JUKE

06/09/2024

Our lives, all our lives, are journeys. The arc of time, moving (as far as we know) forward, pulls us from place to place. We journey from our bed to the kitchen in the morning. We drive to work, take the bus, travel on the trans-Siberian railroad, well, just because...

Do you dream of journeys?

A new meditation from Fran Gardner. "Where would you go, now, today, if you could just lace up your magical sandals and walk off the page?"

02/09/2024

It’s 10am on a Tuesday and I am in my studio standing before a 36x36 blank canvas. It is staring back at me, sizing me up, waiting for my next move - “So, what are you going to do?” it asks, daring me to take that first step into the painting...

“So, what are you going to do?”

30/08/2024

Out my bedroom window I see
three-foot waves of grass.
These errant blades from shoveled
horse dung infest my yard.
I’ve despised these clumps
that menace native rabbit brush
or choke the manzanita. But
each spring I wrench up roots
that break the hardpan,
and find tiny flowers sheltered
in their shade...

Today, their wind-borne dance pulls me to remember...

26/08/2024

Pizza is a holy thing. I did not know that when I was young, not at a conscious level. I just knew that it felt good in my mouth and going into my stomach. When you’re 10 or so, you’re not thinking of how things fit into the spiritual world...

Pizza is a holy thing.

23/08/2024

(things remain in motion -
a tree. the sweat on her lip.
the broken back of the past resurrecting)...

people looking skyward into bodies of air.
receding into the future...

"sitting in a cave with Plato..."

19/08/2024

But think of this: think of sunsets, think of standing on the balcony of some villa not compromised, not sold, and seeing an ocean as though its colors and expanse were almost new to you, as though it were all almost new, yes the ocean, yes the expanse, yes the color of blue, yes the scent of a two-hundred year old garden planted around the villa, scenting not simply the villa itself or your heart but your eyes, too, and think of the gate you pushed open to discover roses...

Think of this: think of sunsets, think of standing on the balcony of some villa not compromised, not sold, and seeing an ocean as though its colors and expanse were almost new to you...

16/08/2024

After I let people know,
offers for lunch rolled in;
free lunches may not exist,
but so far, I’m not paying;

in exchange, I talk about how they found it;
catfish, please;
and sometimes, the biopsy;
cocktail sauce;
and of course, my prostate;
hardly anyone knows anything about the prostate;
I sure didn’t;
macaroni and cheese...

"In exchange, I talk about how they found it... and sometimes, the biopsy."

12/08/2024

Late night dreams have it all. When you wake up at 3, probably because of anxiety, and remember that there was a dream with someone close to you dying, a rat in the swimming pool, and a car chase, you know you really lived…

Anxiety, alternate facts, high speed film, artificial intelligence

09/08/2024

I will sit at the nearest table in front of a big window. I will sip at a cup of coffee, cradling the mug between my hands like a broken heart, and watch people drifting along the streets in all their shiny happiness. The food doesn’t matter. Underwriting the mood comes first.

But then three weeks ago I walked into a sushi dive and discovered a sweet spot between art and life...

"I was alone in a faraway city. I wanted a quiet restaurant with a big window, to watch people drifting along the streets in all their shiny happiness."

05/08/2024

Alter your atmosphere. Un-structure your time. Soothe yourself to some strange new sounds today, courtesy of Ned Mudd, Alabama's favorite ambient musician and raccoon-enthusiast.

Strange new sounds from Alabama's favorite ambient artist and raccoon lover...

02/08/2024

A new creative meditation from Fran Gardner:
"Concrete withstands earthquakes. Stones keep the river in its banks, and basalt headlands force back the ocean. . ."

A new meditation from Fran Gardner. . . "Concrete withstands earthquakes. Stones keep the river in its banks, and basalt headlands force back the ocean. . ."

29/07/2024

You might as well have stayed home. You could have stayed in bed for weeks instead and traveled farther. But then you wouldn’t have seen the Pacific. So, instead of lying in bed, you drove across the country. You drove to Ohio. Kansas. Utah. Then to California. You sat on a driftwood log and watched the little toy surfers wade out into the Pacific Ocean, ride the crescendo of a wave, and topple under again. Somehow, you felt better at the ocean. You slept to the heartbeat of waves hitting the sand.

In the morning, you kept driving.

In the morning, you kept driving.

26/07/2024

"If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train..."

Sonnet V by Edna St Vincent Millay (1923)

22/07/2024

Life goes on in Wendover, the town that straddles the Utah/Nevada border out here on the Bonneville Salt Flats.

When we went out for the late dog walk, the heat had died down and a strong wind was blowing hard off the salt flats, a strong, dry, deadly, magical desert wind. It’s something I think about at home when I think of the west. It’s alive, that wind, and it carries voices on it...

We ate like feral javelinas and staggered out into the heat.

19/07/2024

In this summer's contributor smorgasbord, all of our writers and artists answer the question, "What are you dreaming lately?"

Some are dreaming of escape...
Some are dreaming of nature...
Some are lost in the question...

What are you dreaming lately? Read their responses, and then join in the comments section.

In this contributor smorgasbord, we all delve deep into our subconscious...

15/07/2024

You seemed older tonight,
hair like ocean surf, but your eyes
burned with the sunset skyline as you spoke
of love, heart rates, and hydration.
Sweet wonder! When you reached out
and hovered your hand above my heart,
how it labrador-leapt to meet you,
and when you placed my palm above your heart,
how shall I describe the indescribable?

Here's to the gift of letting go.

12/07/2024

it helps to recognize that words expand at the
speed of light
and at some point they will fly right off the page.
unless the page
is expanding at the same speed as light. in which case
it won’t matter.
especially if E really does equal MC squared...

"...if it makes you feel any better — the universe was inevitable."

08/07/2024

Stories can appear as a nod. A glance. An unexpected email. Light in a room. A view from a window. A trace of perfume. A cobbled alley between crowded streets. The sound of music we love coming from somewhere.

For these encounters to become stories, they must enter the heart. We can stand along any number roadways. We can sit by the sea and stare at sunlight until we go blind. We can stop and study the light in every room. We can watch the snowmelt and make notes year after year about the sun’s return. But until something enters the heart, we will not find a story. And like peace, a story may not find us.

Some days we cannot be sure what is real.

05/07/2024

A new creative prompt from Fran Gardner...
"Gravid muscles in, a big, heavy word. Leaden and full, ready for birth, for release. Clouds gravid with rain, foreboding. A woman gravid with child, hopeful and fearful..."

A new meditation from Fran Gardner... "Clouds gravid with rain, foreboding. A woman gravid with child, hopeful and fearful."

01/07/2024

We open the door and enter
a shadowy house where bookshelves
buttress the walls to the ceiling.

A dim light through stained-glass
illuminates the archway
leading to the kitchen.
Beside it sits the bookseller...

While my companion prowls the alcoves I listen to the old man’s stories...

28/06/2024

Baudelaire (1869) from "Le Spleen De Paris"...

"Horrible life! Horrible city! Having boasted (why?) of many villainous things that I had never actually done, and cowardly denied other misdeeds that I accomplished with joy, brassy dereliction, criminal disrespect; having refused a good friend a small service, and given a written recommendation to a perfect idiot; ugh! is it finally over and done with?..."

(Dead Wood) Baudelaire's late-night thoughts... "ugh, is it finally over? Discontent with everybody, as well as with myself."

24/06/2024

Today on Juke, an essay in letters...

Dear Tonya,
This is how I got to know you, when you were simply my editor and I would get a reminder every six weeks… It was a terse correspondence at first, but you eventually began to ask me about New York City, my own past and my always-percolating plans for the next road trip. It’s a good way to get to know somebody, via correspondence, an epistolary relationship. I get a bit nostalgic about those days...

Dear Paul,
Over those years (and years) of emails, you became the person I write for, and your email reminded me why that is...
Someday I will be nostalgic for this time. I'm certain of it.

"I miss writing to you like this..."

21/06/2024

Money Dysmorphia, Toxic Waste, Electricity shortages, Attention Loss... and more headlines from the bright, unnerving world of today.

17/06/2024

In 2018 two of our Juke contributors - Norway-based writer Damon Falke and Montana painter Tabby Ivy - met via a “fortuitous click" on Facebook...

"There are dilapidated barns, mountains, valleys, and red boathouses—what locals call naust—all the way to town. All of these places are in some way connected with the sea. I am not someone who longs to be at sea, but there are few moments more beautiful than when watching the snow fall over water.

I sometimes think of Tabby’s work while riding the bus. I am reminded how many places along the bus route could be translated into one of her paintings..."

I am curious if this is what makes an artist an artist.

14/06/2024

In the beginning, there was film, that plastic strip coated with a chemical emulsion. I have a long history with film - thirty years and thousands of rolls of history. I have shot mainly digital for the past 20 years, but I keep my old Nikon F3 around and shoot a roll of film once in a while.

I would like to think it keeps me honest, but honesty probably has nothing to do with it. It simply reminds me of the days when you needed to be patient.

In the beginning, there was film...

10/06/2024

A new creative prompt from Fran Gardner...

"But then rain comes.
Points of water pockmark the withered land.
Colors deepen, run together, braiding and pooling..."

A new meditation from Fran Gardner meant to inspire creativity... "Look now! Something is growing."

07/06/2024

sitting in a station
waiting
on a drop of rain
watching thoughts play bumper pool
while city chickens rustle peanut shells...

indications are for more of the same: crystal radios tuned to a dying frequency

03/06/2024

I used to wonder if that house was haunted. I would think I saw movement, just a suggestion of a dark blur before I turned my head. Some nights I felt a sudden panic as I walked up the stairs to the bedroom. There was just a hint of a presence behind me. I felt a tightening in my shoulders. A clench in my chest. I tried to walk slowly up the stairs like an adult who isn’t afraid of the dark. But sometimes I gave in. I’d feel that rush of panic and I’d race up the steps, holding my breath, until I was safely in the lamplight of the bedroom.

The old house, with its warped and faded window glass and its crumbled plaster walls, inevitably suggested the presence of something that may or may not have been visible.

The places we’ve haunted don’t forget us. Maybe they even miss us.

31/05/2024

Today on Juke, a meditation on "Sere" from Sue Cauhape...

"Sere is the gleaming white stone, so artfully placed amid the lavender. Lizards vie with each other to sunbathe upon its gleaning top, pumping their bellies up and down to moderate the heat. They scurry across gravel walkways all summer long before winter finally freezes their blood.

Sere is the roiling thunderheads stealing moisture from the land. Lightning strikes the brittle grass, leaving a black scar. The afternoon zephyr brings smoke from the west to obscure the sun and rasp within our throats..."

Fran Gardner of Becoming prompted writers on Juke to write something about the word Sere. She reached into the meanings of dry, arid, emptiness that the word suggests to her. This poem is my effort.

27/05/2024

Listening to what’s beneath the surface is one of life’s little pleasures. Especially if the surface is a glassy pond that harbors unique sonic vibrations in the shallows below.

After finding a suitable shallow pool, I flung the mic into a patch of water weeds and was quickly confronted with a panoply of subtle, unidentifiable sounds. Once the muck settled, I spied a group of tiny minnows taking a keen interest in the Hydrophone. Not being versed in the finer points of pond drama, I couldn’t help but wonder if the minnows were players in the symphony of their watery world. Of course they were!

Listening to what’s beneath the surface is one of life’s little pleasures. Especially when the surface is a glassy pond with unique sonic vibrations in the shallows below.