Walter Mosley

I wonder if Walter Mosley knows that many of his books are up for auction on eBay.

I love reading Mosley, his style takes_me_there. At the moment he's my favorite writer. I get into what I call my book binges. After having read one Hermann Hesse novel I binged read everything that he wrote.

Did the same with Toni Morrison's work, Alice Walker, Marge Piercy, Elie Wiesel, Loren Eiseley... I had (have) a deep love for Loren Eiseley. Felt an intense connection with him, especially after reading his autobiography: All The Strange Hours [The Excavation of a Life] An amazing man, immensely wise and vulnerable.

Back to Mosley. I'm going to read everything that he's written thus far-

Update: 05/26/06

Blue Light. Yet another Mosley novel for me to sink my mind into. Carol's great escape.

Synopsis
Cosmic blue lights cause havoc by accelerating the evolutionary process in those exposed to it, advancing their capabilities far beyond what is currently possible and, therefore, creating a super race of humans.

Publisher's Note
In a brilliant departure for Walter Mosley, author of the bestselling Easy Rawlins mystery series, "Blue Light" is a speculative novel about good and evil, the nature of humanity, and the ultimate purpose and fate of the human race.

Industry reviews
"If you think Mosley's recent "Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned" was a departure, take a look at this: in the 1960s, a cosmic blue light descends from the heavens, "quickening" the DNA of a few people who are struck and thus speeding up their evolution. Soon, ordinary mortals are in conflict with these ubermensch, whose story is told by half-black, half-white [Chance]."

City of Sweet

blues lane harmonica solo, she sang it’s not that
way, not the kind of night that’ll keep her warm
into tomorrow.
she could hear saint lovin’ potential in that
sweet misty-eyed music the tune that takes your
heart and pushes to the lonesome avenue of beds
spilled over with sweet smells.
she walked through the hungry night with her pale
and lonely song, not the kind song that would keep
her warm into tomorrow. she’s got nothing but
broken hearted sorrow in a city of sweet.
blues lane harmonica solo she sang it’s not that
way, not the kind of night that’ll keep her warm
into tomorrow.

blues lane harmonica solo...

Carol Brown ©

Atlas

A patriot is not a weapon. A patriot is one who wrestles for the soul of her country as she wrestles for her own being....

not somewhere else, but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.



The world's
not wanton
only wild and wavering

I wanted to choose words that even you
would have to be changed by

Take the word
of my pulse, loving and ordinary
Send out your signals, hoist
your dark scribbled flags
but take
my hand

All wars are useless to the dead

My hands are knotted in the rope
and I cannot sound the bell

My hands are frozen to the switch
and I cannot throw it

The foot is in the wheel

When it's finished and we're lying
in a stubble of blistered flowers
eyes gaping, mouths staring
dusted with crushed arterial blues

I'll have done nothing
even for you?


-Adrienne Rich from the poem "An Atlas of the Difficult World"

Continuum

[nonspatial]

moments lost

a confetti of memories
fluttered from the sky
covering his hair with
white specks.
thinking that they
were snowflakes he
shook them off/ out of
his head.
the sound of boots
crunching on the snow
packed tundra startled
his thoughts and
gathered in a heap his
mind was swept away
with the rushing gust
of an empty bus-
reminding him of
something he forgot
on his way from here
to there.

his life,

an irritating distraction.


years lost


some people got rhythm,
some people got clypthm.
paper clyps-
clyp boards-
fingernail clyppers-
clypped enunciation-
foot tapping clypthm-
in clyptic metaphor-

[disregard the above clyp shots]

abbreviated life
clipped off
(spirit)
left behind
between here
and
obscure
my dear.
last year, snowflakes
this year, raindrops-
lost but not looking
for the
found
is
forever
missing.


a lifetime lost


beginning of time
beginning of life
beginning of story
beginning of the end


end of time
end of life
end of story
end of the beginning



Carol Brown ©

Book Marks

Over the weekend I read Mosley's Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned- “Socrates Fortlow has done his time: twenty-seven years for murder and rape, acts forged by his huge, rock-breaking hands. Now, he has come home to a new kind of prison: two battered rooms in an abandoned building in Watts. In a place of violence and hopelessness, Socrates offers up his own battle-scarred wisdom that can turn the world around.”

And now. I'm close to finishing Mosley's R.L's Dream- “Soupspoon Wise is dying on the unforgiving streets of New York City, years and worlds away from the Mississippi delta, where he once jammed with blues legend Robert "RL" Johnson. Kiki Waters is determined to let Soupspoon ride out the final notes of his haunting blues dream, to pour out the remarkable tale of what he's seen, where he's been -- and where he's going.“

Soupspoon Wise... a damn fine name.

Mini Autobiography

Look for the woman with wild blue-eyed fury
filling the humming bird feeder with nectar.
Look for the woman whose locked passion has
been released like a flock of caged birds.
Look for her passion colliding with the stars
exploding into particles.
Look for the woman who would open herself
up wide, wide and wide, then close up again,
fade like a sunset.
Look for the woman who has dreams where
there is no gravity problem;
The woman who pushes her body off of the
ground and up into the sky where she
somersaults and moves like she's in
water.
For the woman who hovers above the street-
lights and sidewalks where people watch
with amazement.
For the little girl in the woman who spent
an entire summer trying to learn how to fly
by jumping off a retaining wall, flapping
her arms from dawn to sunset.
Look for the woman who would open herself
up wide, wide and wide, then close up again
fade like a sunset.
Look for the woman with wild blue-eyed
fury, look for the woman who dances for you.


Carol


Response from Wayne

will i be drowned in that world? then i'll die in that bliss. can i dance without one toe touching the earth?

i have me wings watercolor-painted wings. i feel you are earth, wind and raging fire. bright summer sun flood-way of hope. my cup is full.

you are a child, mother, lover, gypsy dancer woman. was it just me or did i hear you hum?

Gone Are The Days

"There are wild birds' feathers- the owls, the nightjars. I shall dream
wild dreams. I should be at peace here with only the sky above."

-From chapter five of Orlando. By Virginia Woolf





Digital painting by Carol Brown ©


Poem by Emily

gone are the days
cerulean and drifting slowly
sandy time sifts inside
glass curves
the way inky water
sifts through
my fingertips
i am a nomad lost in
a melancholy sea
of me
and me alone-
sand, sea...
and me
alone,
me alone.
i am tumbling in the rising wave
memory and time
collapsing in and folding over...
gone are the days.