Phonograffiti
There's not much I enjoy more than sitting in my  little front porch living room garden. I'm practically on the street, which makes for an interesting mix as I go about my private life that is made public by geography - but I love it - I live in a very tiny space which pushes me gently out the door - and I claim haven and relax rules -- the sketch pad, the string of words and images, the practice of breath of strings of images drawn from a day's long or short flight.
I sit and I consider, what song today? I let my mind float through the archives for a line, a lilt, a little something to chew on; and comes the song to end the day, the strings that pull together the day  and bid it good night.
 
Music, Dance, Physics and Childsplay
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Music Dance Physics and Childsplay -- 1993
Its strange the dynamics of a blues jam
I go I sit I listen
I groove when the groove appears
and it doesn't always
so I listen
for the rhythm the line the lead
anticipate muse
caught ever so precarious
 on a note
a float of air 
of time place and circumstance
I glance from instrument to instrument
inviting myself in to 
groove the moves
the changes 
the evolution of ideas 
the flight crash and burn
the cycle compleat
beta rays disintegrate
but what a flight
travel speeding the universe 
of space time and circumstance
micro-dancing in the ringed dance of macro-movement
and at times I think to move 
with it
like the child contemplating commitment to the hula hoop 
 or the jumping rope
circles of entry
maintaining the move 
the elliptical wherewithal 
that eventually dies to no exist
the clattering last circle 
of the hoop
the foot out of rhythm 
in the rope trip
start the cycle again
look again for the groove
and that's what I look for in a jam
not so majickal
just timing at its best 
in the groove

©Michele R. Strub, 1993

audio sketching
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Testing_Rehearsal
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He starts his day at Smathers
He would sit at the salty water's edge,
soaking his fungus infested feet -
chatting with angels, arguing with demons. He cursed and glorified god with rapid and equal passion. 
Dumped by curling waves of hard times into a tropical Paradise, his affliction was ambivalence -
Some afternoons he stood on line at St. Mary's Soup Kitchen, "Grateful for the food he was about to Receive" - 
on others he would spew bitterly at well-meaning ladlers, heaving accusations of hypocrisy and sanctimoniousness.
Either way, as he wiped the last bit of bread and grease from his lips and cheeks, his belly would begin conversation with bowel, diverting his attention from the chaos stirring since his last digestion.
The teat almost always keeps the child from crying.
©Michele R. Strub, January 2010