanishing.   
She measured to the hour its solitude.   
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,   
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,   
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her   
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,   
Why, when the singing ended and we turned   
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,   
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,   
As the night descended, tilting in the air,   
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,   
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,   
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,   
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,   
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,   
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

 

Make art about being the maker of your own song. 

 

idea of order

Sometimes the Prompt Never Ends

Daily Prompt
 
“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.”~Henry David Thoreau
 
Make art about things eternal.
 
(Photo by my late husband John Little Bear Eaton)
john's hand eternity

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