the recklessness of infinite possibility

Writing in war/about war:

“I remember very clearly the moment I would write it… From the dance room came the drumming of Johnnie’s piano. Behind me I could hear the voices of Paul and Jimmy talking to Willi, and Paul’s sudden young laugh. I was filled with such a dangerous delicious intoxication that I could have walked straight off the steps into the air, climbing on the strength of my own drunkenness into the stars. And the intoxication, as I knew even then, was the recklessness of infinite possibility, of danger, the secret ugly frightening pulse of war itself, of the death that we all wanted, for each other and for ourselves.” – Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook

just a small excerpt from something I’m working on…

Now to a good memory:

her standing by the nightstand, she’s fingering something, a necklace, it’s coiled like a snake under her hand, a single white bead playing between her thumb and forefinger. Hip jutting out, under pale pink nightgown worn thin and soft from so many nights- the thin lace is broken on the shoulder, its end falls limp just by the tiny freckle near her collarbone. It rises with every breath in, it sinks in her sigh. Her lips are pursed, serious, in concentration, some thought, some nagging idea, it’s taking her focus from everything else. She’s staring full gaze at the wall, she’s staring at the indefinable phrase- unutterable proclamation. Her fingers keep rolling that bead, they keep at it like they’re in prayer- worry- her worry bead- but this moment- this moment- is the moment before he knows what she’s worried about. And it’s a beautiful memory- this moment- his most intimate- when it was only the two of them- the future weight about to crash down- but not yet- not yet.

She turns her head, her hair falls cross her face- she releases the bead to brush it away. Her mouth opens- there’s a pause- a breath (the last gasp)- her voice comes out

and stop.

That’s all- that’s all that’s necessary- in remembering- that’s all for now.

- Jessamyn Fiore, Excerpt from The Pessimist

roots: David Bradshaw

“Ruger AC 556K—-Mini-14. “K” stands for “kurtz”—-13″ barrel. Caliber .223 Renington. Full auto. Winter 1981-82. Gun got so hot that touching the trigger without a glove was uncomfortable. I call this the “gut hold”—-wherein you snuggle the pistol grip just above your navel for over-the-bore pointing.”

- David Bradshaw

Everyone has their influences- and I was lucky enough to have grown up around a full fleet of artistic characters who had mainly sprung (creatively speaking) from the streets and lofts of downtown NYC 1970s. And there were many paths taken, diverging roads that led from that spot and crossed the world- and in my memory- in my heart- a few of these stars will always burn bright. Like David Bradshaw- who when I was small seemed so unbelievably tall- huge in my mind- strong- with his long speech and clear eyes- great stories, great laugh, great heart. David is a true artist through and through he creates constantly like breathing he travels always on the road writing crossing up and down from Louisiana to Vermont and back again in his red pick up truck yellow legal pad on the steering wheel dog at his side. His art is guns and explosives- steel and smoke- precision. I remember traveling to northern Vermont to watch him detonate sheets of steel in the four foot snow- the power causing the metal to curl open like a flower- stood up as sculpture the sheets were at the same time so fragile and so strong- such force. And later in life I again journeyed to northern Vermont this time in the summer to join many others, and David, in shooting an old piano- another memorable experience. David teaching myself and my friend how to shoot- from A-Z – to learn to respect the weapon, to control it. I know to others it sounds odd, but knowing David is makes perfect sense- his work is profound- it always sparks conversation- debate- this power our power- combined with control- discipline- focused energy- the discipline is the power- control is the force. He has been giving me works of art my entire life- signed photos- writings on yellow legal paper- steel with bullet hole- a five wine bottle instruction set on how to make a Molotov cocktail- a portrait of Burroughs- I love and treasure every one. He sent me this image today with the accompanying text- it is the first virtual artwork I have received from him- the first non tangible piece- and so in recognition I’d like to hang it up on this virtual wall- this blog- and say quite simply that he is an artist who inspires me.

Jessamyn