WHAT IS ART?

Everyone, perhaps writers more than most, have favorite quotes. Maybe you'll find a new gem in this list. Many are unattributed due to my laziness. That doesn't reflect my gratitude for the insights and wisdom that are the authors' gifts to us. - Miker

Cynisism is the shamefaced product of inexperience ~A.J. Liebling

One does not see anything until one sees its beauty. - Oscar Wilde

"Remember, when you say 'I love you' you're not just saying it to the one you love. You're saying it to yourself, and to the planet." -Yoko Ono

Between Tragedy & Comedy lies Irony. That's where I live. If you don't live there now, you're missing most of the fun. ~John Perry Barlow

When the effective leader is finished with his work, the people say it happened naturally. - Lao-Tzu

Art is spirituality in drag - Jennifer Yane

Art is a lie that makes us realize truth - Pablo Picasso

Art consists of limitation.  The most beautiful part of every picture is the frame.  ~G.K. Chesterton

Great art is as irrational as great music.  It is mad with its own loveliness.  ~George Jean Nathan, House of Satan

Poets do not go mad; chess-players do.  Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom.  ~G. K. Chesterton

One of the best things about paintings is their silence.  ~Mark Stevens

Artistry is an innate distrust of the theory of reality concocted by the five senses.  ~Robert Brault

A subject that is beautiful in itself gives no suggestion to the artist.  It lacks imperfection.  ~Oscar Wilde

Art is a kind of illness.  ~Giacomo Puccini

"Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana." Groucho.

“Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, then for a few close friends, then for money.” ~ Moliere
   
“Never let your schooling interfere with your education.” Mark Twain

"The bad news is you're falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is there's no ground." ~ Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

Writing fiction can be an act of rubbing oneself up against reality, relishing the abrasion and sharing that with readers.

Faith and Doubt belong together, each inhaling and exhaling the other.

An author in his work must be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere. ~Flaubert

Buddhists never conquer anything ~Kim Stanley Robinson

The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying though he look, he has a helm which he obeys, which is the idea after which all his facts are classified. He can only be reformed by showing him a new idea which commands his own. ~Emerson, 1841

I don't disbelieve in miracles. I'm simply not impressed by them. They tell us we have more to learn. ~Lazlo Kovaks

The time may come when you discover the beauty of leading with your heart rather than following it.

"You can look at a thing 999 times without seeing it. But if you look at it that thousandth time, you risk truly seeing it." ~ G.K. Chesterton (paraphrased)

I reserve the right to exist, temporarily at least, in an altogether different universe. ~Lazlo Kovaks

Wanted: Editor for short fiction. Requirements: Appreciation of the cosmic joke. Love of irony. Sense of humor. Minimalist sensibilities. Pay: negligible. Appreciation: boundless.

In what way is it possible we are not music? -Lazlo Kovaks

Composition is the arrangement of unequal things. -Ruskin

The material world is made up entirely of collisions between otehrwise indefinite objects. ~Rae Armontrout

Speak only if you can improve on silence. ~Anonymous

Fiction, like life, is capacious enough not only to contain everything but to make us see how and why the personal, the political, the moral, the spiritual, the economic and historical—and the mythical—fits so seamlessly together. ~Francine Prose

It is the business of the artist to make humanity aware of itself. ~Pound

Life is too short to live a sufficient number of experiences, so you have to steal them. ~Enrique Vila-Matas

With the lamp of word and discrimination one must go beyond word and discrimination and enter upon the path of realization. ~Lankavatara Sutra

For society to survive and reinvent itself in meaningful ways, we must in a sense become a "post-literate" culture. ~Andrew Gurevich

Expressions of poetry are moments of extreme emotion recalled in moments of extreme quietude.

The emotional progression of a small number of clearly drawn characters through a decisively shaped tale, leading to a series of wrenching encounters and a satisfying climax.

It is awe-inspiring when a writer hits a high note, goes dancing along the edge of something; hurls himself against enormous questions again and again.

Attraction

Michael spotted a breakout session at the Reality Formation Conference at the Moscone Center in San Francisco. It was called "Attraction: A Comprehensive Model of Reality Formation." It featured five panelists: a physicist, an astrophysicist, a psychologist, a neurologist, and the host/convener, a young man from MIT's Learning Lab.

"Anything attracted to something else usually follows a similar pattern," he began. "First comes awareness, if consciousness is involved, which is not a requirement. Second, the beginnings of movement toward the attractor, followed by an often irresistible fall into its embrace."

The audience tittered a bit, then fell silent, as Todd, the leader, brought up an image of a planet circling a sun.

"There are many examples of this procession, which we'll call Attention, Mild Attraction, and Fatal Attraction. I could use more technical terms, but what I hope to demonstrate is a general theory of attraction, best expressed in general terms." Todd flipped on a laser pointer and pointed to the planet on the screen.

"We're all familiar with at least two examples of Attraction. This one, of course, is gravity. As two objects approach each other, the force of gravity will begin to affect their trajectory. Let's say that when a change in trajectory due to gravitation can be detected, the two objects are in a state of Mild Attraction. As the force of gravitation increases by the square root of the distance between objects, the closer the objects come to each other, the stronger the pull, or Attraction. Assuming gravitational attraction isn't sufficiently counteracted by, say, centrifigal force, at some point the pull of gravity will overcome the inertia of the two objects, and they will fall into each other. That point of no return, we can call the point of Fatal Attraction.

"We know the same forces apply to magnetism. The mathematics are the same. What other examples of Attraction do we know about?" A hand shot up.

"What about sexual attraction?" said an attractive woman. The audience laughed.

"What's that? Sexual attraction? I wouldn't laugh. Our work leads us to believe it works the same, though it's much harder to measure, and it's complicated by the various dynamics of psychology, physiology, and cultural and social pressures. The extent to which sexual relations between unmarried couples is condoned. Or maybe when was the last time each person bathed." More laughter.

"Surely you've set up studies to try to measure that at MIT?" added the woman.

"We'd certainly like to," said Todd. "We just need sufficient numbers of scientifically minded volunteers like yourself to help us get started," he said, winking and smiling at the woman.

(excerpt from work in progress)

Still Pool

A god and a goddess sat on a park bench. In front of them, on another bench, sat a man, facing away from them. He watched his lover, who played with their child in the field beyond.

The god and goddess whispered to each other. Each watched the man: the god watched his head and saw his thoughts. Though fleeting and coiling in among themselves, as thoughts tend to do, they were tinged with hope, respect, curiosity, even wonderment, tempered by thoughts of how he might improve the lives of his loved ones. The god saw, too, worry and concern appear and then dissipate like sudden bursts of steam leaking from the valves and joints of a mighty engine.

The goddess watched the man's heart and saw his feelings. She saw the gentle pull of physical attraction, deep calm love, not just for his mate but for the child and all the other people around them. She saw compassion and grace, all tempered by a sense of humility. Around the edges hovered flickers of fear, like tiny flames unable to find sufficient tinder.

The god and goddess, lovers themselves, giggled and whispered and seemed to come to an agreement. Each pointed to the man, the god to the man's head, the goddess to the man's heart, and slowly drew their fingers toward each other until they touched.

At that moment, the man's thoughts merged with his feelings and a great sense of focused contentment and acceptance replaced the wildness of his thoughts and feelings. All fear, all disappointment, all concern left him. He felt unified and capable of facing any challenge. He sat very still, the better to contemplate this moment, which seemed to him like a deep pool grown calm in the aftermath of a life-long storm.

With this, the two gods rose, linked arms, and wandered off in search of new adventures.

Isn't It Grand, or Ten Hundreds

1
It's not writer's block. For that, I would have to want to write. True, I enjoy words when they flow like a river, or move like a panther, with their own will. I enjoy it less when, as now, they are forced from me by an invisible pressure on my mind, as if an invisible gangster held a gun to my temple and whispered in my ear, "Write something."

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, unable to move for lack of direction, I might whimper back, "Write what?"

"You know what," he whispers back, a malevolent glint in his invisible eyes.

2
Zen tells us that the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. But that's only part of the story. I can tell you that the journey isn't a real journey until you've walked the first hundred miles. Then you can think about what it's going to be like to walk that nine more times.

The gangster in my head throbs. Maybe he's only a headache, or some sort of vitamin deficiency. "I'm not going away," he whispers. "Keep writing."

"Why?" I ask. I'm feeling bolder.

"Shut up. I want ten chapters. No more, no less. Got that?"

3
It occurs to me that he's testing me. Will I revolt? Walk away? Phone for a pizza and turn on a game show on TV? But what if I can't shake him? If he's inside me, in my head, what then?

But he's annoying me. What kind of man am I if I don't try to regain control of my life?

"Leave me alone," I say. I say it out loud, as if he were a real person standing behind me, just beyond my peripheral vision.

"Ain't gonna happen," I hear in my mind. That soft intimate voice, so close.

4
I can't stand it. I throw on my jacket, put my cell in my pocket, and head out the door. Away from my laptop and hopefully away from that voice.

Out on the sidewalk, I flip open my phone and call Sarah. My lifeline, she is. My friend. Maybe my best friend. Hell, maybe my only friend, so I try not to intrude on her too much. But this, I've got to do something.

"Hi Sarah?" I say when she answers. She's at work. "Yeah, it's Mark. Got a minute?"

She does, but only just. I pace while I talk.

5
"I'm in a little bit of a pickle," I say. "I've got this thing," But wait. I can't tell her I have a voice in my head, with a gun, for cryin' out loud. That's just crazy. And what could she do about it? "This, uh, problem. What? Well it's hard to describe. Wait, never mind, okay? It's nothing, never mind. Bye." I can't go on. I don't know what to tell her. I flip the phone closed. Hang up on her, something I've never done before. I look down at the phone, dumbstruck. I turn back toward home.

6
Settled back on my laptop, fingers over the keys. What else can I do? I can't just do nothing, which is what I've done for so long now that I can't remember the last time I wrote anything worth half a read. Why can't I write? It's more than just my dissatisfaction with myself. That's easy to deal with, as long as I can afford pizza and ice cream. It's this new thing, this pressure and the gun. It's life or death now. Squeeze something out or have my brain blown out.

I go to the fridge, get out ice cream.

7
"What are you waiting for?" whispers the voice. I feel the gun pressing harder now.

I whimper, sitting back down and spooning ice cream into my mouth as fast as I can. "I don't know what to write."

"Just make something up! That's what you always do. Something out of nothing, isn't that the creative challenge?"

"Uh," I say, ice cream dribbling down one side of my mouth.

"What's the problem?" There's a gravely edge to the voice, an impatience that frightens me.

"I need something. Structure. Boundaries. Constraints. Otherwise the canvas, so to speak, is too broad. Too white."

8
I feel the voice in my head shaking, not in anger now, but in amusement. "Structure? That's easy. Here's structure for you. Give me a thousand words. Exactly. Tell a story, a real story, in exactly a thousand words. Not a word more or less or I'll end it for you. Got that?"

"Uh huh." I say. "Yeah. Let me think."

I start typing: "Sarah was a sweet thing of twenty. She stared at me intently as I unbuttoned her blouse."

I look at what I've written, consider where this might go for a moment. Then I erase it all.

9
I run out the door, damn the voice, damn the gun. It isn't fair, this making me write about Sarah, or about anything. What am I to stories, or stories to me? Must I be held hostage to them, to the damnable flow of words? Must I die for them?

On the sidewalk, surrounded by the building I live in on one side, tall fences on the other. There's no way out. A fine day, though, I think. A fine day to die, if die I must.

The voice is still there, I can feel it. A gentle flutter within.

10
Feeling calmer, I walk back. Sit at the laptop. Gaze at the still empty page.

"It's all good, Mark. You're fine, my son. Fingers on the keys, empty your mind. Now, give me a thousand words, ten chapters of exactly a hundred words each, please."

All tension drained, I feel I can do this. I type: "Sarah stood still before me..."

"Don't write her," the voice said quietly. "You. Write who you are. What it means to be a writer."

I blank the page again, then write, "It's not writer's block. For that, I would have to want to write..."

Daddy's Girl

Debbie pulled her aging Old's 88 to the curb across from the two story clapboard, once white, now a mottled, weathered, gray. She was assaulted by the familiar odor of rotting leaves masking the smell of garbage and rotting shingles. Her sister stepped down from the porch of the house they were raised in and walked across the street. "You gonna come in this time?" 

"How is she?" Debbie spat the words. 

Dark hair tumbling across Megan's face couldn't hide her expression. Mad. She had a right to be, Debbie knew. But she'd be damned if she'd admit that to her sister, or to her mother. She could see the glow of a cigarette just behind the screen door opposite. It was a standoff. Her mother wouldn't come out, and Debbie hated going in, to admit she'd chickened out. Ran away. 

"Look, don't do this," Megan said. "It's dad all over again." 

Debbie turned off the motor, gripped the steering wheel with both hands and lay her forehead on her knuckles. "I'm not like dad!" she said in a low growl. "I'm not!" 

"Then come inside. She doesn't have any of the old bite left, I can tell you. She's mom, and she's tough and she won't be sweet. But dammit, she really needs us both right now." 

Debbie sighed. She hesitated, then opened the door. "Shit," she said, climbing out. "Shit."

(9/26/2012 - Lascaux Flash Fiction contest entry)

Cicada and Hummingbird

Cicada and Hummingbird fell in love

Because their wings made the same sound
each mistook the other for a mate

So they dressed up to the max
and went out to dinner and a movie

They don't speak each others' language
but who needs talk when you're in love

when romantic foreignness and
odd looks and inflections
says it all and they'll always have

that moment when her wings
answered his, song for song

Butterfly Woman and Other Tales

Available in two e-book formats, each $2.99 or less.

Kindle format. If you don't have a Kindle, try the excellent Kindle Reader, available for PCs, Macs, and mobile phones!

Paperback version and EPUB format, from the Lulu Store. Looks great with the free Adobe Digital Reader. This book is now available for iPad and iPod too.

"A bit of magical realism, a taste or two of natural realism, even a bit of fantastic hilarity. Author Michael Robertson presents a sampler of short stories, the perfect length for a morning's read after breakfast, or an afternoon's relaxation on the deck or beach of your choice.

"'Butterfly Woman', the title story, gives us a glimpse of a woman who turns kisses into insects. Or spend a few moments with a woman in Hawaii who longs for her youth as a surfer beyond the beaches of Waimea. An artist who loses words and gains world fame. A shocking moment in the life of the president of a small coastal country.

"We enter the minds of a drug dealer with a big heart, a former aid to a powerful Russian bureaucrat, a boy hiding in the winter woods of the Ozark hills, and a young man who has lost his past but discovers his future. And more. This little book presents a medley of portraits of real human beings in defining moments.

"Whatever your taste in fiction, this little book will whet your appetite and tease your imagination."