Adrian M. Forrette reads “Election Blues”
New from De Danann Press
To order your copy of Pears Tell the Apples, which includes 25 additional poems as well as the “Declaration of Independence,” kindly remit $17.00 by check or money order (price includes packaging and domestic first-class shipping) to:
Pine Hill Studio
119 So. Berry Pines Rd.
Rapid City, SD 57702-1911.
Please include your address and phone number. If you are receiving the book in South Dakota, please add 4% state sales tax + city tax, if applicable.
Or, just e-mail me with an inquiry.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Although Northrop Grumman became the first to successfully integrate the computerized eye with the headlamp of a motor vehicle, the engineering team, at the time, failed to adequately program the eye for grief, the ramifications of which, as is well-documented, played hell with U.S. 3d Cavalry as it followed the carpet bombs and napalm into Al . . . , in the spring of . . . .
The photograph of a young girl at the well consoling a Humvee who could go no farther is etched in the collective consciousness. A “brave new world,” no?
Commercial applications of a re-tooled “Argus” replete with the requiste tear ducts have proved quite lucrative for domestic auto makers able to position themselves “ahead of the curve.” New models boast the ability to see deer in the dark, rendering deadly animal collision virtually obsolete.
Even the friendly, albeit seemingly erratic, neighborhood squirrel, it seems, has benefited by the modern innovation. Although too soon to draw conclusive results, initial population trend surveys conducted by the Illinois Department of Natural Resources in the Oak Grove environs portend a steady decline in squirrel/auto morbidity rates.
Local resident, Chance Claim, takes exception to the new technology. According to Chance, “There were too damn many squirrels to begin with . . . . I rue the day when squirrels rule the earth. . . . It’s high time the City resume preemptive logging, especially on the south-side.”
On the other hand, the much admired and affable Oakland astronomer from the eponymous PBS series: “Grafe by Starlight” has commented publicly that he often reserves a particular Coit Tower parking space, one that affords his beloved Chevy van a panoramic view of the Bay.
Wednesday, September 6, 2006
Good morning, Ernie, Steve, Candace, Emily, Miguel, and Mike,
I hope you are doing well. The last few days, here, have been incredibly beautiful.
Would you be kind enough to indulge ol’ mikey by filing this in a stray mailbox — you know, the one labeled “the unraveling of a soul” or some variation thereof? Seriously, I am sending myself the note, too; I will probably print out a copy and send it to myself in the snail mail, as a method of documentation.
At any rate, woke up this morning about 1:30 a.m. with an idea that is at once so obvious, and staggering for both good and ill in its implications, as well, that I cannot help but take note, an idea that, even at this moment, surely scores of people endeavor to realize in various corners of our world.
As the ramifications for good and evil are literally comparable to the advent of atomic energy, permit me to record at the onset that it is my fervent desire that no animal is harmed. . . . Well, don’t laugh, cause this is so darn obvious, but why can’t a person be offered upon awakening a visual read-out of his or her dreams? You know, I am just stupid enough and impractical enough to ask the question. What is the language of optic nerve impulses?
And, of course, you have already begun to see the “Orwellian” nightmare. A machine that is capable of recording dreams is probably capable of inducing them, as well. Hmmm . . . well, I probably just invented television. Here is an initial clue, I do not think that there is an “I” in the dream-world.
Thank you for indulging me. Meanwhile, I am off to taxi country. I hope the day portends beauty and truth for us all, perhaps a little fun along the way, as well.
Sunday, May 7, 2006
An imaginative and intellectual adventure begins like this: pretend that all creative acts attend a cosmic partner. Furthermore, our cosmic partner is a poet, and like you at your desk she also begins to write in a state of chaos. There is thunder and lightening. Raw inductive emotion directs the poem within and generates the storm without.
Now, as the part of you that is a disinterested bystander (the critic, if you will) observes the internal and external manifestations of Chaos carefully over a period of time, astonishingly, an ordered and predictable pattern reveals itself which for the sake of argument we will simply call the poem. In the heat of passion, you scribble down some words and sign your name.
Now, the poem exists on the written page, but what about the other poem, the one that knocks at the door wanting to come inside, out of the rain.
But it isn’t raining. And you both know that the “rain” is a pretense. The other poem is really knocking at the entrance to your soul. You tell her no, and attempt to send her on her way. Well, one thing leads to another, and sooner than later you have unwillingly collaborated on discovery of the atomic bomb.
All right, you don’t want to invent an atomic bomb with its attendant catastrophic power to protect and destroy. All right, let’s begin another adventure.
This time, permit the cosmic partner, an opportunity to tap on your shoulder. If you like the person, accept the invitation. Explore the music’s theme, and begin to dance.
In time, imagine variations on a theme; for instance, you notice there is bread in the heavens, and you imagine a starving child. How do you bring the two together?
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Well, I really like the website: www.howstuffworks.com. Some startling and very tangible advances in the field of solar energy are coming our way; for instance, it looks like a melding of “plastics” and “photovoltaics” is a fait accompli. So, here’s what I am thinking: how about integrating “photovoltaics” with the national highway grid? Imagine the fun and equality of cars (bumper cars) powered by the road, herself!
I would like to offer some insight into my creative thinking process. I don’t have very many truly original ideas. Usually, I am only tuning in to what is in the air, so to speak. I really don’t claim credit for much, if anything. . . . The world seems to me as mysterious as it is beautiful. (I know that there are children who go to bed at night, hungry — if you have an opportunity, please consider reading Senator George McGovern’s book The Third Freedom: Ending Hunger in Our Time.)
I would like to hear about your ideas, as well. I am hoping to get an interactive blog up and running, soon; in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Take care, Mike.
An intriguing journal entry dated October 30, 2004
Well, Mavis, this is a beautiful present (leather-bound journal).
Today (this morning) is a beautiful day, like your present. Cold and clear, crisp. Rain last night — I thought there might be snow on the ground this morning. Instead . . . Indian summer and late fall mixed into one.
Joe is napping on my lap — difficult to write. A small price to pay for such a good, loyal friend.
In what I remember as a dream or perhaps an early morning hypnagogic state, I received some insight (a paradigm shift) re. the nature of ∞. By way of feeling as much as by way of logic.
In the past, I thought of infinity as “far as you like” in any direction both positive and negative and didn’t comprehend how infinity could be bounded as the universe is bounded?
Probably, Nikos Kazantzakis: Zorba the Greek proffered the viewpoint artistically (poetically) when Zorba explains that all the seas and skies of the world cannot contain God. But a man’s heart can contain God, so be careful in your life never to wound a man’s heart.
It seems to me that infinity is bounded at the center where the lines cross at the crossroads, so to speak, of “comings and goings.”
The paradox, it seems to me: there is an infinite number of centers. And we ask ourselves if infinity (the symbol) is an accurate representation of reality: circumscribed in every direction, it becomes a sphere.
If time (the concept of time) is introduced into the discussion, then isn’t the “present” also the center. Does it also become the “eternal”?
June 3, 2005
As we gaze from outer space upon the wondrous blue planet, our home, doesn’t Earth seem to be more than the sum of her parts, or is this merely a projection of our longing?
Fellow traveller, like me, you are made of star dust. It is a certainty that neither of us would diminish the sacred “blue” by a single rain drop. Nor would we willingly relinquish the treasured memory of a loved one left behind.
Floating in space, doesn’t it seem self-evident that all things are created equal? I mean, floating out here, we are still a part of Earth, no more or less important than the other creatures. We are just a long way from home.
Upon our return, let us resolve to no longer eat animals.
Sounds funny, but I want to see a baby elephant. You are from the prairie; tell me again about the meadow lark call.
This morning’s “stirrings” prelude a formal Declaration of Independence. They are inspired by Carol Layton, the animal rights activist, and Albert Einstein’s thought experiments, as well. Several years ago, Carol wrote in a letter:
I have never forgotten this powerful expression of Carol’s feelings. And, recently, I have been reading and thinking a great deal about Albert Einstein; in particular, about the elegant simplicity of his thought experiments. (I would like to help write a formal Declaration of Independence that recognizes the equality of all things. Dear reader if you have thoughts or contributions in that regard, please send a note. Thank you.)
May 17, 2005
Not long ago, my sister, Candace Forrette, wrote a beautiful poem. Her brief description of the poem’s genesis in response to an e-mail expressing my admiration precedes the poem and offers some insight into the creative process, itself. In my opinion, the poem is quintessential in its elegance and simplicity. How graceful the denouement, as if the poem were a ballet student dancing alone in the morning light.
Please find in “Recommended Websites” a path to more of my sister’s exquisite artwork. Miguel Apaza built Candace’s website. This website was constructed and is maintained by Ernest Grafe. Miguel and Ernie have built their own sites, as well, to which links are also made available. I cannot recommend these three sites enough. Their incredible accomplishments will speak for themselves. Dear web surfer, you will not be disappointed.
Hopefully, in days to come I will provide a link to the work of none other than Gary David and company (oh yes, me included) at Island Hills Books, a site that Gary built years ago when Bill Gates was still a teenager. The Island Hills site is a vital port to the written word and continues to evolve under the watchful eye of its founder. In more ways than one, Gary has been an inspiration to us all. The He Sapa hasn’t forgotten him.
Here is the promised poem by Candace Forrette preceded by a description of its genesis:
The quiet door closed behind her as she slipped into the morning light.
Moments later, her hot, slowly sipped coffee was forgotten.
Centered above the center, once again the perfect world
opened up on itself,
She was the morning, the perfect morning, before even the gods arose.
April 24, 2005
This is extracted (page 47) from an extremely intriguing book by David Bodanis, “E=mc2: A Biography Of The World’s Most Famous Equation.”
Hmmm, makes a person wonder if we are not truly children of light. Reminds me of Shiva and Shakti, as well; or, of God and Sophia. Isn’t it interesting, also, that one generation of humankind seems to leapfrog another?
I think the reason why travel beyond the speed of light is prohibitive is partly because the future (at least the future of the light beam) is always induced. Perhaps, like trying to have grandchildren before you have children.
Miguel, thank you for the information. Soon, I will have a website; thank you Ernie and Miguel. Candace, I will scan your slides dern soon.
We are children of light and people of the deer.
I yam who I yam: I’m pope eye the beggar man M.