tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86374606349691636702024-03-04T21:59:35.886-08:00The Sable QuillSean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-89497483335262509732012-06-19T17:58:00.000-07:002012-06-19T17:58:51.463-07:00Tati Le Dit<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKdURFisuv-QGykj34uBQprBcRuwGIhDZaopcoXZ20M40hj9VdPhrkANgPghSIBiyLLOaTno4WMO-ULcZGjvUxfmWTC8YLHveObppc4LIxicNg0_2aIQhOuRkFKoIdcl4SqxsiPOlt27c/s1600/tinted_clock_ageless_wisdom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="360" width="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKdURFisuv-QGykj34uBQprBcRuwGIhDZaopcoXZ20M40hj9VdPhrkANgPghSIBiyLLOaTno4WMO-ULcZGjvUxfmWTC8YLHveObppc4LIxicNg0_2aIQhOuRkFKoIdcl4SqxsiPOlt27c/s400/tinted_clock_ageless_wisdom.jpg" /></a>
<BR>
<BR>
My great-aunt, affectionately known as Tati, is often my confidant and conversation partner. She has an uncanny knack, which I believe I have inherited, for summarizing a situation succinctly and pointedly; and when she does I always remark to myself, "Tati le dit." (Tati said it):
<BR><BR>
On the recent flap between the Vatican and US Nuns - "The Pope had best take care with ostracizing nuns. While the Cardinals may be the princes of the Church, the nuns are the mothers; and in any culture, motherhood always outstrips other ranks in the family. His Holiness should reflect that upon resurrection His Lord appeared to women first to carry the announcement, and that at His Lord's birth a mother was required without the aid of a man."Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-65901584872675879032012-06-19T17:45:00.000-07:002012-06-19T17:45:11.810-07:00Quillsby Quip of the Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiakJAulaC3hmEICaf1AkBiEyHbPX-H0hbGsNlNeqdSSwBSop80oJr8rp7ALntlZo-bju-iiZmdbKDwxZdSbnyyhyphenhyphenqM8Gthl-ZD8ixFaxlW9utl1PfrFvj_a1Ctv7vraFSz8pmwTBvH8s/s1600/no_terrorism_freedom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiakJAulaC3hmEICaf1AkBiEyHbPX-H0hbGsNlNeqdSSwBSop80oJr8rp7ALntlZo-bju-iiZmdbKDwxZdSbnyyhyphenhyphenqM8Gthl-ZD8ixFaxlW9utl1PfrFvj_a1Ctv7vraFSz8pmwTBvH8s/s400/no_terrorism_freedom.jpg" /></a>
Says Sable Quillsby, "The Syrian government has killed and continues to kill innocents. The United States, through drone attacks and euphemistic military engagements, has killed and continues to kill innocents. There is no moral relevancy to justify and distinguish one from the other: both are equally repugnant and criminal acts against the whole of humanity. You cannot mouth the words of freedom and democracy while your right and left hands are actively participating in terrorist acts. One would have thought the Janus-head would have died in the ashes of Rome."Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-46936984058765085212012-05-14T15:22:00.001-07:002012-05-14T15:22:36.955-07:00My Lady Has A Necklace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAzq6PYmsyEhyphenhyphennh8Cva72_263DJZH2sZdWdkCvqXInmmT8DlEcwmT6ggaZJmNPxREU2RQDNvkqYPFAoy9ARO6ULrzdA82OKdOkqbxfQWkildquHCjM8sI4_hjk6x6BmhKHO6ArrKis-U/s1600/amber-bead+-necklace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="301" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAzq6PYmsyEhyphenhyphennh8Cva72_263DJZH2sZdWdkCvqXInmmT8DlEcwmT6ggaZJmNPxREU2RQDNvkqYPFAoy9ARO6ULrzdA82OKdOkqbxfQWkildquHCjM8sI4_hjk6x6BmhKHO6ArrKis-U/s400/amber-bead+-necklace.jpg" /></a></div>
<BR>
Inspired by Diana Wynne, a Lady of rare wit, intellect, and emotional fortitude <BR><BR>
<i>'Twas in the garden of friendly delights <BR>
My Lady, the Huntress, came in summer's allure; <BR>
She, who girds the Earth from her lunar abode, <BR>
Bestrode the path to the African's lair, <BR>
Darkling boots chased with fire crackling, <BR>
Each step whispering silver on verdant plane, <BR>
Bright day caressed by sinuous night <BR> <BR>
With horn upturned, My Lady, summoned with song<BR>
And I hastened to attend from my starry perch <BR>
For I yet bore the fruits of country in tribute<BR>
To her personage and fealty to her honor- <BR>
Apples of elder wisdom, oranges of blushing passion, <BR>
Resplendent pears of tart desire, purple plums of supple strength; <BR>
Her bounty near its' fullest measure in all graces save one <BR><BR>
Longing and anticipation equally combated and <BR>
Animated her lithe glide as she sought the arbor of Love's priest <BR>
And I danced in her shadow, following on heel, <BR>
Blessing the flowers of field and larks of the meadows <BR>
Until at length we arrived at the mouth of hallowed grove <BR>
An unseen gong bellowed a welcoming call <BR>
And we entered into audience with the kindred soul within <BR> <BR>
My Lady was shown a multitude of wonders <BR>
A menagerie of assorted pleasures, but her heart <BR>
Sifted through the flour of gloss, seeking intently <BR>
Settling upon the glassy luminous stones of a sister Goddess <BR>
A gold-tipped arrow fletched, and the auric gleam upon her brow; <BR>
The music of one hunt enchanting the roving spirit of Huntress, <BR>
And a breathtaking stag of the purest yellow crept in range of her bow <BR><BR>
Faster than a heart can beat, My Lady was in pursuit <BR>
She negotiated the terrain as the cleric shouted encouragement, <BR>
Notched the arrow of her Will, and aimed, fire alight with her skin <BR>
Ignoring blandishments of other colorful prey, she loosed the shaft <BR>
Which blazed towards the heart of the stag and struck true <BR>
And the Lady, with mercy, chanted the dirge of Ending <BR>
Transforming carcass and bone into the trophy of spoils <BR><BR>
As was her want, she gifted the remains to the priest <BR>
And bade him work his craft upon the stones and bones <BR>
With soul and sinew he bound the elements <BR>
With heat and light he wrote the runes <BR>
The African called to witness Wind, Water and chthonic spirits of Earth <BR>
Birthing with his labors the scintillating Brisingamen <BR>
And by her divine leave clasping it around My Lady's curvaceous neck
</i> <BR>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-8697505691808226912012-04-07T23:36:00.003-07:002012-04-07T23:50:35.085-07:00Familyspeak (The Beginning)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_Kjxk4isNfAL54TxkIkcSLqNwPUrwfNBkjMqGub8uDj-rekvzWP2AykNDTSv-aVX34y6svnOjkzoRaasr7KH76_7nmNTt5fp4LGtPOpsF519YIplFwDq7wJCrj7WdwnU_0cQ5p78xtU/s1600/Shadow-Photography27.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_Kjxk4isNfAL54TxkIkcSLqNwPUrwfNBkjMqGub8uDj-rekvzWP2AykNDTSv-aVX34y6svnOjkzoRaasr7KH76_7nmNTt5fp4LGtPOpsF519YIplFwDq7wJCrj7WdwnU_0cQ5p78xtU/s400/Shadow-Photography27.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728918534280356530" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It walks amongst us and mimics</span><br /><br />The news shocked Sere, not just by what it conveyed but how it was transmitted. He could feel the ache of detachment, almost taste the bitter, acid fluid of grief. But tears would not come, could not come. Not here. Sweat beaded on his arms, and trickled from his head, down his back, as if in answer to the moisture which hid just out of the reach of the ducts.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It walks amongst us and mimics</span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-3586124551509037052012-03-15T07:29:00.003-07:002012-03-15T07:48:45.015-07:00A Short, Short, Short Story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3GHkt41v-8X2Rq2Vgjqe32F8ZkloFf4jSQ8x1VyRrrvZ5neyH_7V_gmjXPNNMuxl8E3UN6BZzIPFRhGhEDmg0pPeP9Ymer9It0VACukk1m7yeE5tsvRZSlU7ak3vAO4rnHIvLzcvltw/s1600/Bad-war.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3GHkt41v-8X2Rq2Vgjqe32F8ZkloFf4jSQ8x1VyRrrvZ5neyH_7V_gmjXPNNMuxl8E3UN6BZzIPFRhGhEDmg0pPeP9Ymer9It0VACukk1m7yeE5tsvRZSlU7ak3vAO4rnHIvLzcvltw/s400/Bad-war.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720131065084870466" /></a><br /><br /><br />Somewhere in time - certainly not the past, definitely not the present, potentially the future - a country which had come to interact with the rest of the world chiefly through its militaristic hegemony, passed new laws. After many years of the tin-eared drumbeat for warfare to create peace, of promises never realized and iniquitous perjury by the elected officials of the national government organs, the people reclaimed their power and own destiny via a populist referendum. It simply and unerringly dictated that any said officials authorizing new military engagements forthwith forfeited their standing in the body politic and entered as combatants in such police actions. <br /><br />This chilled the fevered blood, and calmed the clamoring hearts of legislators to such a broad degree that diplomacy was reawakened. Their thoughts ran something like this: <span style="font-style:italic;">I am too old to fight but wise enough to know when to fight</span>. And it was the singular characteristic of the first portion of that thought which henceforth drove their policy of warfare. Needless to state, in the absence of battle-mongering crusades, peace accrued in great measure and real attention turned to the previously obfuscated domestic matters.Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-81059318267495961772011-12-18T20:01:00.000-08:002011-12-18T20:08:26.103-08:00Disquiet at our power<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18GJI1B5dJ6t-o-lF5Fxm3HpZMAOoQbcJ6xCwxVIrWW-lslJ3gNljtFDzVlrHZ20-CLlIVdXqYE8OGRU7LgEXIYE3hYXrip55U7mC8DD2KVGKkORDK9aql01rR-UnPNWTBePHSBjaydE/s1600/house-of-night-s-neferet-vampires-6864550-400-376.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 376px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18GJI1B5dJ6t-o-lF5Fxm3HpZMAOoQbcJ6xCwxVIrWW-lslJ3gNljtFDzVlrHZ20-CLlIVdXqYE8OGRU7LgEXIYE3hYXrip55U7mC8DD2KVGKkORDK9aql01rR-UnPNWTBePHSBjaydE/s400/house-of-night-s-neferet-vampires-6864550-400-376.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687685613681090466" /></a><br /><br /><br />I hear the night song of the cicadas;<br />I hear the lamentations of my soul;<br />I hear the disquiet of an uncertain world<br />amidst the cawing of the traditional order;<br />we are not too few to bring change<br />but too many not to realize itSean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-374075453073290062011-01-23T07:02:00.000-08:002011-01-23T07:49:36.164-08:00Running in the Patient Morning Hours<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdTao27hd8H0jAtc0Q5eDFHDNEau5o1CXVo7LsaMoLCjZ7_xqxMegwJWPAYRDx_hK8Ap8QHKZsYTFa7Qm-q9ZMd5f5rHUhV6BkjVkehQf4YMlkJk8ll99S-13nabq5tZ0TOeDh9al9iw/s1600/early+morning+run.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTdTao27hd8H0jAtc0Q5eDFHDNEau5o1CXVo7LsaMoLCjZ7_xqxMegwJWPAYRDx_hK8Ap8QHKZsYTFa7Qm-q9ZMd5f5rHUhV6BkjVkehQf4YMlkJk8ll99S-13nabq5tZ0TOeDh9al9iw/s400/early+morning+run.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565408544388591138" /></a><br /><br /><br />In the stillness of your breath,<br />under the crepe silk of your jet skin<br />my solitude is met in its quest:<br />when I would ask less of myself -<br />when I would allow fear to strand me<br />on the barren marl of grainy doubt -<br />your tranquil susurrations minister<br />to the lime-strewn valves of my heart<br />and the sweat-streaked muscles exerting,<br />"Keep moving, Son of Eve"<br />And just as I crest over the apex,<br />beginning the descent towards the glint<br />of the incipient dawn, of gilded transit,<br />your chill-tinged arms embrace my dream,<br />more than a friend, more than a lover,<br />quelling disquiet, returning me once more<br />to the choice of possibilities<br />and the boundless expanse of all that isSean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-46873854089151687282010-07-10T22:19:00.001-07:002010-07-10T22:31:45.087-07:00An Evening<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKG1CtatvJLQLoYtsZINHty-4LqiK6agdKW3aFzReenA-MGnK5mDrgK-IhX08Fdu3atyoTM0qWZfbEA4TBGOgbMetWKzgTz-DwC-Dfb7hf7nOqSr-ZaJBLbJ1AsDgr0MAb_t-fPRPrd90/s1600/CaspianseaEvening.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKG1CtatvJLQLoYtsZINHty-4LqiK6agdKW3aFzReenA-MGnK5mDrgK-IhX08Fdu3atyoTM0qWZfbEA4TBGOgbMetWKzgTz-DwC-Dfb7hf7nOqSr-ZaJBLbJ1AsDgr0MAb_t-fPRPrd90/s400/CaspianseaEvening.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492514223937043362" /></a><br /><br />Loneliness, sometimes, allows us to connect with ourselves in ways we often avoid before the onslaught of fears which riddle the armor of our lives: <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">An Evening </span><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Alone with music of silence<br /><br />I gather from the darkness<br /><br />from the stinted limbs<br /><br />of hope's shortened corpse<br /><br />instruments in lonely symphony<br /><br />plying their melodies<br /><br />to connect each to a chord<br /><br />of memory that spans the<br /><br />sheets between here and<br /><br />morning's birth but the<br /><br />key of life is elusive, and<br /><br />in the cools arms of night<br /><br />I assemble the notes,<br /><br />orchestrating final movements<br /><br />before quiet settles over<br /><br />my brow and I am <br /><br />again holding myself<br /><br />to ward off despair<br /></span></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-90574112357864729952010-07-05T08:04:00.000-07:002010-07-05T08:12:38.536-07:00Fighting Life: A Poem<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyXn00m6_N_vbIv39OHo0nBBsYcwlJGXw337ebl4OuJfNzXnZpeOqrOfZn9L7_6-kNJbwW7IkJEB4IrZqlEu2w3DI5Qj2xYhg2h12Gx8OnDwVz8FSH7XgQAEQghY6lmOOI0SowxWyOG7A/s1600/cradle-bed-okooko.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyXn00m6_N_vbIv39OHo0nBBsYcwlJGXw337ebl4OuJfNzXnZpeOqrOfZn9L7_6-kNJbwW7IkJEB4IrZqlEu2w3DI5Qj2xYhg2h12Gx8OnDwVz8FSH7XgQAEQghY6lmOOI0SowxWyOG7A/s400/cradle-bed-okooko.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490438601771514370" /></a><br /><br />As a child when I or my siblings would rail against naptime, my mother and grandmother would say that we were fighting sleep. As adults ironically we frequently take refuge in sleep, seeking escape from the peaks and troughs of our lives; nothing is more telling than the struggle which ensues in our waking moments:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I fold back the mesh<br />raising up out of<br />Sleep's warm netting;<br />I press my back down<br />listless against softness<br />desperate to recall dreams;<br />a blink, a nod, a yawn<br />acknowledging the inevitable<br />but defiant in the face;<br />I grasp firmly my pillow,<br />thrusting my legs forward<br />in pointless mimicry<br />yet all argument is moot,<br />squelched before absoluteness:<br />Morning has come, and the day begun</span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-20336810739243574692010-07-04T08:33:00.001-07:002010-07-04T09:14:50.986-07:00Haiku Couplets - Answers Between<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbI0UCXRavbIr7zL_Dl2awllgwkI8J2JLZ37vvFckmDy_9lg_XH-basdYMe-dpsrd0HiZhvMa2m-haSGrluikuVf2i4RktmAlowtNCH6WffF2LFncCS6ysDoorOd-p8-maCFG98CBKq4A/s1600/volume_light_shadows.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbI0UCXRavbIr7zL_Dl2awllgwkI8J2JLZ37vvFckmDy_9lg_XH-basdYMe-dpsrd0HiZhvMa2m-haSGrluikuVf2i4RktmAlowtNCH6WffF2LFncCS6ysDoorOd-p8-maCFG98CBKq4A/s400/volume_light_shadows.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490074740105030658" /></a><br /><br />Our most conventional stories portray the journey of our lives as a struggle between light and darkness. Rarely do these tales realize that the truths we seek do not lie at either end of the polarities but somewhere between all the layers of fleshy occultation. Here I employ the haiku in a less customary format to make such a case.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shadow clips edges<br />promising coolly, bluntly<br />Desire's veiling<br /><br />Glaring brightness hides<br />Love's unyielding penumbra<br />shining concealment<br /><br />From the womb of both<br />past, present, future echoes<br />invites the birth - Choice</span><br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-68235476181177052762010-03-05T19:53:00.000-08:002010-03-05T20:00:22.252-08:00A Crisis of Commonsense<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lK6KvQT4jSAhzD7Q_Blbc_t3ddHhMo-uY6FvmOY1GKMIsYwCniQATctxP_xr-q3o6Gd9RAhp11dZn9VglWJfLDhugbr0WRXJipwdbptLuJ3qZIDFW60Rk-xm4YYWaHvwq9dg5jP5BPY/s1600-h/regret.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lK6KvQT4jSAhzD7Q_Blbc_t3ddHhMo-uY6FvmOY1GKMIsYwCniQATctxP_xr-q3o6Gd9RAhp11dZn9VglWJfLDhugbr0WRXJipwdbptLuJ3qZIDFW60Rk-xm4YYWaHvwq9dg5jP5BPY/s400/regret.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445363979521231090" /></a><br /><br /><br />One cannot help but being bemused by the numerous items in conventional discourse regarding what the federal goverment should (or should not) be doing to propel the economy back to a bullish state. This confusion derives in part from the cavorting game-play of two headed beast we usually refer to as the Democratic and Republican Parties,in part from the equivocations of the Executive Branch and, completing the triumvirate, the expectations and (yes!) hopes of the public at large. It is an unholy convocation abundant in recalcitrance, rife with division and replete with unwieldy suppositions. In such inclement conditions, politicians seek out the usual anondynes and busy themselves in a flurry of bill proposals to fix what ails, that which may curry favor and insure reelection; the President and his clerics launch raucously into the gray water depths of policy, attempting to reconstitute the mantle of change which gave rise to his assumption of the regal purple of seal of office. And the public fractures into splinter groups, each staking claim that they represent the true interest of the American people. It is all a colossal spin, chocked to the gills with regret, recrimination and despair.<br /><br />Lost in the helter-skelter are the simple facts of how this situation came to be and what needs are immediate. We consign ourselves to complexity, neglecting what we learned in mathematics as wee tots: all large fractions are reducible to their constituent elements. <br /><br />Divorcing and divesting the emotional and psychological angst which understandably plagues the current conditions, we can stand on the precipice and see what is necessary.<br /><br />First, if a free market is desired, the banks and financial institutions should have been allowed to fail. Period. No crocodile tears of remorse should have moved the iron manacles of government regulators. After all, if theory is correct, other more capable institutions would have come into being and subssumed these bastardized organizations; and all would be right with the world. Correct?<br /><br />Now if we accept that there is no pure free market and these crises are cyclical - especially when commingling and cosiness between interested parties is not rebuffed by federal regulators - the government should recall its accountability is to the citizens primarily and act accordingly. Distribute money to those directly in need and still hold them responsible if in their decisions they have aided in the creation of these affairs. Did the banks engender this all by themselves? No, of course not. In fact mortgage brokers bear more than a little of the onus and the citizenry by burying their heads in the sand and borrowing on assets they did not possess were in collusion as well. Consequently, all must sacrifice. <br /><br />Likewise remedies must be smart and proportionate. Neither the President nor the Congress can create jobs. The hue and cry for tax cuts to enable and encourage companies to hire more workers from the evergrowing till of the unemployed serves only large corporations. The majority of Americans are employed by small and medium businesses. What is requisite for them now is access to capital, and with banks not lending rigorously the lifeline for them is at a trickle. Foreclosures yet loom, and a legion of Americans are next in line to be thrust on the street. Why not legislate with a bit of thought and force banks to renegotiate loan terms based on current market value? It saves the banks the cost of foreclosure and retains for a tremulous public their residences without forgiving them their culpability. This should be the hour of clarity and commonsense or it will be a millenium of bitter sorrow.Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-90369627610005195792010-03-04T21:36:00.000-08:002010-03-05T11:20:04.360-08:00Nightmare: Poetic Prose Gone Awry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgxYcSZ4zB_PXgzK68vlK1MphzzpYJvVo988wrHhohFou_aarpyMmk1Wg0TKqk3Im6O7Qa58Juc2VLxRT8-oNDVB7qRvynmy3dqUzdwSNneuCpd1M9iMtjcjrDMC41BYAX5IJCA-eWRk/s1600-h/4.The_Judgment.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgxYcSZ4zB_PXgzK68vlK1MphzzpYJvVo988wrHhohFou_aarpyMmk1Wg0TKqk3Im6O7Qa58Juc2VLxRT8-oNDVB7qRvynmy3dqUzdwSNneuCpd1M9iMtjcjrDMC41BYAX5IJCA-eWRk/s400/4.The_Judgment.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445019483741914306" /></a><br /><br />One sometimes feel it peering around every corner. Seated in a cafe, resting in a theatre or just in conversation with family, the ubiquitous presence is a pestering pressure, a constant reminder of what crouches in the shadows. We hear it in the discourse of our peers, colleagues and friends; it perambulates the corridors of our thoughts, rises shrilly from the throats of our children and admonishes brusquely in the utterances of our parents. With authority it issues orders from the professional cloak of our bosses, commanding and terrible, pillaging confidence and plundering acumen, raping certainty into oblivion. The media conveys it, tickertape-fashion, in a bubbling stream, challenging all we thought we knew and brutalizing the prostrate form so bloody and bowed as to be near annihilation. Politicians rail in polemical screeds, seeding the wells of government chambers, planting spores and fertilizing disquiet. It mocks us, pierces the soft tissue of our flesh and extracts a sanguine weal, beading our breasts with a ruddy, embarrassed glow. Ministers declaim its power from the pulpits weekly, and lash us with the brand of our sins. And when we lie abed, trying to fall into the darkness, into the feathery arms of sleep, it dogs our breaths and quickens the heart. What is this creature of such unimaginable horror? What harpy alights and savages comfort? It is judgment, the instrument we wield and deny. Our pain stems not from those external sources which we readily give causality and blame but our own internal experience and the yardstick of judgment which we use to measure it.Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-21938578710683342852010-03-02T21:42:00.000-08:002010-03-02T21:48:57.334-08:00Potential & Realization<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD0iFkx79BJGs05iEq21VXNDHHMLfXTVSwp6ivF13dOvUdjUtNtxpjyIHoJ31Bmxh9Z4s2v5ysZqKG-EB0i2_5jYTONTN4x6HfOB2yeOHa32FqRYXGKwhCkLMf82T0d0cSNs27ZWxRAw/s1600-h/Petals_Water_1024x768.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD0iFkx79BJGs05iEq21VXNDHHMLfXTVSwp6ivF13dOvUdjUtNtxpjyIHoJ31Bmxh9Z4s2v5ysZqKG-EB0i2_5jYTONTN4x6HfOB2yeOHa32FqRYXGKwhCkLMf82T0d0cSNs27ZWxRAw/s400/Petals_Water_1024x768.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444280107060540354" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Petals, like pearls, gleam<br />scintillating in a smile<br />welcoming, blushing<br /><br />expand your tendrils<br />enfold ambivalent buds<br />from seed to jewel<br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-62888239708607069112010-02-16T17:50:00.000-08:002010-02-16T17:54:12.786-08:00Boxed: A Poem<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMP3Rs5lwr_7KIS0qxpxDEgWqxNFoTYLXnGuuNWeP6m5j4oQp-PzoHb2zAcVXmid1s808tJ2kEWNPiiiK4cr0Jxt-zqqAFpQVJv9uzOJv0ezMWxoqgpTEKUnFZwyVHWXDINCIGK4VwPTw/s1600-h/worldofboxes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMP3Rs5lwr_7KIS0qxpxDEgWqxNFoTYLXnGuuNWeP6m5j4oQp-PzoHb2zAcVXmid1s808tJ2kEWNPiiiK4cr0Jxt-zqqAFpQVJv9uzOJv0ezMWxoqgpTEKUnFZwyVHWXDINCIGK4VwPTw/s400/worldofboxes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439024547971242962" /></a><br /><br />describe, detail, define<br />the line which separates<br />you from me, idea from actuality;<br />characterize, construe, convey<br />the intersection dissecting<br />inner from outer, nature from artifice;<br />depict, delineate, differentiate<br />the borders circumvolving<br />one country from another, brother from brother;<br />construct, chronicle, communicate<br />the cubicle abscinding intimacy<br />singularity divorced from plurality<br />heart from the soul, spirit from body<br />creating distinction in some dark corner,<br />some inchoate cell apportioned from the collectiveSean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-70130939379202731312010-02-13T23:58:00.000-08:002010-02-14T06:25:40.933-08:00The Position: Hope Meets Despair<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD7QLrLFXO-5EEgQZseW2uguShwAtX1gOXv5q3E8P8Su-lWbGCdgH0lWVUi8RdVfEIrHyYg7nMzgWxvyiJcRw-5618DH-bL0YJQeGgmAbEEzMuWwyJTVOYymamLpl8f0H7ADAVZintqI/s1600-h/96218.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 292px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD7QLrLFXO-5EEgQZseW2uguShwAtX1gOXv5q3E8P8Su-lWbGCdgH0lWVUi8RdVfEIrHyYg7nMzgWxvyiJcRw-5618DH-bL0YJQeGgmAbEEzMuWwyJTVOYymamLpl8f0H7ADAVZintqI/s400/96218.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438005811116765090" /></a><br /><br /><br />You are invited to submit an application for a heady but mysterious position with the cryptic corporation known as the Concern. Against a backdrop of economic and societal collapse, the very underpinning pillars of country and kin obliterated in the Great Downturn, the Concern offers a sirenic sinecure to a select individual from amongst the hordes of multitudinous candidates. If chosen as a finalist you will be conveyed to the Compound where the irrevocable evaluation will ensue with unknowable nuances, and you may be elect enough to ascend the pinnacle, master the tasks and be saved from the ravages of an uncertain future in the chaos from which you have emerged. Such begins the play <span style="font-style:italic;">The Position</span> currently running at the Off-Market Theatre in San Francisco.<br /><br />The next layer is the shedding of singularity and identity, a stripping of the epidermis which the applicants have borne for the totality of their existence to this point. Exuvation of clothing initiates, followed closely thereafter by the imposition of an alphabetical assignment displacing given names. This reduction to bare essentials, decoction of former selfness, is reflected in the minimalism of the stage sets and heightens the emotional intensity of all subsequent action; and the scantiness has the opposite effect of making something which appears at first blush to be insubstantial - inconsequential props, threadbare dress, the controlled tension of the players - in reality immeasurably significant, transforming nugatory elements to quintessential portions of the play’s bodily composition. There is profound depth beneath the skin and it rapidly reveals itself.<br /><br />The panoply of personages fuels the furnace of the transpiring events. A Faustian HR Consultant is the puppet-mistress (Lady MacBeth, did you say?) who dangles the fatalistic carrot before starving supplicants who have come to prostrate themselves in hope of the saving grace of the Concern. She advises them to make no assumptions and invites them to engage in whatever behaviors they deem fit, to give vent to passions and emotions as if on a stranded, paradisiacal island. One cannot help but summon up the ghost of <span style="font-style:italic;">Lord of the Flies</span> in an updated adult version. All the applicants are aware of is that they are being surveilled. Will their commitment be questioned, their worthiness judged and found wanting? Hope is inglorious, not the thing which “perches in the soul” but the awl used to rip out your eyes and steal vision: hope wielded as a sword of despair over the benighted and benumbed reeling from the abandonment of government and left to the manipulative intrigues of corporations. This vacuum creates the perfect tableau for the welling up of all the baseness of human nature, and these newly minted children of the alphabet meld into their milieu with rage and savagery which ever lurks in the heart of our darkness.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Position</span> provides an excellent exposition on what happens when the boat is only big enough for a few. The actors are crisp, polished and focused; the direction is unrelenting and the story so compelling that you are inexorably drawn in and almost forget to breathe as the contestants vie, each in their own way, for the shining medallion. As with London’s <span style="font-style:italic;">People of the Abyss</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">The Iron Heel</span>, the characters possess a freshness which means any of them could be your neighbors, your friends or family, and are equally crushed under the weight of their devastation and ambition. Yet surprise remains in play. Even the Concern cannot anticipate everything which may occur; and where there is frailty in human nature there is also adamantine strength. In the end, one comes to know that the meat factory is constantly in motion, the gears always ready to grind fresh meat and make ubiquitous burgers which we readily consume as we ourselves are being consumed.Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-62025827003078815872010-02-08T16:50:00.001-08:002010-02-08T16:54:42.903-08:00Oedipus: Master of his fate<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMFpzoKt7K3vcNFtEOogVuuzsEYzRMngH-IUUmvf9sdlv6FRKSfW2aXFsFZeGSwA699HdYckr1h4V6jXYVmK1Gx5HZVxy_xqYdp0tfKy1HkXhzqAeMpFIXLmw39Efm_yOrr7zyZUw42k/s1600-h/OED4square.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 399px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMFpzoKt7K3vcNFtEOogVuuzsEYzRMngH-IUUmvf9sdlv6FRKSfW2aXFsFZeGSwA699HdYckr1h4V6jXYVmK1Gx5HZVxy_xqYdp0tfKy1HkXhzqAeMpFIXLmw39Efm_yOrr7zyZUw42k/s400/OED4square.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436039839508917394" /></a><br /><br /><br />Greek tragedy, universally and almost by definition, centered around the disquieted lives of the wealthy and nobly engendered. When one considers the works of Sophocles, Aeschylus and Euripides all of the protagonists (and antagonists) are either in the direct descent of royal lineage or closely approximating some familial relation to such status. This was a central concern for Arthur Miller when he was penning <span style="font-style:italic;">Death of a Salesman</span>: that tragedy, like all other occurrences influencing the human condition, extends its province to the affairs of conventional men and women. In Luis Alfaro’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Oedius El Rey<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>, he “millerizes” – yes I am engaging in that pastime of making a verb of a proper noun - Sophocles’ <span style="font-style:italic;">Oedipus Rex</span> and reweaves the panorama of this ancient drama, retaining and distilling its essence; casting it with renewed vigor in the midst of Latino culture and thereby making it a staged version of a fanfare for the common man.<br /><br />With minimal props and inventive directing at the Magic Theatre in Fort Mason, <span style="font-style:italic;">Oedipus El Rey<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span> debuts with flourishes which invoke the classical elements - a chorus echoing the Grecian tradition of <span style="font-style:italic;">strophe, epode and antistrophe</span>, the hubris of mankind, the oracular vision – but add a new system of poetry steeped in the Chicano tradition – the Sphinx becomes a <span style="font-style:italic;">bruja</span>, the elders of the community <span style="font-style:italic;">curanderos</span>. It is a transfiguration which embodies the age old question of kismet and destiny. Whereas this is answered unerringly in the original (Oedipus is fated to his doom from birth), Alfaro revivifies it for his audience. This Oedipus may or may not come to his doom through freedom of will. Much less shrift is given to the avoidance of predestination and much more imbued in the arrogance of men drunk on power. And there is multiplicity in that also: all of the inmates of the prison from which Alfaro’s Oedipus emerges have self-styled themselves gods and demigods, and this blustering audacity – the acts they commit from its wellspring – is their undoing. Certainly fatalism is part and parcel of the tragedy but the striking note in Alfaro’s symphony is solipsism and the isolation this indulgence visits upon those who partake of its libations.<br /><br />Above all, Alfaro makes it approachable. Even if one is not acquainted with Sophocles and has never heard or read the tale of his Oedipus, this El Rey is knowable. Creative touches in direction further amplify and balance out the amazing voice of the writing with significant attention to details; from the synchronicity of the chorus and the oracles to the light-hearted wedding ceremony to the confrontation between Creon and Oedipus to the passionate love-making between Jocasta and Oedipus, the play breathes and pulses. (An aside – The singing of “Always and Forever” brought me back to those halcyon high-school days and I found myself singing along). <br /><br />Critically, there is one other theme which surfaces and is tied like a flower in bouquet to the whole of the production. Respect for one’s elders, and their life experiences is found wanting in the soi-disant god El Rey. Because he will not listen, he will not hear, he is the author of his own fate and the captain who takes his ship into stormy waters to circle endlessly without berth or port, literally and figuratively blind. Alfaro reinforces for us what we know, even when we choose to forget: Destiny is what we make through our actions and choices.Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-35325004954691468172010-01-20T15:30:00.001-08:002010-01-20T15:44:04.302-08:00Gay Marriage Debate: Idiotic Argument<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkybDCz_SwpP13TzqtssO3mAgGgcUpxsT67VTXrEMqRhJ35leM13eoZiBofnpnFRTI5QXPE_XUPU9p-TkiOIMbRklm61HPO588Bzr0DhscVk8Z9pEo0rYPTFR-SvjsEiTd4JGBljEmPUA/s1600-h/idiocy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkybDCz_SwpP13TzqtssO3mAgGgcUpxsT67VTXrEMqRhJ35leM13eoZiBofnpnFRTI5QXPE_XUPU9p-TkiOIMbRklm61HPO588Bzr0DhscVk8Z9pEo0rYPTFR-SvjsEiTd4JGBljEmPUA/s400/idiocy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428968639195358690" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I caught wind of one the arguments being proffered by the lawyers defending California's notorious Proposition 8. It runs something like this: the primary purpose of marriage is for the procreation of children. The judge in a pretrial hearing indicated that he had performed as his last marriage a ceremony for a couple that were 95 and 83 years young, and inquired if this should not have been done. Of course the answer is obvious and even the lawyers advancing the foolhardy notion were quick to assert that he <span style="font-weight:bold;">should</span> have married this venerable couple. Besides the fact that in no point in the history of marital relations in this country has ANYONE ever been asked whether or not they intended to propagate or spawn anything beyond the unifying love of two individuals, logically you do not need to marry to beget. Is not the basis of the law suppose to be logic? Naturally, the reason for such a moronic statement is to find some narrow corridor to disqualify gays, much like the past notion that was utilized to indicate that Blacks were not quite human. I pray that Justice is not so blind as to be infected with this idiocy.Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-72428556024032027232009-10-06T09:31:00.001-07:002009-10-06T09:37:27.438-07:00In Absentia, a Haiku<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rweHnJXtZpRb3PDKnYHCfUVsQenroXDhxqNJP6yF0n_ZrxbCrVAwapoFanE-GTcH7MmtFBdpUwVRX47ZU8QbpcYwRSgLfZ3H9m7nEYzmDcMRXZLKH0YSqMxT5nrdS_Y7iZ646F0vCo4/s1600-h/waitingabsence.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rweHnJXtZpRb3PDKnYHCfUVsQenroXDhxqNJP6yF0n_ZrxbCrVAwapoFanE-GTcH7MmtFBdpUwVRX47ZU8QbpcYwRSgLfZ3H9m7nEYzmDcMRXZLKH0YSqMxT5nrdS_Y7iZ646F0vCo4/s400/waitingabsence.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389525678968026098" /></a><br /><br />Whether we wait upon our lovers, children, family or friends - whether it be waiting for renewed connection, a decision, or an epiphany - there can be an intensity which haunts:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Purloined moments wait<br />And in the absence of you<br />Restless thoughts assail</span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-84111876291167296612009-10-05T11:11:00.000-07:002009-10-05T11:24:50.562-07:00Entreaty of the heart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOIdhqm5hpTTUeGRipj8LsTxH7nYxuBW8IjB2WmE9yzgzxjU_6NfZY4iunPiwMDoFbKLZBkv5WFx8YPMWqec7tGgXIJIHBiM2B5LhpszRpeLvpPo_lm_OlhVDipPEIXqJ0RadmHtav2ac/s1600-h/entreaty.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOIdhqm5hpTTUeGRipj8LsTxH7nYxuBW8IjB2WmE9yzgzxjU_6NfZY4iunPiwMDoFbKLZBkv5WFx8YPMWqec7tGgXIJIHBiM2B5LhpszRpeLvpPo_lm_OlhVDipPEIXqJ0RadmHtav2ac/s400/entreaty.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389182662519636130" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">If one could be drunk on love...such a large thing pressed into a thimble of emotion. It calls for a haiku:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Inebriate love<br />down to the dewy lees drink<br />liquor of my soul<br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-82742986794196815332009-10-02T11:15:00.001-07:002009-10-02T11:20:38.420-07:00Writing Resumed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUNiLaCS0zkX5br5emVzUErT8punkJ8Hig7JFAD2GgU9A7rlPJ6eskaf65HqQAaoxwr3nAE8gxMui92iKPEnzdt_A5WXYaE_6Xa3l1vHfwo2_CUehwVPvFhwlVfBcUeWjrfkjxaWfx80/s1600-h/writing_resumed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUNiLaCS0zkX5br5emVzUErT8punkJ8Hig7JFAD2GgU9A7rlPJ6eskaf65HqQAaoxwr3nAE8gxMui92iKPEnzdt_A5WXYaE_6Xa3l1vHfwo2_CUehwVPvFhwlVfBcUeWjrfkjxaWfx80/s400/writing_resumed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388067986261027394" /></a><br /><br />Anyone who scribes for a living knows how much effort is required to put pen to paper, and daily produce. Difficult blocks often come up and the valiant writer takes a break only to return to the source of inspiration. This poem marks out the perspective of someone renewing themselves through their work, remembering how writing calls to the soul:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"> <br /><br /> Desire wells in fissures suffused by fear<br /><br /> like breaking sunlight filtering benighted sky,<br /><br /> The pen, set in motion, through openings <br /><br /> in the crust, once more attempts <br /><br /> to love a page ensouled with passion <br /><br /> vulcanized in twin chambers, <br /><br /> fed by grain imbrued feverishly <br /><br /> the color of sunset before <br /><br /> the autumn moon's coal-scarred swath<br /><br /> hawkishly descending, represses the tide<br /><br /> Hearts may be stopped, instruments blunted,<br /><br /> but purpose, fiery as lava, blazons <br /><br /> past worn passages guttering in shadows, <br /><br /> inscribes and marks the sheaf,<br /><br /> innervating minds to the testimony of the word<br /><br /> gifting moments expression untrammelled by trepidation<br /><br /> unsealing the ardor of hands, <br /><br /> consuming margins of the page<br /><br /> exploding to the surface in a molten hail <br /><br /> whose train sharpens the stars and <br /><br /> professes the perfusion of rapture unbound <br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-17052666677259195842009-09-30T11:08:00.000-07:002009-09-30T11:16:20.497-07:00Fledgling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh46vj22Z5jga06ZWEs925tZ8bTlF3u5Fia9BaN1aNl7RwKf2TRfiV5oni9oATYoTeNvMVuA-GaO95vfkwRG4NXQfmy_p60FK-Fm5gclIFZOEKVPJKfykuCHWhyphenhyphen-628_FOOHupecJuj9bs/s1600-h/white-breasted-nuthatch-fledgling.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh46vj22Z5jga06ZWEs925tZ8bTlF3u5Fia9BaN1aNl7RwKf2TRfiV5oni9oATYoTeNvMVuA-GaO95vfkwRG4NXQfmy_p60FK-Fm5gclIFZOEKVPJKfykuCHWhyphenhyphen-628_FOOHupecJuj9bs/s400/white-breasted-nuthatch-fledgling.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387324789784750258" /></a><br /><br />A poem I wrote a few years back but have never shared broadly:<br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Under the velvet of upturned leaves, <br />Sanctioned beneath green gauze and trembling, <br />The languid child strains against the womb <br />Wrestling equally with the practice and idea <br />Constraint is that bridge <br />Half caressed in sunlit memory, <br />Half crumpled in neoteric ruins, <br />Where the world girds society<br />And morality's skyscrapers sentinels<br />Known peripheries, planted just a stone’s throw<br />From the mire and muck of the extraordinary <br /><br />Contest as it wills, the lash is firm<br />Effluvium lines the cottony membrane<br />There, in that spark of life, in that brace<br />Which straddles the crossing, groping<br />The child stirs towards seraphic peace-<br />The dizzying stillness of death settling-<br />Plunging without a whimper, without complaint<br />Releasing restraint, relishing its throes:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">To die to live to love to hurt </span><br /><br />Somewhere we cease to try, somewhere we become<br />Somehow we need no learning, somehow we come to know<br />The child within relaxes its grasp<br />Ruptures the verdigris placenta, scatters the leaves<br />Arrives in the limpid atmosphere<br />And walks upright, in time, in rhythm:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">To die to live to love to hurt</span><br /><br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-90205677286137443482009-09-30T09:43:00.000-07:002016-07-26T22:05:54.994-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-58724089506762566902009-09-29T16:32:00.000-07:002009-09-29T16:36:59.686-07:00Counting: A Poem<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdecK3WjeNcOxZBYqrOidkT_zqehJF8UIb0NPIXvHpluP65ZXTG3c47rvQvPtdeLSRQebDaGtEzxMlxM6ljg-xXciHGiZZ7ZFm8aF-H5V5Yu6crtUflB-hMwXlDbrM7eJOZpkQAZG3gw/s1600-h/rainwater-002.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdecK3WjeNcOxZBYqrOidkT_zqehJF8UIb0NPIXvHpluP65ZXTG3c47rvQvPtdeLSRQebDaGtEzxMlxM6ljg-xXciHGiZZ7ZFm8aF-H5V5Yu6crtUflB-hMwXlDbrM7eJOZpkQAZG3gw/s400/rainwater-002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387036760156941122" /></a><br /><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Counting slow brushes of rain,<br /><br />he feels at last alive<br /><br />though not free<br /><br />even in heaven's wet embrace<br /><br />fragments of prison,<br /><br />he called life, intrude<br /><br />war sounds, distance-striped vision<br /><br />barely meets one moment from the next<br /><br />always loss, he considers,<br /><br />of self we forget:<br /><br />to stay, to be here now,<br /><br />love's deprivation the common chorus,<br /><br />counting inadequate measures:<br /><br />our wealth, our will, fearing judgement<br /><br />counting everything<br /><br />without counting ourselves<br /><br />"I remember," he thinks<br /><br />within the storm liberation looms<br /><br />this time he counts the strokes<br /><br />made by the meeting<br /><br />of his and heaven's tears<br /><br />seeing no difference<br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-58821810781790891922009-09-28T21:52:00.000-07:002009-09-29T00:23:16.648-07:00Ideas Does Not A Reality Make<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdhGa4slEiCVX0QoCP4heD432Oa5XHY4oiLW09xWh3GkIcPkAJyEPre9p5ns1XjLDvK7RyZ99QHOmcjgfEgFEnuoF3_mrmVahnW1LnVfl926r3WjGDPPvw0Klr0WpwvKKQGw4hwbco8U/s1600-h/80162523.ieJFhQdn.newideas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdhGa4slEiCVX0QoCP4heD432Oa5XHY4oiLW09xWh3GkIcPkAJyEPre9p5ns1XjLDvK7RyZ99QHOmcjgfEgFEnuoF3_mrmVahnW1LnVfl926r3WjGDPPvw0Klr0WpwvKKQGw4hwbco8U/s400/80162523.ieJFhQdn.newideas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386754726796957042" /></a><br /><br />"It's a strange thing to go through life as a social experiment. If you were born of ideas, then all you have are ideas," so opens one of the chapters of <span style="font-weight:bold;">Man Gone Down</span> which chronicles the ups and downs of a Black intellectual raised in the post-Civil Rights Era at a climactic point in his life. It summed up a groundswell of feeling I was experiencing watching our current President at the UN and the subsequent G-20 Conference.<br /><br />I could not help but wonder where were all the ideas of the pre-election fervor had gone. To my endless inquiries of EVIDENCE of change I have been met only with deaf replies. Where is the normalization of relations with Cuba? Where are much vaunted reforms? The closure of the wars abroad? The realization of smart power? The healthcare overhaul seems to be a mote in the eye which will be washed away like a speck of dirt during the morning's ablutions.<br /><br />The reality is that the Obama Presidency itself is a grand idea, fed by the American imagination but simultaneously riddled with the shortfall of American idealism. Americans are haunted by the idea of equality, bracing to embrace the <span style="font-style:italic;">idea</span> of it but unwilling to recognize that validating humanity means demystifying any particular notions of racial identity, cultural origin and thus any attachments-favorable and unfavorable-to these. In effect this particular Presidency is a social experiment, and experiments always imply a norm (i.e., control group) versus a delta (i.e., change group). Of course, the most snowed under regarding the experiment is the titular head of the country, and this is attributable to the realm of ideas without action that have circumscribed the world from which he has sprung.<br /><br />I fear that an ensuring passage of the novel presages much of the future of Presidential idea: "I suppose I should have been a superhero or an agent with no mission-AWOL, lost, forgotten, like a cold war relic, the laboratory, the training camp blown-up, the notes destroyed, my creator insane or in ashes...I should have been a vampire or a werewolf. But if that were the case, then there would be some kind of unbroken bloodline tracing back to the original. I feel artificial, man-made, like saccharin or LSD, something synthetic that was fucked up but issued nonetheless. I should have been something inexplicable, but at the same time nameable-a tolerable paradox, a recognizable dichotomy...guardian of the land of the obvious; and, obviously, phenotypically different. My internal conflicts need be expressed not in words..."<br /><br />But unfortunately words and ideas are all the grass which has grown since the taking of the oath. We are masters of the oratory, and wielders of the image, but manifestation is a discipline we have yet to brandish and exercise with truth. There were smatterings in the press of the term engagement in dealing with other sovereign powers last week. The veritable question is, "How engaged are we with ourselves within the American landscape?"Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8637460634969163670.post-72008048692507563392009-09-11T14:37:00.000-07:002009-09-11T14:40:05.810-07:00The Beauty of Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmo-FEeJ3pUymlKtdpk0nA1rH6giTZt4lgeA_9bojXt_LpLapHobkoUur12eDHlRghw6J0_It0N_vRV8f3D10RQ0z-k4_pFHjslVmZJPeOTZMGlBgiP5ZVnP04DJu9QCwxvoKFTYbZadM/s1600-h/colorsofsunrise.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmo-FEeJ3pUymlKtdpk0nA1rH6giTZt4lgeA_9bojXt_LpLapHobkoUur12eDHlRghw6J0_It0N_vRV8f3D10RQ0z-k4_pFHjslVmZJPeOTZMGlBgiP5ZVnP04DJu9QCwxvoKFTYbZadM/s400/colorsofsunrise.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380327496574219618" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ablaze and radiant, morning salutes the dawn<br />brushing aside the mascara of clouds<br />resolutely striding through bilious winds<br />humming on the larynx of the earth<br />fluttering on rimed lips of heaven<br />until color breathes through the sky<br />spilling in a heady stream of iridescence<br />vermilion, azure, and amethyst droplets<br />to stir the imagination and prick the brow<br />bearing loveliness once more into the world<br /></span>Sean J. Hoskinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10018172631636829997noreply@blogger.com1